‘I left him then. I did not know what else to do. Should I tell my husband everything? I could not. And then Dr Rutherford was found dead – it was a murder straight out of Prior’s Rents, as though time had contracted and vanished, and I was once more in that thieves’ kitchen with Goblin, listening to my mother’s tales, once more in Knight and Day’s blacking factory, crouched over Mr Day’s dead body.’ She frowned. ‘You know that Mrs Lunge gave me my daughter’s remains. You know, too, that I buried her in St Saviour’s churchyard. How did she come to be in your possession? It was well after midnight. No one saw me.’
‘The sexton saw you,’ I said. ‘You cannot put anyone in the ground at St Saviour’s without Dick the sexton knowing about it. He and I are old friends. How did you know we had found her?’
‘Dr Stiven. He helped me to retrieve her from you.’
‘You also went to see Dr Golspie on the day he was murdered, didn ‘t you?’ I said.
‘I knew he would be sure to remember what he had seen in the mirror. I wanted to explain – I was certain he was a good man, that he would understand. But when I arrived he was dead. I was frightened. I didn’t know who had done it, though I knew it wasn’t me. I took the key and locked the door. When I saw the boy on the stair, I grew more frightened still. So I said that Dr Golspie was out, but that when he came back he was to tell Dr Golspie that Susan had called.’
‘You were prepared to send an innocent woman to the gallows?’
She looked at the floor, her expression wretched. ‘I didn’t know that. I went to see her. I wanted to explain . . . but the sight of the place, the smell, the noises.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘I could not bear it. I could not go back there, not again. I did not kill Dr Golspie. I did not kill Dr Rutherford. For all I knew it might well have been Susan – had she not already killed a man? Did she not have a sentence to serve for that crime?’
I thought of Susan Chance beating her head against the asylum wall, her eyes wild, and her face dirty and bruised. She had been released immediately, but whether we were too late to save her mind had yet to be seen.
‘I did not murder Dr Rutherford or Dr Golspie,’ she said again. ‘And if it was not Susan Chance then I do not know who it was.’
After a moment I picked up the sheaf of paper upon which she had written her story. ‘I’d like to show this to Dr Hawkins,’ I said. ‘He has a right to know. And there’s also Dr Stiven – Joshua Milner. He used to know Dr Hawkins and would be pleased to put the past behind him. What you have written should help him achieve that, at least.’
‘But you know I didn’t kill Dr Rutherford.’
‘Yes.’
‘Or Dr Golspie.’
‘Yes. I always knew.’
‘Then why did you lock me down here? Why did you pretend—’
‘Because I could not see how else I might get the truth from you.’
I sat with Dr Hawkins while he read his wife’s story. He was silent throughout. Occasionally he drew breath. More than once he wiped his eyes. When he had finished, he went and stood with his back to us at the window, the confession upon the desk. After a moment or two he returned to his desk, took up the manuscript and tossed it onto the fire. ‘I would be grateful if my wife might return to me as soon as possible,’ he said.
‘And Joshua Milner?’
‘Dr Milner,’ he hesitated, as if choosing his words with care. ‘I wonder if he might consider a permanent appointment here at Angel Meadow. I will arrange it with the governors. Please tell him that he might leave off his . . . his embellishments if he so wishes.’ He looked at me. ‘And Pole is – was – the perpetrator of these crimes?’
‘It seems so.’
‘But why?’
It was Will who had tried to save Pole. While the rest of us had looked on in horror, frozen and unmoving, Will had leaped forward, tearing off his coat and flinging it about the blazing figure. Pole, oblivious, had screamed and thrashed as Will wrestled him to the ground, shouting at him to lie still. At the sound of his voice Dr Christie and I had jumped forward, and between us we had rolled the burning man in the hearthrug. Will’s hands had been badly burned. My hair was singed and all our faces were black with smoke, our eyes and mouths moist and vivid in our sooty faces. Beneath our hands, Pole lay silent. Smoke seeped in lazy wreaths from around his neck and ankles.
