Ernest Wright emitted a whimper. With a quivering hand, he replaced a strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes.
“Please, sir - ” he began.
The superintendent straightened his necktie and nodded to the clerk. “It is my judgement that, pursuant to the powers invested in me by the Lunacy Act of Eighteen Hundred and Forty Five, you should be detained for a further three months and that you should undergo continued treatment for this time.” A low sound had begun to emanate from the poor wretch before them. The matron flicked her eyes to the superintendent in alarm, while the chaplain shifted uneasily in his seat at the end of the row.
“You will be accompanied back to your dormitory,” continued the superintendent bravely, “Where a more thorough timetable for your treatment will be presented to you.”
Ernest had ceased his rocking, but now began to stamp his foot with such volume that it echoed around the room. A look of panic in his eyes, he emitted a desperate moan as he looked wildly about him. The superintendent caught the attention of the two warders at the door and they moved closer to their patient, arms outstretched to restrain him. Before they could reach him, however, Ernest was on his feet. With a scream, he picked up the chair and slammed it to the floor. Saliva flew from his mouth as he ranted, stamping on the shattered remains of his chair. The two men were upon him now and, together with the doctor, they bundled him from the room, the soles of his heavy boots leaving tracks on the parquet flooring. The clerk sprang from the desk to replace the shattered chair.
“That was unfortunate,” murmured the superintendent.
The doctor dipped his head in agreement. “He’ll need to be watched. He’ll despair at his continued stay here.”
Having placed a new chair in position, the clerk returned to his place at the desk. He made a note in a ledger that lay before him. “Will he require sedation?” he enquired.
“Almost certainly,” replied the doctor, straightening his coat about him. The clerk made another note as a warder returned.
Looking down a list in front of him, the superintendent gestured absently with his hand. “George Bowman, please, Thomas.”
The warder left with a curt nod as the matron leafed through her notes. The chaplain drew a watch from his pocket. “I had hoped to be finished by now,” he muttered as he fixed a monocle at his right eye, the better to see his timepiece. “I have my duties.”
“You have an appointment at your drinks cabinet.” The superintendent cast the chaplain a look. “I’m sure you can last another hour.”
The warder had appeared at last, with Bowman at his side.
“George Bowman,” began the superintendent, “You may take a seat.”
Bowman looked at each of them in turn as he sat. The young clerk was flushed with exertion. The doctor wiped his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. The matron was her usual solid self. The chaplain seemed preoccupied, his hands shaking with an almost imperceptible tremor. Noticing Bowman’s enquiring look, he slid them out of view beneath the desk. There was an atmosphere in the room, like a storm had passed.
The superintendent looked up from his notes and fixed Bowman with a benevolent smile. He suddenly felt very small on his chair.
“I understand,” began the superintendent, “That you have been with us since May of this year?”
Bowman nodded.
“For clarity and the benefit of the clerk’s records, would you mind speaking up?”
“That is correct,” said Bowman. Hearing the length of his incarceration spoken aloud to him had taken him aback. Seven months.
“And do you understand the purpose of this board?”
“Yes.”
The clerk scratched his response into his ledger.
The superintendent’s voice took on a curious, sing-song cadence as he launched into a speech that Bowman had no doubt he had delivered a thousand times before.
“Having taken into consideration the evidence provided by the members of this board and, under the powers granted me as superintendent of this institution by the Lunacy Act of Eighteen Hundred and Forty Five, it is my place to decide whether to prolong your treatment or, having responded favourably to said treatment over the last seven months – ” Bowman shuddered again at the words, “Discharge you back into public life. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Bowman shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
The superintendent looked over his spectacles. “How have you found your treatment?”
Bowman paused to find the right word. “Beneficial,” he said.
The superintendent narrowed his eyes, as if assessing the truth of the statement. “Excellent,” he said finally. Taking his glasses from his nose, he turned to his right. “Doctor Taylor?”
The doctor coughed and shuffled his papers. “The patient was presented to us on the evening of the Nineteenth of May, Eighteen Hundred and Ninety One, following an incident that resulted in the unfortunate death of the patient’s wife. Having been present at the incident, the patient was found to be at the mercy of an extreme melancholia.” The doctor’s voice was devoid of all feeling. He might as well, thought Bowman, have been reciting from the business pages of the Times newspaper. “The symptoms presented included a fearful delirium, fever and evident heaviness of heart. Over the next two days under our observation, he exhibited all the marks of a melancholy condition, namely; a deep, silent sadness together with a reticence to submit himself to treatment. The following four days were characterised by moody and sullen behaviour punctuated by episodes of belligerence bordering on the violent. Initial treatment comprised restraint, sedation, cold-water baths and solitary confinement. A course of leeches was prescribed to be placed upon the skull and a short programme of blisters to the base of the neck.”
Bowman started in his seat. He had no memory of being the recipient of any such treatment. Perhaps, he mused, that was just as well.
