by Andrew Lane
He must have fallen asleep while he was thinking, because the next thing he knew, the only light coming in through the slitted window was the pale, white light of the moon. He watched as the distorted rectangle it cast slid down the wall, like a piece of paper stuck to the bricks with treacle.
The next thing he knew, the rectangle of light was on the floor. He must have slept again for a while. His shoulders ached from the cold of the wall, and the muscles of his legs felt weak and tingly.
And someone was watching him through the wooden hatch in the door.
He could see light silhouetting a head, and he could sense eyes, malicious eyes, staring at him intently. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Eventually, with a soft squeak, the hatch closed again.
It wasn’t one of the attendants: that much he was sure of. They wouldn’t have bothered being quiet. They would have just slammed the hatch open, taken a look and then slammed it closed again. Whoever had been watching Sherlock through the hatch hadn’t wanted him to know about it.
The sensible thing would have been to have waited for a while before making his move, but he was burning with curiosity now. He wanted to know who it was that had been interested in him.
Silently he climbed to his feet and crossed to the door. He cautiously felt for the two threads that he’d left there earlier, trailing from the handle of the bolt. They were fragile, thin, and he was worried that they might have been disturbed by the opening of the hatch, but after a few moments of groping around he found first one, and then the other.
He had to do the next bit very carefully. There was no room for error: he would only get one chance.
The way the bolt was designed, it had to be rotated through a quarter-turn before the handle could slide past the brackets. One of the threads – the one that trailed over the door – he could use to rotate the bolt. If he was lucky. The other one he could use to pull the bolt back, out of its catch.
Experimentally, he pulled on the thread that ran up and over the door. It gradually pulled taut. He tugged on it. Nothing. He felt a growing frustration churning in his chest. He wanted to pull hard, but if he did that then the thread might snap, or the knots might give. Maybe it was snagged on a rivet, or a splinter, or something. It might even have become caught up between the door and the frame when the door closed. Forcing himself to focus, Sherlock felt the tight band around his chest ease slightly. He pulled again on the thread. This time he felt something give, and from the other side of the door he heard a grating noise. In his mind he could see the thread pulling on the handle of the bolt, but with the brackets stopping it from moving and with the handle offset, the only freedom of movement it had was for the bolt to rotate around its own longitudinal axis. So, reluctantly, it did.
Sherlock had to judge the amount of rotation very carefully. If it rotated the bolt too much – if he ended up with the handle pointing directly upward – then it would not open. The only clear path the handle had was when it was pointed outward at ninety degrees to the door. If he pulled too far then there was no way to get the bolt down again. This was a one-time-only opportunity for freedom.
Sherlock stopped pulling while there was still some play in the thread. He wanted to pull further, but he knew he shouldn’t. Time to try the other thread now, and pray that it worked.
Keeping the tension on the first thread, he pulled on the second one, which ran horizontally around the edge of the door. If he’d worked things out correctly then this one should pull the bolt back along the door, out of the catch. If he had worked things out correctly.
There was some resistance, but the thread moved, and he could feel an increase in tension in the first thread, the vertical one. On the other side of the door he could hear the grating of metal against metal as the bolt slid back. Elation filled him. He stopped breathing, in case the movement of his chest disturbed the delicate balance of the threads.
After a minute or so of gradual movement, the thread went tight. The bolt couldn’t move any more. If Sherlock was right, then it had been pulled completely back, and the door was unlocked.
He pushed against the wood.
Nothing. The door didn’t move.
He pushed again, harder.
This time, the door shifted slightly. He’d forgotten how heavy it was! He threw his weight against it, and the door opened an inch.
He braced his boots against a gap between the flagstones of his cell and pushed with his shoulder.
The door swung open.
He caught it before it could go too far, and slipped through the gap and into the gallery.
Firelight flickered along its length. The windows were thin rectangles of blackness. Silence, apart from the crackle of burning coals.
