Though Eve left in a decided huff, Adam didn't take it personally. She had every right to be angry. But he knew that part of her anger hinged on the fact that she didn't understand how he could help her with the unhinged. Although at the moment he didn't know a whole bloody lot about her insane business, that didn't mean that he couldn't learn. Adam had realized long ago that life was a balancing act, especially whenever he took on a new role. And being a doctor would be only slightly more unbalancing than trying to get Eve with child. Which was the only way the cunning Captain Bluebeard would forgive his double-dealing and be content at having a grandchild, even if it was Adam's. Adam shrugged. All life was basically a risk, and this risk was well worth the gain. For over a decade he had floated along like a piece of driftwood, willing to let life's currents take him from shore to shore. No more. Eve had met her match, and so had Captain Bluebeard. They just didn't know it yet. And so had the patients in this house of the deranged.
"Time to get down to business," he said. A visit to the loony ward was in order.
As he approached the arched entranceway to the patients' ward, he ran into Eve's assistant. Behind the Frenchman was his ugly mutt, bushy tail wagging and wearing a goofy doggy smile.
Pavlov nodded at Adam, curiosity evident in his expression. "Bonjour, Dr. Griffin. I had not thought to see you again so soon. Are you going to start evaluating patients now? Non, I thought you might want to rest after your long trip."
Adam knew opportunity when it knocked—or, as the case might be, when the dog licked. The pooch had slurped on his hand. Leaning down, he patted the homely beast on its massive head and said, "I thought I would take a quick peek around and immerse myself. I think I should study each patient's history before I begin treatments."
"Oui. I'd be happy to introduce you to some of the patients and their folk—madness—if you'd like." Seeing his dog delivered into ecstasy by Or. Griffin's deft touch, Pavlov added, "Let me introduce you to my furry assistant, Junger. He's part mastiff and part English setter—with a hint of corgi, I believe."
Adam nodded as Junger sat up straighter and then happily lifted his paw to be shaken, at which point Adam grinned. The dog was certainly no beauty, but it did appear well trained and intelligent.
"Junger helps a great deal in my research."
"How?" Adam wondered aloud. Did it chase the loons about the place, or find them if they became lost?
Pavlov started to walk down the limestone hallway. "Well, I am working on a therapy about managing behavior, and I practice on Junger. I hope to help patients overcome addictions to rum and opium by retraining their impulses. Can you imagine trying to stop drinking when all you desire in life is a drink? Impossible! Drink becomes everything—lover, friend, all your desires. My therapy, I call behavior patterning. I hope someday it will help many. Perhaps even those with strange compulsions such as repeatedly washing their hands or reorganizing their wardrobes. Dr. Eve hopes to be able to use my research for vampires with oral fixations. Currently I am trying to get Junger to associate pleasure with the sound of a bell, to reinforce good behavior and punish the bad. Addiction can be so… tragic."
Yes, Adam had seen firsthand the wicked wages of addiction. They not only stole life; they stole hope as well. Though he wasn't fond of this little Frenchman, his goal did sound impressive. "Very worthwhile, I'm sure. Have you met with much success?" His opinion of the little frog was changing slightly. In fact, if Pavlov wasn't interested in seducing Eve, he could grow to like the little fellow.
"I've only began working with the dog. Junger now eats whenever he hears a bell. Unfortunately, with Hugo Lambert ringing bells day and night, Junger has put on a bit of weight."
Adam didn't try to hide his amusement. "I'd like to meet this Hugo character. He sounds like a noisy, nasty little plague—a character straight from Bedlam."
"Cela va sans dire. That goes without saying. He is fou—crazy, Hugo, but he's asleep now, and trust me, we don't want to wake him up." The Frenchman actually shuddered at the thought. "Hugo was picked up off the streets when he was eight for picking pockets. From there he was sent to an orphanage, where the monks let him ring the bells, making him their unofficial bell ringer. He became obsessed with bells, so the good monks sent him here. This turn of events was fortunate for Hugo, but unfortunate for us, since this old house has a bell tower."