“Within four weeks,” the doctor continued, “improvements were seen and the patient was allowed to progress to the next stage of his treatment, namely; exercise, fresh air and manual activity. The patient learned to comply with his treatment and, from that point, his eventual recovery was assured.” His report complete, the doctor sat back in his chair, satisfied he had discharged his duty. The baton then passed to the matron who held Bowman in a steely gaze. She gave her report without once looking down to the papers before her. Her voice was powerful and uncompromising. Bowman had learned she was not a lady to be trifled with.
“The patient,” she began, “has benefitted from advantages during his term here. In recent weeks, allowances have been made due to his continued good behaviour and compliance, such that he has been allowed a private room and to walk unsupervised about the grounds.” She cast an eye at the clerk. “I would wish it to be a matter of record that I strongly disapproved of such measures being taken. I believe that any deviation from the prescribed programme of treatment may prove unproductive. I understand that pressure was placed upon the superintendent from outside forces.”
The matron was interrupted in her flow by an ill-tempered cough from the superintendent himself. Bowman’s frown had deepened at the mention of “outside forces”. He had been proven right in his suspicions. Far from his privileges being due to his improving behaviour, they had been granted due to interventions from beyond the hospital walls.
“The patient’s night terrors are more infrequent and he has been taking food for some time. However, about the grounds and within the confines of the hospital building, it is rare to see him converse with his fellows. I should say that, before he is released from our care, I would wish to see him more sociable and able to navigate the complexities of discourse.” Her declaration complete, the matron folded her arms across her not inconsiderable bosom.
“Would you have me talk of the weather?” Bowman’s moustache twitched in agitation.
The superintendent attempted to wrestle back control of the proceedings. “Thank you, matron.” Leaning forward on the desk
, he gestured to the chaplain. “Father?”
Bowman noticed the chaplain’s eyes snap open. Clearly taken by surprise, the wiry old man smoothed down his hair and shuffled through his papers. Clearing his throat to buy some time, he replaced his monocle and nodded sagely. “The patient has attended chapel each week for the last six weeks,” he said at last, his voice slurred. With that, he sat back in his chair. Bowman had his suspicions the man was drunk.
Rolling his eyes, the superintendent looked back to Bowman. “Are you still visited by dreams?”
The question hung in the air. Bowman swallowed hard. “No.”
“Louder, please,” the clerk interjected, pen poised.
Bowman licked his lips and swallowed again. “No. I am not.”
The clerk held his gaze for a while, then scratched his response into the ledger. He filled his pen at the inkwell as he wrote.
The superintendent rose from his seat and walked to the window behind him. The slope of the lawn below led his eye to the allotments and playing fields beyond. To his left and right he could see those still in the airing courts. A fight had broken out in one of them and, from his great height, the superintendent could see two or three warders running to calm the situation. Hands behind his back, he turned back into the room and took a breath.
“George Bowman,” he began, “I have considered the statements from those here present and I have listened to what you have to say. It is my duty to consider both what is best for you and for society at large with regard to your place in this hospital. It is my judgement that you should be released from this place on probation. A notice will be sent immediately to the magistrate for his signature and your personal effects will be returned to you together with an allowance to aid you in your transition into public life.”
“I’ll need no allowance,” Bowman asserted. “I have employment waiting.”
“Then your employer shall be made aware of the following conditions. That if there be any recurrence of your condition, you shall be admitted for further treatment. Should you still be in good health after twelve weeks, you will be fully discharged and permitted to continue at large.”
The matron made no attempt to disguise her disapproval, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and letting go a contemptuous sigh. The doctor folded away his papers as if satisfied while the chaplain woke with a start as his head rocked slowly to his chest.
Some two hours later, wearing clothes he hadn’t seen for seven months and carrying a canvas bag of belongings that had been returned to him upon his release, Bowman stood outside the main door to the building. He looked about him for a final time. The grounds were quiet now, the patients returned to their wards. Walking down the long drive to the main gates, Bowman pulled on his gloves and wrapped his coat tighter about him. He jammed his hat on his head and swung his bag over his shoulder. Pausing at the gatehouse, he looked back at the long, low building that crouched behind him then turned his back on it forever. Slowly and with little ceremony, Detective Inspector George Bowman swung the gates of the asylum shut behind him and focused his tired eyes hard upon the horizon.
I
A Gruesome Discovery
The stars stood out against the blackest of skies as the two lovers ran, hand in hand, over Westminster Bridge. St Stephen’s Tower soared above their heads, the clock face a second moon in the firmament. The young girl laughed as they ran down the steps. Looking about her, she saw that all was still. The Thames lay before them, frozen almost the length of its foreshore. It was the first time in many years that the river had frozen this far downstream. Few people recalled the freeze of Eighteen Fourteen, the last time the Thames had frozen completely, but there persisted a collective memory of frost fairs, games on the ice and elephants walking on the frozen water. This year, a wide channel still flowed at the centre, but several feet worth of thick ice encroached from the bank for the whole of the river’s length as far as the eye could see.
