by Mark C. King
Charlotte was not convinced about what Sigmund had told her, but hearing a similar account from her friends removed much doubt. She stated, “I’m going to help him.”
“How?” Jena and Anne asked simultaneously.
“I am not sure, exactly. But I can at least tell him about Prudence and add to his theory. And, after all, I am a reporter. It is my job is to uncover things. I think this is something that definitely deserves uncovering.”
The three of them sat in silence for a few moments as they contemplated what they had just learned. Charlotte’s desire to help the patients of Bedlam – and now Sigmund – burned hotly inside of her. Looking at her two friends she said flatly, “I must meet with Sigmund again.”
* * *
The evening meal was served at the normal hour, and although the previous meals were skipped, no extra portions were provided. Charlotte was happy that they were allowed to eat at all. Mostly she was relieved that she should be able to talk with Sigmund that night – assuming that the community room would be open and they would not all be locked up again.
Sitting next to her two friends, they scanned the dining room entrance.
“There he is,” whispered Jena when Sigmund entered the dining room.
Charlotte hoped to catch his eye, but he didn’t look their way. He simply sat down and ate his meal. With him was the man that he had been sitting with the night of the beating, Basil, along with the man he plays chess with, Xavier.
At one point, he looked in her direction, but quickly averted his eyes. The glance was not long enough for her to get his attention. Despite her continued earnest wishes, he never again turned his eyes toward her or gave any sign that he knew she existed. Her meal all but forgotten, Charlotte continued to stare at him.
When Sigmund stood up to leave, Charlotte got up quickly, nearly knocking her plate to the floor, and hurried to the door so that she could meet him there. When he caught sight of her, he visibly hesitated. Giving him a nod of encouragement, she waited for him to walk nearer to her. As he got close, Charlotte said, “We need to talk again. I can help you.”
The look he gave in return was one of surprise and concern. She could not hold it against him. Their first discussion ended with her basically blaming him for the death of her husband.
Charlotte was relieved when he replied, albeit with a suspicious voice, “Alright.” However, his amiable nature showed through when he continued, “I can cancel my theatre plans for the evening, so why don’t we talk now.”
She followed him into the community room and to the same table that they had their first conversation. After sitting down, Charlotte started by saying, “First, let me apologize for how I treated you last night. I know that if anyone is to blame for my husband’s death, it is Grimkraken. What you did to stop him was brave and necessary.”
“Look,” replied Sigmund, “I don’t blame you for however you feel about me. I have many of those same feelings. I know what I did was right, but the consequences still weigh heavy on my conscience.”
“I understand and am sorry if I made the burden more difficult. Let us try to move past that. I was serious when I told you that I can help, not with anything about Grimkraken, but with your current assignment.”
He cocked his head and said, “I am not sure how.”
“I’m also here under false pretenses. I work for The Strand and am going to write an article on my experience here. Your findings can be included! Not a person in England will be unaware of the atrocities of this place.”
She watched as Sigmund narrowed his eyes. He was clearly trying to determine if he could believe her. In an attempt to help his decision, she said, “I understand that the words of a patient in an insane asylum are not the most trustworthy. Let me start by saying that Charlotte Caine is my maiden name. The name I go by since my marriage, and still, is Charlotte Merrihail.”
A look of recognition came across Sigmund’s face. “Charlotte Merrihail? My niece is an avid reader and is very much an admirer of your work.” He paused as he considered something and finally asked, “Tell me, what was the last article you wrote?”
With a smile, Charlotte said, “My last article published was about The Caerphilly pit disaster in South Wales. Eighty-one people lost.”
Sigmund nodded and said, “You talked to a lot of people for that story, families and friends of the deceased. The repercussions of something like that are rarely understood. The strength and bravery to rebuild lives and to continue on was captured well. I guess it helped that you, unfortunately, have had some experience with that sort of thing.”
“The parallels were difficult,” she agreed. “Losing my husband was devastating. I thought I had overcome all those dark feelings, but have recently realized that I have not. And then to see you, someone who was involved… well, the hurt is still raw.” She dabbed her eyes, but was determined to not get emotional once again and quickly asked, “In your investigation, have you heard of a patient by the name of Prudence?”
“No. Who is that?”
“Prudence was a patient that was said to be cured and released not long before I got here. According to those I have talked with, Prudence was far gone, mentally, and a very unlikely person to be cured.”
Nodding excitedly, Sigmund said, “That is the type of evidence that makes me think that there is something more sinister than a disease that is affecting the patients.”
Both Charlotte and Sigmund turned their heads at the sound of the piano. It was the same woman from the other night. The music was hauntingly beautiful.
Sigmund asked, “Do you know much about her, the piano player?”
