Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2)

by Mark C. King

  “Alright then.”

  Sigmund turned his eyes to the ground and only risked the smallest of glances to catch a glimpse of his soon to be captors. Next to the man who originally addressed Holmes were Mr. Pegg and two other men, similarly dressed in greyish white pants and shirts. Must all be orderlies, thought Sigmund.

  “If we are quite done…” the older man said, “Chief Inspector, I am Doctor Madfyre. I assume that this is the patient you communicated about?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes as he handed over the admission paper, “this is Sigmund Maxwell. A violent man, but confused as well.”

  “How do you mean, exactly?” asked the doctor.

  Holmes looked at Sigmund, giving a disgusted look, and said to Dr. Madfyre, “Evidently he was sitting in a restaurant eating some soup. He asked the waiter for another bowl and the waiter informed him that they had run out. Mr. Maxwell then immediately leapt from his chair and attacked the waiter, stabbing him over and over again.”

  “My goodness,” the doctor commented. “Did the waiter live?”

  “He did. Fortunately, Mr. Maxwell here happened to be holding a soup spoon so the waiter only suffered some bruises.”

  “Oh, that is classic!” exclaimed one of the orderlies, a tall slim man with a rat-like face and at least a day’s growth of whiskers. “He is a real nutter, this one!”

  “Enough, Mr. Baker!” said Madfyre sternly. Then to Holmes and Sigmund, “Has he had any particular noteworthy events in his life recently?”

  Sigmund gave out a sad sigh but didn’t answer. Holmes spoke up, “How did you know? Outside of this incident with the waiter, his wife left him a fortnight ago.”

  “Ah,” said Madfyre excitedly, “That explains everything.”

  Holmes cocked his head and asked, “It does?”

  “Yes. You see, the human mind has a barrier, if you will, that keeps back our baser and generally wrong actions. That barrier is defined by our own innate consciences and by societal standards. For example, would you show up at a friend’s house unannounced for an overnight stay?”

  “No, of course not. Outside of an emergency, of course,” answered Holmes.

  “Precisely. But in some cultures that is accepted behavior and even encouraged. Different societal standards. And yet, no matter where you go, taking another person’s life is wrong – this is beyond society and is an ingrained standard that is created by our conscience.”

  “But, if that is so ingrained, why did Mr. Maxwell attack that waiter? It is only good fortune that he happened to have a spoon in in his hand. What if it was a fork or, heaven forbid, a knife?”

  “Excellent question, Chief Inspector. This barrier is strong but not invulnerable. When a significant occurrence happens in someone’s life, the barrier can weaken or crack. Some of those wrong actions that it protects us against could leak out with unpredictable and often terrible results.

  “I am convinced that when Mr. Maxwell’s wife left him, it created just such a crack in his barrier. The constant stress of it all continued to weaken him until finally a small unpleasantry, like not getting a second bowl of soup, let out the forbidden actions.”

  Holmes stared at Madfyre as he allowed the explanation to sink in. Sigmund thought that Madfyre was quite brilliant in his analysis – even if the whole situation was a made up story.

  Nodding in agreement and understanding, Holmes said, “Well, this looks like the right place for him. Can he be cured? The barrier repaired?”

  Sigmund looked at Doctor Madfyre for the first time. He felt the look was justified as the answer to that question would certainly be of interest to a patient. The first thing that Sigmund noticed was Madfyre’s left eye – or, more accurately, the optical device, much like a jewelers glass, attached where his left eye would be. Below the eye was a scar on Madfyre’s left cheek, four lines that reached down to his jaw-line. He knew it to be the result of the attack by Priscilla, the woman from the demonstration that Sutton had told Sigmund about. Madfyre’s good eye was dark but not unkind. His receding salt and pepper hair was parted and styled close to his head. Equally styled was his mustache and goatee that came to a fine point.

  Doctor Madfyre looked intently at Holmes before answering the question. “Can he be cured? In my experience, no, not completely. However, he can be helped.” Madfyre then turned to his orderlies and said, “Mr. Baker, please assist Mr. Pegg in taking this patient to a private room. I believe there is one available on the second floor.”

  “Yes, Doctor Madfyre,” the two orderlies said in unison and walked to take Sigmund from Holmes and the driver. Standing in front of Sigmund, they waited a moment and then said to Holmes, “You may remove the shackles now, Chief Inspector.”

  “I’m afraid that I cannot release the shackles until he is safely in his room.”

  The two orderlies looked at each other and evidently came to the conclusion that they didn’t care, and, no doubt, didn’t want to risk upsetting Holmes again. They turned and started to walk in the building and called out behind them, “Follow us then.”

  The two orderlies walked inside the asylum, Sigmund, still grasped by Holmes and the driver, were behind them with Doctor Madfyre and the third orderly in the rear.

  After a few steps inside, Holmes asked Doctor Madfyre, “Is there any sickness here that I should be worried about?”

