Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  Reaching beneath my skirt, I open the secret pocket in my drawers and remove the pendant and earbobs. They represent everything valuable in the world at this moment, and I clutch them tightly. Just a few feet away, I hear Harry Swinton’s voice in his cell, whispering his five names. Already distraught, I jump at the sound, and then there’s a soft pinging. Something rolls across the floor and plops onto a liquid surface.

  “Show yerself,” Harry says.

  Anna and I continue moving through the darkness, and he laughs. “Oh, I know yer women, sweetings. Come over and visit ol’ ’Arry.”

  No other men at this end of the passage. He must be in solitary, kept away from the other inmates for their protection. Harry rattles his chains, and I push Anna to go faster. We nearly collide with Watts at the asylum door, but he unlocks it slowly, oblivious to danger.

  “Necklace first. Then the pearls.”

  Opening my right fist, I offer the ruby necklace to Anna and she takes it. Earlier this afternoon, we made a pact, Anna and I. The first one out that door runs like hell. No second thoughts, no turning back to help. We do what must be done to get free.

  “Bless you, Hester,” she says, hugging me.

  I hug her tightly in return, my closest friend in the days of my captivity.

  During our display of emotion, Hershel Watts inspects the necklace. “Very pretty piece. Better than I thought.”

  Satisfied with the ruby, he opens the door and pushes Anna out. I listen as she races to the canal and climbs down into it. Good. She’ll be with her son in no time.

  Then the asylum door shuts with a clang. “The pearls?”

  Opening my hand, I realize something’s wrong. What? Just one earbob, not two? I give the pearl to Watts and check for its mate in the pocket of my drawers, not caring about modesty or whether the guard is looking. Damn. Nothing there either.

  “Need ’em both,” he grumbles.

  Sitting down, I pull off my boots, checking for the missing pearl inside. My paper and pencil fall out. Watts grabs the old envelope, evidently recognizing it from our many exchanged messages.

  “It was you? You put all this into action? Scheming and bribing and bossing me around.” Watts sounds rather angry, as though everything has been done with the sole purpose of humiliating him.

  As he begins to curse, I realize where I lost the missing prize. That pinging sound, after Harry frightened me. It was the pearl dropping to the floor and rolling into the drain. Must have fallen through the iron grating. In the Violent Unit, many of the inmates are beyond reason—urinating and defecating wherever they happen to be. Every so often, the guards rinse the refuse away directly into a grill-covered latrine.

  Pulling my boots back on, I do not stop to tie the laces, but reach for the paper and pencil to tell Watts about my misfortune.

  “No,” he says, locking the door. “No excuses. I’ll get what I was promised. You’re not going anywhere until I do.”

  I lead him to the approximate place where the earbob went into the sewer. Hershel Watts hunkers down, makes a brief perusal, and laughs bitterly. “I’m not digging through that mess.”

  Watts regains his feet and heads down the hall, footsteps echoing. “You find my pearl and we’ll do business.”

  The stench of the Violent Unit makes my eyes water, and I breathe through my mouth, steeling myself to begin the search. Do it, Hester. You must try. Squatting down, I extend my hand toward the grate. I hear chains clank against each other and metal joints creak within the cell to my right. Softly this time.

  “’At you, dearie?” Harry asks. “The silent one what took me fingers? We’ll let bygones be bygones, ’ey?”

  Some snakes cuddle their quarry before squeezing them to death, and Harry is doing the same, cajoling me into trusting him. But I sense that when he is free of his bonds, all good humor will disappear. I could choke on the foul smell of his hatred. I stumble to my feet and run, one hand touching the wall, the other outstretched before me. Harry goes wild at this and works his chains back and forth in a frenzy. A bolt in the wall must have come loose because he is suddenly at the cell door, jerking against it. I round the corner and fall, tripping on my untied laces.

  “Careful, Ragamuffin,” Harry calls. “Wouldn’t want you to ‘urt yourself.”

  The squeaking of metal hinges intensifies. Rusty iron, most likely ignored for years. By the sound of it, he’ll have the door off in no time.

  Get up, Hester! Run!

