Dr. C. L. Blood is a real historical person, and this story includes true events from his life. Included at the end of the story are details about the truth of his life and character. Please wait until after you finish this short fictionalized account to find out more about him, as these details will spoil your suspense experience.
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Boston, Massachusetts
February 1868
Gerald Bitteson stumbled along the empty road as a blizzard of big, wet snowflakes plummeted from the gray sky. It would figure that on his trip to Boston, a place he'd never been before, it would start snowing so heavily he couldn't even see. If only he could find his hotel again... He needed to find a place to get inside until this storm passed, but somehow he had wandered away from the main road. He hadn't noticed another path, but here he was, away from all the shops. There must have been some slight deviation he unknowingly took once all the gas lamps went out on the main boulevard.
A tall metal gate appeared next to him in the thick white flurry of snow. There was no need to consider what he would do—he had to find shelter immediately, although he couldn't see the place where this gate would lead him. The gate was open slightly, and when Gerald tried to push it open farther, it wouldn't budge. The accumulation of thick, icy snow was too heavy to move it. He stuck one arm through, then pushed his chest between the cold metal poles, slick ice aiding him, allowing his coat to glide along it. He pushed again, his foot slipping a little, but he was able to push through to the other side and hustled quickly up the long path.
The snow's thickness still blocked Gerald's view, and the harsh wind made him pull his coat tight around his neck. With his other hand, he held his hat in place on his head. He had not been prepared for this kind of weather, and his shoes were completely soaked through. He stumbled up the snow-buried path until he tripped, his hand flying out to catch himself before his head hit the sudden incline in front of him. Breathing hard from the trek and the scare, he pushed himself off the ground, then swiped some snow from the place where he'd tripped. It felt like stone. The snow was hiding white stone stairs leading up to a building, hopefully a home, though all he could see through the blurring whiteness of the heavy snow was tiny glimpses of the light-colored place.
Gerald stumbled up the stairs, gripping the banister tightly, afraid of slipping and falling on the icy walk. It seemed like a lot more stairs than he expected, or perhaps it was because they were quite short steps that there were so many. Finally he reached a landing, and he could just make out the dark wood of a door far taller than he expected. How big was this place? Perhaps it wasn't a home after all. Hopefully he could get in regardless.
Feeling around for the knocker, Gerald's hand finally hit metal, and the snow slowed for only a moment. A moment during which he could see that, strangely enough, the knocker was the shape of a downward-facing fisted hand. When he gripped it and rapped on the door, its knuckles rapped instead of his.
When there was no answer, he tried again, louder this time.
Finally the door opened, but only partially as a man stared out at him. The snow masked his face, but Gerald thought he could see the dark, formal suit of a butler. Gerald tried to enter the doorway, but the butler gently pushed him back and attempted to close the door in his face.
His heart picking up speed at the idea of having to brave a whole night of this incredible storm, Gerald shoved against the door, pushing the butler into the building. Before he could turn around to face the butler, he heard the door shut behind him.
"Sir, you have made a grave mistake," the butler whispered, coming around to block Gerald's view of the place. It was not quite a house, with its grand entry hall lined with cushioned benches. Gerald didn’t know what it was; he looked around everywhere except at the butler, almost forgetting the man's words. "Sir, you must leave. Now."
"The storm is horrible out there," Gerald said, wiping his soaking shoes on a floorcloth. "I can't see an inch front of my own face. Surely you can't be serious, trying to throw me out into it. Don’t you have any sense of charity? I have money, I can pay, if that’s what you need."
The butler shook his head as if in a rush, his thick, long mustache gray like his thinning hair. "It’s for your own safety. You would fare better outside than—"
"Aikin," came a strong male voice from behind. "Is this another guest?"
The butler stiffened and stood taller. "You've lost your chance," he whispered to Gerald as he took hold of the left lapel of his coat, then walked behind him to grasp the other lapel. He began to remove Gerald's coat. Almost inaudibly, Aikin whispered behind Gerald's head, "Don't let the doctor think you're ill."
Gerald relaxed his shoulders for Aikin to take off his coat. A severe shiver immediately overtook his body, and the man down the long, wide entry hall seemed to notice; his eyes shone with intelligence. This couldn’t be a huge doctor’s building, could it?
"Come in, young man," the person said as Gerald removed his wet hat, scarf, and black gloves, handing them to Aikin. "We have a warm fire and hot tea. Just what you need. Are you here for the doctor? Or just because of the storm?"
Gerald should have felt welcome. He should have felt safe and thankful. Instead he looked to the butler, feeling exposed, vulnerable. What if Aikin was right?
