by Anne Perry
“All right, Pitt!” Narraway said abruptly. “You don’t need to spell it out for me!” He rose to his feet in a single, smooth movement, the last of his sandwich still in his hand. “Yeats is dead, Lovat murdered, Sandeman has lost himself in Seven Dials, and now it seems Garrick is in a lunatic asylum with nightmares that have driven him mad.” He picked up his glass and drained the claret. “We had better go and fetch him. See if we can get any sense out of him.” He looked meaningfully at the glass in Pitt’s hand.
Pitt was not going to leave a claret of that quality behind. It was a pity not to savor it, but there was no time. He drank it quickly and put the glass on Narraway’s table.
Narraway ate the rest of his sandwich as they reached the door and he took his coat from the stand.
Outside, he walked briskly to the end of the street and hailed a hansom, Pitt only a stride behind him. He gave the driver a one-word command: “Bedlam!”
The hansom lurched forward and Pitt was thrown against the back of his seat. He said nothing; he would find the answers to all his questions as to how they would accomplish their task when they reached Bedlam.
It was quite a long journey, and it was not until they were rattling over Westminster Bridge, the lamps along the Embankment reflecting patchily through the mist onto the river, that Narraway at last spoke.
“Agree with anything I say, and be prepared to move quickly if necessary,” he commanded. “Stay close by me; on no account allow us to be separated. Do not act arbitrarily, no matter what happens. And do not allow your emotions to distract you, however humane or commendable.”
“I have been to Bedlam before,” Pitt said dryly, refusing to permit the memory of it into his imagination.
Narraway glanced at him as they reached the end of the bridge and started climbing the rise on the other side, past the railway line running into Waterloo Station. At Christ’s Church, they swung right into Kennington Road, where the huge mass of the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital loomed against the night sky.
The hansom stopped, and Narraway gave the driver a sovereign and told him to wait. “There’ll be four more for you if you are here when I need you,” he said grimly. “And your licence canceled if you are not. Wait as long as you need to. I may be a short time, or I may be hours. If I have not come out by midnight, take this card and go to the nearest police station and fetch half a dozen uniformed constables.” He passed a card over to the man, who was sitting wide-eyed and by now seriously alarmed.
Narraway strode over the path and up the steps to the front entrance of the hospital, Pitt half a pace behind him. They were met immediately by an attendant who barred the way firmly and politely. Narraway informed him that he was on a government matter to do with the security of the nation, and he had a royal warrant to pursue his business wherever it took him. One of the inmates had information urgently needed, and he must speak with him without any delay whatsoever.
Pitt’s stomach sank as he realized just what a risk they were taking. He had accepted without question that Charlotte was right, and Garrick was here. If she was mistaken and he was in some other asylum, Spitalfields, or even a private institution, then Narraway was not going to forgive him for it. He was startled when he realized just how completely Narraway had trusted him, even more when he remembered that it was actually Charlotte’s word he was taking.
“Yes, sir. And who would that be?” the man asked.
“He came here in the early morning in the second week of September,” Narraway replied. “A young man who brought a servant with him. He could be suffering delirium, nightmares and the effects of opium. You cannot have had more than one like him that week.”
“You don’t know his name, sir?” The man scowled.
“Of course I know his name!” Narraway snapped. “I do not know by what name he was admitted here. Don’t pretend to be a fool. I have already informed you that I am on Her Majesty’s business of state. Do I need to spell out more for you?”
“No, no, sir, I …” The man did not know how to finish the sentence. He swiveled around and scuttled off across the hallway and then turned right, along the first wide corridor, Narraway on his heels.
Pitt’s mouth was dry and he was gulping air as he followed them through empty passages with blind walls and locked doors on either side. He heard muffled moaning, laughter rising higher and higher and ending in a shriek. He wanted to drive it from his head, but he could not.
Finally they arrived at the end of the wing and the attendant hesitated, fishing for the keys on his belt, glancing nervously at Narraway.
