by Mark Hodder
“Yes,” Burke answered.
“They will pass examination?”
“Even the most rigorous,” Hare replied.
“Then if you'd care to step into my dressing room, I'll make you up and fit you out with clothing more suited to asylum inspectors.”
Hare gave an audible gulp and glanced at Burke.
Burke cleared his throat and looked first to the right, then to the left, then at Hare, and finally at Burton.
“I thought-” he mumbled. “I thought we might go like this.”
Burton gave a bark of laughter. “Trust me, chaps, if you step into Bedlam dressed like that, there's every chance that you'll never step out again!”
Bethlem Royal Hospital.
First it was a priory, erected by the sisters and brethren of the Order of the Star of Bethlehem in the year 1247.
Then it became a hospital in 1337.
Twenty years later it started to treat the insane, if “treat” is the appropriate word for what amounted to restraint and torture.
In the 1600s it gained the nickname “Bedlam,” which was soon a part of everyday language, invoked to suggest uproar, confusion, and madness.
The 1700s saw it opening its doors to the public to allow them to point and laugh at the antics of the lunatics.
By the mid-1800s, measures had been taken to improve conditions at the hospital, the principal one being its transference to new premises.
It didn't take long for the huge new edifice to become a larger version of what it had been before: a dark, brutal, malodorous, deafening, perilous, and squalid hellhole.
Sir Richard Francis Burton was standing in the midst of it.
The director of the hospital was a pale-faced man of average height and build. He possessed widely set brown eyes, closely cropped grey hair, and a small clipped mustache. Every few moments, a nervous tic distorted his mouth and pulled his head down to the right, causing him to grunt loudly. His name was Dr. Henry Monroe.
Accompanied by two male assistants, who wore suspiciously stained leather aprons, he'd guided Burton, Burke, and Hare through the north, east, and south wings of the hospital and they were now proceeding through a sequence of locked doors into the west. The inspection had so far taken four hours. Four hours of screaming, wailing, roaring, moaning, babbling, snarling, hissing, sobbing, blaspheming, begging, threatening, despairing, cacophonous insanity.
Burton felt that his own faculties might break down beneath the foul stench and unending barrage of mania, and when he looked at his companions, he saw that the normally phlegmatic Burke and Hare were both showing signs of distress, too.
“Keep a grip,” he whispered into Hare's ear. “The person we're looking for has to be in this wing. We'll not have to endure this pandemonium for too much longer.”
Hare looked at him balefully, leaned close, and said in a low tone: “It's not the noise, Captain. It's this-this suit you've squeezed me into. Most unbecoming! Were it not for the cravat, which thank goodness you allowed me to wear, I would hardly feel myself at all!”
Monroe unlocked the final door in the gloomy passage leading from the south wing to the west. He turned to face his three visitors and, raising his voice above the clamour from beyond the portal, said, for the umpteenth time: “Quite honestly, gentlemen, I don't comprehend why this inspection is- ugh! -necessary. The last was less than a year ago and it found everything to be above board and thoroughly shipshape. In fact, significant improvements in the establishment were noted.”
Burton, who was wearing a brown wig and long false beard, answered: “As I said before, it's simply a formality. Paperwork was lost in a small fire and we are obliged to replace it. To do so we have to repeat the inspection. I grant you it's inconvenient, but it's also unavoidable.”
“Don't misunderstand-I'm not trying to avoid it,” Monroe objected. “There's nothing to hide. As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of the work we do here and am happy to show it off. It's simply that you seem to be rather more needlessly thorough than your predecessors and anything that disturbs the normal routine of the hospital is, well, rather- ugh! -unsettling for the inmates.”
“We're just following governmental regulations, Doctor.”
“Be that as it may, I'd like you to put it on record that I'm scrupulous in my duties, that the hospital offers its patients a very high standard of care, and that such interruptions are potentially damaging.”
“I shall be sure to do so.”
Somewhat mollified, Monroe smiled, grimaced, jerked his head down to the right, and said: “ Ugh! You'll find fewer patients in this part of the establishment. However, I should warn you that those unfortunates who reside in these wards are the most seriously disturbed and can be exceedingly violent, so please refrain from making eye contact with them. It's also the reason why we don't have a communal hall here, just individual rooms.”
He led his visitors into a filthy cell-lined corridor, where the section's head nurse greeted them with a bob. Monroe's two assistants moved along the passage, sliding open viewing hatches. Burton, Burke, and Hare walked from door to door, peering through into the bare square cubicles, trying hard to ignore the abominations that blasted their eyes and assaulted their ears from within.
This went on for corridor after corridor, each one presenting them with more nurses, more cells, more degradation, and more horrors.
Burton walked with his arms folded tightly across his chest, clamping his hands against his ribs to hide the fact that they were shaking.
They came to corridor nine on floor four.
Doctor Monroe introduced another nurse to Burton: “This is Sister Camberwick. She oversees this section. Sister, these gentlemen are from the Department. Inspectors Cribbins, Faithfull, and- ugh! -Skylark.”
