The Asylum

by John Harwood

  “Three weeks ago, around the tenth of October—Miss Ferrars could not recall the precise date—she was alone in the bookshop when a young woman came in. Miss Ferrars felt sure she had seen her somewhere before, but she did not immediately associate the face before her with the one she saw every day in the mirror—did you wish to say something, Miss Ashton?”

  Numb with shock, I could only stare at him.

  “The young woman introduced herself as Lucia Ardent. They fell into conversation, and an intimacy sprang up. It was Lucia—if you will forgive the familiarity for the sake of concision—who first remarked upon the likeness between them. Within a couple of days, Lucia was living at Gresham’s Yard.

  “Lucia, or so she claimed, was the daughter of a Frenchman named Jules Ardent, and an Englishwoman, Madeleine Ardent—who, according to Lucia, had refused ever to speak of her past. All she would say was that her childhood had been most unhappy and that she did not wish to recall it, or ever revisit England; she never revealed her maiden name. Jules Ardent died when Lucia was an infant—all this, you understand, rests upon Lucia Ardent’s unsupported word—leaving them an income of about two hundred a year. Lucia and her mother lived an itinerant life, moving about the Continent, staying in pensions and hotels until Madeleine Ardent died about a year ago. Lucia Ardent had always wanted to see England, and so, drawn by the mystery of her birth, she came to London, took lodgings in Bloomsbury, and by sheer chance wandered into Josiah Radford’s bookshop.

  “All this, you understand, is what she told Georgina Ferrars, who had no reason to disbelieve her. As a child, Georgina told me, she had often wished she had a sister, and now it seemed that she had found one. Lucia was, from the beginning, insatiably curious about every aspect of Georgina’s past, and it was only later that Georgina realised how little she had learnt in return. As the days went by, Georgina became more and more conscious of the resemblance between them, and they had many long conversations about its possible bearing on the mystery of Lucia’s origins. Lucia had brought only a small travelling-case”—Dr. Straker glanced meaningfully at the valise Bella had unpacked—“and as they were much the same size, Georgina was happy to share her own clothes with her newfound friend. Josiah Radford, who is exceptionally shortsighted, was soon unable to tell them apart.

  “Within a fortnight they were, Miss Ferrars told me, as close as if they really had been sisters. It was already settled, with Josiah Radford’s blessing, that Lucia should make her home there, but first—or so she said—she must return briefly to Paris to settle her affairs. Miss Ferrars would very much have liked to accompany her but felt that she could not leave her uncle.

  “And so, last Monday—just two days, Miss Ashton, before you arrived here—Lucia Ardent packed her valise and departed in a cab, promising to return within a fortnight. It was only after she had left that doubts began to creep in. Miss Ferrars noticed, first of all, that Lucia had taken every single thing she had arrived with. And then she discovered that her two most cherished possessions were missing: a blue leather writing case given to her by her aunt, and a valuable ruby and diamond brooch in the shape of a dragonfly, which had belonged to her mother.”

  It is a nightmare, I told myself. You must wake up now. But his face refused to dissolve.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I wish I could make this easier for you, but we must face facts. You will be wondering—since you are, beyond question, the woman who left Gresham’s Yard two days ago—why I do not address you as Miss Ardent. That is because Lucia Ardent is an alias: the account she gave of herself is an obvious fabrication, since it contains not a single verifiable fact. Lucia Ardent is your own invention, and since you came here as Miss Ashton, I propose that we continue to call you by that name, until we discover who you really are.”

  “I am Georgina Ferrars,” I said hopelessly, finding my voice at last. With the words came the thought, He is lying; he must be lying. “If—if this woman really exists, then she has taken my place—”

  “There is no doubt of her existence, Miss Ashton; I am speaking to her at this moment. Just as there can be no doubt that the young woman I met in London is the real Georgina Ferrars; an imposter might possibly deceive Josiah Radford, who is exceedingly shortsighted, but not the maidservant.”

  “What was her name—the maid’s?” I asked, clutching at straws.

