Sebastian collected his bag from the inn and made his way to the pickup point for the railway’s station wagon, marked by a folding board on the pavement outside the apothecary’s store. The wagon arrived a few minutes later. Its driver was not the sullen ostler who’d brought him here, but the blue-eyed young railwayman. He was in a clean collar and scrubbed of his layer of soot.
Sebastian shared the ride out with three newspapermen returning to London, and on the ten-minute journey he almost dozed. At the end of the ride, the newspapermen went into the waiting room and raised a fog of tobacco smoke while Sebastian stayed out in the fresh air.
He walked to the end of the platform and stood looking at the coal yard beyond it. There was a coalman’s shed, with an iron roof and a stone chimney. It was a building that might easily have been a poacher’s cottage in the country were it not for the fact that its kitchen garden was in walled sections, each section containing a heaped-up mountain of glittering black spoil.
When Sebastian came back down the platform, the young railwayman was lining up dry goods and mailbags for loading onto the branch line service.
He was a hard worker. Sebastian found himself thinking back to the half hour when the fairgrounds began to empty and the stalls to shut down, when he’d made his way to the Electric Coliseum and waited out the final show. Once again, the plumber ran from the lunatics. His antics never changed. But nor did he age, or get drunk on the job. And, Sebastian supposed, he performed nightly and forever for his single day’s wage.
Sebastian said, “Do you know much about Sir Owain Lancaster?”
The young man didn’t pause in his work. He said, “Anyone who grew up around here knows Sir Owain.”
“And what do they think of him?”
“A kind man, and a generous one,” the railwayman said. “We don’t care what they say in London. There are things in this world that no one can dispute with any certainty. If he says he saw monsters in the jungle, then I for one am happy to believe him.”
TWENTY-ONE
Attn: S Greenhough Smith Esq
George Newnes,
Ltd 3-13 Southampton Street
London WC2
Dear sir,
I write to you at the suggestion of my employer, Sir James Crichton-Browne, whom I serve in the capacity of Special Investigator. This concerns my son, Robert, who is eighteen years old. I will be grateful if you will consider him for a position in your archive or editorial departments, should one become available. Although his temperament is not well suited to responsibility, his grasp and retention of detail will, I believe, make him an asset to your editorial staff in matters of proofreading or record keeping.
I will welcome any opportunity to discuss the matter with you.
Sincerely
Sebastian Becker
TWENTY-TWO
Southwark, that “vast and melancholy property” south of the Thames, would never have been Sebastian’s first choice for an area in which to lodge his family. In any ranking of desirable London boroughs, it could not be placed much above the lowest. But at least it wasn’t the East End. And for a weekly rent that might just have covered the meanest garret in Bloomsbury, they had a suite of rooms with clean water and relatively honest neighbors. Compared to the squalid courts and alleys and the tenement blocks that surrounded them, they had hygiene and comfort. But that was only in comparison. One day he hoped to move the household to some better address across the river.
One day.
Sebastian tried not to look too far ahead. Ambition was a young man’s game. These days he was more concerned with the continuing survival and security of those he loved. It was no longer so much a matter of dreaming of how high he might climb, as of always keeping in mind how far they might fall.
Every morning, beginning at around five A.M., the population of Southwark began to move. To the breweries and the printing shops, to the wharves and the warehouses. To the vinegar works, to the iron manufacturers in Union Street, to the leather factories in neighboring Bermondsey, and across the bridges into central London and the City.
They were all kinds of people. Butchers, laborers, compositors, office cleaners, and artisans. Their hours were long and their pay was small. At the end of the day, when all were coming home, the Thames bridges grew so dense with bodies that it was hard for one person to cross against the flow.
Most were honest. Many were not. Almost all shared the same thought: to better themselves, and to leave.
On his way home that evening, Sebastian stopped by the pie stand under the railway bridge on Southwark Bridge Road. Though he had an office of sorts in the nearby Bethlem asylum, the accommodation was in a basement room that he shared with the unclaimed belongings of deceased inmates. He visited it as infrequently as possible. The pie stand opened all hours to cater to the cab trade, and he had an arrangement to pick up his messages there. He was given three, including a note from Sir James Crichton-Browne.
Crichton-Browne was one of three Lord Chancellor’s Visitors-two eminent doctors, and one lawyer-who carried out a yearly examination of every detained psychiatric patient of significant means. Their remit covered those in institutions as well as those, like Owain Lancaster, in private care. Any deemed incompetent to manage their own affairs were placed under the control of a Master of Lunacy appointed by the Lord Chancellor. Sir James was the busiest of the Visitors; even at the age of seventy-two, he kept a punishing schedule.
Sebastian was the first of the family to arrive home that evening. Their rooms over the shop were empty. The fire was laid, so he lit it.
Frances and Robert arrived shortly after. Frances acknowledged his greeting and then busied herself preparing the evening meal, leaving Sebastian alone with his son.
Observing the boy’s mood, he said, “A good day today, Robert?”
“The best, father,” Robert said. “Absolutely the best. Even though Frances was late and I had to wait.”
Sebastian glanced toward the kitchen. “Is she upset about something?”
