Dark Asylum

by E. S. Thomson

  I lay, raving, in my room at the apothecary. I remember kind hands pressing me back into the bed, Gabriel’s anxious face, Will holding my hand. He would let no one see me but Dr Stiven, who prescribed me valerian and St John’s wort and, when those failed, gave me bromide and opium. Was I mad? Perhaps I was. The lamp burned continually at my bedside. I would not have it moved, would not have it extinguished, but lay with my gaze fixed upon it, staring into its flame so that Will feared for my sight as well as my sanity. I did not eat; I did not sleep, for if I closed my eyes, the darkness sent me screaming back into the light.

  Faces came and went, the faces of the living and of the dead. I saw my old room and St Saviour’s, I saw Mrs Roseplucker’s ravaged face and Susan Chance crouched on a pile of dirty straw. I saw Miss Mothersole, her notebook in her hands – she opened it before me and held it out, her finger pointing to the words she had scribbled across the page, words that had passed between two people – one of whom I knew to be innocent of all that had occurred, the other whose guilt, and complicity I had, until that point, been unable to attest: Have no fear, we shall be more than a match for him . . . I have paid for my crimes thrice over, must I pay for them still? . . . Say nothing . . . Be as a stranger to me or all is lost. I saw the hall at Angel Meadow on the night Dr Rutherford was murdered. I saw faces I had once regarded with dispassion now filled with guilt and duplicity – Susan Chance smiling at me, her eyes sharp and black; Mrs Lunge, her fingers plucking at the large amethyst brooch she wore at the high collar of her dress, Dr Stiven – Joshua Milner – powdered and unsmiling at her side. I saw Dr Christie staring at Letty; I saw Pole and Edward Eden, both of them watching Mrs Hawkins, who stood tall and stately in the centre of the room, her jet beads glinting like eyes in the lamplight. I knew what had happened. I knew who had murdered Dr Rutherford, and Dr Golspie, and why. I tried to speak, to tell Will, but there was only Dr Stiven, and no words would come to me. He nodded and smiled and coaxed me back onto the bed. I felt a hand lift my head, felt the spoon against my lips and the burn of laudanum on my tongue. And then everything was black once more.

  On the fourth day, I awoke to find that everything had changed. My head felt clear. I could look at the lamp without feeling it was an object so dear to me that I could not leave go of it. The night held no terrors. Constance Mothersole’s notebook would have been destroyed by now, of that I was quite certain. I had read little before I was knocked out, but it had been enough to know whom I should be speaking to.

  The following day we went back to Angel Meadow.

  ‘Are you sure you are ready for this?’ Will said as we walked up St Saviour’s Street. ‘Someone wants you dead. Someone substituted your body for Rutherford’s and stuffed him into a giant cauldron. That someone is, in all probability, a resident of Angel Meadow.’

  ‘I know that, Will, but we can’t stop now. Besides,’ I took his arm. ‘You’re with me now. What could possibly happen?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘I’m no longer able to second guess anything that might happen in this horrible place.’

  ‘But let us think about what we know, not what we might guess,’ I said. ‘That at least might lead us to some explanations. I was knocked out, but it was not a fatal blow.’

  ‘Perhaps they were unable to kill you in cold blood.’

  ‘You think we are seeing a sickening for murder? Evidence of a conscience?’

  ‘Of sorts.’

  ‘And why was I not stitched?’

  ‘You were not dead.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And if you might be stuffed into a coffin then why bother with such an elaborate ritual as stitching you up?’

  ‘Perhaps getting me out of the way was all that was required?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe our attacker is not so systematic after all.’

  ‘I quite agree. And perhaps whoever did this wanted to add further ignominy to Dr Rutherford by boiling him into broth rather than allowing him the dignity of a proper burial. And, not everyone might guess where I had ended up – at least not until it was too late.’

  ‘We must also assume your attacker was a man.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘How would a woman drag you from the library to the dissecting room? How would she get you into Rutherford’s coffin, how might she get him into the stock-pot? All this could only be the work of a man.’

  ‘Or man and woman. Remember how we found Gabriel?’

  ‘That’s true.’ He looked at me. ‘Jem,’ he said, ‘What are you hiding? D’you know who did this to you? Who murdered Rutherford and Golspie?’