  And I do just that, until I lose my bearings at the next cross-section of corridors. Which way to my ward? Right? No, left. Left. Not far away, metal whines and gives way under pressure. Sweet blazes. He’s breaking free.

  Howling in triumph, Harry pushes the door aside and steps out of his cell. Slow footsteps at first, but then, sounding like a ravening wolf, he begins to run.

  “Let’s play,” Harry whispers, turning at the top of the hallway where I stood only minutes ago.

  Swinton must be part bloodhound because he follows my trail nearly to the footstep. I take the sharpened bone from my pocket and hold it tight, accidentally snapping the brittle weapon in two.

  Bloody hell, I’m an idiot! Now what can I do to defend myself?

  The plaster wall under my right hand changes and becomes a split wooden surface—a double door. Applying all my weight, I push through it and enter the room. Everything smells strongly of chemical agents. I feel my way forward into the space, discovering it is much larger than I expected with rows of chairs on several levels. The floor slopes downward, and I follow it until I reach a flat stage.

  I run my hand along a broad counter upsetting a stack of gauze, spools of thread, trays of metal tools. Something falls on my foot, and I reach down and gather it in my hands. An apron?

  Damn and damn again. This is an operating theatre.

  Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, leading a murderer who favors knives to a room filled with them. Have I time to sneak out and go someplace else? No. My pursuer is coming down the hall, a hundred yards away. Better to stay here—Harry’s not the only one gifted with the blade. I lift a scalpel in my hand and feel its weight. A little light, but if I throw them in rapid succession, they might wound him sufficiently. In any case, the scalpels are far better than my pointy chicken bones.

  And what other option is there? I don’t trust my new powers—don’t know how to summon the heat that wounded Harry before and caused him to lose his hand. I organize my weapons, arranging them on a cart to my right. When Harry enters the theater, I am as prepared as I can be, given my situation.

  “Never gets old,” he says, moving forward. “Tho’ I must confess me disappointment in tonight’s chase.” He sighs and ambles to the top of the aisle. “Rather anticlimactic, if I’m being ’onest.”

  That’s right, Harry. Keep moving.

  But he stays put, pausing for effect. A homicidal showman. “’Ere we are in a mental ‘ospital, of all places, at midnight, alone. And there’s no pleading or weeping. A travesty, that’s what it is.”

  Must he belabor this? Come now, just another five feet…

  At last, Harry walks down the slope. Finally getting on with the actual attack. “Sorry, me lovely. I was ’oping fer better from you.”

  Far be it from me to disappoint.

  I propel the scalpel toward Swinton’s shoulder. He cries out and I hear him groping about the wound. The second knife is heavier and reaches its target, sinking harder and deeper than the first.

  “Damn witch! Wait’ll I get thee.”

  Harry takes another step, and my scalpels fly fast, a cloud of spikes—hitting him multiple times. He screams and tries to run, but falls as my last scalpel hits. Then I detect a crawling, dragging sound. In a pain laced voice, Harry wimpers and begs to be spared, as he pulls himself toward the aisle.

  “All red,” Harry Swinton murmurs and drops into a puddle of his own blood.

  I cover my mouth, hoping not to be ill or to embarrass myself in front of Jack the R
ipper by crying with relief. Exhausted and completely done with being brave, I do not wait for another opportunity of escape and hurry past his twitching body. He doesn’t wait either and grabs any part of me he can reach. He seizes my ankle, and I hear a sizzling sound, smell the fetid odor of scorched skin. The contact between us is brief, but I stumble down to my knees.

  “Burned again!” Harry cries, outraged.

  Light-headed, I get to my feet and make myself walk to the top of the aisle and push through the double doors. Which way am I facing? Breathe and get your bearings. That’s right, in and out, in and out. My heart slows to a near-normal rhythm and then a strong hand clutches my shoulder. I jump away, opening my mouth in a silent scream.

  “It’s me,” Davis says, sounding as scared as I am. “You’re all right now. Calm down.”

  His embrace is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt. I burst into tears, dampening the shoulder of his uniform. “Why are you so afraid?”