A figure moved silently down the corridor, away from him. It was a woman, dressed entirely in black. Her head was covered in a shawl, and as she came level with each door she paused for a moment and gazed towards the cell, then moved on down the gallery. He couldn’t see her feet; she seemed to glide noiselessly across the floor.
Sherlock realized that she was gliding in the opposite direction from the grille that closed off the space between the gallery and the entrance hall. He suspected that if he was going to get out then he had to go back, towards the entrance. Part of him desperately wanted to follow the woman in black – the ghost in black, part of his mind said – but the more sensible part wanted to get to freedom. He didn’t have a plan for getting past the grille, but at least he’d managed to get out of his cell. That was an accomplishment in its own right.
With a last, regretful glance along the gallery, where the woman in black had stopped outside one of the cells, Sherlock moved in the opposite direction.
He could hear a mixture of sounds coming from the cells as he moved rapidly along. From some of them came heavy snoring, from others muffled sobs and from the remainder either silence or voices praying. He wished he could do something for them, but he wasn’t in a position to lead a mass escape attempt, and even if he could he was in no position to distinguish between the sane and the mad. He had to save himself.
He got to the grille at the end of the gallery. The hall beyond was in shadow. He had a vague idea that he might be able to pick the lock, or take the door off its hinges, or even hide behind one of the enormous flowerpots until morning and sneak out behind the backs of the attendants, but he was amazed to see that the grille was unlocked. He glanced around, expecting a trap, but nobody jumped out at him. He pulled the door open and slipped into the hall.
Freedom.
Almost.
He kept to the shadows around the edge of the hall, rather than crossing the tiled expanse of the centre, until he came to the double doors that led outside. Nervously he pushed them open, expecting at any moment that an alarm bell would be sounded, or that somebody would shout after him, but nothing happened.
The air outside was the freshest he could ever remember breathing. It was like drinking clear, cold water from a stream.
It was still night, and the road on the other side of the wall was quiet. He looked around, getting his bearings. If he could make it to the road then he could hail a cab and persuade the driver to take him . . . where? Amyus Crowe hadn’t booked them into a hotel, and he didn’t know where the big man had gone. He supposed he could head for the Diogenes Club. It was the only place that Crowe might think to use as a rendezvous.
He ran down the steps and on to the path that led away from Bedlam.
‘Oy!’
The voice was loud, aggrieved. He wanted to run, pell-mell, down the path to freedom, but something made him turn around.
The toothless attendant was standing on the steps, club in one hand and a whistle in the other. ‘You come right back ’ere, son, or I’ll call the Peelers, so I will. If you come now I promise I won’t break any bones. If I have to get the police to get you back it’ll reflect badly on me, and that means I’ll take it out on you. I guarantee you’ll walk crooked for the rest of your short life.’
&nbs
p; Sherlock was about to tell the attendant to go to hell, and run, but someone yelled out from inside the hall. The attendant turned to call back. ‘It’s all right – I got ’im out ’ere!’ he shouted. He turned back, whistle coming up to his mouth, but he looked at Sherlock and the hand holding the whistle slowly dropped down to his side again. His expression was a mask of confusion.
‘If there’s any breakin’ of bones to be done around here,’ a deep, deceptively calm voice said, ‘then I believe I have priority. And, by the way, considerable experience as well.’
Sherlock didn’t have to turn his head to know that Amyus Crowe was standing directly behind him, close enough that if Sherlock stepped back then he knew he’d bump into him.
‘’E’s an escaped madman!’ the attendant exclaimed.
‘I don’t think so,’ Crowe observed. ‘I have in my pocket a piece of paper signed by three separate doctors, all confirming the sanity of this boy. I think a mistake has been made, a serious mistake, and if you don’t want it to reflect on you then you should just let us walk away now.’
‘We can’t,’ Sherlock said quietly.
‘Why not?’
He sighed. ‘There’s something I have to do. Inside. I have to talk to the Resident Physician.’