  “I have no idea, but I am sure there is nothing wrong with her eyesight.”

  “It is clear,” he continued, when I did not respond, “that when you arrived here as Lucy Ashton, you were well aware that you had trained yourself to impersonate Georgina Ferrars. Why you did so remains a mystery. But I would say, without question, that you had become aware that the balance of your mind was disturbed: why else would you have sought out a leading specialist in disorders of the personality, and presented yourself to him under the name of a madwoman?”

  I remembered Frederic—not once, but twice—saying exactly that.

  “You adopted an alias because you were not yet ready to confess—no doubt for fear of the consequences—but the alias you chose was itself a kind of confession. And then, sadly, your mental turmoil led to a seizure, which seems to have obliterated everything but the personality you were so determined to assume.”

  “No!” I cried. “I swear on my dear mother’s grave, it is my life I remember!”

  “Miss Ashton, Miss Ashton; I am not questioning your sincerity. But the past you think you remember is a dream, woven by your troubled imagination out of the material of Georgina Ferrars’ life. You cannot see this, because it is all you can see. But rest assured: we will not abandon you; as I said before, you will be cared for here, without charge, no matter how long it takes us to discover your true identity.”

  I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, fighting down terror.

  “If you will only take me to London,” I said in a small, strangled voice, “and let me speak to my uncle; and to Cora, the maid; and Mrs. Eddowes, the housekeeper; and Mr. Onslow, the haberdasher in the square, they will tell you that I am the real Georgina Ferrars, and not this imposter—”

  “I am sorry, Miss Ashton, but that is out of the question. I explained to Miss Ferrars that you were not responsible for your actions, and that bringing you face to face with her might help you recover your memory, but she does not wish to see you again. She feels, understandably, betrayed. ‘Let her return my writing case and brooch,’ she said, ‘and apologise for the distress she has caused us, and then perhaps I will consider your request.’”

  “She is lying—” I began, but the futility of it was plain. I took a deep breath and summoned the last of my courage.

  “Then since you will not help me, sir, I wish to leave this place immediately. I am a voluntary patient—”

  “I am sorry, Miss Ashton, but I cannot allow it. I should be derelict in my duty if I allowed a young woman in the grip of a dangerous delusion to wander away unattended. If you were to appear at Gresham’s Yard in your present frame of mind, you would probably be arrested for disturbing the peace. You were a voluntary patient; I now have no choice but to issue a certificate of insanity.”

  I saw, too late, that I had made a fatal mistake.

  “Sir, I beg your pardon,” I stammered, hearing the note of terror all too clearly. “I spoke in haste; perhaps I am not myself. I promise to stay here quietly until—until I am better; there is no need for a certificate . . .”

  He regarded me silently for some time, a faint ironic twist at the corner of his mouth.

  “Almost convincing, Miss Ashton; but not quite. Unless I am much mistaken, you would make a dash for the gate the moment our backs were turned. No; I’m afraid my duty is plain. You may be a danger to others; you are certainly a danger to yourself. And now if you will excuse me, I must summon Dr. Mayhew; I advised him of these developments this morning, but he will need to examine you in person.”

  “I am not mad!” I cried as he rose to leave. “Ask Fr—Mr. Mordaunt; he believes me.”r />
  “He did believe you, Miss Ashton. Mr. Mordaunt is—easily led; he has learnt a salutary lesson.”

  Dr. Mayhew’s “examination” consisted of his grunting several times, peering at my tongue, and muttering, “Hmph, mmph—highly agitated—danger to herself and others—no doubt about it,” after which he took the pen and the document that Dr. Straker was holding out to him, added his signature, and departed.

  “Well, there we are, Miss Ashton,” said Dr. Straker. “We shall keep you here in the infirmary for a couple more days, just to be sure, and then transfer you to one of the women’s wards. I know it is hard, but try not to think too much. Hodges will bring you a sedative, and in the morning I shall look in to see how you are getting on.”