Few lights burned in the windows of the houses along the river. Occasional wisps of smoke ascended into the heavens, lending a grey black smudge to the pristine air. Beneath the bridge vagrants stood around a brazier, warming their hands on the coals and shuffling their feet in a vain attempt to keep warm. Somewhere, a lone dog barked.
Reaching the foreshore, the two youths paused to pull off their boots. Swinging a knapsack from his shoulders, the man pulled two pairs of skates from the bag and handed one to his sweetheart. Now it became a game to see who could pull them on first and tie the laces. Finishing before her lover, the girl laughed again and pulled his hat over his eyes.
“Hey!” he called in mock fury, a wide smile spreading across his frozen face.
“Catch as catch can!” she retorted, pushing her way off the foreshore and into the frozen reaches of the Thames. Straightening his hat, the young man watched her go, skimming across the ice like some graceful craft.
“Be careful in the middle!” he shouted after her, ‘steer clear of the channel!”
Taking a deep, contented sigh, he reflected that his life might never be so sweet again. Then all was quiet. In reflective mood, he let his eyes wander from the river to the stars. The great constellation of Orion seemed to wink his approval at their adventure. A full moon held sway in the cloudless sky, giving light enough to see even at this late hour. And then he contemplated the ice below. The edges of the Thames stood frozen, tamed and implacable. Here at the bank, the water seemed still and quiet beneath the weight of ice, in stark contrast to the torrent at its centre. Time itself seemed frozen in the ice’s grip. He felt he had an eternity. As if in defiance at the thought, the great bell in the tower started to chime. Midnight. Somewhere, a firework shrieked into the night leaving a trail behind it, comet-like. Standing unsteadily on his skates, he too pushed off onto the ice, cupping his hands about his mouth to call after his sweetheart.
“Hey, Sarah!” he called, “Happy New Year!”
Skidding to a halt some yards from the shore, he paused to hear her reply. Nothing. He called again.
“Sarah?”
Peering under the bridge the way she had gone, he saw nothing but the vagrants at their fire. One raised a half empty bottle to him in recognition of the New Year, while another bedded down on a pile of blankets and rags. Aside from this, he could discern no movement and hear no sound. Just as he was about to push off in pursuit, a scream pierced the still night air. It was unmistakeable.
“Sarah?”
The scream came again from beyond the bridge. Kicking ice behind him, he sped through the nearest arch. Beyond the span of the bridge, a figure resolved itself in the gloom. It was Sarah, he saw, kneeling on the ice by the shore, her face in her gloved hands.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” He skidded to a halt beside her, glittering shards of ice kicked up by his skates announcing his arrival. “I heard a scream.”
Sarah took a hand from her face and pointed down into the ice. “Look!” she shrieked, visibly shaking now.
The young man followed her gaze to the ice, trying to peer deeper into the water below. “What is it? You had me so scared.” Dropping to his knees beside her, he wiped at the frost with his hands. There in the ice where they knelt, like a fly trapped in amber, he could plainly discern the face of a young woman. Her sightless eyes gazed up at them, her mouth wide open in a silent scream.
“It’s an obvious but unfortunate case of suicide.” Inspector Ignatius Hicks of Scotland Yard stood upon an upturned crate he had found beside the river and declaimed from a lofty height to anyone who cared to listen. As it happened, the crowd was sizable for so early in the morning. They had been drawn by the sight of a team of men, stripped to their shirtsleeves despite the cold, sawing and chiselling their way through the ice near the shore. With occasional shouts and curses, they ordered more tools be brought from the cart they had pulled down to the river’s edge. It was a curious spectacle in the harsh morning light, and one that attracted the attention of many on their way to work. Even the vagrants be
neath Westminster Bridge had risen early to investigate.
The roofs and chimneys around them stood in sharp relief against a piercing blue sky where the rooks and pigeons wheeled. The sun, still low on the horizon, cast long shadows in the streets but even where it reached the ground unhindered, was of insufficient strength to offer any warmth.
Inspector Hicks was a large, bearded man muffled against the cold in a giant, calf length coat. He held a smoking pipe in a gloved hand the size of a large ham, and used it to punctuate his pronouncements as if this very action would lend them credulity. The motley gathering about him regarded him as nothing more than a circus turn.
Such was the scene that greeted Inspector George Bowman. His dark brows, jammed beneath a bowler hat, were knotted into a frown and his thin mouth was drawn down in an expression of concentration as he tried to keep his footing on the ice. The cold did not agree with him. Despite the application of several layers, a thick scarf and an extra muffler, Inspector Bowman felt frozen to his core. And he could no longer feel his feet.
“Happy New Year, sir.”
He was joined, squinting into the sun, by Sergeant Anthony Graves, a man whose surname was quite at odds with his naturally cheery disposition. A curly mop of blond hair framed his handsome, youthful face and he seemed not to mind the cold at all. He wore no hat and no gloves.
Bowman grunted in reply and nodded across to the gangly young man and his pretty girlfriend who stood shivering by the river’s edge. “Not for them, it isn’t,” he growled. “They found the body last night and raised the alarm. They just can’t tear themselves away.”
The Head in the Ice Page 2