Adam chortled at Pavlov's expression, while the assistant continued with his complaints. "Hugo's also obsessed with marbles. He likes to drop his down the bell tower steps when we are trying to put him back in his room."
"Does he lose his marbles often?" Adam asked.
Pavlov sighed. "At least once a week, the demented old dwarf. He's a master at picking locks and escaping the inescapable. So we're oftentimes bombarded with bells."
"I see. He's a menace," Adam said.
"Oui, exactement. But he's our menace." Pavlov sighed. "Dr. Eve treats all her in-house patients as eccentric relatives. She—Merde, what am I saying? You know your wife and her work. I know she writes to you faithfully at least once a month to tell you of her problems and solutions. At least, I have seen her writing the letters in her study…"
Adam jerked his head in a brisk nod. He might not know Eve Bluebeard, alias Eve Griffin, well yet, but he intended to know her very well as soon and as often as possible. And in the biblical sense.
Pointing to a door, the Frenchman opened it briefly. Adam stuck his head inside and saw a large stone gargoyle perched upon a massive stone fireplace mantel, albeit a rather short fireplace. The mantel was three feet from the floor and quite thick. The large and oddly constructed fireplace took up almost half the space in the room. There was only a small bed and chair, and an encoignure rested in one corner with several books and a large candle set upon it.
Pavlov closed the door, and they continued their journey. "Mr. Carlen, as you can see, is a mad gargoyle. Since it's daylight, he is in his stone form at present. Yet when it is night and the stone becomes flesh, Mr. Carlen remains as if stone. Catatonic is the word they are using now for his malaise."
"What does Dr. Eve think causes this catatonia?"
"Dr. Eve thinks it has something to do with fear—a very great fear."
Adam pictured the rather odd fireplace, and suddenly he knew. "He's afraid of heights!"
"Oui. Mr. Carlen has vertigo."
Adam shook his head, recalling various gargoyles he had seen atop towering spires in France and Germany. "Hmmm. I surmise that for a gargoyle that would be a tad upsetting."
Pavlov nodded.
He next halted outside a very clean door, which looked like it had been scourged again and again, what with missing wood chips and the smell of lye wafting from the old oak. Indicating the door, Pavlov explained, "This patient is Mrs. Gina Monkfort. She's our newest. Dr. Eve is still evaluating her, but already we know that Mrs. Monkfort has an obsession with cleanliness. She even washes her own water!"
Adam cocked a brow, but Pavlov shrugged. "What can one say? They do claim cleanliness is next to godliness. So she's a saint," Pavlov finished emphatically.
"Is that why she's here? She washes water?" Adam asked.
"Only a small part. She's a widow, once married to a wereboar, for over seventeen years. I gather from what Dr. Eve has said that Mrs. Monkfort's husband was rather a piggish fellow. Always snuffling around the house with his piggy hooves all muddy, snuffling at the clean linens and leaving dirt all over. Dr. Eve concluded that Mrs. Monkfort has stored up rage over her husband's messiness. When he died, the rage came out as an obsession to have everything always as clean as possible. Mrs. Monkfort can't handle the disorder of dirt, and seeks to control her environment."
Knocking on the door elicited a voice calling out, "You may enter if your hands are clean and you've washed behind your ears."
Adam entered the room and assessed its lone occupant. Seventeen years of wedlock had left their mark, and all beauty lay in the past. The woman's gestures were erratic and encompassed massive amounts of cleaning, always keeping her fretful hands busy. Today the widow was dressed in black, though crocheting a monstrous white lace blanket that looked like a gigantic spider web.
Nodding politely, Adam watched the widow don glasses and check him over from the top of his head to the soles of his boots. Her gaze was in no way seductive, but studious.
"I'd like to introduce Dr. Eve's husband, Dr. Griffin," Pavlov said.
Mrs. Monkfort sat down and wrinkled her nose at Adam, still inspecting him like a bug under glass. Finally finished, she put a distressed hand to her mouth. "Oh, my, you have dirt on your boots! I must clean it immediately." And so saying, she rose and went over to one of several large buckets of water.
Glancing up at them with a moue of distaste, she asked, "Do you know what's in this water? I do. It's disgustingly horrid, nasty, and dirty."