  Well done! Sigmund thought. He knew that Holmes was trying to unearth any information about the disease.

  Madfyre scoffed, “Chief Inspector, the condition of our patients is not like a cold or flu. Their mental issues are not contagious. If so, then you should be worried that you have been in close company with a would-be murderer.”

  Holmes nodded, but said nothing.

  Oh well.

  The procession headed up the left set of lobby stairs to a second floor landing. Here, Pegg took out the necessary key and unlocked a set of double doors. The hallway on the other side had one wall of windows while the other had many doors. Patients filled this area, doing all manner of activities. Sigmund’s unease grew exponentially at the sight.

  Moving down the hallway, Mr. Pegg and Mr. Baker literally pushed their way through anyone who stood in their path. Sigmund noticed that Doctor Madfyre and the other orderly were no longer behind them. At the next to last door of the hall, they stopped. Once again a key was produced and the door opened. Inside was a small bed and a wooden bucket on the floor.

  “Here we are, Chief Inspector. Perhaps you will remove the shackles now?”

  Holmes eyed the man and Sigmund could tell that he did not like this individual. Sigmund didn’t either. Without answering, Holmes undid the shackles and said, “He is your problem now.” After a quick glance at Sigmund, Holmes then started walking back down the hallway, the driver at his side.

  “Well now, Spoony,” said Mr. Pegg. “Welcome to your new home.” With that, he grabbed Sigmund’s arm and shoved him into the room causing Sigmund to fall. Before Sigmund could even get to his knees, he heard the door behind him close and lock. He stood up and spun around only to see a face looking at him. The door had a small opening to allow the orderlies or doctors to check on patients without having to unlock it. Sigmund stared at the man, Mr. Pegg, and waited for him to say or do something.

  “If you get lonely,” the orderly said, “let us know and we will introduce you to your neighbor. We call him The Beast of Bedlam. He enjoys biting people. Perhaps he could have you for dinner.”

  Mr. Pegg’s face disappeared and Sigmund could hear him and the other orderly, Mr. Baker, laughing as they walked away.

  And now he was alone, locked in a dingy room, exactly as was planned. Although the result was desired, the reality of it was hard to absorb. To be a madhouse patient, even a false one, was both frightening and humbling. Sigmund thought of his family but they seemed so far away. They did not even know he was here as he had a hard enough time convincing himself that this was a good idea. He still wasn’t sure about that, more so now than ever before
.

  And were the orderlies jesting about his neighbor? Was there a Beast of Bedlam?

  16.

  It had been two days now since Charlotte Merrihail had been admitted. She still hadn’t seen a doctor other than the one that briefly tended to her wound. Wasn’t she to be evaluated?

  During her initial time there, she had kept entirely to herself. There was no reason to interact with the orderlies for fear of being discovered and fear of another attack. The fellow patients, for the most part, appeared docile and unthreatening. Charlotte reminded herself that a calm exterior could still house most anything, so she had kept her distance. All the while she paid close attention and took mental notes for her article. The general conditions were far more awful than she imagined them to be, made only worse by the treatment of the orderlies.

  Today, she thought, I am going to expand my involvement and interact with other patients. What was an insane person really like? How much did they comprehend about their poor surroundings and cruel treatment?

  With this new goal in mind, Charlotte entered what was referred to as the community area. For a few hours a day, both men and women could congregate in a large room. It was filled with chairs, tables, shelves with books, and a few games. There was always a game of checkers being played, usually between two patients, occasionally only one.

  The room was moderately filled and Charlotte scanned the area for a safe person to approach. There was a window on the far wall and two women sitting at a table in front of it. If it wasn’t for the location, it would have been a very natural scene of two friends reading and talking. However, there was nothing that Charlotte considered natural in Bedlam.

  Still, she had seen them there the day before and they seemed normal enough – a relative term, she thought. Some of the patients were truly mad and some of those were dangerous. But from these two ladies at the window, she felt no sense of danger so Charlotte decided that they would be her first real fellowship with a madhouse patient.

  Walking across the room, she weaved her way through the furniture and patients, and stopped just short of the women. The two were in the middle of a conversation but stopped when they saw her approach. Indicating a third, unoccupied, chair, Charlotte asked politely, “May I sit with you ladies?”

  The two looked at each other and then the one on the right said, “By all means.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said as she sat down and joined them. “My name is Charlotte Caine.”

  The woman to her left, with brown hair and bright eyes, responded first, “Nice to meet you Charlotte. My name is Annelise Devine, but please call me Anne.”

  “My name,” said the woman to Charlotte’s right, who had long blonde hair and an intelligent look to her face – not something one expects to see in an asylum. “My name is Jenaca Rose. You can call me Jena.”

  “It is nice to meet you both,” Charlotte responded.

  “So,” said Anne, “what brings you to Bedlam?”

