Interview: author George DeVein

I slipped down the stairs to talk to Patient S. once more. I must ascertain just how he knew of Mina. Does he hold the key to who the Master really is?

When I arrived in the incurable ward, the corridor was full of people who spoke in hushed tones and seemed to be waiting—but for what? Without letting on my true role, I acted as if I belonged and walked directly to the photographic room. I closed the door behind me, leaving it slightly ajar so I might watch the goings-on.

The well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who stood at a respectable distance must have been his family. George, of course, kept his distance as well, directing the warders and the workmen from across the corridor. A man with a doctor's bag replaced his top hat, signalling he was leaving. After him, two men in leather aprons emerged with a body on a stretcher. They were heading my way. So, thinking on my feet, I stepped to the far wall and feigned interest in the photographic studies.

No one paid any attention to me as they carried in the body and sat it in a chair. Metal braces were unfolded, and what I thought was a doctor's bag, contained an actor's makeup kit.

The bag displayed the advert: Mr Treat's Momento Morie.

Patient S, thus readied, the "mourners" were ushered in alone or in small groups and set in tableau with him seated before them. The flash of the powder, as each photograph was taken, filled the air with smoke and a burnt chemical smell. I was thus imprisoned there for what seemed an hour until, finally, all was completed. They left me alone with Patient S. laid out on a table covered with one thin sheet.

I stayed behind, perhaps to keep vigil, perhaps to hold onto the insane idea that I might obtain the information I needed. Satisfied they had gone, I glanced down on the body trying to detect the outline of the man under the cloth. What did he know? Why did I not believe him when he told me of the Master?

I waited in silence, and, after a discreet pause, pulled back the cover from his face for one last look. Startled by a noise behind me, for an instant I believed the body had moved. Turning, I found Angie shyly looking in from the door, her body partially concealed by the doorway. I nodded recognition and, she, stealing up behind me, observed the body from the protection of my shoulder.

"Not such a swell after all, is 'e?" She said commenting on the thinness of his face which was akin to those who die in poverty. (She had not seen the back of his head that, ravaged by disease, bore no resemblance to living flesh. Free from hair and skin, shown his bare, pockmarked skull.)

Reaching around me, she pulled the sheet back to the waist, revealing her true purpose for entering the incurable ward—she intended to rob the corpse. Patient S. was dressed in a fine evening suit as if on his way to the opera. This addition, no doubt, to please his family and to cover up the fact that he always had been locked in his room unclothed. more