‘I can assure you that no modern asylum harbours anyone who should not be there.’
‘But if someone was erroneously admitted before 1890 they would not now, after 26 years, be fit to re-enter normal life,’ I said.
All heads turned towards me and Miss Wilton positively scowled.
‘You are quite right, Miss, er …’
‘St John.’
‘Miss St John. You’re not related to the St Johns of Lower Warmington, are you? A most interesting family.’
‘Would anyone confess to be associated to a family of interest to an alienist?’ I countered.
Behind his glasses Dr Frank’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well said, my dear. You are quite right. Long-term institutionalisation will rob even the sanest individual of the ability to live in the outside world. The world of the asylum is small and its morality comfortingly black and white.’
‘So those who spend much of their lives within its walls are changed?’ I asked.
Dr Frank now openly smiled. ‘You are referring to the staff, I take it? How refreshing to encounter such a lively mind. Are you also with the press?’
‘No, she is not,’ snapped Beatrice. ‘Answer the question.’
Dr Frank’s good humour vanished. ‘I would rather say that those of us who have witnessed the depressing deterioration of the human spirit under adversity or through the cruelties of nature have a different and perhaps more generous appreciation of the human race.’ He frowned again. ‘We care very much about those in our charge. Far more so than those who placed them here.’
‘And yet being an alienist must set you apart and even give cause for you to see your charges as subjects for study?’ I asked. ‘My father was strong in the belief that family and church should care for the mentally afflicted rather than placing them in the care of strangers.’
Mr Bertram gave me an odd look.
Dr Frank nodded. ‘There is much in what your father says. But at the heart of the matter is the mentally well do not wish to care for the mentally unwell. They fear illnesses of the mind as if they were infectious.’
‘They’re not, are they?’ said Bertram looking alarmed.
Dr Frank shook his head. ‘Not in the sense you mean.’ He turned his attention to me once more. ‘I assure you, Miss St John, I run this asylum on principles your father would approve of. We treat our inmates as if they were part of a large family. We run orderly days with regular activities. We hold sports events and they enjoy light work. There is a great deal of satisfaction and sanity to be found in feeling useful and proud of oneself.’
‘You are a most modern institution,’ I said. ‘Do you effect many cures?’
‘A few,’ said Dr Frank. ‘Not as many as I would wish and generally of the mental illnesses that are caused by life events, such as the birth of a child. The deeper-seated illnesses are less likely to lift. Although we work hard to lighten our patients’ burdens.’
‘It all sounds quite admirable,’ said Mr Bertram sincerely.
‘What about the man who showed us in?’ said Miss Wilton. ‘He did not have the look of a gentle carer.’
Dr Frank sighed. ‘This is an asylum. There is always the possibility of violent behaviour when the mind is overset. Yet one more reason why visitors are not permitted. For their own safety.’
‘If I wished to have a family member committed?’ asked Miss Wilton suddenly.
‘You would need to provide a signed statement of social and medical history along with two detailed medical statements confirming the individual was an insane person or an idiot of unsound mind.’
‘That hardly sounds difficult,’ said Miss Wilton.
‘The Lunacy Commissioners are able to release any patient if on two visits of more than seven days apart they are convinced of their mental health,’ said Dr Frank coldly. ‘The system is not open to abuse.’
Miss Wilton rose. She had sensed, as had I, that Dr Frank’s patience was exhausted. ‘In my world you would be surprised, doctor, what money can buy.’
And with this she swept from the room. Bertram muttered what could have been an apology and followed her.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said to the doctor. ‘She is …’ I trailed off unable to make an adequate excuse.
‘She is disappointed and frustrated,’ said Dr Frank. ‘Intelligence is the curse of women in our times. Be careful, my dear. You have more than your fair share.’
I shook hands and followed my companions. We were all shown out by a small woman in a neat apron who smiled and said how nice it was to have visitors.
‘Is she?’ said Bertram urgently in my ear.