“I don’t know,” Robert said. “Is she?”
“Hang up your coat.”
Robert had turned eighteen now. Almost a grown man, and not so much a boy anymore. He attended a private institution in South Hampstead where he received an education designed around his needs. Here, for once, his talents were recognized, and his abilities explored and developed in ways that no one else had ever considered. The only advice they’d received, when Robert had been small and manifestly strange, had been to treat him as feebleminded and hide him away.
After he’d hung up his coat, Robert said, “I’d like to read for a while if I may, Father.”
“Wait until after supper.”
“But that will leave me with nothing to do now.”
“Ask Frances if she needs any coal brought up.”
Last year, under the supervision of the college principal, they’d tried Robert in a brief period of employment. Very brief. Placed in a job as a waiter in a middle-sized commercial hotel, he hadn’t lasted a morning. He’d taken everyone’s orders and then sat down to his own breakfast.
Returning from the kitchen, Robert said, “Frances says she brought in coal this afternoon. What else can I do?”
“Tell me what you’re reading.”
“There’s a serial in the Strand. I’m collecting all the parts. The Smith’s lady is ill and no one had saved my copy, so we had to go to Waterloo.”
Ah. No wonder Frances seemed irritated. Elisabeth’s sister was a saint, but Robert’s obsessions could wear out the patience of one. In America, he’d collected dime magazines. Here he’d transferred his obsession to the likes of Rider Haggard, Verne, and Wells.
He said, “May I read my serial now, father?”
Sebastian gave in.
“Be sure to stop when your mother gets home,” he said.
Robert settled in a chair by the window with his magazine, and Sebastian took a letter opener and started on the day’s post. When Elisabeth arriv
ed a few minutes later, Robert didn’t even notice.
When he saw her coat, Sebastian said, “Is it raining?”
“When is it not?” Elisabeth said, and went into the kitchen.
Within a minute he heard voices being raised. Then he heard Elisabeth’s affronted cry of “Mince?” Moments after that, Frances emerged from the kitchen and stamped up the back stairs to their attic rooms.
Sebastian went into the kitchen.
“What’s this about?” he said.
For no reason he could see, Elisabeth was moving all the evening’s raw food from the place where Frances had laid it out to another. She said, “The butcher gave our order to someone else. So forget your chops, it’s mince.”
“I don’t mind mince.”
“What’s the matter with her? I can’t trust her with the simplest task. I have to do everything myself.”
Sebastian knew better than to defend one sister to the other right now, but he was still at a loss to see the younger woman’s crime.
Elisabeth added, “And if there’s a shirt you want to wear again, you’d better go and rescue it from the wash.”
He went upstairs. Frances heard him and, when he entered the larger of the attic bedrooms, stepped back from the laundry basket with her hands lifted in the air in an end-of-the-tether, All right, what now? gesture.
He said, “May I speak?”
Frances waited without moving, looking down.
Sebastian said, “Forgive your sister, Frances. She spends all her days being harsh with people. It takes her a while to return to herself.”
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to reply.
Then she said, “Then perhaps we should move away from the borough.”
“Why?”
“So she’ll have a longer walk home and more time to adjust her foul mood.”
Then she gave him a glance, to see how that had gone down. He realized that she was making a joke, of a kind. It was hard to tell with Frances. She was the quiet sister, the younger one. But she was in her thirties now, with a gray hair or two that she didn’t bother to conceal. Somehow along the way, without anybody planning it, the younger woman’s practical room-and-board arrangement had turned into a spinster’s life.
He said, “It could be worse. Wait until she next sees the butcher. I wouldn’t want to be in his apron.”
That drew another look, and a rueful smile. Or a half smile, anyway, which he suspected came more out of politeness than anything else.
As he descended the attic stairs to the smell of frying mince, it seemed to Sebastian that such fallings-out were becoming more frequent these days. He was required to play the peacemaker whenever he was at home.
Since the household seemed to run perfectly well during his absences, he wondered if these arguments flared up only because, with him around, they could. Elisabeth and her sister were like two fighters who would never engage without a ring and a referee. Without those, to strike out would be to injure. But with Sebastian in the middle, they could vent their feelings in relative safety.
After they’d dined, Frances took up her sewing and Robert went to his bedroom, an extension to the apartments that was little more than a cubby built out over the shop’s front. He took his newest magazine with him, to read for the second time.
When Robert was out of their earshot, Sebastian said, “I’ve had a reply from the publishing house.”
“Saying they won’t take him.”
He showed her the letter. “They’ll write to us if a position becomes available,” he said.
She looked at the letter, but she didn’t take it from him or read it.
“They always say that,” she said, and gathered up the last of the plates to take back to the kitchen.
He rose, and followed her. All through the meal he’d been sensing that there was more to this than weariness or frayed nerves.
He said, “What happened today?”
“Nothing.”
“Elisabeth.”
“I said, nothing.”
He waited, and then she said, “We had to have the police in.”
“For?”
She stopped what she was doing, and took a moment.
Then she said, “A man came in wanting to take his child away. He was stinking of beer and he wouldn’t be told. He said that the doctors were killing her and her place was at home. Said he had a knife, although he didn’t show it. Two of the nurses kept him talking while I ran for the police.”