Narraway gave him an icy stare, and the man fumbled, poking the key blindly, stabbing at the hole until Pitt could sense Narraway on the edge of snatching it from him.
The key slid in and turned the lock at last. Pitt half expected to hear screaming and braced himself for the attempted escape of a lunatic. Instead the door swung wide open to show two straw mattresses on the floor, one occupied by a figure crouched over, head half buried in a gray blanket, hair wild, and what they could see of his face unshaven.
On the other mattress a man sat up slowly and blinked at them, his eyes full of fear and a kind of despair, as if he no longer even hoped for anything except more pain. But there was still reason in him, at least at the moment.
“What is your name?” Narraway said, immediately stepping half in front of the attendant and preventing him from moving forward. He was addressing the sitting man. His voice was firm, but there was no harshness in it, only a tone that demanded answer.
“Martin Garvie,” the man replied huskily. His eyes pleaded for belief, and the fear in him cut Pitt like a knife.
Narraway took a long, slow breath. When he spoke again his voice shook a little in spite of the masklike control in his face. “And I presume that is your master, Stephen Garrick?” He gestured towards the wretched creature still huddled on the other mattress.
Garvie nodded warily. “Please don’t hurt him,” he begged. “He doesn’t mean any harm, sir. He can’t help his manner. He’s ill. Please …”
“I have no intention of harming him,” Narraway said, then gulped as if he could barely catch his breath. “I’ve come to take you somewhere better than this … safer.”
“You can’t do that, sir!” the attendant protested. “It’s more than my job’s worth to let you—”
Narraway swung around on him, his eyes blazing. “It’s more than your neck is worth to stand in my way!” he threatened. “I can wait for the police, if you insist, but I can promise you that you will regret it if you force me to go that way. Don’t stand there like an idiot or they’ll lock you up in here too!”
Perhaps it was the last suggestion, but the man dissolved in terror. “No, sir! I swear, I’m an honest citizen! I—”
“Good,” Narraway cut him off. He turned to Pitt. “Lift that fellow up and assist him out.” He indicated Garrick, who had not moved, as if the entire intrusion had barely penetrated his consciousness.
Pitt remembered the stricture to obey absolutely, and walked over to the recumbent man. “Let me help you to your feet, sir,” he said gently, trying to sound like a servant, a familiar and unthreatening figure. “You need to stand up,” he encouraged, sliding his hands under the man’s shoulders and easing up what was almost deadweight. “Come on, sir,” he repeated, straining his back to lift.
The man moaned as if in intense pain, and Pitt stopped abruptly.
The next moment Garvie was beside him, bending over. “He’s here to help you, sir!” he said urgently. “He’s taking us to a better place. Come on, now! You’ve got to help! We’re going to be safe.”
Garrick gave a choking cry, and then his body arched and he flung his arms up, covering his face as if to defend himself. Pitt was caught by surprise and lost his balance, lurching backwards into Garvie. He could feel Narraway’s impatience smoldering in the air.
“Come on, Mr. Stephen!” Garvie said sharply. “We’ve got to get out of here. Quickly, sir!”
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That seemed to have the desired effect. Whimpering with fear, Garrick rose unsteadily to his feet, lurching one way, then the other, but with Garvie and Pitt supporting him, he stumbled through the door, past Narraway and the attendant, and started off down the passage.
Pitt looked backwards once, to make sure Narraway was following them, and saw him write something on a card and give it to the attendant, then a moment later he heard his rapid footsteps behind him.
Half carrying, half dragging Garrick, who gave them only minimal assistance, Pitt and Garvie made their way back towards the entrance. More than once Pitt hesitated, uncertain whether the turn was left or right, and heard Narraway’s voice directing him with a peremptory hiss. Pitt’s ears were straining for every sound, and once when he heard a door close he whirled around and almost sent Garrick flying.
Narraway snarled at him, and increased his pace. Pitt grasped Garrick again, and they turned the last corner into the entrance hall. He saw two attendants standing there, and would have stopped instantly, but Garrick was oblivious to them and kept shambling on, and Garvie had no choice but to go with him or let him fall.
