Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries)

by Delphine Woods

  I woke gasping, my chest violently rising and falling as I propped myself up on my elbows. I checked my face for tears but found it dry, and when I looked over at Marion, I saw I had not woken her.

  The room was gloomy, the dawn still far away, but there was an unusual brightness from the window. I tiptoed over to it, shivering as the cold air raked against my sticky skin, and saw it had been snowing outside. The moon shone bright from the clear sky and bounced against the whiteness on the ground.

  I ran back to bed and pulled the covers close to me. I was just beginning to drift into sleep once more when I heard something – a creak of a floorboard. I opened my eyes and squinted into the darkness, but it was as black as coal in the corner where our doorway is. I strained to see, thinking that this is how it must feel to be blind, but there was no further sound. I snapped my eyes shut and pulled the blanket over my head. I would not think such silly things. I would not scare myself. As time went on, I convinced myself it was nothing but my fevered imagination and fell asleep.

  But this morning, as the dawn came piercing in through the window, I still had that sense of unease. Marion and I dressed as usual, but I couldn’t help checking that doorway corner.

  Once we were dressed, we made our way down the short wooden steps, through the laundry and outside. It was a world of white, and on the ground, from the laundry door all the way back to the main house, were footsteps in the snow.

  Marion saw me hesitate.

  ‘What is it?’

  I pointed at the footsteps. She frowned at me.

  ‘They’re from Miss York.’

  Marion trod over the top of them and waddled towards the house, her cloak wrapped tight around her body.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the footprints. Surely, they were too large to be Miss York’s, who was five foot nothing? And I am convinced that it had not been snowing at the time Miss York had gone on duty yesterday evening.

  12

  1900

  Thursday, 13th December

  I must apologise for the state of my writing. I cannot stop my hand from shaking.

  It was beautiful weather this morning – the worst days always start as such. The snow had all melted by yesterday, and today the sun was shining, the frost was sharp, and the view was breathtaking once more.

  Mrs Leverton and I made the most of the weather and did the long walk to the lake. She has an odd relationship with the water; she never gets too close but likes to be next to it, and when Annie’s little legs go under the surface, she shrieks at the dog to come away quickly.

  She’s been talking to me about Edward almost every day. In all honesty, I feel like she is better for it. She still prays each night but not for quite so long, and she no longer cries in her sleep. I feel that the act of talking about him lightens her burdens, makes him real and alive once more.

  We sat on the bench inside the grotto.

  ‘I want to tell you the truth, Katy. About how it ended.’

  I had wondered when or if this time would come. She had been forthcoming telling me all about her and Edwards’ affair, their long nights on the boat in each other’s arms, the sound of crickets and owls all about them as Annie lay in the doorway, acting as lookout. She had told me of how she would spy on him, creeping from window to window, or tree trunk to tree trunk, just so she could watch his body move, the way he wiped the sweat from his neck, the way his torso rippled when he was alone and shirtless.

  Edward has become my own fantasy; her stories sink into my mind like sand, so that I too have felt the callouses on his fingers as they trace my collarbone, smelt his scent of hacked pine and gin and river as he kisses me.

  I didn’t want him to end; I wanted that summer to live on forever, unspoilt, but I knew Mrs Leverton needed to tell me the truth, the brutal truth.

  ‘Autumn was in the air. I remember seeing the first orange oak leaf on a branch, and it felt like a hand had grabbed my innards and pulled down hard. Then Annie died.’

  I gasped at that and looked at Annie number 4, sniffing at the foot of the grotto, and suddenly wanted to bring her close and wrap her in warmth and life.

  ‘It is silly,’ Mrs Leverton said, bringing her handkerchief to her wet eyes, ‘but she really had been my best friend for so many years. She was almost sixteen when she passed, and I could only be grateful that she went quickly. For a week, she had been quiet, off her food, unable to move much at all. I tried to leave her in my room when I went to see Edward, but it was like she knew where I was going. She adored Edward, did I tell you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I carried her in a basket, a blanket over her, all the way down the river and to his boat. She was a weight, I can tell you. She lifted her head when she saw him, and her tail wagged, just slowly, but she was happy to be with both of us beside the water. Edward stoked his bucket of coal, and we laid her next to it to keep her warm. We shared his flask of gin, and I stroked her head. She closed her eyes eventually, and I think she knew that it was all right for her to go, then, that I would be happy with Edward.’

  To my dismay, a tear dripped off my chin. Mrs Leverton offered me her damp handkerchief and I took it quickly, whilst Annie IV nuzzled into her mistress’s skirts, as loyal as her namesake.

  ‘Edward buried her not far from his boat. I picked a stone for her a few days later and Edward carved it. He would find me there at night, kneeling next to the stone, crying over her.

  ‘Henry couldn’t understand. He never had affinity with animals – unusual for a country boy. He hadn’t liked Annie one bit; she’d never let him close. I think it was then that he thought my mind was fraying. We had an argument one night, and he said I cared more for a dog than for my own daughter. He was right.’

