“Well, clearly the poor woman is a clairvoyant,” Sarah said immediately, a frown of annoyance on her face. “And it is a shame he didn’t speak sooner instead of tinkering with drugs. Instead of making her less sensitive, it is likely he had the opposite effect.”
Nan kept her thoughts to herself for now. But it seemed to her that parts of this story were not fitting up with others.
She also had some vivid memories of the time before she had been taken into the Harton School; people in the poorer parts of London would do anything to avoid hospitals and doctors; there were rumors of things they would do, experiments they would make on those who were too sick, injured and poor to object. . . .
Would the same thing happen if you’d been consigned to a madhouse?
“I thought as much myself,” Watson agreed. “Do you think you can do anything for her?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not I. But Nan might be able to reach her.”
Nan shrugged. “I can try,” she offered. “But no promises. If this was caused by drugs . . . I’m not sure what I can do.” She frowned. “If he’d said something to someone when he first realized he had a clairvoyant patient on his hands, he wouldn’t be in this situation now.”
I’d bloody well like to know why he kept all that to himself, if he could prove it all. . . .
Mary spoke the moment before her husband could. “This might seem like a case of physician’s arrogance to you, and indeed, it might be that very thing—but it could also be simply because he was afraid of being accused of either knowing the criminal who was guilty of the crimes, or being involved somehow.”
But Sarah frowned. “I know that you want to excuse him because he is a fellow physician, but this is not fitting together properly,” she said, with some reluctance, echoing Nan’s thoughts on the matter. “Sherlock has taught us all not to take anything at face value, not even the honesty of a physician. I believe we should tread cautiously. Things may not be what they seem.”
For a moment John Watson looked offended . . . but then he took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “You are correct, and I would be a poor example of an adductive reasoner if I did not follow your advice.” He pondered a moment. “The truth is,” he added, somewhat reluctantly, “I call this fellow a colleague, but it is only in the sense that we are both doctors. So I don’t know anything about him. We’ve spoken at social occasions, but no more than that.”
“It’s hard, dear,” Mary patted his knee with a gloved hand she slipped out from under her sable cloak for a moment. “You naturally want to think the best of him.”
“Yet we all know there are bad physicians, unscrupulous ones, and physicians that take advantage of their patients.” He nodded, as if making up his mind. “We must not forget that among the selfless, there are also the Thomas Creams, and the William Palmers.”
Nan held her peace, but exchanged a speaking look with Sarah. It had occurred to her that they were placing a great deal of faith in not very much evidence, and all of it was the few notes written by a single man. She was very glad Sarah had managed to shake Doctor Watson out of his unthinking faith in a fellow doctor.
Mary Watson changed the subject before an awkward silence could grow. “And what is Suki planning for today? I would imagine that after the excitement of tea shops, Panto, and a full formal dinner, it might be hard to entertain her.”
“You would be mistaken,” Sarah said merrily, readily seizing on the opportunity to talk about their charge. “Suki has the admirable capability of being entertained by almost everything, equally. She takes a lively interest in everything around her, and today, she is especially excited to be learning how to make gingerbread, how to preside properly over a tea table, and to be making decorations for our Christmas trees.”
Mary smiled, then her smile faltered. “I do not wish to spoil anyone’s fun—but the practice of lighting candles on a tree—”
Nan held up a hand. “Mrs. Horace forbids it. And if she did not, we could not chance an accidental flap of a bird wing ending in tragedy. We have strings of cut German crystal beads, an entire hatbox full of bits of polished tin, and a great deal of tinsel. That will make the trees sparkle without courting a fire.”
The practice of setting up Christmas trees had arrived with Queen Victoria’s German husband, Prince Albert. Most people illuminated their trees with dozens of tiny candles set in holders on the ends of the branches. Memsa’b had never liked this practice, especially around two or three dozen excitable children, and she had passed her caution on to Nan and Sarah.
“You relieve me greatly,” Mary replied, her smile returning.
“And me,” John Watson agreed. “As a doctor . . . I have seen the victims of far too many Christmas fires. So what else have you planned for Suki’s school holiday with you?”
They were only too happy to describe what they were planning for the days leading up to Christmas, the extent to which Lord Alderscroft was “spoiling” her, and the presents they had planned for Suki. That filled the conversational void all the way to the establishment on Hampstead Heath.
Nan had not been sure what to expect—perhaps a large farmhouse, converted for use as a medical establishment—but it was quite clear as the growler passed the wrought iron gates in the substantial brick wall, discreetely marked by a small bronze plaque announcing that this was the “Hampstead Hospital and Sanitarium,” that a great deal of money had gone into the building of this place, and that it had not been converted from anything. The enormous, four-storied, pale stone building at the end of the well-graveled drive had clearly been purpose-built, and was no more than twenty or thirty years old. From its state, this was one of those discreet private facilities that catered to the needs of the wealthy, those who, for whatever reason, could not be tended at their own homes. From an inconvenient and potentially scandalous pregnancy, to an equally scandalous addiction, to . . . well, just about any medical or physical condition that a family did not want bruited about, a place like this was where the unfortunate sufferer was sent.