Pitt recovered his step and caught up with them.
The attendants jerked to attention. “Ey! Where you goin’, then?” one of them called out.
“Go on!” Narraway growled behind Pitt, then turned to face the men.
Pitt grasped Garrick more firmly and, holding him hard, half pushed him at a greater pace out of the door, down the steps, and smartly right towards the waiting hansom. Please heaven Narraway managed to extricate himself from the men and get away too, because Pitt had no idea where he was to take them.
They reached the cab and Garrick stopped abruptly, his body shaking, his hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. Garvie put his arms around him gently, but with considerable strength, and with Pitt’s assistance, they lifted him into the hansom. The driver sat facing forward, ignoring everything as though his life depended on seeing and hearing nothing.
Pitt swiveled around to see if Narraway was coming yet.
Inside the cab, Garrick began to thrash around, wailing and sobbing with terror.
Pitt swung up beside him to try to keep him from escaping, or in his delirium injuring Garvie. “It’s all right, sir!” he said urgently. “You’re quite safe. No one’s going to harm you.” He might as well have been speaking in a foreign language.
Garvie was losing control. He was white-faced in the gaslight, and there was panic and helplessness in his eyes. If Narraway did not come soon they were going to have to leave without him.
The seconds ticked by.
“Go around the hospital and back!” Pitt shouted at the driver. “Now!”
The hansom lurched forward, throwing all three of them against the back of the seat. For a few moments Garrick was too surprised to react. Please God, Narraway would be there when they reached the front again. Pitt’s mind raced as to where on earth he could take Garrick if he were not? The only place he was certain of any kind of help at all, and secrecy, was his own home. And what could he and Charlotte do with a madman in delirium? For that matter, how much better was Garvie?
Narraway had spoken of the local police station, but Pitt believed that was almost certainly a bluff. And either way, Pitt had no authority he could prove to them. The very most they might do would be return them all to Bedlam and extricate Narraway, which would put them in an even worse position than that in which they had begun, because now the authorities in Bedlam would be warned.
He would have to go home, and leave Narraway to his own devices.
They were at the front of the hospital again. The footpath was deserted. Pitt’s heart sank, and he could feel his stomach tighten and his whole body go cold.
“Keppel Street!” he shouted at the driver. “Slowly! Don’t hurry.” He felt the lurch and swing as they turned onto Brook Street, then almost immediately afterwards into Kennington Road, and back down towards the Westminster Bridge.
It was a nightmare journey. The mist had thickened and a slower speed was forced upon them. They held up no one by slackening to a walk. Stephen Garrick slumped forward, alternately weeping and groaning like a man on the way to his own death—and whatever hell he believed lay beyond. Garvie attempted now and then to comfort him, but it was a wasted effort, and the despair in his voice betrayed that he knew it.
Pitt tried desperately to think what on earth he would do if Narraway did not show up soon, and ever worse images crowded his mind as to what had happened to him. Had he been arrested for abducting an inmate? Or simply imprisoned in Bedlam as if he too were mad? Had they locked him in one of their padded rooms? Or administered some powerful sedative so he might not even be conscious to protest his sanity?
They were over the river and heading north and east. Part of Pitt wished they would hurry, so he would be home in the warmth and light of familiar surroundings, and at least Charlotte could help him. Another part wanted to spin out the journey as long as possible, to give Narraway a chance to catch up with them and take charge.
They were in a busy thoroughfare. There was plenty of other traffic, sounds of horns in the swirling mist, harness clinking, light from other coach lamps, movement reflected in bright gleams off brass.
Garrick sat up suddenly and screamed as if in terror for his life. Pitt’s flesh froze. In a moment he was paralyzed, then he lunged sideways and grasped Garrick’s arm and threw him back in the seat. The hansom swayed wildly and slithered around on the wet cobbles, then shot forward at increased speed. Pitt could hear the cabbie shouting as they careered along the street, but within twenty yards the ride was steadier, and within a hundred they were back to a normal trot.
