Gene of Isis

‘I lose patients sometimes, as do all doctors, and my patients are children.’ He used a very calm, patronising tone of voice.

‘And exactly how does a mind illness end in a broken neck?’ I frowned, inwardly elated by my frankness, knowing he could hardly repeat my accusations for fear of attracting attention to the number of his patients who died.

‘Now you’ve lost me,’ he said, but the look on his face betrayed his curiosity. ‘I think you are a very sick little girl…’

I took up the challenge. ‘Not half as sick as you, I expect.’ One thing I had learned about dark spots was that they were indicative of the body’s dis-ease; if these blockages were not cleared, the parts of the body enshrouded would start to crumble under the pressure.

The most concentrated areas of blackness in the doctor’s light-body were over his genitals, his spleen, his heart and his brow. ‘You had best make your peace with your maker, doctor, for you shall be a ghost yourself before too long.’ I felt confident at predicting this, and when the ghostly rabble of children cheered my words, I grinned.

Dr Rosen wasn’t looking quite so superior now; in fact he appeared to be distinctly rattled. Could he hear the cheers of his victims? Or had I hit upon something else?

‘It is true my health has been failing lately,’ he admitted, and looked at me curiously. ‘Can you tell me something about my illnesses?’

He wasn’t just humouring me. He suspected I was psychically gifted and he was hoping I knew of a cure for his ailments.

‘There is only one cure for what you have,’ I stated, and in his expression I saw curiosity snowball into anticipation.

‘Well, what is it?’ The doctor urged me to be out with it. ‘If you tell me, I feel sure that I could convince your parents that your little case of possession was just a minor brain malfunction, curable with lots of sweets.’

Don’t tell him. Let him die, yelled the youngest of the children, a boy of only five. The other victims echoed his sentiment, afraid that I was going to betray them to save my own skin.

‘It’s very simple really,’ I said cooperatively. ‘If you want a miracle cure, you must stop your unnatural acts against children.’ The doctor stood in shock as he heard my remedy. ‘Confess your sins to the parents of those you have deceived and beg them to pray for your rotting soul.’

The doctor was fuming, fit to burst. ‘I can see you are badly in need of my personal observation.’ He made it sound a threat. ‘I shall be advising your parents to admit you to the asylum immediately! A private room, of course.’

‘I will name names,’ I in turn, threatened, as the children began reciting their names to me. ‘Julie Fergus, Malcolm Peterson, James St Claire, Rachael Morrow—’

‘I see.’ The doctor opened his black bag. ‘Then I think it’s time for your medication.’

I ran, but he caught me. I resisted swallowing the potion, but Dr Rosen was used to forcing tranquillising substances down the throat of a young child. I sobbed in defeat as the foul-tasting brew burned down my throat and I began to feel bleary.

‘We shall have much fun and games, you and I.’ The doctor held my face in his two hands and made me focus on his eyes. ‘You’re very lovely.’ The way he said this made my skin crawl and I cried out as he licked my cheek, but my voice had lost all volume.

I blamed Damian Cavandish for my predicament. I had known the truth would end in my punishment—it always did.

Three days saw Lord Cavandish back at our country estate in Suffolk. Naturally, my father was pleased to see his dear friend, until he learned the reason for the lord’s return visit. The earl had brought with him his Great Aunt Charlotte, who had arrived from France at the lord’s manor in Derbyshire on the same day that Lord Cavandish had sped home to investigate my story.

The Dowager Countess Cavandish had been the most acclaimed psychic in London at one time. She’d been living abroad since her second husband, Lord John Cavandish, Earl of Derby, had departed this world some ten years before.

The lady explained to my father that Eric’s brother, Damian, notorious for his lies in life, had been spinning yarns since his death—at least she thought he’d been spinning yarns to her in order to cover up for his cowardly death. She had decided to ignore him, but in the last few years or so Damian’s appeals for her to act had become more frequent and desperate. The Dowager Countess had relented and made the journey to England to deliver Damian’s warning regarding Miss Parks, in person.

‘So you see, my Lord Suffolk, the Honourable Miss Granville was right about everything! My children were ailing from poison. We found the marriage document my brother spoke of, and Miss Parks, also known as Mrs Cavandish, confessed to Damian’s murder in return for our agreeing to spare her son any punishment.’

My father didn’t know what to say, but sinking further into denial of my talents was so much easier than having to concede that unexplained phenomena were taking place under his own roof, or thinking about having to deal with my little outbursts for the rest of his life! ‘My daughter is not a psychic!’

‘Then how would you explain all this, Lord Suffolk?’ the earl asked, wondering if he’d overlooked some more reasonable explanation.

‘Mental illness,’ Father pronounced, very definitely. ‘And I’m having her condition seen to.’

The Dowager Countess Cavandish went ghostly white, and became mired in thought.

‘I’ve had her committed to a very good—’

‘Committed!’ The Earl of Derby was horrified. ‘For solving the mystery of my brother’s death, for saving those dearest to me and the entire future of my family line, you’ve had that blessed angel committed!’ My father had never seen his friend so irate. Lord Cavandish was a powerful man in the House of Lords who had similar ideals and visions to my father, so he had no desire to have a falling out with the earl over this matter.