  I point at the operating theater doors.

  “Something bad in there?”

  Intent on investigating the surgical room, Davis enters the theater. Waiting in the hallway is an agony. At any second, I expect a murderous scuffle to erupt but hear only the young guard’s footsteps and Swinton’s soft moaning.

  My friend returns eventually. “How did you do it?” he asks. “I doubt I could have.”

  New tears form in my eyes—not because I’m sorry for what I did to Harry but in reaction to the awe in Davis’ voice. It’s so misplaced.

  He turns cool and efficient. A new hardness exists in his voice as he begins ordering me about. “I’ll take you back to your unit. I know a shortcut. Get into bed and stay there, even if you hear a commotion. I’ll handle the rest.”

  Davis leaves me at the Unresponsive’s door without a word, and I tumble into bed. Hiding under the blankets, I begin shivering, colder than I have ever been. The high piercing call of a whistle rings through the night. Each of the guards carries one in the event of an asylum uprising. I pray that Davis is still unharmed.

  As the hours pass, I realize he isn’t. He does not get away from this unscathed. That sweet boy, that salt-of-the-earth, honest-as-the-day-is-long fellow, compromises himself and lies for me. I listen to the conversation between him and the recently returned Dr. Faust. Davis takes all the blame for the bloody mess I made. He says that Harry tried to throttle him. Even facing a blade, the inmate would not cease his aggression and Davis fought back, resulting in his opponent’s stab wounds.

  Harry is currently sedated and therefore unable to give an honest account of his injuries. I assume that Davis removed the scalpels from the man’s body and wiped them off, putting them away, save one. He cannot explain the burned hand to Faust’s satisfaction, try as he may. Sadly, his ruse is all for naught. Titus and Roy know I throw knives, and Faust has experienced my burning touch first hand. They must realize every word out of Davis’s mouth is a fabrication. The only successful element of his lie is in the timing. Miss Honeycutt arrives in a few hours, and Faust wishes to look his best for her. He says he needs sleep and cannot deal with the situation now.

  It is a temporary respite—until the doctor begins putting the pieces together. Faust will also notice that Anna Loveridge is gone and guess I played a part in her disappearance. Adding to that sin, the Book will come up missing in his office. It’s presently hidden under my mattress, but I must find a better place for it. A mattress is the first place the guards would search. Sleep eludes me as my brain darts from one doomed solution to another.

  A few birds begin to chirp and sing in the trees surrounding Ironwood, signaling the approach of dawn. I am transfixed by their sweet, throbbing music, so alive and full of joy it makes me ache.

  Will I hear it again tomorrow, or is this morning my last?

  28

  Deus misereatur.

  May the gods have mercy.

  No food for the inmates today. A messy kitchen is the last thing Matron wants when Miss Honeycutt tours the facility. Many of the patients have been hidden away in the abandoned sections of the basement. While the rest of us—the less repugnant and more able-bodied—are given new clothing.

  I wear a gown perfect for a maid in the schoolroom. It barely reaches my ankles and has a wide sash, smocking, and tiny pleats. I shudder to guess at the color. Though I can’t be sure, it feels very pink.

  “Get walking,” Titus yells. “Everybody into the dining hall. Take your places.”

  A human herd, the inmates file into the great room. I hold back, coming in last to stand at the end of the line, nearest the door where Honeycutt will enter and exit. There is an enormous potted plant to my right, borrowed from a wealthy Ironwood patron to decorate the asylum. I bumped into it an hour ago, before donning the new dress, when I cleaned the fireplace and laid fresh wood. It sits against the wall and has many leafy outstretched arms, like a chlorophyll-driven octopus.

  “We expect you to make a good impression,” Matron says. “Much is riding on the outcome of this day.”

  I feel the crowd turn as one, watching her as she walks from my side of the room to the other, spouting advice with each step. The hard outline of the Book presses into my leg, where it rests in the deep pocket of my frilly apron. I must hide the evidence lest Faust search my body and take it from me. Reaching into my pocket, I remove the Book and tuck it into the back of the potted plant, under a thick cluster of leaves.