“No, just that her name is Priscilla Voth and that her talent is enchanting.”
“An associate of mine was at a demonstration some years back where Doctor Madfyre injected her with a serum to try and help her. The theory being that her mind was focused so much on piano playing that it didn’t allow for other things, like reason or communication.”
Charlotte listened intently as she had not heard of this.
Sigmund continued, “The serum worked, to a degree, as Priscilla was able to talk a little for the first time in her life. However, it took away much of her piano skill which terrified her. I am assuming you have seen the scars on Madfyre’s face, and, of course, his mechanical eye?”
Charlotte nodded.
“They are the result of that experiment. Priscilla, in her agony of loss, attacked him.”
“Then what happened?”
“I don’t have many more details other than the serum’s effect was not permanent. Evidently the whole affair shook Madfyre pretty bad and he stopped his research.”
“These poor patients.” Charlotte lamented. “At best, they seem to be regarded as burdens, but more often they are regarded as worthless beings that can be treated horrifically without repercussions. My article will help to change that.”
She could tell that Sigmund was hearing only some of what she was saying. There was a distracted look on his face. “What is it?” she asked.
“What if,” he said, “Doctor Madfyre did not stop his experiments. What if they are still happening and the cause of the missing patients?”
“You think that he is actually successful in curing them?”
“I don’t think so. I know for a fact that several people from Bedlam have died. Besides, if a doctor found a cure for insanity, would not that be a news story that would sweep the world? No, I do not believe these patients are being cured.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, trying to be fair and think of any counterarguments that could be made – there were not any. “You are right. If a cure exists, it would almost certainly be known. So that means he is testing his serum on patients here with deadly outcomes?”
“It is a theory that fits the facts that I have, but I need more proof.”
Sigmund sounded tired or, perhaps, frustrated. Charlotte sympathized. Spending any amount of time in this place wore down a person. The grim surroundin
gs pulled darkly at one’s spirit with the constancy of gravity. Charlotte asked, “What is your plan on getting more proof?”
Sigmund leaned in close, as if his next words were more condemning than their conversation had been thus far, and said, “I have the ability to open locked doors. I am going to wait for the next patient to be taken and try and follow.”
Many questions came to Charlotte’s mind, but she asked the most pressing one first. “Follow where?”
“I am not sure. All I know is that they are taken to the first floor and then somewhere from there.”
“I want to help.” Charlotte said determinedly. “I want to go with you.”
“I don’t know,” Sigmund responded. “If I am right, then we are talking about a murderer. This is very dangerous.”
“I am aware that you don’t know me well, Sigmund. But be assured that I am a smart, capable, and brave woman. You probably think of me as a possible hindrance, but I will be an asset.”
She stared into his eyes as he stared back. The struggle could clearly be read on his face. Charlotte added, “You have to take me, otherwise I will expose you.”
Sigmund’s expression took on a look of disbelief and Charlotte immediately condemned herself for that statement. It was wrong and not true. “I am sorry, Sigmund. I did not mean that. I will not turn you in. It is just that my desire to help these people is strong. They do not have a voice, but they will. I need to do this. It is what my husband would have done.”
Sigmund’s face softened. After another few seconds he finally said, “Look, nothing is going to happen tonight. The police have two constables placed in the building, so I have a hard time believing that there will be any after-hours activity. Tomorrow evening we will talk again and I will give you my answer. Deal?”
Filled with mixed emotions, Charlotte narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. He had not accepted her help, but also had not turned it down. “It is a deal,” she answered with a bit of dejection in her voice.
With the agreement now struck, the two of them gave attention to their thoughts while the piano music provided a dark canvas to paint them on.
* * *
At nine o’clock, the orderlies, Mr. Thursby and Mrs. Rathbone, ushered the patients out of the community room and towards their respective wards. After the deal with Charlotte, Sigmund had been trying to think of a way to verify if she was really who she claimed to be. All his instincts told him that she was trustworthy, but if he was to include her on his investigation of a possible murderer, he needed to be absolutely sure – for both their benefit.
As he exited the community room, he still was not sure what to do. Without leaving the asylum, how could he get any information on her? From the second floor landing, he looked down on the lobby and spotted the two constables that Holmes had told him about. Of course! he thought and quickly started down the stairs away from the group.
“Mr. Maxwell, come back here!” Mr. Thursby called out sharply from behind. “Constable, stop that man!”
At the bottom of the stairs, one of the constables placed himself as a barrier. Sigmund was hurrying down the stairs, but not running, and slowed as he approached the final steps. In a low voice that only the constable could hear, he quickly said, “I am Sigmund Shaw and need to get a message to Chief Inspector Holmes.”