‘Son, there’re times when life offers you a free gift.’ Crowe’s voice was urgent, insistent. ‘This is one of those times. If we walk away now, you’re safe. If we go inside, I can’t guarantee what will happen. They might find a way of keeping you.’
‘I know, but there’re more important things at stake here. I need to see the Resident Physician.’
This time it was Crowe who sighed. ‘I gotta say, life as your tutor is never boring.’ He raised his voice. ‘You – the man with the club and the badly fittin’ uniform. I want to see the Resident Physician. Tell him I’ll be waiting in his office for an explanation as to why he saw fit to imprison a perfectly sane boy.’ Whispering now, as the attendant gaped blankly at them, he said to Sherlock: ‘Lead the way, son. Let’s let him find us in his office, with me sittin’ behind his desk. It’ll keep him off balance.’
Sherlock led Crowe past the attendant, who ran past them, into the hall, and across to the door that led to the offices and administrative areas. He looked for a moment as if he was going to bar their way, but instead he ran off down the corridor.
‘The Resident Physician sleeps on the premises,’ Crowe rumbled as Sherlock led the way into the oak-lined office. ‘That’s one thing I found out about this institution.’ He looked around. ‘Nice place. He obviously gets paid well.’
‘Who pays him?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Who funds this place?’
‘As I understand it, families pay for their loved ones to be “looked after”, whether they need it or not. There’re rumours of women bein’ sent here because they wouldn’t get married, or wanted to marry someone unsuitable, or had gotten themselves married but didn’t love their husbands. Obvious sign of madness, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘But there is such a thing as real madness, isn’t there?’ Sherlock asked.
‘There is,’ Crowe agreed, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on the doctors here recognizing it unless it ran up an’ bit them on the nose.’ He frowned. ‘Which, bein’ madness, it probably would.’
‘So,’ Sherlock said, his thoughts suddenly catching up with what had been said, ‘who paid for me to be incarcerated here?’
‘That’s the six thousand dollar question.’ Crowe walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down. ‘Answer is, I don’t know, but someone did. You probably saw that I got involved in an altercation. You started actin’ strangely, but before I could extricate myself from my situation you’d been carted away. Whoever did this had a carriage an’ a doctor ready an’ waitin’. Come and join me, by the by. Stand by my shoulder.’
‘So what happened?’ Sherlock asked, moving to stand behind Crowe. ‘What did I do?’
‘You went wild, throwin’ yourself on the ground an’ shoutin’ about fire an’ birds an’ suchlike. You were out of control. Never seen anythin’ like it in my life – ’cept once when Ginny and I were on the boat comin’ over here an’ a passenger ran across the deck, screamin’ that he couldn’t stand the waves and the sky starin’ at him any more. Threw himself over the railin’s. The Captain turned around to try an’ find him, but he’d gone. Drowned.’
Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘What made me act like that?’
‘I suspect that somethin’ was added to your drink, or sprayed in your face. Remember that substance in the pocket of the dead man in the Diogenes Club some time ago – the spray we think caused your brother to have a blackout while still standin’? I think you’ll find whatever was used on you was a similar thing, but designed to cause temporary hallucinations, rather than blackouts.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t rightly know, but my money is on the Paradol Chamber. You’ve stepped in their way twice now and managed to stop their international criminal activities – once with Baron Maupertuis an’ once in Russia. I think they want to get you out of the way.’
Sherlock was about to ask how Crowe had found him when the door burst open and Dr William Rhys Williams rushed in. He was wearing an embroidered dressing gown over a nightshirt, and had a tasselled velvet cap on his head. He was furious: red in the face and wide-eyed.
‘What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing, facilitating the escape of an inmate of this institution? I should have you horsewhipped!’
‘Is that an approved medical treatment?’ Crowe rumbled. ‘Or just somethin’ you enjoy as a recreational activity?’
‘Get out from behind my desk!’ Williams shouted.
