Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2)

by Mark C. King

  Lifting the syringe, he moved it close to the crook of his arm. When the metal touched his skin, he hesitated, taking a moment to reassure himself that whatever happened would only be temporary. Hopefully. He pressed and felt the sting of the needle enter his vein. He smoothly injected the serum and removed the syringe when it was empty.

  After wiping clean the needle, he replaced the syringe to its case, and took stock of how he felt. Outside of the slight pain from the needle, he felt normal. Picking up one of the volumes off the table, he started to read. It was hard to focus, at first, his mind being distracted by what he had just done, but slowly his focus increased. After several pages, he became absorbed. Exciting possibilities started to trickle into his mind. Connections between previously abstract thoughts formed a tapestry of knowledge and logic. The trickle became a flood as he started to expand his ideas to greater levels. His hand took notes and was barely able to keep up with his minds revelations. Although there were no overt side effects that he could notice, there was no denying a greater understanding of his studies.

  As new thoughts continued to be discovered, the idea of stopping the research into the brain serum became more ludicrous than ever. To think that the potential negative effects on an insane patient was enough to cause opposition seemed so impractical. Couldn’t people realize that the mindless existence of those that he was trying to help is a sacrifice that is well worth making? A small cost for so great a prize.

  Yes, this was science working for humanity, not against it! The naysayers were weak and cowardly, hiding behind some kind of ethical shield, like a child hiding behind his mother’s skirt.

  The experimentation would continue. The price, whatever it amounted to, would be worth it. A cure for insanity, a one-time dream, was nearing the precipice of reality.

  12.

  Chief Inspector Gabriel Holmes sat in his Scotland Yard office and shook his head in disgust. On top of his desk lay the photo that Sergeant Monroe had just given him – it was a picture of a man who was found floating in the Thames, dead. The initial investigation found that this dead man, a Jonathan Marsh, was last seen drinking large amounts of whiskey at one of the bars along the docks. Having no signs of violence on the body, it seemed quite easy to determine the cause of death: The man became drunk, fell into the water, and drowned. He wasn’t the first to succumb to that fate, nor would he likely be the last. This was not a case that would normally make its way to the desk of the Chief Inspector.

  However, it turns out that Jonathan Marsh was the son of Hiram Marsh, a wealthy business owner. Hiram was not satisfied that his son died in such an embarrassing manner and was using his influence to push Scotland Yard for a more respectable outcome – namely, that his son did not die from his own foolish actions but was murdered. It was sad that the father seemed more concerned about the loss of his reputation than the loss of his son.

  So, instead of this tragedy being handled quickly and efficiently, it moved up the chain to Chief Inspector Holmes. Pushing the photo away from him in annoyance, Holmes closed his eyes to try and calm himself. The rain beating against the window behind his chair helped to soothe his mood. At least this rain was good for something, he thought. Then, his attention back to the case on his desk, he concluded, the wealthy deserved the same attention as the poor, no less, and no more. Picking up his pen and dipping it into the inkwell, he grabbed the report and started writing. His decision – which, deep down, he knew he had made the instant he read the report – was not going to make Mr. Hiram Marsh very happy. The death would be ruled an accident.

  Nearly done with his final comments, a knock at his office door distracted him. “Come,” he said without looking up or stopping his writing.

  Sergeant Monroe opened the door and poked his head in. “Excuse me, Chief Inspector, Sigmund Shaw is here to see you.”

  Holmes put the pen down and looked at the Sergeant. This should be interesting, he thought with a smile. “Send him in, please, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant’s head disappeared and the door opened fully. Monroe stepped aside and in walked Sigmund Shaw. Modestly dressed, as usual, Holmes noticed that Sigmund did not have the confident look that his face usually projected.

  Holmes had first met Sigmund during the Grimkraken Affair. It was initially thought that Sigmund was a murderer which made him the most wanted man in England and it was Holmes’ job to find him. The night they first met is one that Holmes would never forget – coming home from a long day of work, to find Sigmund Shaw sitting in Holmes’ living room with Holmes’ own gun pointing at him. A lot had happened since that first meeting and Holmes is now glad to call Sigmund his friend.

  “Good to see you again, Chief Inspector.” Sigmund greeted. “How have you been?”

  Holmes stood up from behind his desk and said, while shaking Sigmund’s hand, “I’ve been well, although busy. In a city this size, there is always something going on that shouldn’t.”

  “I can imagine.” Sigmund responded. The two sat down and a silence fell over the room as Sigmund appeared to be struggling to say something. Holmes waited for what this visit was truly about.

  After several seconds, Holmes, not being able to take the silence or his growing concern any more, finally asked, “What is wrong Sigmund? I’ve never seen you like this. Are you in trouble?”

