Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2)

by Mark C. King

  A look of disgust grew on Burke’s face. “A shriveled brain? That’s an awful way for a man to die.” Then, Burke stopped walking and with a look of anger, said, “You killed my mates! I don’t care what you want!”

  Sigmund closed his eyes for a second to allow his patience to catch up to his feelings. “I did not kill your mates. I lied about the poison. They were just knocked out by a chloroform type liquid. They will be awake in a few hours and will be fine.” This news did cause some relief to cross Burke’s face. “Now, Reginald, where did the bodies come from? A local cemetery? Some gang of thugs? Where?”

  “I have delivered a lot of bodies from many different places.” Burke finally answered. Sigmund’s heart started to sink, but Burke wasn’t finished. “However, a few over the years, and several recently, have come from Bedlam.”

  “The asylum?” Sigmund asked. It was his turn to be shocked.

  “Yeah, the asylum. Years ago an arrangement was setup – all through notes, no personal meetings – that provided bodies. I would get a note sent to me that would give a location. When I went to the location, there would be a crate that contained a body.”

  Sigmund thought this over for a moment while they continued walking. The whole idea of it was ghastly. Repressing his disgust, he asked, “Wait, if you never met this person, how do you know that the bodies are from Bedlam?”

  “At first I only suspected it. The locations were differing, but all near the asylum. Some bodies had clothing and it was always of a drab, consistent look – much like you would expect a patient to wear.”

  Sigmund was not convinced as this seemed to be the result of a lot of guessing. However, all doubts were removed when Burke continued, “I knew for sure it was Bedlam when one of the crates contained my mum.”

  “What?” Sigmund could not have heard correctly. “Your mum was one of the bodies provided in a crate?”

  “Yes. We weren’t close, she was never the same after the fever. I was just a kid at the time, but I remember her acting strangely, even dangerously. My older brother took care of me and somehow got her admitted into the madhouse. We visited on occasion, but she stopped recognizing us and we stopped going. Even though it had been years since I’d seen her, when I opened the crate, I recognized her immediately. She was older, but one doesn’t forget one’s mum. I knew then that my suspicions about Bedlam were correct.”

  Sigmund didn’t know how to feel. Should he feel bad for this man? Should he be disgusted? He tried to imagine opening a crate and finding a dead relative inside. It was all so far outside of ‘normal’ that he gave up on trying to understand it.

  Thinking back to the favor – shriveled brains and an insane asylum made a sick kind of sense. “And you don’t know who the contact is at the asylum?”

  “No. He communicated only by notes. It’s better for everyone if you don’t know who you are dealing with.”

  Raising his wrist threateningly, Sigmund asked, “You are not lying to me, are you?”

  “No! I swear it!”

  Sigmund believed him. It was all awful and terrible and somehow completely true. He told Reginald that he was free to go and the man did not hesitate to part ways. Standing in a state of shock, Sigmund watched the man head back towards the pub through the cold and wet.

  Making his own way to his carriage, Sigmund knew that he was one step closer in his investigation, but also knew that he needed more to satisfy Dr. Ferriss and to keep his family safe.

  8.

  Never had a building looked more intimidating to Charlotte than Bedlam Asylum.

  The blue-eyed constable – his name was Arthur, she had overheard – was driving the police carriage they were currently in. The steam-powered vehicle was designed to hold criminals in the back section, but Arthur was kind enough to allow Charlotte to sit in the passenger seat beside him. She had seen this sort of police vehicle driving down the streets on occasion, but never thought she would be inside one. The driver and passenger area was high off the ground, much like a horse drawn carriage, in order to see over the large steam engine. Thankfully, this area was enclosed and decently warm. The car chugged along the cobblestone street, piercing through the rain and fog, until they approached their final turn. It was a short drive to Bedlam from Waterloo and, once again, the ride seemed to pass much too quickly.

  Turning onto Lambeth Road provided the first glance of her soon to be home. Initially, she could only make out its massive silhouette, the large dome being the most striking feature. Before long, the six massive columns that stood as sentinels over the entrance could be seen. Charlotte shivered from fright. All the quiet doubts that had been getting louder over the past day were now deafening. This was happening.

  Arthur, the constable, pulled the car up to the black iron-bar entrance gates. These large doors looked more than capable of holding in the madness that they protected. The pattern of the iron bars were interrupted by large circular formations that were probably for aesthetics, but looked more like large eyes keeping a sorrowful watch – the rain that dripped off looked like tears. Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her seat, partially to keep up the appearance of an agitated, unwell person, and partially because she was feeling particularly agitated and unwell. With her hands clasped, resting on top of her dirty and soaked dress, she snuck a glance at Arthur and saw that he did not look particularly comfortable being here either.