‘She’s wearing a nurse’s watch,’ I responded, but I could understand why he had made the mistake. There was something too bright, too cheery in her manner. I could only imagine that such a bearing came of being daily positive in the face of human suffering.
The final door was opened by our original gatekeeper. He was as large and looming as my initial impression. One of his ears was broken into what I believe is commonly referred to as a cauliflower and his nose was askew. He stood close to the open door and, despite myself, I shrank back slightly. I was startled to see his lips curve upwards. He was enjoying dominating us by his presence.
Mr Bertram rose to the occasion and slipped him a coin. Then he ushered us out as casually as if we were all leaving a tearoom. It was quite the best response.
‘What an awful place,’ he said when we were safely back in the carriage. ‘Dr Frank clearly does his best, but the atmosphere! You were very brave, Beatrice.’
‘Yes, I was,’ said Beatrice pulling at her gloves. ‘Not that I accomplished much. There is a story there, but I have not yet made up my mind how to get at it.’
‘You’re not thinking of going back?’ asked Bertram in alarm.
‘No, but I think I might try and get an interview with one of those Lunacy Commissioners. Do you think they exist? Or was he fobbing us off?’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I thought this topic had been the subject of investigation for you for some time?’
‘It has.’
‘But didn’t you do any research?’
Beatrice Wilton’s lips almost disappeared her smile was so thin. ‘And what would you suggest?’
‘Don’t newspapers have cuttings libraries? Or even libraries.’
‘How very interesting to meet a housekeeper who is so well informed. Perhaps you would like to tell me what my next step should be.’
‘Well, I think,’ I began without thinking. Beatrice interrupted me with a high, tittering laugh, ‘Really, Bertram, this girl is too much. You must school your servants better! And, Ursula, please do not presume to tell me my job. A journalist must follow her instincts. A good nose, as we say in the industry, is the best form of attack.’
I felt my eyebrows shoot up and my tongue longed to comment, but I caught sight of Bertram’s face. ‘I’m sorry, if I gave offence,’ I said as politely as I could manage, though the words nearly choked me. ‘I merely wish to be of assistance.’
My gracious apology earned me a curt nod. For the rest of the journey she conversed with Bertram in a low voice. My help was clearly not needed. When we arrived at the hotel Miss Wilton turned to me. ‘You may have the rest of the afternoon off. Your presence is not required until dinner. Sadly, etiquette decrees I must not dine alone with Mr Stapleford, no matter how much of a gentleman he may be.’
I looked past her at Bertram, who was staring at his shoes. ‘Sir?’ I asked.
‘You and Merrit could take this opportunity to fraternise. This is London, after all, and neither of you are needed,’ said Beatrice.
‘Fraternise?’ I asked, assuming one of my mother’s minor expressions of haughtiness.
I thought it had done the trick for the woman had the grace to blush. But she was made of stronger stuff. ‘I’m sure it is very difficult for you to maintain the same level of decorum as Mr Stapleford and myself. I assumed you would relish the opportunity t
o spend time with someone of your own class.’
Merrit! My own class! My eyes were blazing so hard I could almost feel the heat. ‘I take my orders from Mr Stapleford, miss,’ I said in a low, level voice, which if she had known me better would have had her running for the hills.
Bertram snapped back to the present. ‘I shall escort Miss Wilton upstairs. If you could wait for me in one of the smaller salons, I would be grateful for a word.’
I nodded. At last he was coming to his senses. However, when he finally joined me in the overly pink and frilly room, so not what one would expect in a modern establishment, his expression was one of fury.
‘What the hell do you think you’re up to, Euphemia? Miss Wilton is deeply distressed over your behaviour. She has had to go and lie down. I have sent for the doctor. She has a weak heart, you know!’
I stammered for a moment trying to find words to express my feeling of injustice.
‘How dare you try to tell her how to perform her profession!’