  ‘I think I do,’ I said. ‘But I must be sure.’

  We found Edward Eden outside, in the pigsty. He and two others were shovelling pig shit into wheeled boxes. It was to be spread about the asylum vegetable garden – what was not used would be sold. An asylum attendant was forking dirty hay out of the sty. I had seen the man before, and knew him to be a kind-hearted fellow. I asked if I might speak to Edward.

  ‘If you’re quick,’ he said. ‘We’ve a lot to get done here.’

  Edward watched us approach, his face wary. He reached over and scratched one of the pigs behind the ears. Then he bent down and whispered something to it, pointing to Will and me. Usually he was pleased to see me, but today it was clear that he was reluctant to come forward, and he lingered beside the pig, glancing about warily, as though fearing someone other than the attendant might be watching. He had been this way – sullen, nervous and shifty – since he had found Dr Rutherford’s corpse. Perhaps the sight of it had touched the fellow more deeply that anyone realised. That he had been falsely accused of murder, and incarcerated in the asylum’s basement, had no doubt done much to render him distrustful and surly. The death of his friend and defender Dr Golspie had only made matters worse – and yet somehow I was convinced there was something else.

  ‘Come along now, Mr Eden,’ said the attendant.

  Edward put his shovel aside and came towards us.

  ‘Good morning, Edward,’ I said. Then, hoping to draw him into my confidence by showing an interest in his favourite subject, added, ‘How is your mouse today?’

  ‘He’s not well,’ came the reply.

  ‘How so?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know. But he will not wake up.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Edward patted his coat pocket.

  ‘May I look?’

  Edward pulled out a small wooden box. It was the one I had given him. I took it and drew open the sliding lid. Inside, was a greasy mass of yellow stuff. A smell of decay and sour milk rose up. ‘What’s all this?’ I said, trying to keep the disgust off my face.

  ‘Cheese,’ said Edward. ‘In case he wakes up and is hungry.’

  I pushed the cheese aside with my finger. Beneath it, the mouse lay stiff. ‘Edward,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Edward snatched back the box and cradled it in his hands. ‘He’s sleeping. Look, there’s much less cheese than before. He’s eaten some and fallen asleep again.’

  ‘It’s fallen out,’ I said, pointing to the ground. ‘A dead mouse cannot eat cheese.’

  His face sagged. ‘But I looked after him well. I thought he was happy.’ His face grew fearful. ‘Perhaps he was poisoned. She’d do that.’

  ‘Who?’ said Will.

  ‘Not telling.’ Edward took the dead mouse from its box and held it to his cheek.

  ‘Look here, Edward,’ said Will, pulling another box from his pocket. ‘Here’s something we bought out on St Saviour’s Street. D’you think it’ll do just as well?’ It was identical to the one Edward held, only larger. ‘Do you still have the mouse cage?’

  ‘Dr Rutherford made Mr Pole take it away.’

  ‘Well, let us get you another. You can put these inside.’

  Edward’s face was shining. ‘Is it another mouse?’

  ‘Two mice,’ said Will. ‘Both are white, so you will be able to find them in the dark.’

 
‘Oh!’ Edward took the box. The mice ran out as soon as he opened the lid and he seized them expertly by the tails and caressed their silky fur. One escaped, to run up the sleeve of his coat and around his collar. He laughed as its tiny feet tickled his face.

  ‘Mr Connor.’ He addressed the attendant. ‘Do we still have my mouse cage?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Eden,’ said the man. ‘Mr Pole put it in the outhouse.’

  ‘Can you bring it up to my room?’

  ‘I’m not sure as I should, sir. Dr Rutherford said—’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Eden’s father would expect it,’ I said to the attendant. ‘And he’s been on the board of governors since Mr Eden was . . . sent downstairs.’

  ‘We must bury Albion,’ said Edward, looking sorrowfully at his dead mouse. He looked about. ‘Over there.’