It took only a moment for the constable to understand who was in front of him and he looked up at Mr. Thursby and said, “Do not worry, sir, I have him.” He grabbed Sigmund’s arm and slowly walked him up the stairs. In a low voice, he asked Sigmund, “What is the message?”
“There is a patient here that claims to be Charlotte Merrihail, a writer for The Strand Magazine on an undercover assignment. I need to know if she is who she claims to be.”
Without looking at Sigmund, the constable answered, “That will not be a problem. You take care.” He then released the arm and gave Sigmund a little shove.
It was a good performance, thought Sigmund. With his head down, he walked passed Mr. Thursby and into the men’s ward. He did not make eye contact but could feel the stare of Thursby. It did not matter, Sigmund got his message out.
33.
The alarm clock rang and in less than a second, a hand clapped down on it extinguishing the sound. Chief Inspector Gabriel Holmes was awake. He always woke before his alarm and took those few minutes to think through his potential activities. The quiet contemplation gave his day a clear plan; a purpose and motivation to get out of bed.
The ring of the alarm still echoed in his ears when a new sound unexpectedly broke through. A knock at the door. Well this is peculiar, he thought.
“Just a moment,” Holmes called out while rising from his bed. After donning his robe and slippers he walked towards the entrance to his home. Running his hand through his still messy hair, he quickly realized that it was an ineffective action. He frowned and concluded, if someone chose to visit at this early hour, they should not be expecting a well-dressed and well-arranged occupant.
When he opened his door, he was surprised to find a constable waiting on the other side. It took only a brief moment to realize that this was one of the men that was assigned to the overnight watch at the asylum – Constable Beasley. Holmes heart sank as he wondered what else could have happened.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for the early hour,” said Beasley. “I came straight here once my shift ended at Bedlam.”
“It is quite alright, constable. Is there a problem?” Holmes voice had a little more eagerness than he usually allowed.
“No, sir, it was a quiet night. I mean, quiet in that there were no noticeable activities. The sounds of that place are as unsettling as anything I have ever heard. Nightmare quality.”
“Very well, constable.” Holmes was getting impatient. “If there is nothing to report, then why, may I ask, exactly have you come here?”
“It is Sigmund Shaw, sir,” answered the constable. “He asked me to give you a message.”
“Sigmund!” Holmes exclaimed. Does he want out? “What did he say?”
“He said that there is a patient that claims to be Charlotte Merrihail from The Strand Magazine on an undercover assignment. He would like to know if she actually is who she purports to be.”
Holmes regarded the request for a moment and then asked, “Is that the end of the message?”
“Yes, sir. That was all he asked.”
With an inward smile, Holmes thought, I do not think I will ever stop being surprised by that man. Nodding at the constable, Holmes said, “Very well, Constable Beasley. You did the right thing bringing this information to me right away. You had a long night, why don’t you go home and get some rest.”
Beasley smiled at the compliment and said, “Thank you, sir. I believe I will take your advice. Good day, sir.”
“Good day to you, constable.” Holmes closed the door and thought about his morning routine of quiet contemplation and how it took only a few minutes of his day to alter his plan.
Once dressed and breakfasted, Holmes made his way to Scotland Yard. He had a little time to pass before The Strand Magazine offices would be occupied, so he tried to focus on some paperwork and reports from the asylum murders. The interviews with the staff and patients had turned up nothing of interest and he hoped Sigmund would have better success on his end. It pained him that so far he could add so little to the whole affair.
Leaving Scotland Yard, he hailed a carriage that took him to the offices of The Strand. After asking the driver to wait for him, he took a few quick steps through the cold and rain and into the office lobby. A matronly woman was seated at a desk and looked up at him as he entered. She asked, “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, I would like to speak with Charlotte Merrihail.”
“Oh, I am sorry, sir, but she does not have an office here. Mrs. Merrihail only visits when she has an article to submit to her editor.”
Not surprising, thought Holmes. “Then may I speak with her editor?”
“I am a
fraid that without an appointment it would be quite impossible. Mr. Godwit is very busy today, but his schedule looks fairly clear for Wednesday. Would you like an appointment for then?”
It was time to pull rank. “That will not do at all. Let me introduce myself. I am Chief Inspector Gabriel Holmes of Scotland Yard.”
He watched as her face took on the anticipated look; a combination of surprise and concern. “Oh dear! My apologies, Chief Inspector. I had no idea.” She stood up and walked around her desk. “Please follow me and I will take you to his office.”
“Thank you,” Holmes said amiably and followed her up a stairwell and to a hallway with a row of doors.
They stopped outside of the second office and the secretary opened the door slightly. Sticking her head in the room, Holmes could hear as she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Godwit, but Chief Inspector Holmes is here to see you.”