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ I finally exploded. ‘She knew nothing about the Lunacy Act. If she was investigating how the mentally ill are treated surely she would have some idea how the asylum worked?’
‘She explained that! She said she needed to make Dr Frank think she knew nothing so she could catch him out.’
‘Catch him out at what?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bertram. ‘I’m not a journalist.’
‘She was asking questions about how one might get a family member committed.’
‘Yes, she was. That must be it. That must be what she suspects.’
‘You don’t think she might have had someone in mind?’
‘No,’ said Bertram. ‘There is no insanity in her family. She has assured me of that.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘Then I don’t follow you, Euphemia.’ Bertram straightened his shoulders and curled his lip. His whole attitude was one of challenge.
I will always wonder if I had spoken then if things might have been different, but Rory’s warning played in my mind. I also knew of no manner possible in which I could convince him that Miss Wilton, for all her riches, was in her own way a gold-digger and Bertram was the prize. As it was I took refuge in half-truths. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very concerned over Mrs Wilson. She and I have never been the best of friends, but with her in hospital so ill and us so far away not knowing how she is faring …’ I swallowed hard. ‘I apologise if I have distressed Miss Wilton. I am not myself.’
Bertram read my bright eyes as being on the verge of tears instead of the anger and disappointment I was suppressing. His face lit up. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I sometimes forget you are only a woman and do not have the male strength of mind.’ He added quickly. ‘I mean that as a compliment. You are the most capable young woman of my acquaintance, but you are still ill and shocked from the attack that terrible night.’
‘My head does hurt and I am more than usually fatigued,’ I said honestly.
‘I should have told you earlier. I rang up Stapleford and I have reports that Mrs Wilson is doing as well as can be expected. She is not yet fully conscious, but there is a policeman on hand to take her statement as soon as she recovers.’ He paused. ‘I must say I was quite impressed with the efficiency of that.’
‘They may be concerned that her attacker will not wish her to regain consciousness,’ I said.
‘What a horrible thought!’
‘But a very realistic one,’ I said sadly.
Bertram pondered for a moment then exclaimed, ‘But that means that you also could be in danger!’
‘Possibly, though I have made it clear to the police I did not see the attacker clearly.’
‘At least few people know where you are.’
‘Only those at Stapleford Hall,’ I replied.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Eventually Bertram said, ‘I must return to see how Miss Wilton fares.’
‘Will you need me?’
‘No, the lady will be taking her dinner, if she can manage anything, in her room, so your escort will not be required tonight.’
‘People might think her companion should attend her?’ I ventured, though the last thing I wanted to do was spend time with someone I felt was both devious and malingering.
‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ said Bertram. ‘She needs rest, but I appreciate the offer. Why don’t you go out and see a little of London for yourself? It’s early yet and while a lady could never walk the streets alone I believe many London servants do.’
I smiled and nodded, though his speech daunted me in more than one way. I had no inclination to spend the rest of the day shut up in my room and I did not think the hotel would look kindly on a mere companion sitting alone in the lounging areas. I was dressed too simply. But the thought of wandering through London alone was too daunting. I stood hesitating when my eye caught the attention of the concierge, who smiled encouragingly. He was a tall, wiry chap dressed in a uniform with enough gold material to suggest his importance and not enough that he could be mistaken for a bellboy, who for some reason were inordinately flash. He was also considerably older than me. I walked up to his desk.
‘Good evening, miss,’ he said in a rumbling voice. ‘How can I be of service?’
‘It seems,’ I said awkwardly, ‘that my services as companion are not required for the rest of the day and my ma-mistress has suggested I take in the London sights. However, I confess I am alarmed at venturing out alone.’
The concierge grinned. ‘Quite how it should be, miss. It’s all very well for those maids to go racketing about unescorted, but for a lady such as yourself it’s quite a different matter. You’re with Miss Wilton, are you not?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said startled at this man’s perspicacity.
‘A very nice young woman, I’m sure, but new money, I would imagine, and not quite up to how things should be done.’