  She cleared her throat and stuffed the wet handkerchief into her pocket. She stared at the lake, her mouth opening every now and again as if she were going to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed her words several times before continuing:

  ‘Two weeks later, Edward was leaving. It was the first week of October, and there was a mist over the river so that I couldn’t see his boat until I was right next to it. He had not seen me either. I found him on the deck, sorting everything out. I asked what he was doing, and he looked at me like a little boy who’d been caught with his fingers in the jam. He said it was time he left, that he always moved on after summer.

  ‘I asked him where we were going.’ Her lips curled into a smile, then fell flat. ‘He wouldn’t look at me. I should have known what he meant, but I didn’t. I got excited – our adventure beginning sooner than I had imagined. How often had we spoken of sailing away together? We had talked of Africa, Italy, even America, anywhere where the sea might take us.

  ‘I jumped aboard, muttering to myself of things I would need to pack, mementoes that I could not leave behind, a lock of James’s hair, Annie’s leash, my book of Shelley’s poems. I would have to be quick and not arouse suspicion. I would kiss James for the last time, and I would not think of the face he would make once he realised he would not see his mama again. I had convinced myself he would be happier without me, and Patience could not miss what she had never had.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I was right about something.

  ‘He stopped packing and looked at me. He said he was going alone. I didn’t understand him. I just stood there until he said it again. The ground went from under me. He caught me and I held on to him. I was on my knees and his face was so close, I could see all the tiny veins in his eyes, the stubble on his upper lip. I kissed him and he kissed me back for a moment, and I thought, I will die if he leaves.’

  Mrs Leverton clawed her skirts – I was sure the material would tear. She was somewhere else. She was on that boat, with Edward, and her heart was breaking right there in front of me. Breaking all over again.

  ‘He tried letting go of me, but I grabbed him. I begged him to take me with him. All he did was tell me to be quiet, that someone would hear. I didn’t care if the whole world heard me. I was sobbing and cl
inging to his legs like a child. He shook me off, dragged me to my feet. I lunged for him, but he pushed me away. I was screaming, and I remember how hot my eyes felt, as if my tears were acid. He slapped me then – that stopped me. I had to catch my breath. I just watched him, shocked that he could do such a thing, that he no longer seemed to care about hurting me. We remained silent for a while, and then he said I must stay and be a mother to my children. He said he did not want me to go with him. He said he did not love me.’

  Her voice broke and she collapsed into herself. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, brought her close to me, and felt her body rack with each sob, the pain just as raw now as it had been all those years ago.

  ‘He turned away from me, and then... then his hammer was in my hand, and I just...’

  Cold fingers tickled my spine. I shushed her – I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘I didn’t mean it. Not really. It was just one moment…’

  I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know what she had done. I didn’t want the image staining my mind, but terrible fantasies were already flooding in. Edward, bloodied, his brains smattered across wooden planks, his eyes blank as he stared at the sky and took his last, quivering breath.

  ‘He didn’t move. He just… lay there.’ She shuddered against me. ‘So much blood—’

  ‘Please, Mrs Leverton, stop—’

  ‘I ran. I didn’t know what else to do. I ran to the house and straight to Henry. I think he put me to bed, but I can’t remember much.’

  She turned to me, her face blotchy and her eyes red, but the trauma was now ending. She peeled herself out of my arms, sniffed, and composed herself once more. She had aged ten years since we first sat on the bench, and minutes passed as we gazed vacantly at the lake before us.

  ‘What did they do with him?’ I whispered, for I could not leave Edward just lying on his boat, even if he were only there in my imagination.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘That was the last time I ever saw him.’

  She was beginning to shake from the cold. I took her hand and felt the iciness of it even through her glove.

  ‘Come, we must get you inside.’

  We strode back to the house, seeing Alice and Mrs Milton and Mrs Beckwith on the way, who were all out with their attendants enjoying the weather. Nella caught my arm as we passed and asked if everything was all right. I said it was, that we had just walked too far and got too cold. I’m sure she didn’t believe me, but she let me go and told Alice that she must go for her walk and leave Mrs Leverton in peace for a while. I smiled my thanks at Nella and felt for Alice, who stared after Mrs Leverton like a puppy.

  We found Marion and Mrs Huxley in the day room.

  ‘There you are!’ Marion bustled over to me. Her smile faltered when she saw Mrs Leverton. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, we are just cold.’ I walked Mrs Leverton to the fire, which was thankfully burning high.

  ‘It’s a good job I’ve just made some tea then. All the others are out.’ Marion was by my side. ‘I need to… you know… relieve myself. Could you keep an eye on Mrs Huxley for me? I won’t be a moment.’

  I flicked my eyes to the far end of the room where Mrs Huxley sat with a cup of tea in her hands, looking remarkably calm.

  ‘Of course.’

  Marion trotted out of the room. My attention returned to Mrs Leverton, who was still shaking. I rubbed her arms and told her to hold her hands to the flames. Her teeth were beginning to chatter, and the sudden greyness of her skin and the rawness of her eyes, showed she was exhausted.

  ‘We’ll get you to bed once Marion is back.’

  ‘Thank you, Katy.’ She smiled at me, and I’m sure it took all her strength to do so.