We had carried him to the infirmary, but when we unrolled the rug we could all see that it was impossible to save him. Dr Christie and I had dressed the man’s wounds as best we could, but we could not remove his clothes, for they had adhered to his flesh so closely that to try to pull them away would have brought him further agonies. And yet I still had questions in my head that remained unanswered, so that when Dr Christie took Will to dress his hands I had leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
‘Who are you, sir?’
His eye, the one that was always clouded and pale, shifted between his scalded lids. ‘I am Pole, to you,’ he whispered.
‘And to Mrs Hawkins?’
‘To her I am Goblin.’ He closed his eyes. Tears seeped from them to run down his blistered face. ‘My name is John Godolphin. My mother’s name was Pole.’
‘Does she know who you are?’
‘She does not. Not now, though I knew her once, a long time ago. Rutherford—’ his voice failed.
‘What about him?’
‘I knew what he’d done. On the Norfolk. And after.’
‘How?’
‘Word gets out in a place like that.’
‘You murdered Rutherford and Golspie?’
‘I had to protect her. I said I would. I would not have her sent back to the gallows. To the Bay.’
‘And she never knew who you were?’
‘Thank God she did not. But I had to protect her. I said I would.’
‘And me?’
‘You?’ He sighed. ‘I could not. I could not kill in cold blood. Not again. And yet I must protect her. I said I would. Oh God! God!’ He begged me for water then, and I held a glass to his cracked and blackened lips.
By the time Dr Christie had returned with the laudanum, Pole was dead.
I returned to the apothecary to find Will instructing Gabriel in the use of the camera. The paper had been prepared, the camera was balanced on its tripod and the herb drying room set up as a temporary darkroom. Will’s hands were heavily bandaged. I had changed the bandages that morning and his skin looked as though it was sure to heal, in time.
‘Someone else has taken over the plans for the House of Correction,’ he said, brandishing his bandaged paws. ‘I can’t work with my hands like this. I must say I’m not in the least bit sorry.’
‘You want to be in this picture, Mr Jem?’ said Gabriel.
‘Gabriel’s picked it all up rather quickly,’ said Will. ‘Look, we took a picture of Mrs Speedicut with her pipe. She changed her apron especially, and wore a newly washed cap. Who’d have thought she’d be so vain?’
He handed me a small square of paper bearing an image of the tubby old woman. The shades of light and dark gave her a dignity she lacked in the flesh, and her new apron gleamed white. Behind her, the bottles and jars of the apothecary shelves were ranked in neat and well-ordered lines. To posterity, Mrs Speedicut would appear a model of dignified matronliness – a far cry from the drunk and stained slattern I knew her to be. I propped the picture up against the clock on the mantel. ‘I will have a frame made for it,’ I said. ‘We’re unlikely to see such a vision of cleanliness and decency ever again.’
‘Come along, Jem,’ said Will. ‘I’d like to have one of you too – both of us together. I’ll sit here.’ He sank into a straight-backed chair positioned in the light from the apothecary window. ‘You stand beside me.’
And so I did as I was told, standing still and silent while Gabriel bustled about behind the camera. Its wooden box was scuffed, and spotted with water – perhaps from its many months at sea and its journey around the globe. I found that I did not mind hav
ing my picture taken – what I did mind was having it taken using Dr Rutherford’s camera. Mrs Hawkins had sat before that steady brass eye, numerous other women too, whether they had wanted to or not, and the thought made me uneasy.
The picture was a good one: Will and I side by side, he sitting straight-backed, a book open upon his knee ‘to give me an intelligent look,’ he’d said, his precious stovepipe hat on the floor at his feet. Beside him I saw a tall thin man, narrow shouldered, with smooth cheeks and a pensive gaze. His face wore a mask of discoloured skin, as though someone had tried to paint over his features, though his eyes stared out from behind it fearlessly. He looked sad and watchful. Perhaps I should try to cultivate a more cheerful demeanour, I thought.
I put the image beside Mrs Speedicut’s on the mantel and, following instructions, took one of Gabriel and Will together. But the thing unsettled me, no matter that I told myself that it was nothing but wood and glass and brass, that it was not a wicked object in itself.
‘I think you should sell that camera,’ I said. ‘We have no room for it here and Gabriel has enough distractions as it is.’