  Latham circles around to the front of the dining hall. “Are you listening, patients of Ironwood? These events will directly affect your lives. Behave accordingly.”

  I hear the distant sound of pounding hooves and heavy wheels. Then the portcullis being lifted. A coach passes through the entrance of the asylum. It sounds like a well-appointed rig led by strong, athletic horses. Exactly the sort of vehicle that Mama favored when traveling in the country. Matron strides into the vestibule and opens the front door, hissing for Watts to tuck in his shirt.

  “And keep your dirty hands out of sight,” she mutters to Roy.

  Dr. Faust went into Ironwood City earlier to fetch Miss Honeycutt, and he climbs out of the coach first. The mud sucks at his heel when the doctor turns back to help her alight.

  “Well she ain’t nothin’ to look at,” Titus whispers.

  Roy snickers and Matron thumps him with her fan. “Silence!”

  It has been many years since I last met my mother’s friend. Yet the sound of Miss Honeycutt’s entrance reveals much about the woman here today. She must be layered like a birthday cake, with noisy silk pantaloons and stockings underneath and stiff, heavy material on top. Her step is quick and sure as she tours the dining hall, stopping to speak with the inmates as the mood strikes her. The woman’s voice is a contradiction, both kind and remote.

  Honeycutt hurries through the throng, as though she is late to another appointment at yet another charitable institution. I sense generosity in her character, but also a love of material wealth that might sidetrack the best of intentions. Sacrifice at war with self-indulgence. The spirit is indeed willing, but just how weak is the flesh? Can I trust her to help me?

  I’ve written a note to Miss Honeycutt on my last scrap of paper. It describes the true conditions at Ironwood and condemns Faust for the murder of Margaret Hotchkiss. I also beg her to contact the coroner of Stonehenge and relay my message. The paper is folded into a small square, tucked inside my right sleeve. With unsteady fingers, I ease it down into my palm. Now if only she’ll shake hands.

  Honeycutt walks straight past me without stopping.

  No, no! I’m Lenore’s daughter. I’m here!

  But she continues forward, so I step out of line and execute a formal curtsy. It is a ballroom technique universally learned by the daughters of rich men—even those who are blind and mute. The type of honor aging New York heiresses expect from the world. Amelia Honeycutt turns after hearing the surprised whispers of the assembly.

  “How charming,” she says, coming to my side. “Do you te
ach them deportment, Harriet? How very open-minded.”

  “We do not,” Matron replies.

  Miss Honeycutt lifts my chin, studying my features. “Unusual. You remind me of someone.”

  Yes, blast you. I resemble Lenore. Your bosom friend.

  Faust scurries over. “I cannot think where you would have met her, Amelia. Very sad case.”

  “Yes, of course, and I have such a difficult time matching names and faces.”

  “Let me show you into my office,” the doctor suggests.

  Before Honeycutt can depart, I take her hand and bow over it, like a gentleman about to bestow a knuckle kiss. I push the note under her fingers and curl them around the paper square. Matron draws the older woman away with happy conversation, and I hear Honeycutt’s heavy skirts swing toward the door. Yet there is another sound—that of a folded paper striking wood.

  The noise echoes through my head, as horrifying as a death knell. Fast! Get the note before anyone else does! I dart toward the place where it fell, bumping against the inmates ahead of me. Drop to the floor, Hester. Reach out your arm.

  “Lose something?” Titus asks, his body blocking mine.

  Hershel Watts picks up the paper. “A letter maybe? This letter?”

  “Give it here. I want a look,” Roy says from a distance. He’s stayed far away from me since I levitated and prophesied his early death. Unfortunately, the other guards show no fear.

  Titus forces me toward the stairs, with Watts trailing behind, and I end up in the basement.

  In the Pit.

  “Why are you here precisely?” Gabriel asks.

  I shrug and cross my arms.

  “It must be bad for them to put you in with me.”

  We are sitting on the table/bed, and it’s oddly relaxing. I lean back against the warm stones, and Gabriel laughs in the darkness.

  “I’d still wager my story’s worse than yours,” he says.