  Sigmund let out a breath and then answered, “Not exactly. Look, Gabriel,”

  Holmes became even more concerned that Sigmund used his actual first name, ‘Gabriel’. Sigmund usually enjoyed poking fun at Holmes by calling him Sherlock – the unfortunately named hero of Doyle’s writings. The fact that Sigmund bypassed this usual merriment proved beyond a doubt to Holmes that there was trouble afoot.

  “Gabriel, I need your help. I have a… doctor friend… who believes that there may be an unprecedented and deadly disease in London.”

  Holmes noticed that Sigmund could barely spit out the words ‘doctor friend’, so clearly not a friend – Holmes was much too smart and accustomed to hearing not just what people said, but how they said it. The second part about a deadly disease was even more alarming.

  Sigmund continued, “He has asked me to track down the origins of the sick individuals to try and determine what is happening to them.”

  “Why not just ask the individuals?”

  “The discovery of their cause of death only happens after they are deceased.”

  “You are saying that your doctor friend does not see them until they have already died?”

  Holmes watched and waited, but Sigmund didn’t answer. This told Holmes all he needed. This friend was a ghoul. A man that operated on dead bodies – illegally obtained, no doubt – with no remorse or respect for the departed. It was no wonder that this doctor wasn’t really a friend to Sigmund. Seeing that he was not going to directly answer the question, Holmes asked, “Have you found out the origin?”

  Nodding, Sigmund answered, “I have found out the location of where the dead are coming from, but not the reason behind the malady.”

  “I must admit that although this is interesting, I’m confused as to where I can help. Is someone doing something illegal?”

  “Not yet. But,” another hesitation, then, “I think I need to do something illegal and I’ll need you to help me.”

  Holmes stared at Sigmund and blinked a few times to let Sigmund’s statement sink in. His first thought was that he misheard, but quickly realized that there was no mistaking what was just asked of him. Sigmund would like his help to do something illegal. Finally, “Look, Sigmund, I’m not sure what illegal activity you have in mind, but I am not exactly the right person to admit that to, much less ask to help with.”

  Sigmund put his hand up in a calming gesture and said, “Allow me to at least tell you what I have in mind. Trust me when I say that this is important. If there is a disease, it must be known. There are other lives at stake as well.”

  Again, Holmes understood the unsaid. Sigmund was being blackmailed. A truly serious l
ook came across the Chief Inspector’s face and he said, “If you need some help in protecting anyone, you know I can assist.”

  A small smile broke through Sigmund’s own serious expression. “Thank you, Gabriel. I know you are always willing to help. But I believe that I should see this through.”

  Holmes sighed. It was frustrating to see a friend in trouble but not asking for the help they really needed. “Where are the bodies coming from, the origin, as you put it?”

  “Bedlam Asylum.”

  Cocking his head to the right, Holmes said, “Bedlam? I am not aware of any recent deaths there.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  Holmes thought for a moment and then admitted, “Not as much as it should. They receive funds based on the number of people they have as patients. If someone dies and they don’t report it, then they continue to get the money.” Holmes leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw while considering if there should be an investigation. Suddenly he realized that he still didn’t know one important item. “What exactly is the illegal action you want to take in regards to this?”

  Looking Holmes in the eye, Sigmund said flatly, “I want to be admitted.”

  Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to believe that this was all an elaborate hoax, but he knew that Sigmund was serious. That was when he realized the part that he was being asked to play. “And you need me to get you in.”

  “Yes. And out, mind you. I have no desire to make that my permanent residence.”

  As usual, when thinking through something deeply, Holmes stared at his office door. For some reason it provided a helpful canvas for his thoughts.

  After several seconds, Sigmund said, “Remember, Gabriel, the reason for this is to find out why these people are dying. Maybe there is a disease, maybe there is something else.”

  “What do you mean ‘something else’?”

  “You’ve heard the whispers and rumours about Bedlam, the place is abysmal. Perhaps some therapy is killing these people, maybe even some human experimentation. The point is, someone needs to find out what is happening, and I’ve received the task. Besides, I don’t see how my being admitted would harm anyone, except for yours truly.”

  A vicious gust of wind shook the window of the office causing both men to jump. Holmes considered all that Sigmund had told him and wondered how to proceed. He was a direct individual, not one who liked to sneak or beat around the bush, but there wasn’t any evidence for him to actually act upon. He believed Sigmund, but the word of one man would not be enough to commit police resources. If Sigmund’s doctor friend could produce the bodies, then they would have evidence to go on, but Holmes knew that it was very unlikely to get any assistance from this so-called friend. The conclusion that Holmes was coming to was not the one he wanted. If he could not apply police resources, then it made some sense to have Sigmund, who was not a police resource, investigate. Holmes also couldn’t deny his desire to understand what was happening in Bedlam.