Sister Camberwick bobbed and said, “Good afternoon, sirs. I think you'll find everything to your satisfaction.”
The examination of corridor nine followed the same pattern as those before until, at its end, Burton turned to Monroe and said, “Doctor, I'm aware that we're imposing upon your time. May I suggest that we hasten matters?”
“Certainly. That would be most welcome. How so?”
“In addition to completing this tour of inspection, we need to conduct private interviews with selected members of your staff-”
“That wasn't required last time!” Monroe objected. “I can assure you that working conditions here are absolutely- ugh! -”
Burton held up a hand to stop him. “Quite so! Quite so! It's nothing more than a formality, I assure you, but one that must be observed in order to complete the paperwork and leave you in peace.”
Bismillah! Peace! Here? In this Jahannam!
Monroe ran his tongue across his lips, shrugged, and gave a curt nod. “Oh, very well, very well. Whatever you say. How should we proceed?”
“I suggest you continue the inspection with Mr. Faithfull and Mr. Skylark. In the meantime, I'll remain here to interview Sister Camberwick and her nurses. It should be enough to fulfill the terms of the inspection. Once done, a sister can escort me to your office. My colleagues and I will then take our leave and, I assure you, we'll draft a most favourable report. I think it fair to predict that you'll not be bothered by us again.”
The doctor heaved a sigh, gave a smile, and suffered a facial spasm.
A few minutes later, Burton was seated in a small office, alone with Sister Camberwick. The door was closed, muffling the screams and curses from the cells.
“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Cribbins?”
“No thank you, Sister. Please sit and relax. This is merely a routine procedure, there's nothing to be nervous about.”
“I'm not nervous,” she said. She sat down and adjusted her bonnet. “After working in an asylum, one ceases to feel nerves.”
“I should think that's a great advantage.”
“It is.”
“When did you start here?”
“At the beginning of the year. Early February.”
She glanced into his eyes then looked down at her skirts and straightened them.
“And before that?”
She blinked rapidly. “I served in the Crimea, and, when the war was over, in workhouses.”
“The Crimea. You must have seen great suffering.”
He moved his chair closer to hers and in a low, melodious, and rhythmic tone, recited: “Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.”
Sister Camberwick's lower lip trembled.
“‘Santa Filomena’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” Burton murmured. “Look at me, Sister.”
She looked. Her eyes slid away, returned, held.
Burton began to rock back and forth very slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“It is fine work you have done.”
She leaned forward to better hear him.
“And it is fine work you continue to do.”
She seemed transfixed by the deep, soothing quality of his voice, and, unaware that she was doing it, she began to sway, keeping in time with his own movement.
“For the purposes of this interview,” he said, in almost a whisper, “it is important that you relax. This exercise will help. I want you to breathe with me. Feel the air entering your right lung. In. Out. Now breathe into your left. In. Out. Slowly, slowly.”
Gently and patiently he guided her through a Sufi meditation technique, watching as her attention centred on him to the exclusion of all else. He softly issued instructions, taking her from a cycle of two breaths to a cycle of four, subduing her mind through the complexity of the exercise until she was entirely under his control.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Patricia Camberwick,” she answered.
“And behind that? The other name? The one that you've been forbidden to use?”
“Florence Nightingale.”
“Tell me about the circumstances that led to your presence here, Miss Nightingale.”
“I-I can't-I can't remember.”
“I know. The memory has been blocked. What occurred to you happened while you were enslaved by a mesmeric influence. Can you feel that blockage, like a wall in your mind?”
“Yes.”
“It is only a wall because you've been made to think so. The truth is, it's a door. Just walk through it, Florence. Open it and pass straight through.”
Silently, Burton thanked Herbert Spencer for inspiring this mesmeric technique.
“Yes. I'm through.”
“You see how easy that was? The barriers planted in your mind have no power now.”
“No power.”
“So, tell me. What happened?”
“The woman.”
“Woman? Who?”
“The Russian. I don't know how she entered my surgery. I was conducting an experiment and had locked the doors. I didn't want to be disturbed. I heard a footstep behind me. I turned and there was the woman.”
“What did she look like?”
“Medium height. Heavy. The maternal type. Horrible black eyes.”
“Was she solid? I mean to say, was she an apparition?”
“An apparition? A ghost? No, she was there.”
“What happened next?”
“I-I-I fell into her eyes. Those eyes! I fell right into them!”
“She mesmerised you. What did she instruct you to do?”
“She told me to travel to Santiago in South America, to go to the asylum there and use the authority of my name to take charge of a patient named Tomas Castro. I was to escort him back here to Bethlem Royal, but upon entering this hospital I must use the name Patricia Camberwick and forget my true name. Service here had been prearranged for me and my primary duty was to care for and guard Mr. Castro. I must not allow anyone to see him apart from the woman and a man named Edward Kenealy.”
“Castro is still here?”