  Charlotte was thankful that the blue-eyed constable was the one to bring her to Bedlam. His kindness was like a gentle push to keep her heading forward. Perhaps the staff at Bedlam would share his sympathy. The thrumming of the rain was quite loud but easily overwhelmed by the sharp and startling bleat of the car’s siren. Arthur started to sound it sporadically, evidently trying to get the attention of someone to come and open the gate.

  Noticing her jump, the constable said, “My apologies, miss. I should have given warning. But there is no way that we are walking from here to the front door in this weather.”

  After about a minute of this, a round man in white clothes, carrying an umbrella, walked out of the entrance towards them. It must have been a good hundred yards between the gates and the entrance, but the man did not show any hurry nor any evident concern about the weather. Charlotte’s heart beat faster with each passing moment. She could still get out of this. She could open her door and run, or perhaps explain to Arthur what she was trying to do…

  No! She again thought of her husband fearlessly running into the smoke and fire. Perhaps, he was not as fearless as she always believed. Perhaps he was terrified. If that was the case, then it made him more of a hero that despite the fear he must have had, a fear that Charlotte had not appreciated until this very moment, he still faced the danger. She would do no less. He battled an inferno of smoke and fire; she would battle an inferno of madness. Courage, she decided, is not doing what has to be done without fear. No, courage is not letting fear stop you from doing what should be done.

  With a little more determination bolstering her will, she watched the man in white open one of the massive gates and walk up to the driver’s car door. The constable released the latch on the window which allowed it to slide down so that he could talk to the man.

  Despite the umbrella, the man looked wet, and not particularly happy. With the window down, water was also splashing inside of the cabin and soaking the constable. Charlotte did her best to not look interested in what was happening, aimlessly gazing around while secretly listening to every word.

  “Constable,” the man in white said loudly, “please stop the incessant noise of the siren! It is disturbing the patients. It is bad enough in there without such stimuli.”

  “My apologies, sir. But I needed the attention of someone.”

  “Is there an issue?” asked the man in white, who without a doubt was an orderly.

  “I believe this woman, a Miss Charlotte Caine, has taken a bit of a holiday from Bedlam.” It was a nice way of saying that she escaped.

  The man in white looked a
t Charlotte while she continued to pretend not to notice him. She could feel his gaze on her, doing what? Judging her sanity? Seeing if she looked familiar? Bedlam housed hundreds of patients, would anyone be able to recognize all of them?

  “I am not aware of anyone missing, on holiday or otherwise. What makes you think that she belongs here?”

  Her stomach was doing somersaults while she tried to keep her breathing calm. The constable, in a somewhat whispered tone, said, “We found her outside of Waterloo Station, dancing with strangers to music that was not playing.” He looked over at her and cringed, he didn’t like talking like this in front of her. Still whispering, he continued, “When we brought her inside and asked about where home was, she got very agitated, to say the least, and eventually told us Bedlam. I’m no doctor, but it is fairly clear that she needs some help. The kind of help that this place,” he pointed at Bedlam, “can provide.”

  Once again the man in white looked at Charlotte. It felt even worse this time. Her success was being decided right now by this man standing in the cold and rain. She raised her finger to the window and started tracing the water trails. She gave a giggle on completing each trail to the bottom as if it was a remarkable feat.

  The man in white straightened up and said, “All right. Let me open the gates and then you can pull up to the main entrance. Wait for me there.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Arthur answered and fiddled with the window to slide it up and close it. Turning to Charlotte, he said in a very kind voice, “You are almost home. Everything will be fine now.”

  She didn’t respond, just kept following water trails. When the car lurched forward, she was pushed back in her seat and let out a little yelp.

  Arthur, not looking away from the road to Bedlam, gave a sheepish, “Sorry.”

  The car stopped right in front of the entrance, the six pillars looking impossibly big. They waited there while the man in white caught up to them.

  Charlotte was surprised again when her door suddenly opened. The man in white grabbed her arm tight and practically yanked her out of the car.

  “Oi!” the constable called out, “Easy there. Is that really necessary?”

  The orderly shot a very impatient glance at the officer and said, “She got out once, you say, I’m making sure she doesn’t do it again.” Then, turning away and walking towards the entrance he called out flatly, “Good day, Constable.”

  Nearly being dragged, she noticed the sound of tires crunching on gravel, and getting fainter. Arthur was driving away. She did not expect the immense feeling of loneliness that accompanied his leaving.

  Nervous, scared, and now lonely. What have I done? They passed the pillars and neared the front doors. Breathing became difficult and her legs were like rubber. Somehow she kept moving. She imagined smoke and flames pouring out of the entrance and wondered if that would have scared her any more than how she currently felt. She doubted it.

  With a strong, becoming painful, grip on her arm, the man in white used his other hand to open the heavy front door. As he pulled her inside he paused, looked at her, and said, “Welcome home.”

  9.