  At the sound of the door closing behind him, I buried my face in the pillow and wept as I had never wept before.

  I was roused from my misery by a clatter of keys and the heavy tread of Hodges.

  “Come along now, Miss Ashton; this won’t do. I’ve brought you a pot of tea and some bread and butter, and a nice sleeping draught.”

  It was still broad daylight, but I assumed it must be late in the afternoon.

  “What is the time?” I asked hopelessly.

  “One o’clock. Now you sit up and ’ave your tea, and then you can ’ave a nice sleep.”

  Rather than have her touch me, I sat up as instructed; she arranged the invalid tray across my knees, and departed.

  Even the sight of food turned my stomach; I reached instead for the glass of cloudy liquid standing beside the teacup. Eight hours of blessed oblivion . . . and then? I paused with the glass halfway to my lips. Through the fog of anguish and horror, a single thought loomed: Once they move you, you will never escape.

  And if I did not eat, I would be too weak to escape. I set down the glass and began chewing the bread in small, nauseating mouthfuls, washing it down with sips of tea, and trying to concentrate what remained of my mind. Why this had happened to me was beyond my comprehension; all that mattered was to escape (though that was surely impossible) within the next two days, find my way to Gresham’s Yard (but how? I had no money), and confront the woman (though I did not believe she existed) who had stolen my life away.

  The tale of Lucia Ardent was more than bizarre; it was grotesquely improbable. No; Dr. Straker had invented the story for his own purposes—purposes I dared not begin to imagine—which made it even more imperative that I should escape.

  But he knew about the writing case and brooch.

  I could not remember whether I had mentioned the writing case to him, but I felt sure I had not described the brooch in any detail, either to him or to Bella.

  But I had described it to Frederic.

  Which meant—that I must not allow myself to think about what it meant.

  Escape. I could empty the sleeping draught into the chamber pot, and pretend to be asleep—or drowsy—when Hodges returned for the tray. That ought to give me several uninterrupted hours. And I had better do that at once, before she came back and caught me.

  Half a minute later I was back in bed, forcing down the last of the bread and listening for footsteps.

  Escape. I already knew that the grille protecting the window felt very solid, but if I could find some sort of instrument, perhaps I could loosen it.

  Or there was the door. You could pick a lock with a bent hatpin, or so I had read, but I had never tried it, and beyond this lock would be another, and another . . .

  When Hodges brought the tray in, she had left the door open and the key in the lock; I was sure of it.

  If I hid behind the door, and padded the bed with rolled-up clothes to make it look as if I were asleep, perhaps I could slip past her, slam the door, turn the key and run. But the door opened flat against the side wall; she would feel that I was behind it. And even if she came right up to the bed without seeing me, there would be very little room to squeeze past her. No; she would certainly catch me.

  Could I hit her over the head with something and knock her unconscious? I might be able to break a leg off the upright chair, but would that be heavy enough? How hard would I have to hit her? And what if I killed her by mistake?

  Heavy footsteps approached. I leant back against the pillows, turned my head toward the door, and half closed my eyes. The lock turned—a hard, effortful grating sound; the door swung against the wall as Hodges entered, and there was the bunch of keys, swinging from the lock.

  “Well, that’s better, isn’t it? You ’ave a nice long sleep now. I’ll look in later, and this evening I’ll bring you some supper and another drop o’ chloral.”

  I did my best to look drowsy and vacant as she turned away, stepping out into the passage to set down the tray before she closed the door. Dodging past her looked even more impossible than I had imagined. And from the sound of the lock, it would take far more than a hatpin to open it, even if I knew the trick.

  Which left the window. As soon as her footsteps had died away, I went over and examined the grille, which seemed to be set into the stonework itself. I could not move it in the slightest, no matter how hard I tugged. Perhaps if I picked up the chair and ran at the grille, I might be able to dislodge it; most likely I would break the chair, and be punished accordingly.

  The jug and basin on the washstand were made of enamel, too light to do any damage. I turned to the closet. The empty valise stood to one side, on end, with the hatbox on top of it.