“Yes, on this floor, in the observation chamber.”
“Why were we not shown that room?”
“Doctor Monroe and the senior staff have had their memory of the room removed. An aversion to the door that leads to it has been implanted into them. They think it's a broom cupboard.”
“So, with the exception of the Russian and Kenealy, are you the only person who visits Castro?”
“Yes.”
“Take me to him.”
“Yes.”
Nightingale stood and, as if sleepwalking, drifted across and out of the room, leading Burton along the corridor to a nondescript door. She pulled a bunch of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked it. Burton followed her across the threshold and down a short passage leading to a heavily bolted portal.
“There,” Nightingale said.
“Lead the way,” he replied.
Keys were inserted and turned, bolts drawn, a padlock opened, and a chain removed. With the nurse's shoulder pressed against it, the barrier swung aside with a painful creak. She stepped onto a platform that ran around the wall of a tall circular chamber, about fifteen feet up from the floor. The room was fifty feet or so in diameter, fitfully illuminated by four gas lamps, and was sparsely furnished with a bed, table, chair, and a wooden screen, which, Burton guessed, concealed a toilet and basin.
A thin chain, attached to an iron ring set in the middle of the floor, snaked across to where a man lay on the bed. It was joined to a manacle that encircled his left ankle.
He was dressed only in ragged trousers and an undershirt, and was dreadfully thin. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. His face was encased in an iron mask, featureless but for four horizontal slits, one for each eye, one level with his nostrils, and one for the mouth.
Tomas Castro.
The man struggled to a sitting position and looked up at them.
“ Ce qui maintenant? ” he whispered huskily. “Is there to be more torment? Who is this? I have not seen him before.”
He spoke with a French accent.
Burton turned to Nightingale. “Follow me.”
He walked along the platform until he came to a ladder and descended to the chamber floor.
Castro rose weakly to his feet as Burton approached.
“Please, don't exert yourself,” the king's agent said. “Remain seated. You are Sir Roger Tichborne, I take it?”
“Tichborne? Mon dieu! You are the first to call me that in a long time. It has been Castro, only Castro.” His voice sounded hollow behind the mask.
Burton took the chair and placed it near the bed. He sat down. Tichborne fell back onto the thin mattress and said: “But you address me as ‘Sir.’ Is it that I have inherited the baronetcy?”
“No little time ago. I'm afraid your uncle and father both died within a week of each other back in ’54, shortly before you were committed. It was reported that you were lost at sea whilst voyaging back to England. Your brother Alfred took the title. I regret to inform you that he, too, is dead. He was murdered by your enemies earlier this year.”
“Alfred,” Tichborne croaked. “ Mon cher frere! ” He raised his hand and rested the front of his mask against it. “And this year, it is?” came his muffled voice.
“It is now September of 1862.”
There was a moment of sil
ence, broken when the prisoner began to quietly weep.
Burton leaned forward and placed a hand on the man's upper arm.
“Sir, there has been a vast and terrible conspiracy against you. I am trying to untangle the web, to discover who has spun it and why. It would help considerably if you could tell me your story. Do you have the strength?”
Tichborne raised his head. “Then you mean to help me?”
“I will do everything in my power. My name is Richard Burton. I am an agent of the king.”
“No, wait,” said Tichborne. “ Non. Non. It cannot be. Non. This, it is a trick. That-” he pointed at Nightingale “-that fiend is one of the conspirators. If she is with you, then you are with them! ”
“You are mistaken, sir. This woman, who you may know as Sister Camberwick, is, in fact, named Florence Nightingale. She has been operating under a deep mesmeric trance. She knows neither what she has done nor why. She is as much a victim as you are.”
“Ce n'est pas possible! And now? Why is she not screaming for help?”
“Because I myself have a modicum of talent as a mesmerist and have gained control of her.”
Tichborne sat silently, gazing at the nurse. Burton could see his wet, lidless eyes shining through the slits of the mask.
“My story,” the baronet whispered. “My story.” He looked at Burton. “Very well. I shall tell it. Where would you like me to begin?”
“With your voyage to South America-but we have little time, Sir Roger, so broad strokes, if you please.”
“ Bien. I sailed in ’54. I had been wooing a distant cousin, Kattie-”
“Katherine Doughty,” Burton interjected.
“ Ah! Oui. Elle vit? ”
“Yes, she lives. She is well.”
Tichborne nodded, paused, and asked: “Married?”
“Yes.”
“ Oui. Oui. Naturellement. ” He looked down, ran his fingers over the stump of his left arm, looked up, and went on: “Kattie's parents, they were not in favour of me, and I cannot blame them. I was young and irresponsible. I felt I had to prove myself to them, and got it into my head that I would go to Chile to follow in my grandfather's footsteps, for there is a legend in the family that he discovered a fabulous diamond in that country, and though no one has ever seen it-and the legend is no doubt untrue-it fired my imagination. What a fool I was! I arrived in Valparaiso-”