Which immediately caused Nan to doubt the first assertion in the letter—that the patient herself had demanded she be sent here. Still . . . it was possible. A dutiful, obedient daughter, fearing she was going mad, might ask her parents to put her safely where she could live in comfort and spare her loved ones much distress.
The place was certainly well staffed; they were met at the front door by someone in a dark blue uniform who first summoned a boy to take the cabman to a stable at the back then led them in himself. There they found themselves in a sort of waiting room, furnished with stiff wooden chairs, papered with a pattern of pale green vines on pale blue, “enlivened” by three indifferent pastoral landscape paintings.
“We’re expected,” John told the uniformed attendant. “Doctor John Watson.”
The other nodded briskly. “Indeed you are, sir. Let me show you directly to the doctor’s office.”
So . . . we are wanted badly enough not to be made to wait.
He led them through a double door to a set of stairs and up to the next story. There was an office directly off the landing, one with windows that gave a commanding view of the front of the building and the drive leading to it. The walls were lined with filled bookshelves, and the centerpiece of the room was a huge mahogany desk.
The man sitting behind the desk in front of those windows rose at their entrance. He was a little older than John Watson, wore the same sort of suit, though cut of much finer cloth, and it was obvious that he was used to moving in very exalted social circles. His abundant dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and his beard and “muttonchop” sideburns were immaculate, probably having seen the attention of a professional barber or valet that morning.
“Doctor Watson!” he boomed. “Thank you for coming so promptly!” He held out his hand, and Watson shook it, as he glanced at the three women with Watson.
Watson took the hint. “Doctor Huntley, this is my wife, Mary, who acts as my assistant, and Miss Sarah Lyon-White and Miss Nancy Killian, who have a great deal of practical experience in the psychic sciences. Sherlock Holmes has relied on them in several cases.”
“Several” cases is stretching the truth, Nan thought with amusement, but it’s probably better to exaggerate in this situation.
“Splendid!” Dr. Huntley said, looking not at all dismayed. He glanced from Nan to Sarah and back again. “I don’t suppose it is too much to ask if one of you can hear and speak in thoughts?”
Well . . . that’s interesting. Whatever he thought before, he seems to have become a firm believer in psychism because of this experience.
“I can,” Nan said promptly. “The scientific term is telepathy. Doctor Watson read us your notes, and I believe I might be able to break your patient out of her hysterical state.” She waited to see what his reaction would be.
There was no doubt that the doctor looked relieved. “Then let me conduct you to her immediately,” he replied. “If it will help, her given name is Amelia.”
“It will,” Nan said, noting with cynicism that her surname was not offered—very much in keeping with her impression that this was a place where surnames were eliminated or obfuscated with the ever-useful “Smith.”
“Please, come with me,” Huntley told them, and led them from his office, past another double door, and down a long corridor with doors lining it. Nan could not tell if the doors were locked, and truth to tell, she was not willing to open herself enough to get a sense of what might lie on the other side of those doors. Later, perhaps, but not now. And for the same reason, she had not opened herself enough to try to read Dr. Huntley’s mind. To do so without touching him would be to leave herself open to everyone else in this place. And in her experience, when people lost their sanity, their thoughts often gained in strength.
But the corridor was well lit, carpeted, and not unlike the corridor of an expensive hotel. This outermost layer, at least, was pleasant enough.
They turned a corner, and it became clear that the building was laid out either in an enormous U shape or a square. Their goal was a door halfway along this second corridor, and Nan’s question about whether or not the doors were locked was answered when Huntley removed a ring of keys from his coat and used one of them in the door.
The room beyond could have been the bedroom of any great country home, except for certain details. The walls were papered in a darker version of the green-vines-on-blue pattern of the waiting room. There were heavy green curtains at the window. The furnishings were bolted to the floor, through the dark green carpet. There were no ornaments, such as vases. There were no mirrors, and no pictures; nothing anyone could use to hurt herself or others. There were some books on a table by the window, and a comfortable, green upholstered chair beside it.
And huddled in the farthest corner of the bed was the patient, Amelia.
She was still dressed in a nightgown; her eyes were dark-ringed, as if she had not slept in days, her hair disheveled, and she sat with her back to the wall, knees pressed against her chest, bedclothes wrapped around her, arms wrapped around her legs. She stared through them from her corner as if she didn’t see them at all.
Nan glanced at Sarah, who shook her head. So whatever was tormenting this young woman, it wasn’t spirits. Resolutely, before Huntley could say anything, she marched to the bed, sat down on the edge of it, and fearlessly put one hand on Amelia’s arm. No matter how much strength hysteria lent to this girl, Nan very much doubted that Amelia would be able to discommode her, much less hurt her, at least physically.
And as for mentally . . . well, Sarah could break her out of that.
She closed her eyes, and opened her mind, and saw what Amelia was seeing—and more importantly, felt what Amelia was feeling.
Absolute terror.
Nan was used to this game by this point, however, and she did not allow Amelia’s terror to become her own. She walled it off, kept it at bay, and continued to observe.