‘Is there something you could suggest I might do to fill my time?’ I asked growing increasingly embarrassed.
‘There is one of them spiritualists giving a talk in the blue saloon,’ said my new friend. ‘There’s a small charge, but we haven’t sold many tickets, so I’m sure I could sneak you in. Being as how you are a resident.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m not sure.’
‘Let me check my list. It’s a Madam Arcana.’
My heart skipped a beat. Coincidences do happen in life, but I am always wary of them. ‘Yes,’ I heard myself saying as if my voice came from a long way away. ‘I have heard of her. It would be most interesting.’
‘We’d better be quick then. Come with me, miss.’
He led me down a labyrinth of corridors, some of which I felt certain were servants’ passageways. Finally, he ushered me through a side door with an entreaty to ‘Enjoy myself.’
I found myself in a larger saloon than I had expected. It had a large, cavernous feel that was cold and unwelcoming. It was blue and it was filled with rows of corn-coloured chairs. These had been placed in rows facing a dais on which a familiar figure in a purple turban sat. The room was less than half full. I made my way down the aisle as quietly as possible and joined the last row of filled seats.
‘Oh-oh-oh,’ moaned Madam Arcana, who was either about to enter a trance or had severe food poisoning. I took the opportunity to appraise the audience. There were a number of girls dressed in plain, respectable dresses and which I guessed to be maids on their day out. There were also a goodly number of shabby-genteel women, who I took to be companions. In the front three rows I could see nothing but large feathered hats and these I took to be worn by older matrons, who formed the backbone of Madam Arcana’s moneyed following. Standing, trembling near the centre was a woman in her early 20s, whose smart but threadbare skirt and jacket, sensible haircut and face devoid of makeup clearly marked her as a vicar’s wife. I imagined her winning the egg-and-spoon race and tumbling along happily in the mothers’ sack event.
‘The Reverend Dipton says the church roof is more important than the refurbishment of the library,’ proclaimed Madam Arcana suddenly. ‘He says the fete should be used to raise money to shelter the faithful of God.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the woman in a nervous voice. ‘Only my husband is quite clear that the roof will last another winter and the children are so short of books.’
Madam Arcana opened her eyes. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I could not comment on the wisdom of the particular spirit you asked me to contact, but only pass on what he said.’
‘You mean,’ said the questioner in a startled voice, ‘that he might be wrong? I thought on the other side …’
‘Has he long been passed?’ asked Madam Arcana.
‘Some six months. Three months before my husband took the parish.’
‘And was he revered as a wise and good man when he was there?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ said the woman in a tone that implied she very well could.
‘He may still be adjusting to the higher vibrations,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘It can take some spirits time to throw off their worldly desires.’
‘You mean we could do as we wanted?’
‘Was there ever any reason why you shouldn’t?’
The woman twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. ‘The vicarage is so very dark and gloomy. It feels as if he is still there.’
‘Then I strongly advise you to have a very happy and busy fete,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘He will see you are looking after his parishioners well and their jollity will extinguish his solemnity.’
‘You mean, like a party?’ asked the woman brightening. ‘Oh, what a jolly idea.’ She sat down very well pleased with what her shilling or whatever the entrance fee had cost her. I could only imagine the scene when she tried to explain her reasoning to her husband or perhaps she would have more sense.
‘Does anyone else have a query?’ asked Madam Arcana.
There followed a number of questions about lost dogs, lost wallets, who daughters should marry and the likelihood of an invasion by Germany. I was not once convinced that Madam Arcana was in contact with any spirits, but the dearly departed’s – or rather her – advice was always gentle, sensible and inclined to make the questioner think for themselves. I almost approved. I could not say whether it was her deception or the inability of those present to listen to plain, common sense unless it was couched in the mantel of the day that dismayed me more. But then, as my father used to say, there is nothing common about common sense.
A Death in the Asylum Page 8