"Come now, no need to be shy," the man insisted, quickly gaining an edge to his voice. "Aikin, please bring some fresh hot tea for the gentleman." The man was dressed well but very formally, in a black suit with a long jacket, a high-buttoned gray waistcoat, a painfully bright white shirt with a well-starched collar, and a blue cravat. His pants were that fashionable kind of checkered pattern Gerald truly hated.
He made his way toward the gentleman, still amazed by the large space before him. The wooden floor was largely covered by a big round rug in a pattern that seemed reminiscent of a bullseye.
The gentleman held out his hand, ready to shake. "My name is Mr. Perri."
Gerald shook the man's hand with his freezing cold one, and Mr. Perri flinched. "Apologies, I’m sure that wasn’t pleasant. I'm Mr. Bitteson. I'm new to Boston."
"What a shame that you've come at such a horrid time." Mr. Perri clapped loudly, startling Gerald. "Aikin, if you could, a towel for the gentleman to dry his face," he said loudly. Then softer, "Come in so you can meet the others."
"Oh, well, but I'm still drenched and—"
"They won't mind at all." Mr. Perri had the kind of intensity in his eyes that made Gerald feel immediately analyzed. All at once, Gerald thought about turning around, but what would he do out in the storm? Was there another open building nearby? He hadn't been able to see any other gates or paths in the snow. His hands were almost numb from the bitter iciness—his thin gloves hadn’t helped at all—and his ears hurt.
He walked forward; warmth was more important than anything else right now.
Mr. Perri led him into a sitting room—if it could be called such a thing despite its size—that was rather odd. Very large, and the lighting was so dim, Gerald could only see impressions of people. He looked at the floor first, a shining brown-and-white marble floor. His eyes followed the long, thick carpet patterned with reds and blues to find the seating area, set up both to encourage conversation and to be near the blazing fire. Pictures of all sizes lined the walls, as was so fashionable…of homes. But this didn’t seem to be an actual home. The entry felt more like an upscale institution of some sort, and this room was oddly large for a sitting room yet decorated like one. The lamp lighting was dimmest by the fire, and several men stood with their backs to it, silhouetted, their details masked to Gerald.
"Mr. Bitteson, this is Mr. Shea, Mr. Hartley, Mr. Cowan, and the doctor." Gerald shook hands with each man, though he couldn't see them well. The coldness in his hands was no longer just from outside. It was that they all had the chance to analyze him before he could see more than a general impression of their faces.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bitteson," said one of the men.
“Excellent to meet you, sir,” said another.
A third said, “It will be wonderful to add your company to our small group.”
The fourth remained silent.
Two of the gas lamps brightened, men on either side of the room twisting the knobs to raise the light, which helped a little.
"Here you are, sir," Aikin said, coming in with a tray that included a towel. He lowered the tray, a gesture for Gerald to take the towel and use it now. He did, turning from the group to dry his face and neck. He smoothed back his hair, grateful it was straight and easy to keep in control.
When Gerald turned around again, Aikin had set down a teacup and saucer on a small table next to a carved wooden chair at the end of the sofa farthest to the right. That must have been where Gerald was meant to sit. He made his way over, feeling the eyes of the men on him while he walked.
The fire was going strong, the smell of burning logs and pine filling the air, and Gerald immediately felt more comfortable as he sat in its warmth on the plump cushion of the chair. Being placed close to the fire was very welcome.
As the other men settled themselves around the three floral sofas, Gerald picked up his saucer and gripped the delicate cup handle to lift the tea to his lips. It was scorching hot, but he managed to sip it carefully, silently taking in air with the tea to cool it. The unique, easily distinguishable taste of Earl Gray relaxed him.
"What do you think of my favorite tea?" asked one man who, Gerald could see now in front of the fire, looked very fine indeed. He wore a suit of a similar style to Mr. Perri, but instead of a cravat, he wore a bow tie that showed just slightly under his perfectly starched collar. His pants were a gentle two-tone plaid instead of checkered. His hair was curly, his mustache well-maintained.
If it’s his favorite and he knows what tea I’ve been given without being told, perhaps this is his building, whatever it’s meant to be. Could he be the doctor Mr. Perri referred to? The man waited, his strong chin jutting out slightly with the backward tilt of his head. He was already a tall man, even sitting, and his height was only accentuated by this conceited posture. His sparkling black eyes waited for a reply.
"It's wonderful," Gerald answered.
"Earl Gray is said to be one of Queen Victoria's favorites." The man put on a slight smile.
"Oh really? I didn’t know that,” Gerald said. He shifted uncomfortably before admitting, “When we were introduced, the fire behind you made it difficult to see your faces."
"Ah, of course. My name is Dr. Blood. Dr. C. L. Blood. You may have heard of me." He raised his head even a little bit more.
Dr. Blood. Not the Dr. Blood... It can't be...
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