“Facts are stubborn things.”
—William Davey
Doctor James Esdaile had known for years that this day would eventually arrive—the one on which someone would come to kill him.
For some, the certainty of that fact, and the inevitability of this day, would have been disconcerting; but Esdaile had long since become accustomed to the idea—it was like an old friend, something reassuring and almost comforting. Most importantly, his death was an unavoidable eventuality for which he could plan.
On a cold, blustery Monday morning he rose at his accustomed hour and took his breakfast with Eliza; then, despite the inclement weather, they put on their overcoats and traveled by cab to the Crystal Palace. It had been in Sydenham since March 1854, where it had opened to great fanfare two years after hosting the Great Exposition at Hyde Park. Esdaile and his wife had come down to Sydenham from Scotland shortly afterward. His reasons were anything but coincidence.
Visitors were few at opening hour. In the Great Nave it was relatively quiet; the sound of the wind was muffled by the glass. Thin, wan strands of sunlight found their way through the clouds and the glass-paneled roof that gave the palace its name. They walked along until they stood at the exact middle of the structure. Esdaile verified this to his satisfaction by removing a half-crown from his pocket and balancing it on end atop one of the floor tiles: it remained in place, not rolling in any direction.
As he stood up, Eliza, who had been watching the experiment with curiosity, tugged on his elbow.
“He’s here,” she said.
“He came in person?”
“You’re surprised?”
“No. Not really.”
Esdaile licked his chapped lips. If Eliza took any notice, she showed no sign.
“I could—”
“I would prefer that you did not.”
Eliza seemed to think carefully about it, then nodded. “Very well. But it would be much easier.”
“It would only postpone the inevitable,” Esdaile said.
He looked away from his wife, carefully disengaging his sleeve from her grasp. A middle-aged man dressed as a vicar was making his way across the great concourse toward the place where they stood.
He waited until the man was close enough that he did not have to shout and said, “Reverend.”
“Doctor.”
“Welcome to Sydenham. Thank you for coming.”
“I am curious to hear what you have to say. It is not as if you could hide forever, Esdaile. You must know it had to come to this.”
“I have lived here for more than four years, Reverend Davey, and before that I resided in Perth at an address where I corresponded regularly. I daresay that I have not been hiding.”
William Davey’s glance went quickly from Esdaile to Eliza and back; he did not respond.
“You’re not afraid of her, are you?”
“Certainly not.”
“But clearly someone is, or you would have sent some minor functionary rather than gracing me with your own presence.”
“You have made your own damned bed, Esdaile,” Davey said, looking pointedly at Eliza. “But so that you know that I am a fair man, I will ask you once more, for form’s sake: do you have the statue?”
“You know that I do not. I left it behind in Hooghly.”
“And you are still at peace with that—betrayal.” Davey’s face glowered, anger seemingly held back by force of will.
“The statue conveyed access to power that is simply too great for anyone to possess—not me, not you, not any member of the Committee or anyone else. I judged—”
“You judged!”
“Yes,” Esdaile answered levelly. “I judged that while happenstance had placed it in my hands, a deliberate choice was necessary to keep it out of yours. You will never have the statue, Reverend Davey. The Committee will never have it—and someday you may understand why this is a blessing and not a curse.”
“You’re telling me that I don’t want something as powerful as this item. Nonsense.”
“I stand by my assertion.”
“Very well, then,” Davey said. He slowly lifted his left hand, palm up.
It became very quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to die down. Esdaile waited, and after a moment, he smiled.
For his part, Davey looked baffled—and even more angry.
“This is an unusual building,” Esdaile said. “Its structure nullifies mesmeric power. Whatever pleasantries you had in store, you’ll be unable to share them with me in here.”
“Then I’ll simply wait until you depart.”
“Ah,” Esdaile said. He took a step away from his wife, turning slightly to face her. “But it will be too late by then, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean?”
Esdaile smiled. “I am going to do you a great favor, Reverend—in accordance with a text of scripture with which you are familiar. Despite years of enmity, I am about to turn the other cheek.
“My wife”—he gestured toward Eliza—“is of a particular nature. By choosing her, I allowed myself to reach beyond nightfall, a circumstance that has protected me from you and the Committee for these many years. At my death, of course, she would consume me, as all such beings are wont to do.
“But I will not give her the chance; my morning tea included a sufficiently high dose of a particularly efficient aconite compound so that I shall expire”—He slowly removed his watch from its vest pocket and consulted it, then snapped it shut—“I am reasonably sure, in a matter of a few minutes.”
Both Davey and Eliza were speechless; they glanced quickly at each other, then back at Esdaile.
“You should also realize that if I were to perish too soon for matters to take their usual course, her hunger would remain. Despite your demonstrated skill, you would likely be consumed instead. But once again, the Crystal Palace intervenes.” He stretched his arms toward the great ceiling and let them fall. “Chthonic spirits are powerless at the place where we stand.”
Eliza did not speak; she looked shocked at Esdaile’s revelation. Davey stood with his fists clenched, his arms rigid.
Esdaile seemed unsteady on his feet. Eliza looked at Davey and spoke a series of unintelligible syllables; the sounds seemed to float away and disappear into the vast spaces of the Crystal Palace.
“You have cheated the Committee,” Davey whispered. “And you have cheated your nightfall companion. And by committing suicide, you have cheated yourself.”
“You will understand this better someday, I hope,” Esdaile said softly, his attention beginning to wander. “If you live that long,” he added, then said in a whisper, “Our revels now are ended”—the words that had been spoken, elegiac, when the Crystal Palace had been closed at its original location in Hyde Park eight years ago.
It was from The Tempest.
And as Esdaile’s last breath escaped him, Reverend William Davey and Eliza Weatherhead Esdaile gently lowered his body, with the hint of a smile upon its face, to the floor of the Crystal Palace.