  A crash startled us both. We stared at each other for a moment, trying to work out where the noise had come from, before someone started wailing. I turned to see Mrs Huxley with her left arm stretched out in front of her, blood streaming from the wrist, her other hand holding a piece of broken china. She brought the weapon down on her wrist again, hacking at her skin, and howled.

  I ran at her and hit the jagged piece of china out of her hand. She and I watched it scatter across the floor.

  Then my breath was knocked out of me and I was on the ground. Mrs Huxley was over me, punching and kicking my stomach. I curled up on my side, taking each blow, hearing screams crack over my head, and trying to suck in air but getting nothing.

  The room started to blacken. My head felt as if it were floating. The searing pain throughout my body began to ebb away, and calmness descended.

  I wonder now, if that is what dying is like.

  But it was not long until my consciousness returned – as soon as the kicks stopped and my lungs could open. I coughed, and the sting in my chest and the ache in my stomach returned with piercing clarity. I pulled myself on to my hands and knees, my body throbbing with each movement, and saw Marion and one of the housemaids struggling to hold Mrs Huxley down. I looked around for Mrs Leverton but could not see her, then there were more footsteps – I felt the vibrations through my hands – and I saw the black trousers and shiny shoes of Dr Basildon sprinting for Mrs Huxley, a needle in his hand. He jabbed it into her neck, and after a little more writhing, her body relaxed.

  A cool hand brushed back my hair. I flinched as it caught a wound on my forehead.

  ‘Katy? Katy, look at me.’

  I turned towards the voice and found Mrs Leverton on her knees beside me. She reeled at the sight of my face.

  ‘Doctor!’

  Dr Basildon ran to me, his frown deep, his lips in a set line as he turned my head from side to side and pressed my stomach. I cried out from the pain.

  ‘Bed, Miss Owen. I will have to carry you there, and it will hurt.’

  I braced myself as he put one arm under my legs and the other under my shoulders and lifted me from the ground. I whimpered from the pain but bit my teeth together and prayed the journey would be over soon.

  It took a long time to get to my bed. He laid me on it, taking care to do it smoothly.

  ‘I am going to get morphine. Then I will check for any broken bones.’

  He left, and it was just me and the pain.

  When I opened my eyes again, Marion was crouched beside me on the bed. She was wiping my face clean, and I could see that her bowl was filled with red water, a mixture of Mrs Huxley’s blood and mine, no doubt.

  ‘I am so sorry, Katy,’ she said, when she saw my eyes open. She was crying.

  I shushed her, but my mouth was so dry that I could not speak.

  ‘Dr Basildon needs me to undress you so that he can examine you.’

  Despite her gentleness, the pain was excruciating as Marion got me down to my slip. I could see for myself that fat bruises were already flourishing on my pale arms, and I dared not imagined what my abdomen looked like.

  Dr Basildon returned. ‘Miss Rowley, you can leave.’

  I didn’t want Marion to go, but it was clear Dr Basildon was in no mood to be undermined. He stood over me, assessing the situation.

  ‘I need to check your ribs and stomach.’ His fingers pushed into me. I arched away from him, but couldn’t get free of his grip. He lifted my slip over my drawers to see my stomach, and I felt my skin burn. My own employer, seeing my naked flesh! I thought I might die from the shame of it. I squeezed my eyes shut so I did not have to watch his face and imagine the thoughts in his mind.

  ‘This will be cold.’

  Once again, I gasped as he pressed what felt like a disc of ice against my chest.

  ‘Now, breathe long and slow for me.’

  I tried, but it felt like a rag was stuck in my throat. I coughed, and Lord how the pain soared!

  ‘And again. Slowly.’

  I breathed in once more as best I could, and then the disc of ice came away, and I saw it was only a stethoscope.

  ‘I don’t think anything is broken, but you are very bruised.’

  He opened the little wooden box
full of medicine that I had seen before in his study. He brought out a jar labelled morphine and a syringe. I closed my eyes as he pierced my flesh.

  ‘That will take the worst of it away, and then you shall have to rest.’

  He took one last look at me, his lips still just as straight and unhappy as previously, then left the room without another word.

  It only took a few minutes for the morphine to take effect. I slept for the rest of the day and woke only half an hour ago.

  The pain is still intense, but I think the doctor is right and that nothing is broken, only my pride. Marion is with me now, worrying that I should be resting and not writing, but if I do not get my thoughts down, I fear that they will be lost in this daze of morphine. She is to inject me again, any minute, so now I must sign off for the night and pray that my bruises heal quickly.

  Saturday, 15th December

  I must write this before Marion comes in for the night. If I thought things could not worsen, I was wrong.

  Dr Basildon called me and Marion to his study today. It was the first time I had been up and dressed since the incident. Marion helped me, like the good friend she is. The pain is not quite so sharp now. It is more of an ache, a persistent throb, more annoying than anything else. But when I saw myself in the big mirrors in the main house, I hardly recognised myself. My face is blue and brown, lined with thick, red crusts of blood from my healing wounds, and when I stand, I am all hunched up, for my stomach cannot take the strain. I would look better with my corset, but the thought of squeezing myself together like that is unbearable.