  Charlotte was shocked at the bluntness of the question but had to admit that she wanted to ask the same question to the two of them. Looking at Anne and then at Jena, both staring back with an air of anticipation, she quickly decided to answer. This should make it easier to get their story as well. “I had an episode where I thought I was at a ball and heard music and danced.”

  “That does not sound so bad.” Commented Jena.

  “Well, I was outside of Waterloo Station in the rain.”

  “Oh!” Jena said and then laughed. Anne laughed too and before long Charlotte joined in. She wasn’t sure how appropriate the laughing was, making light of a mental issue, but there appeared to be no malice from the two women. Plus, Charlotte didn’t know for what reason that they were here. Maybe they were admitted because they laughed at inappropriate things, she thought idly.

  The laughter died down after a few moments and Anne said, “That must have been quite a scene.”

  Charlotte nodded, “It was. I even danced with a few strangers heading into the station.”

  Jena put her hands over her mouth and they all started laughing again.

  When this fit started to die, Charlotte asked, “Alright, you have my story. What about you two?”

  Anne and Jena looked at each other and Anne decided to go first. “When I was young, I was quite a terror. I yelled and screamed, didn’t obey my nanny, much less my parents. That rebellious streak continued into my teen years. I treated the suitors that my mom arranged poorly, I didn’t learn and certainly didn’t act with all the proper lady-like expectations. I was a free person and wanted to make my own decisions. My family thought me an embarrassment and had me admitted here to hide me.”

  “That’s terrible!” exclaimed Charlotte. “How long have you been here?”

  “I was seventeen at the time and I’m twenty-four now, so about eight years ago.”

  Charlotte was appalled. This woman was not crazy, she was just an individual. Why, Charlotte herself, since the death of her husband, was much like Anne, making her own way and not conforming to the exact expectations of a woman. “How can they stand to face you when they visit?”

  “Visit?” Anne chuckled. “No, they don’t do that. I haven’t had a single visitor here since my admission.”

  Charlotte was even more astounded and disgusted, “You’ve been abandoned here? Do not the doctors realize that you have no mental issues? Shouldn’t you have been released by now?”

  Anne nodded, “That would make sense, but there is no sense here. You see, if I act normal, the doctors say that I’m denying my issues and can’t improve until I embrace them. If I was to act as if I had issues, then the doctors say that I deserve to be here. One simply cannot win.”

  This was not at all expected by Charlotte. Not only was a sane person admitted for wrong reasons – which was a travesty in itself – but that person could not get out once inside. Were the doctors really that oblivious? Charlotte would have something to say about it in her article. She could help Anne, and any others like her.

  “My story is somewhat similar,” said Jena. “I was married and my husband and I were having our first child. When the baby was born, something was wrong with her and she died shortly after birth.”

  Charlotte put a hand over her own mouth and felt her heart breaking.

  Jena continued, “As you would imagine, I was devastated. For the first couple weeks, I could not stop crying. My husband tired of hearing me, and would tell me to ‘get over it’ and that we ‘have to move on’. This increased my sadness, for not only did I miss my child, I realized I was married to a heartless man.”

  “You poor thing.” Charlotte said with true sympathy and reached her hand out to take Jena’s.

  Jena smiled lightly at the kindness and said, “As a few more weeks went by without me feeling any better, my husband brought me here to be cured of my melancholy.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and shook her head. It was too much. These things shouldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be allowed to happen.

  “At first,” Jena continued, “my husband would come and visit me regularly. But the visits grew less frequent until after about a year, they stopped. I haven’t had a visit from him, or anyone, for over three years now.”

  “What about your family?”

  “My brother and I were not close, I haven’t talked to him since he moved out of the house when I was only seventeen. My parents passed away not long after I was first married. There is no one outside of this building that knows or cares I’m here, except for my husband, assuming he is still alive.”

  “So,” said Charlotte, “of the three of us at this table, I’m the only one that actually belongs here?”

  “Well,” said Anne, “You may have had an episode, but you seem fine to me. I would not think you deserve the life sentence that this place becomes.”

  Charlotte thought about Mr. Godwit, her editor, and of how he was the only person who knew she was here. The man was absolutely trustworthy, but she couldn’t help b
eing nervous that her future freedom were in the hands of one person.

  “It’s not so bad,” said Jena, “once you get used to it. Yes, the food is bad, the beds uncomfortable, the temperature is poor, but they allow us to have books. In that respect we can escape every day through the pages of wonderful stories. That is mainly how we spend our time here, reading and discussing. Do you read?”

  “I do,” Charlotte answered, not sure that reading would be a sufficient replacement for the freedom that was lost.

  “Also,” said Anne, “you have already made two friends.”

  Charlotte looked from Jena and then to Anne, their faces now showing kindness. She appreciated their offer of friendship but was a long way from feeling comforted.

  “We look out for each other,” said Anne. “We know how to stay out of harm’s way. Have you had any issues with the orderlies?”