  “I must admit,” Holmes said, “if I was given a thousand guesses, I would not have come close to what you are asking me. Of note, going in disguise to locations is an important tool that is used by law enforcement in uncovering information. Now, to say that having you admitted into an insane asylum is legal, is probably a bit of a stretch, but it is in the spirit of what we do.”

  “So, you’ll help?” Sigmund asked, with a look of child-like anticipation.

  A long pause, then a nod, and then the reluctant words, “Yes. I’ll help.”

  13.

  Something is wrong, Charlotte Merrihail thought. No, not something. Everything! Her eyes hadn’t opened yet, but consciousness was starting to chase away sleep. The bed was wrong. The feel of the blanket against her bare feet was wrong. The air, the smell, the temperature was wrong. Why did her arm hurt so much? In fear, she opened her eyes and was panicked to find that she was not in her bedroom. Her breathing sped up until she realized where she was and why she was there. Bedlam Asylum.

  With that mystery solved, her nerves calmed, but only a little as she was still inside an insane asylum. As if she needed another reminder, she glanced at the bandage on her arm that covered the vicious wound caused by Mr. Pegg’s test the previous day. She hoped to stay far away from him in the future.

  Mr. Thursby, however, was nice, at least for the short time she was with him. Dr. Exton, too. Mrs. Rathbone did not speak more than she needed, never a wasted word, but her face seemed to give away a touch of compassion at the mention of Charlotte’s fiery welcome.

  A sound, very close by, grabbed her attention. Flipping to her other side in the bed, away from the wall, she found a small face smiling at her. She was so surprised that she couldn’t think to speak for a moment, only blink. This small round face was that of a boy who couldn’t be older than ten. He had on a patched together waistcoat, a threadbare brown cap, and goggles that were much too large.

  Finally overcoming her surprise, she said, “Hi there. Who are you?”

  With no shyness, the boy answered, “Pocket! But that’s not my real name. When I was small, people said I could fit in a pocket. My real name is Marcus, but nobody calls me that.”

  “It is nice to meet you Pocket. My name is Charlotte.”

  “I’m glad you are a talker,” Pocket said while playing with a loose thread on his waistcoat. “Some people here don’t talk. I think it is rude. I ask them so many questions but they never answer. Mum says that it is not their fault, that they can’t help it.”

  “Your mother is correct. I’m sure that they would love nothing more than to answer you if they could. Does your mum live here too?”

  “Yes, she is in the next room over. But she lets me greet all the new people. ‘Specially if they are talkers.”

  “Well, Mr. Pocket,” she said smiling, “I appreciate the welcome. Have you been here long?”

  “Well, I guess so. I don’t remember being anywhere else.”

  “Oh, I see. What about your father?”

  “Don’t got one. But that’s okay. I have lots of people looking after me here.”

  Growing up in an asylum? Charlotte thought. Poor little fellow.

  Pocket spoke again, “I need to go now, breakfast will be soon and mum will be angry if she can’t find me. So long, Miss Charlotte.” Without waiting for a reply he turned and ran off.

  Charlotte hadn’t really considered that there might be children in the asylum. Was Pocket here simply because his mother was insane? Was she capable of taking care of a child? Perhaps the child was insane and the mother was here for him? More things to find out.

  She looked around the room and found that most of the beds were empty. The ones that were occupied had patients that didn’t look as if they understood or cared that it was morning, or time for a meal, or that they were alive. One lady in particular was laying on her side, awake and staring off into space. If it wasn’t for the occasional blink, Charlotte might of thought her dead.

  Pulling the covers back, Charlotte put on her dress and shoes, shivering all the while, and walked over to the lady who was on her side. Kneeling down so as to be at eye level with the patient, she said, “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Charlotte, what is yours?”

  The woman didn’t flinch. She gave no sign of registering that another person existed or was talking to her. Charlotte’s heart hurt for this poor woman. Did anyone deserve this? Again, Charlotte tried talking to her, “Is there anything I can do to help you? Perhaps get you something to eat?”

  No response. Charlotte found the woman’s hand and gave it a squeeze before getting up to find breakfast. A sense of sadness and anger at the injustice warmed her slightly.

  Leaving the room, Charlotte found that the hallway was grey, the outside weather having not improved any over the previous day and providing the only illumination for this area through the windowed wall. Still, there was plenty of light to allow her to take in all the activities around her. She was surprised to find ma
ny women walking or sitting along the main passage as if they were in some kind of lounge. Of course, Charlotte didn’t really know what to expect, but the seemingly subdued atmosphere here wasn’t one of them.

  The crunch of an apple being bit into drew Charlotte’s attention. There was a woman seated near her enjoying the fruit. Wondering where she had gotten it, Charlotte approached in order to ask her. When near, she was just opening her mouth to ask when the seated woman became terrified. She curled up into a ball on the chair, and started shouting, “No! No!”