“What’s wrong with his child?”
“She’s dying.”
“Nothing the doctors can do?”
“No.”
“Then why not let him take her, if there’s nothing to be done?”
“His home is a sty. And his children only matter when he’s drunk. And the more drink he takes, the more sentimental he becomes. He’s the kind of man whose love is all noise and self-pity; at least she’ll die where the sheets are clean.”
He touched her shoulder. “You’re worn out,” he said. “You should go to bed.”
“I think I will.”
She went about half an hour later. In many people’s minds, working in a charitable children’s hospital was an extended fantasy of rescued orphans and grateful Tiny Tims. But the truth of it was not for the soft of heart.
Sebastian was left with the publishing-house letter in his hand. There was no point in pushing Elisabeth to read it; unlike him, she wouldn’t take courtesy for encouragement. Not today, at any rate.
He became aware that Frances had paused in her work and was looking at him. Then she quickly pretended that she wasn’t and returned her attention to her decorative embroidery, held only inches from her face.
He said, “Have you enough light?”
“Enough for what I need,” she said.
He had a rolltop bureau in the corner of the room. When he was home, it served him for an office. He put the letter in one of its drawers and then picked up his copy of Owain Lancaster’s book.
It was a nice piece of binding, in blue cloth with printed boards and a number of tipped-in illustrations on slick paper. He’d bought it at Wilson’s on Gracechurch Street, billing it to his employer. He opened it at the copyright page. Due in part to the scandal that had driven its author from town and from London society, the book had sold in its thousands and was now in its fifth impression.
He closed up the desk and then moved to the doorway.
“Good night, Frances,” he said.
She laid the fancy work in her lap. “Good night, Sebastian.”
Before going upstairs, he moved toward Robert’s room with the book in his hand. It was “fancy work” of a different kind. As fiction, it would be a commendable account of a fantastical expedition to a far-off land. One that had involved perils and wonders, tragic loss and heroic survival. The maps and doctored photographs would have enhanced its grip on the imagination.
But Sir Owain had insisted it was no fiction. He’d even been prepared to take the Royal Society to court for casting doubt on his word. His vigorous defense had led to a public accusation of fraud and the equally public destruction of his reputation. He’d sued the Society and several newspapers, and lost every action.
And now here he was, withdrawn from public life, struggling to preserve his liberty and to retain control of his fate and his finances.
Sebastian tapped on Robert’s door before going in. Robert was writing. His bed was covered in slips of paper, all crammed with lines in his neat hand.
“I thought you were reading,” Sebastian said.
“I’ve read my serial. I’m not ready for anything else just yet.”
“I know what you mean,” Sebastian said. “It doesn’t do to rush onward. It’s nice to stay in the tale.”
“At least for a while. My favorite time of the day is when I’m waiting to go to sleep. I like to just lie there and think.”
“What about?”
“Things,” Robert said.
Sebastian
knew that he made stories of his own, but he wouldn’t share them. Sebastian had sneaked a look at some of his writings, once. It was all gangs and pirates and Martian war machines, jumbled together in a single tale.
Sebastian said, “I have a job for you. It’s worth a shilling or two.” He handed over Sir Owain’s book and said, “Tell me what you think of this. Have you read it before?”
Robert turned it around and looked at the title.
“No,” he said.
“The author would have us believe that it’s a true account of his adventures. He travels to the Amazon, and his party is attacked by monsters unknown to science. He speaks of members of his expedition being discovered, torn by beasts. See if you can tell me the point where the truth ends and his fantasy begins.”
“All right,” Robert said.
Sebastian had half-expected him to argue. It wasn’t often that Robert read a book. It was periodicals that fascinated him. To his mind a book was a dead thing, fixed, detached from real time.
The boy laid the volume aside and returned to his writing.
“Good night, Robert,” Sebastian said, and Robert murmured something that Sebastian couldn’t hear. He didn’t take his eyes from the page.
Elisabeth was sleeping when Sebastian went upstairs. Or at least, her eyes were closed and she didn’t open them. He undressed in the dark and lay down beside her. She was turned away.
He wondered how the world must seem through Robert’s eyes. He could not imagine it. Elisabeth’s hope had always been to see Robert take his place in ordinary human society. But now Sebastian sensed a reluctance in her whenever there was any real suggestion of letting the boy go. As if she wanted to see him stand, but would not risk seeing him fall.
His request had been a serious one, not meant simply to indulge or occupy the boy. Robert’s knowledge of such fantastical literature was detailed and comprehensive.
Sebastian stared up at the ceiling until shapes started to form. Then he closed his eyes.
The shapes did not go away.
In the forests were various beasts still unfamiliar to zoologists, such as the milta, which I have seen twice, a black doglike cat about the size of a foxhound. There were snakes and insects yet unknown to scientists; and in the forests of the Madidi some mysterious and enormous beast has frequently been disturbed in the swamps-possibly a primeval monster like those reported in other parts of the continent. Certainly tracks have been found belonging to no known animal-huge tracks, far greater than could have been made by any species we know.
The Bedlam Detective Page 12