London, but a London transformed into . . . not a hellscape, because there were no flames, and no devils . . . but a place where no sane human would care to dwell. Dark, boiling clouds hung over the city. Lightning lashed the ruined buildings beneath them. Debris tumbled in empty streets, blown by an icy wind that carried with it the scent of decay; misshapen, shadowy creatures skulked just on the periphery of Amelia’s vision, scuttling among overturned cabs and carriages, darting out of sight when Amelia tried to look squarely at them. As Nan watched, a man bolted from cover, trying to cross the street—he had not gotten more than halfway across before inky tentacles erupted out of a shattered shopfront, engulfed him, and before he could utter more than a strangled cry, pulled him into the ruined shop and out of sight.
“The Book,” Nan heard Amelia whisper. “The Book—”
What that meant, Nan could not tell. There was no room for anything in Amelia’s mind but fear, and certainly no sign in her thoughts of any books.
Although Nan viewed the vision as if it was at one remove, she could tell that Amelia was completely immersed in it—and afraid to move, lest some horror stretch out tentacles or claws, seize her next, and drag her away.
Amelia, Nan thought, firmly, making her thoughts a lance to pierce through Amelia’s vision. This isn’t real.
Nan felt a sort of mental jolt. The scene wavered for a moment, as if someone had passed a piece of flawed glass between her and it. Then it solidified again, but now she felt that Amelia was aware of her presence.
Who . . . are you? she heard.
My name is Nan Killian. I am here to help you. This isn’t real.
The scene dimmed, and wavered again, then solidified, just as vivid as before. Not . . . yet.
I told you. I am here to help. But this is not yet real, and hopefully, will not ever become real. She interjected a feeling of warmth and humor. It had better not. I shall be very cross if I cannot visit my shops.
That broke through Amelia’s terror, as Nan had hoped it would. The scene vanished, and the bed shook a little as Amelia started, then weakly laughed—and then as Nan opened her eyes, she burst into tears and threw herself on Nan’s shoulder. The fear was still there, but it was no longer all-encompassing terror. Nan closed herself down again, now allowing herself to feel a bit shaken by the strength of the girl’s emotion, and by what she had seen in Amelia’s mind. Just at the moment, she didn’t want to think about it too much. It would be better to try to analyze it after they knew the girl was not going to be caught in it again.
Nan put her arms around the distraught girl, and looked back at Huntley. “I believe she will be all right now. A nice strong pot of tea, I think, and something to eat. She’s going to be very hungry when she stops crying, and then she will probably want to sleep.”
And I am of two minds about telling him that I saw what she saw.
Huntley looked both stunned and unspeakably relieved. “I’ll see to it myself,” he replied, and hurried off.
“Good,” Nan muttered under her breath. “Now we can learn what’s really going on here.”
It appeared that Huntley was impressed enough by how Nan had broken through to Amelia that he was willing to leave her and the rest of the group in charge of the girl while he took care of other business. There was a modern bathroom available on this floor, and the ladies took advantage of it, since Amelia was, to put it bluntly, a fright. Once she was clean, Mary, Nan, and Sarah helped her into a fresh nightgown, helped her comb out and braid her hair, and got tea, toast, and soft-boiled eggs into her from a tray brought up by an attendant.
That was not what Nan would have chosen, but at least it wasn’t barley water, or beef tea, or something equally useless.
Amelia was mostly silent until still another of the blue-uniformed attendants—a woman, with a white, starched apron over her blue dres
s—came and took the tray away. John Watson took up a position by the window farthest from them. Mary sat in the bolted-down chair beside him. Amelia had tucked herself back into the bed, sitting up, with the covers pulled around her like armor, while Nan and Sarah sat on the edge, Nan closest to her. Finally, she actually looked at them, as if seeing them for the first time, and asked, “Who—are you?”
“My name is Nan Killian,” Nan said, taking the lead. “These are my friends, Sarah Lyon-White, Doctor John and Mary Watson. Doctor Huntley asked us to come help you when he could not.” She paused. “It seems you fell into a rather horrific vision that you could not be pulled out of. He says you have been awake and suffering for two days. That was me you heard, helping you find your way out of the vision. As you can see things happening at a distance, I can see what others are seeing and thinking, and speak to them in their thoughts. That was how I called you back. Would you like to talk about that?”
Amelia trembled, her eyes brimming with tears. “No,” she replied. “I would not like to. But I feel I must.” Her hands were shaking as she clenched them in the bedcovers. “I can accept that I can see things that are actually happening, terrible as they are—but that! London, in ruins and full of monstrous things! That was never real! Am I finally going mad?”
Nan considered that question for a long moment, because there certainly had not been anything particularly sane about that vision. “I don’t think so,” she said, finally. “Although it is clear that your vision was not of the real London of here and now, and personally I find it difficult to believe that what you saw was a reflection of some future reality.”
At that, Amelia blinked, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Then I must be going mad. You—you were in my head, you saw what I saw! How can that be anything other than madness?”
Nan smiled reassuringly at her. “Yes I was in your head,” she repeated. “That is what I do. I see and hear what others do, and I can read their thoughts. I am what is called a telepath. And you are what is called a clairvoyant.”
A Scandal in Battersea Page 5