The moment Arthur was released, he turned to go up the hall towards his room.  He didn't have the slightest fucking idea where his suitcase was, but his room was the best bet, wasn't it?  A bedroom would be the last place he'd have had it.

"London?  Oh, no," he called back to Malachi, distracted.  God, his room was a fucking mess.  Under the bed, in the corner, between piles and boxes, within the wardrobe - there were too many places to look.  Where did Arthur start?

The bathroom, apparently.  It was the cleanest room in the building, but that wasn't much of an achievement.  From there, the doctor took two towels that were stained and fraying, but soft with age.

Back in the office, from seemingly nowhere at all, Arthur produced an old, worn leather briefcase.  From inside if it, he tossed a folder of paper that scattered like confetti, replacing it first with the towels as lining and then with the leather bundle, thread, and gauze he and Malachi had used.  The salve followed, the alcohol, and more gauze.  Deep in a box beside the couch, Arthur retrieved a small bottle with white powder inside of it.

"I've not travelled much, not more than I've needed to," he continued to Malachi meanwhile.  "I only came to Whitby when I had no other choice.  Believe me, I would not have come here if it were up to me.  But I'm glad I did."