‘I’ve already offered it to Dr Christie,’ said Will. ‘He’s interested in physiognomy. He says it will be a useful addition to admissions and case notes at Angel Meadow, especially as he intends to use the wet collodion method, which is much faster. Dr Hawkins agrees.’
‘You can’t carry it up there with your hands like that.’ ‘Dr Christie is coming to collect it tomorrow.’
I looked at the camera. I did not know why but I could not rest until it was out of my apothecary. ‘I’ll take it up there now.’
I still had keys to Angel Meadow, and they jangled in my pocket as I lurched up St Saviour’s Street with Dr Rutherford’s camera. The asylum was not far, though by the time I reached the place I wished I had taken a hansom. I went in through the main entrance. The governors’ pictures were still swathed with black crêpe, though I noticed that two attendants were beginning to remove it. I nodded to the porter and said I was looking for Dr Christie.
‘I think he’s in the ladies’ main ward this morning, sir,’ came the reply.
The porter unlocked the door for me. ‘I must return these keys to Dr Hawkins,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave them with you when I go.’
I walked through the asylum, unlocking doors and locking them behind me. How had Pole borne the sound of keys and bolts after so long a prisoner? Had he not longed for freedom, for air and solitude? And yet he had chosen to inhabit a place that was little more than a prison. He must have loved Mrs Hawkins very deeply, the bond between them, in his eyes at least, something to be honoured until death. I heaved the camera into my other hand as I walked down the long corridor towards the women’s ward. Up ahead I could hear Dr Mothersole’s voice raised in song. Despite the booming of his speaking voice, his singing voice was unexpectedly high-pitched. It blended with the voices of the ladies and the strumming of the lute. He stopped, and I heard the quavering sound of the pan pipes.
I looked in at the sitting room as I passed. The walls were black with soot and there was a grubby smear where the hearthrug had been. The room smelled of smoke. No wonder the Ladies’ Committee had chosen to sing in the dining hall instead. There was only one person in the sitting room, standing over by the window, staring out as if waiting for somebody. Letty. Poor thing, I thought, she must be waiting for the ladies. She enjoyed the singing usually. I went in to speak to her.
Letty was holding her doll to her cheek, and she rocked to and fro as she stared out at the garden, making a low crooning sound. I laid my hand upon her arm. Perhaps the combustion of Pole had upset her. Just because she was no longer able to show her emotions did not mean she did not have any.
‘Letty,’ I said. ‘Would you like to come through to the singing?’
She turned to face me. Her mouth was open, her gaze unfocused, the doll cradled against her breast. The doll had been made for her by Mrs Speedicut out of rags, and it was Letty’s most beloved object. She had had more than one, but loved them so much that Mrs Speedicut often had to conduct repairs, or make a new one – both of which she did with surprising graciousness.
‘Come along, Letty,’ I said. ‘Let’s take dolly, shall we? Dolly loves the singing.’ And I reached out and gently took hold of the doll. Letty yielded it without demur. We had always got along well enough, she and I. I looked at the doll – and my heart leaped into my throat.
‘Letty,’ I stammered. ‘How . . .’ I could not speak. The face of the doll was not how I remembered it – buttoneyed and rosebud-lipped. It was not what it had been at all, but was changed, grotesquely altered in such a way that I almost dropped it to the ground. Its button eyes were missing. Whether they had been ripped out by accident or intention I could not say, but they had been replaced by two uneven crossed stitches. The mouth too was obliterated, covered over by six, long and crooked sutures. I took Letty’s hand. Between her fingers she held a bodkin, a length of coarse black thread through its eye.
Why had she done this? She had not seen the bodies of Dr Golspie, or Dr Rutherford. She had not read Mrs Roseplucker’s lurid stories, nor spent her time in Prior’s Rents. Not as far as I knew, at any rate. And yet, what did I really know about Letty? Where did she come from? Who paid for her board? Who were her family? I did not even know her full name, for we all called her ‘Letty’.
‘Come along, Letty,’ I said gently. I took her hand, the camera abandoned in the middle of the floor.
Dr Mothersole was still singing when Letty and I arrived at the dining room. Miss Mothersole appeared at my side.