  Will and I accompanied Edward to a straggling flower bed that ran the length of the asylum. The earth was thick with clay, the plants that grew there sickly and blighted. The north face of the building that overlooked us was black and moist and patched here and there with welts of slimy green mould. Edward looked about for a stick with which to loosen the claggy soil. He found what he needed and proceeded to jab at the ground with it, levering the earth until he could pull a clod of it up with his fingers. He dug deeper, wedged the mouse and its cheese-filled box in the earth, and raked the soil back over. High above, Dr Rutherford’s windows looked out at us. The daylight was watery and yellow, the sun struggling to be seen behind a layer of dirty cloud. The asylum’s windows reflected nothing, but yawned emptily, black and glittering.

  ‘Edward,’ I said. ‘Who did you see that night?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ he replied. His face closed over and his expression became guarded once more.

  ‘I think I know who it was,’ I said. ‘What if I whisper their name in your ear, and you can tell me whether I am correct? That way you have not told me, but I have told you.’

  Edward hesitated. He considered my argument for a moment before concluding that it was a judicious arrangement. I cupped my hand about his ear and whispered a name.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And if I tell you what I think happened that night, will you tell me whether I am correct?’

  ‘Very well.’ Edward opened his box and extracted the two white mice. They slipped in and out of his fingers, their noses quivering, their pink eyes bulging like drops of blood.

  ‘You had Dr Golspie’s keys, and you went up to Dr Rutherford’s rooms.’

  ‘I didn’t know they were his rooms. I was lost. I came upon them by mistake—’

  ‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘But you found Dr Rutherford all the same.’

  ‘He was lying down.’

  ‘You went over to him, and got blood on your hands when you tried to undo the stitches at his mouth.’

  ‘Yes.’ Edward put a fist against his lips, as if he hoped to stop the words from escaping. ‘I wiped my hands on my handkerchief, but there was so much of it, on the floor, on my shoes—’

  ‘But there was someone else in the room with him,’ I said. ‘Someone holding a skull. A small skull. You didn’t see them at first because they were up the ladder against the wall of phrenology heads.’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Edward. ‘But then Albion escaped and ran to the shelves with the skulls – so many of them, rows and rows of them staring down at me. So many dead people! And at my feet Dr Rutherford too. And she was there, as if she was floating, floating like a ghost, all in white she was, and she had a skull in her hands—’

  ‘She was not floating, Edward,’ I said. ‘She was merely up a ladder. And she was not a ghost, only in her nightdress.’

  ‘She said . . . she said I would end up just like them – just like all those people – the ones whose heads covered the shelves in Dr Rutherford’s room.’

  ‘Why would you end up like them?’ said Will.

  ‘If I told anyone who I’d seen, of course. She said she would boil me in her pot until there was nothing left but broth and bones.’ He looked at us in terror. ‘Broth and bones, she said. And then she would put my skull on the high shelf so that no one would ever know me, and I would stay there for ever. But I’ve not said her name. I promised I wouldn’t. She cannot say I told. She cannot boil me—’

  ‘No one will boil you, Edward,’ I said. ‘You’re quite safe now.’ I looked up at those fathomless windows once more. A face stared down at us.

  Angel Meadow Asylum, 18th September 1852

  He said he had read all about me. He knew that I had been sent to the scaffold, but had survived. My crimes, he was convinced, were small in number, but far worse than those of many of my fellow prisoners. I was no sneak thief, no pickpocket; I was a murderer and an arsonist, a burglar and the daughter of a common whore. I told him I was none of those things, that I was the daughter of a seamstress, a victim of sorrow and the wickedness of men. I had done all I could to improve myself, I said, and yet here I was. I delivered my speech in my finest voice. I wrote my name down for him in my best copperplate handwriting — Catherine Devlin. He noted all this down and smiled, crinkling his eyes and pursing his lips. I thought he might prove himself my friend – Joshua Milner was a doctor and had been one of the kindest and most generous of men, would not Dr Rutherford prove to be the same?

  How mistaken I was.

  Some time after that we crossed the line – the equator. We heard that this was a time of carousing and jollity, that Neptune would enter the ship and anything might happen. I heard later that such rituals were quite usual, though I cannot believe that what took place on board the Norfolk was commonplace throughout the Bay Fleet. Perhaps I am simply naive.

  That morning I was called to Dr Rutherford’s cabin, where I found him holding my blue dress, the one I had stolen from Miss Day, and had brought all the way from England. His cabin was small, but grand and spacious compared to the stinking hutches below decks where we passed the night. There were no birds and rats cut into bits, and no dead bodies. I looked about for the corpse of Jane Calloway, but there was no sign of her anyiuhere.