  Charlotte’s arm was bruising from the hard grip of the orderly. She twisted, not to escape, but to try and relieve some of the pain. The sound of Arthur, the blue-eyed constable, driving away was still in her ears as she was dragged into the lobby of Bedlam Asylum. The surroundings inside the building were not much more inviting than the outside. She found herself in a large open area that had several doors along the back wall, a set of double doors to her left and right, and twin staircases that looped up to a second floor landing. The old tile floor was dirty and cracked and made crunching sounds beneath their feet from crumbled pieces of mortar. There were couches that rested on the side walls of the lobby that looked like they were once expensive, but had fallen into disrepair many years back. The only light seemed to be the greyness that the front windows allowed in, which made the drab walls even more sorrowful. There were a few paintings, portraits of unknown men, that added an uncomfortable feeling of watchfulness. Charlotte shivered and realized that the temperature was not much warmer than it had been outside.

  With his hand still painfully gripping her arm, the orderly kept walking and pulling her along. After only a few steps, Charlotte froze in fear at the sound of a horrifying scream. The orderly ignored it and yanked her forward. That first terrifying cry was followed by others. Mournful wails echoed through the lobby, sending terror through her own mind and body. Hysterical laughter accented the wails and frightened her even more. The utter pain and lack of inhibition in these calls were unlike anything she had ever heard. It was her very first experience of insanity.

  The orderly pressed on, dragging Charlotte across the lobby and stopped at one of the far doors, opposite the entrance. Inside was a small, bare room that contained two chairs, a small wooden cabinet, a lit oil lamp, and nothing else. The only décor to speak of was the yellowing white paint peeling from the large brick walls. Without a word, the orderly pushed her in the room and into a chair. He stood over her and asked, “What is your story? You don’t look familiar to me. You are not faking are you? Trying to get a free place to stay, perhaps?”

  Charlotte didn’t respond, she looked forward as if she were alone in the room.

  “Alright then,” the orderly said and walked over to the small cabinet. When he turned around, he had a small flask and a box of matches in his hands. Charlotte saw this out of her peripheral vision but still did not acknowledge his presence.

  He approached her and grabbed her right wrist and pushed back the sleeve to expose her arm. Inwardly she was quite alarmed, but showed nothing more than a casual glance. The man poured a little bit of unknown liquid from the flask onto her wrist. It took a moment, but then the smell reached her nose. It was lamp oil. As unthinkable as it should be, the meaning of this act seemed clear. Terror grew inside her as she fought to keep a calm demeanor. He wasn’t really going to go through with this, was he?

  “I’m going to be very clear,” said the orderly. “If you are faking, let me know, otherwise I will set this oil on fire.”

  “Faking what, sir?” Charlotte responded casually, hoping to project enough insanity to convince this man. Somehow, she continued to look calm on the outside, but inside, her heart was beating fast. This was only a test. She told herself. He was bluffing.

  “Miss, one last chance. Are you faking?”

  No response.

  “Suit yourself,” he said and awkwardly placed the box of matches in the hand that was holding her wrist and fumbled with it until he got a match out. The orderly’s stare could be felt as he looked for signs of awareness. She gave him nothing, but she was beyond scared now.

  The sound of the match as it struck against the box was as frightening as any of the sounds she had heard so far. Whereas the other sounds scared her for the sadness and the unknown they represented, what the match sound represented was clear – pain.

  The flame was slowly brought closer to her arm, evidently giving her as much time as possible to change her mind. However, the slowness served only as torturous anticipation. She kept thinking, certainly hoping, that he would extinguish the match before it reached the oil.

  And then it happened.

  The oil on her forearm ignited. She was on fire.

  Her initial reaction was panic followed quickly by confusion as there was no immediate pain. Evidently the nerves took a moment to transfer the heat, for the pain came suddenly and sharply. She tried to bat her arm with her hand to put out the flame, but the oil did not extinguish. The pain was intense and the batting actually splashed a little of the oil and small drops of flame fell to the floor and on to her dress. Beyond the white hot hurt, her terror grew as the fire not only wasn’t going out, but seemed to be spreading. She started to scream.

  “Admit it!” screamed the orderly. “Admit it! You are faking!”

  The door to the room opened, Charlotte hardly noticed, and a new individu
al yelled, “What is going on in here?” Then, when this new person saw the situation, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to smother the flame on her arm and put out any drops of fire that her flailing caused.

  “Mr. Pegg!” the new person said angrily. “Doctor Madfyre has strictly forbidden these tests of yours! Step outside the room now!”

  “Yes, Mr. Thursby,” said the orderly with no hint of remorse. “But you know as well as I do that we get people looking for free room and board in this kind of weather.”

  “I shall report you to the Queen!” Charlotte yelled with true anger but also trying to stay in character. “This is no way to treat a lady!”

  “That is true,” the orderly commented on his way out. “But you are no lady. You’re crazy.”

  “That is enough, Mr. Pegg!” said Thursby, the new individual. “Now, where did she come from?”