‘Good morning, Mr Flockhart,’ she said. Her voice was low, and urgent, but bubbling with happiness. ‘I have asked my father if I might travel to America to inspect their asylums and report back to him and he has agreed! As long as I take a companion, he says. Of course, he cannot spare my mother, so I am to ask Mrs Lunge. Dr Hawkins says it will do her good and she is much more amiable since we discovered the truth about Mr Pole, and Dr Rutherford. What do you think of that? It was your suggestion. Are you not pleased? Mr Flockhart—?’
‘Miss Mothersole,’ I said. ‘I congratulate you. But I need to speak to Dr Mothersole rather urgently. Can you divert him?’
Miss Mothersole vanished. I saw her emerge amongst the crowd of lady visitors and, when there was an interlude between his singing and his quavering notes on the pipes, she whispered in her father’s ear. Dr Mothersole was modestly dressed that day in a black topcoat over a shimmering embroidered silk waistcoat that looked as though it had been made out of bluebottles. He came over to me while the ladies continued.
‘Dr Mothersole,’ I said, keeping my voice low in the hope that he might do the same. ‘What is Letty’s real name?’
‘Letty? Why, her name is Leticia Forbes.’
‘Leticia Forbes,’ I said. I had heard that name somewhere before, I was certain. But where? So much had happened in so short a space of time that I could not remember. I closed my eyes.
I saw in my mind the whirling figure of Pole, the fire that consumed him burning orange and blue, his coat smoking black at it gave itself up to the flames. I saw the brightness of the lantern that had sat at my bedside after I had been dug from the earth, the candle at its heart radiating a spectrum of white and yellow. I saw Will holding the camera, the sunlight glinting off its newly polished brass eye, and Dr Christie with his glittering pocket watch held between his fingers. He pinged it open and snapped it closed, pinged it open and snapped it closed, making the reflections from its glass face dance in silver circles about the room. And the words upon it, the words on the back of his watch that I had seen a hundred times and thought nothing of came into my mind. To Dr John Forbes Christie, from the Association of Medical Officers of Asylums and Hospitals for the Insane – My eyes flew open. I recalled my remark about Dr Christie’s waistcoat, you wear an embroidered waistcoat . . . The work is poorly executed . . . Would any man wear such a garment if he did not feel c
ompelled to do so out of love or duty? . . . A sister is the most likely explanation.
‘Dr Mothersole,’ I said. ‘Is Letty’s full name Leticia Forbes Christie?’
Dr Mothersole nodded.
‘His sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew?’
‘Of course. But professional courtesy forbade me to speak of it to anyone else.’
‘Did Dr Rutherford know?’
‘I doubt it. Christie asked for my discretion. Two doctors’ signatures were required for her admission, Christie’s and mine. As far as I am aware he told no one else. But what bearing might it have upon you? Or anyone?’
I snatched hold of Letty’s doll. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Until I saw this.’ I thrust the savagely darned doll into his face. ‘Can you explain it?’
Dr Mothersole’s flabby cheeks turned white. ‘Why . . . no,’ he stammered. ‘No, I cannot.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Let us see whether Dr Christie can.’
I found Dr Christie in the mortuary. He had his jacket off and was bending over a glass jar of formaldehyde. ‘Hello, Flockhart,’ he said. ‘I wondered when you would come.’
‘Your sister sent me.’ I put the darned doll on the dissecting table.
Dr Christie wiped his hands. He held up the glass jar he had been looking at. It contained a pale slice of what looked like pickled cauliflower. It had a fatty, softish look to it. ‘This is a slice of Dr Golspie’s brain,’ he said. He put it back onto the table and picked up another. ‘This is a slice of Pole’s brain. And this,’ he pointed to a third jar. ‘This is from the brain of Dr Magorian. One doctor, one felon, one madman. They look exactly the same – size, colour, weight, the differences are minute. Even the microscope shows us nothing. What evidence do we have of disease? Not a single thing. How can we help if there is nothing to see? It is the problem posed by the mind – when it is sick, diseased, we cannot detect where the problem lies. We cannot act – treat, or excise – what we cannot see.’
Dark Asylum Page 29