  ‘I want you to put this on,’ he said, lifting the dress. He laughed as he spoke, and handed me a glass of rum. ‘Your health, my pretty Miss Devlin,’ he said. ‘They say Neptune is coming amongst us today, will you not raise a glass to him?’ His face was red from the sun, the lines on his long neck thick and leathery. I did not like the way he stared at me, and I refused his rum. He appeared unperturbed. ‘Look,’ he said, pulling open a door. ‘I have a bath for you too.’

  I have no idea where and how he produced an item of such luxury on board that stinking vessel, but behind the door, in a small room lined with polished wooden panels, was a canvas bath filled with fragrant water. ‘Will you not bathe,’he said, ‘and luash your hair in honour of the sea god?’

  ‘Not while you are here,’ I replied. He smiled at that and went out.

  The water was cool against my skin, and I wallowed in it. I should have enjoyed it, but something made me uneasy. I could not say what.

  When I came out I found he had taken my convict dress and left only the blue one. I was thirsty now too, for the day was hot and still, so I drank down the rum and water he had left for me. The blue dress looked neat and clean after my rough convict smock, and I put it on. Just as I was fastening my bodice, there was a knock at the door. Two women entered. I recognised them as two of the free passengers, a pair of trollops from County Kildare who were hoping to find work and new lives across the ocean. They had taken up with two of the soldiers soon after we left England and spent much of their time performing the offices of wives, though I could not see what good it would do them in the long term for I understood that the soldiers were already married.

  The girls were drunk and giggling. ‘Are you ready, miss?’ one of them said as she came in. She dropped me an elaborate curtsey and sniggered.

  ‘Ready for what?’ I said.

  ‘We’re all waiting,’ said the other. They laughed again. At
the time I hardly noticed for I was filled with a raging thirst and I seized the rum bottle from the table where Dr Rutherford had left it and took a deep draught. They each took one of my arms and led me up onto the deck.

  The sun was brighter than ever in the sky that day, so that it seared my eyes and made me want to lie down and sleep for ever. I felt thirsty again, and dizzy, and I took another gulp of rum, anything to assuage the dryness in my throat. The two women propelled me forward until we were standing in front of a tarpaulin that had been stretched across the ship’s deck. It was tied to the foremast, and to the portside gunwale, so that it was raised at the corners to form a large canvas hammock. It had been filled with water. There were people all around – soldiers mostly, and some of the paying passengers, both men and women. I recognised one or two of the most favoured convicts amongst them too. All of them were wet and laughing and drinking rum, and the heads of some had been crudely shaved. They cheered when they saw me led forward by those two drunken slatterns, and to my right a trumpet sounded.

  A curtain of tarpaulin was thrown aside to reveal a man, a sailor, dressed in black with a piece of pale rope about his neck, in the crude semblance of a curate or parson. I noticed then that a packing case had been set up on the deck before him, a piece of netting draped over it, upon which were a few dead sea creatures – starfish, a sea urchin, a gull and two rotten fish. Still laughing, the two Irish girls marched me forward to stand before it.

  ‘Who taketh this woman?’bellowed the sailor-parson.

  ‘I do,’ shouted a voice from behind me. It was rough with drink and lust and it made my blood freeze in my veins. From the crowd came the sound of laughter, catcalls and lewd shouts. My head was throbbing now, and I could turn it only slowly.

  Dr Rutherford stood upon the deck, the crowd of leering faces at his back. He was in his shirt sleeves, the removal of his coat his only concession to the raging heat of the sun. At his side was the man who had claimed me. I did not know who he was, one of the sailors, I presumed. He was stripped to the waist, with a swab upon his head for hair, and another tied over his ears to hang down his face in the manner of a long, straggling beard. Upon his back he wore what looked like the skin of a sea creature – one of the sharks that followed us, perhaps, or a porpoise. It was bluish-grey in colour, wrinkled and dry and vile. Dead starfish had been tied into this hideous cloak; weed scraped from below the water line was draped over his shoulders and shells and more weed tangled into his hair and beard.