In a soothing voice, Pavlov addressed her. "The eau is fine, Mrs. Monkfort. Mrs. Fawlty cleaned it especially for you this morning. Besides, you know what Dr. Eve has said about your cleaning constantly. Have you been a bad girl today?"
Mrs. Monkfort lowered her head. "I… couldn't help it. My door was reeking, so I did what I must. After all, I am a lady."
Pavlov shook his head. "So you cleaned your door. Anything else?"
Sneaking a peek out of the corner of her eye, the woman frowned at the short Frenchman. "Maybe."
Adam found the dialogue strangely fascinating. There were more screws loose in this place than he had originally thought. If the Towers were a clock, time would stop. "I think I see. Water is a wellspring of hope, is it not?" he said.
Raising her eyes to meet his, she nodded. "Yes, it is. You understand why I cleaned my shoes and the maid's shoes."
"And?" Adam probed gently.
"I might have cleaned Mrs. Fawlty's too," she admitted reluctantly, staring off into the distance, a guilty look on her face. The silence finally compelled her to speak. "Oh," she said crossly. "She had such dirty shoes! They had smudges on them, and flour, and were just reeking of grime."
Again Adam probed. "Anyone else? Confession is cleansing to the soul," he said.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, she nodded. "Yes, I suppose it is. And I am clean, sparkling like a star." Noting Pavlov's little frown, she admitted, "I also cleaned that nasty little leprechaun's shoes. And don't frown at me, Mr. Pavlov, because Fester had been out digging in that messy, dirty garden again, and you know how dirty dirt can be."
Pavlov shook his head and looked at Adam. "Comprendez-vous. Fester is forever digging holes here, there, and everywhere. Which reminds me, Mrs. Monkfort, you must take care. Don't take a walk at night without a lantern or you'll end up falling into one of Fester's pits."
Studying Pavlov, Adam again began to wonder if there truly was some hidden gold. He would use his considerable talents to solve this puzzle sooner rather than later.
"That grimy little leprechaun should be kicked out of the Towers for bringing in all that nasty dirt. He's insane, you know," Mrs. Monkfort confided sagely, her head bobbing like a broken jack-in-the-box. Holding up her skirt she added, "See how my slippers sparkle? Not a bit of pig drool on them. Did I mention I also scrubbed the hallway? It was a veritable dirt hill out there. Of course, that was before I came."
Pavlov seemed torn between trying to reprove or soothe her. He finally decided on the latter. "Oui. I must say our shoes and hallways have never looked so nice."
Adam bit his lip to keep from chuckling. The weird widow smiled happily and picked back up the large white spiderish-looking mass she was crocheting.
Making their good-byes, Pavlov and Adam hurriedly left, closing the sparkling clean door behind them. Eve's assistant frowned. "I don't know if Dr. Eve will able to break Mrs. Monkfort of her obsessions or not."
Smiling sympathetically, Adam remarked, "In the words of James Boswell, 'Spree meliora.'"
Pavlov smiled, working out the Latin. "I do hope for better things. Thank you, Dr. Griffin. I too shall pray for that poor deluded woman." His expression was rather somber as they walked down the hall to another set of rooms. "Mr. Jack Rippington's room is here. A fascinating case. Rippington used to be a barrister in London, where he earned the reputation of being crazy like a fox. Not surprising, since he is a werefox. Tragically, when a young kit, he fell deeply in love with a vampire named Rose. She was staked. This loss caused him to acquire some rather peculiar habits as he grew."
"What kind of problems?" Adam asked.
"Prickly problems, which made his family send him to us. He had embarrassed them rather infamously at a ball. He's known now as Jack the Rip."
"What is the little peculiarity that landed him here, and why the odd nickname?" Adam pressed, not wanting to beat around the bush any longer.
Pavlov sighed. "The nickname really says it all. He… rips off his clothes and exposes himself… to rosebushes."
Ouch, Adam thought. A sticky business, trying to cure a man who flashed his prick at pricker bushes. "The man must be mad."
"Cela va sans dire."
"Quite so," Adam remarked. " 'That goes without saying.' Quite so."