Pitt tried to control his racing heart and keep hold of Garrick, who was now gibbering nonsensically, in spite of everything Garvie could say or do.
Then they pulled up and the cabbie told them loudly and with a voice trembling with fear that they were at Keppel Street and should get out immediately.
There was no alternative but to obey. With difficulty, and stiff from having sat for so long with locked muscles, Pitt alighted. He almost fell onto the pavement, and then reached to help Garrick.
Garrick stumbled after him, collapsed onto the stones, then, without any warning at all, managed to get up onto his feet and started to run, a loose, shambling gait, but covering the wet pavement with startling speed.
Garvie stared at him in silent, beaten desperation.
Pitt lurched after him, but Garrick was at the end of the block and starting across the roadway before he floundered for a moment, arms flailing, and for no reason Pitt could see, fell face forward onto the cobbles.
Pitt flung himself on top of him. Garrick whimpered like a wounded animal, but he had no strength or will to fight. Pitt hauled him up, more than a little roughly, and straightened himself, only to see a man a couple of yards away from him. He was about to try some desperate explanation when with drenching relief he recognized the neat, slender silhouette against the light—it was Narraway. For an instant Pitt was too choked with emotion to speak. He stood still, gulping air, his body shaking, his hands clinging onto Garrick—clammy with sweat.
“Good,” Narraway said succinctly. “Since we are in Keppel Street, perhaps it would be more convenient to go inside and talk. I daresay Mrs. Pitt would make us a cup of tea? Garvie, at least, looks as if he could do with it.”
Pitt did not even attempt to reply, but followed Narraway’s elegant figure back along the footpath to the door, where Garvie was waiting for them, and led the way inside.
Charlotte and Gracie were stunned with surprise for the first moment, then pity replaced horror.
“Yer starvin’ cold!” Gracie said furiously. “Wotever ’appened to yer?” She looked from Garrick to Martin Garvie, and back again. “I got blankets in the airin’ cupboard. You sit there!” And whisking around, she disappeared out of the door.
Pitt eased Garrick onto one of the chairs and Ma
rtin found another for himself, sitting down hard, as if his legs had given way.
Charlotte pushed the kettle onto the hob to come to the boil, ordering Pitt to stoke up the fire. They all ignored Narraway entirely.
Gracie returned with her arms full of blankets and, after only an instant’s hesitation, proceeded to wrap one around Garrick’s shuddering body, then she turned to Martin with the other.
“I’ll tell Tilda yer all right,” she said dubiously. “Leastways, yer not actual ’urt, like.”
Suddenly Garvie’s eyes filled with tears. He started to speak, and changed his mind.
“S’ all right!” Gracie said quickly. “I’ll tell ’er. She’ll be that glad! It’s all ’cos of ’er we found yer.” She included herself because although she assumed Narraway had no idea of her part in the search, and she was happy to leave it so, she had been the one to prompt Tellman into discovering as much as he had. She regarded Narraway discreetly, and with the same wariness one does a nameless insect which might prove to be poisonous—very interesting, but best to know precisely where it is, and stay as far away as possible.
It amused him, and Charlotte, busy making the tea, saw the flicker of it in his eyes, and was pleased to realize that he had a respect for Gracie’s spirit that she would not have expected of him. She also caught his eyes on her, and absurdly, found something in them that made her self-conscious. She looked quickly back to her task, and poured out six mugs of steaming tea, sugar stirred in. One was only half full. She picked it up, tested it to see that there was sufficient milk in it that it was cool enough to sip, then went over to Garrick where he sat staring vacantly into space.
Gently she lifted the mug and tilted it to reach his lips. She waited patiently until he swallowed, and then again.
After watching her for a moment, Gracie did the same for Martin, but he was far more able to help himself.
This went on for several minutes in silence before Narraway finally spoke. He could see that learning anything from Garrick could take all night, but Martin was already burning to respond.