‘Not your desk for much longer,’ Crowe said calmly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know your General Medical Council ain’t been around for long, but I doubt they’d look too kindly on one of their members accepting sane people into a lunatic asylum for cash.’
‘This child is not sane,’ Williams snapped. ‘I examined him myself.’
‘I have three doctors who say he is,’ Crowe replied, holding up an envelope. ‘I’d be happy to set them against you in a court of law and see who comes out ahead, but before I do that my friend here has somethin’ to say.’ He looked up at Sherlock. ‘All yours, son.’
‘I saw something,’ Sherlock said, trying to control his breathing. Looking at Williams’s florid face made him feel sick. Just a few short hours ago, this man had said that Sherlock was obviously insane.
‘Saw what?’ Williams asked. ‘This is a lunatic asylum. All kinds of things happen in here that don’t happen in the world outside.’
‘I saw a ghost,’ Sherlock said calmly.
Williams glanced at Crowe and raised an eyebrow, as if to say I told you so. ‘A ghost?’ he said in a reasonable voice. ‘Please, tell us more. Did it walk through walls?’
‘No,’ Sherlock replied, ‘and that’s what made me realize that it wasn’t really a ghost. It was meant to look like one – dressed all in black, and supposedly the spirit of a poor servant girl who died here – but what ghost needs to leave a door open so that it can move about, or use a hatch to look at someone in their cell?’
‘You think it was someone dressed up?’ Crowe asked from beside him, face alert. ‘Why?’
‘There are people here who have privileges. I suspect that long-term inmates get to furnish their cells and wear their own clothes. I think that long-term inmates who aren’t obviously dangerous can be quite comfortable here. And I think that one of the attendants is stealing from them – getting into their cells while they are asleep and stealing stuff, like watches, or coins.’ He paused, remembering the fight between the dice players. ‘I’ve only been here a day and I’ve noticed that inmates are losing possessions. They’re like sitting ducks – vulnerable, easy to take advantage of.’
‘Why on earth would any such thief dress as a ghost?’ Dr Williams said dismissively.
‘If someone who has been diagnosed as being insane says that a ghost has stolen things from them, who will believe them?’ Sherlock asked simply.
‘And has anything else strange happened?’ Crowe asked. He was talking to Sherlock, but his face was stern as he stared at Williams.
‘A boy who was in my cell before me died,’ Sherlock said. ‘They said he’d seen the ghost, but I think he’d worked it out.’
‘Had he?’ Crowe’s gaze was fixed on Williams. ‘Or is there something goin’ on here worse than theft?’ He stood up abruptly. ‘We’ll be takin’ our leave of you, Doctor Williams. I think you can expect a visit from the General Medical Council and the police in the near future. I think you can expect them to look into any unexplained deaths that have occurred here – especially of young people. And I think if you don’t cooperate fully with them, then you’ll hang along with whoever actually is responsible – assumin’, of course, that you’re not the person wearin’ the ghost costume an’ stalkin’ these corridors at night.’
‘I know nothing about this,’ Williams said, but his face was as white as if he had seen a ghost himself. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he’d glimpsed a vision of his own future, and he didn’t like what he’d seen.
‘It stops,’ Crowe said as he walked out from behind Williams’s desk and past the doctor. ‘It stops now.’
‘Do you think things in there will change?’ Sherlock asked as they walked out of the building and into the cool, fresh air.
‘I’ll make sure they do,’ Crowe replied. ‘Sad to say, son, but things like this go on all over the place. Wherever there’re people in a position of power an’ other people who are vulnerable, there’s theft, an’ abuse, an’ worse.’ He shook his head. ‘It ain’t within the gift of a man to change the world. All he can do is change the things he sees around him. If enough people do that, then maybe the world will change anyway.’ He glanced at Sherlock. ‘I’ll talk to your brother. He can pull some strings – get the place checked over officially. An’ I’ll make sure they know what they’re lookin’ for.’