  I had glanced into the hatbox on that first afternoon. This time I took out the bonnet—a pale blue one, trimmed in cream—but found not a single hatpin. I was about to replace it when I noticed a pocket in the lining near the bottom of the hatbox. A small, squarish shape was pressing against the silk.

  With suddenly trembling fingers I drew from the pocket a familiar red plush box. I pressed the catch, and there was my dragonfly brooch, unharmed.

  And there was something else in the pocket—something that clinked softly as I touched it: a small drawstring purse in brown velvet, with five gold sovereigns inside.

  I do not know how long I crouched, staring blankly at my brooch and clutching the purse as if it might take wing and fly away, before it occurred to me that my writing case might be here, too. But there was nothing else in the hatbox. I dragged out the valise and felt all around the lining, but again I found nothing except traces of lint.

  I let out a great sob of frustration and self-reproach. If only, if only I had thought to look sooner, instead of now, when it was too late.

  “Let her return my writing case and brooch” . . . If Dr. Straker found out, he would take it from me.

  I slipped the purse into the pocket of my travelling-dress, put away the valise and hatbox, and got back into bed for warmth, still holding my brooch in its open box. The rubies glowed like drops of blood.

  The gold pin, though sharp, was barely two inches long. Hodges would swat it away with one meaty hand and lift me off my feet with the other.

  I pictured those small, knowing, covetous eyes leering down at me, and a plan began to form.

  The worst that can happen, I thought, is that she turns out to be honest, and hands the brooch straight to Dr. Straker.

  I sat motionless for a very long time, thinking it out. Then I got up again and put on my travelling-dress, feeling that I would have a better chance with Hodges if I faced her fully dressed. I laid the travelling-cloak and bonnet at the foot of the bed, took two of the five sovereigns out of the purse, and left them loose in the pocket of my cloak. After that there was nothing to do but pace about the room to keep warm, and pray that Hodges would look in on me before darkness fell.

  At last I heard a distant thud, and then the approaching footsteps. I moved over to the window and stood with my back to it, facing the door as the observation slide opened. I heard a sharp intake of breath and a rattle of keys; the door crashed against the wall and Hodges strode into the room.

  “What’s this then? Why aren’t you asleep in bed?”

  My heart was p
ounding so violently that I could scarcely speak.

  “Because—because I have something to show you.”

  “And what might that be?” she asked suspiciously, moving closer.

  “This.” I took the jewel box from my pocket, pressed the catch, and held it out for her to see, angling the box so that the rubies caught the light. Her little eyes flickered between the brooch and my face.

  “It is the most precious thing I have in the world,” I said. “My mother left it to me; it is worth a hundred pounds.”

  “And what’s that to me?”

  “It is yours,” I said, “if you will help me escape.”

  She smiled derisively. The little eyes bored into mine.

  “And what’s to stop me taking it right now?”

  “Nothing,” I said breathlessly, willing my voice not to shake. “But then I would tell Dr. Straker, and if you were caught, you would be sent to prison.”

  The eyes flickered over the brooch.

  “Or I could give it to Dr. Straker,” she said, “and ’e might give me a nice reward.”

  “He might,” I said, “but not two hundred pounds.”

  “You just said it was worth one hundred.”

  “Yes, if you were to sell it. But to me it is worth all the money I have in the world, which is two hundred pounds, in trust with my solicitor. As soon as I am safely home in London, I will buy it back from you for two hundred pounds.”

  “’Ow do I know it’s not paste?”

  I had not thought of this, and I racked my brain for an answer, keeping my eyes fixed on hers as if she were a huge, savage dog, bracing itself to spring. Meaty breath wafted over me, prompting a spasm of nausea.

  “You don’t,” I said at last. “But do you think I would have risked bringing it here, of all places, if I could have borne to part with it?”

  She was silent again; I could see the eyes calculating.

  “And supposing—just supposing, mind—I was to ’elp you escape, I should lose my place.”