by Clive Barker
Those were waiting for me when I arrived at the Institute itself.
THE DOORMAN OF the hotel hailed a cab for me the next morning, and I told the driver before I got in where I wished to go. He did not set off immediately, but looked at me as if I were mad. I repeated my destination, thinking he might not have understood me – though place names surely needed no translation – but he had grasped my meaning all too well.
“You are quite certain, Monsieur?” he asked me, his accent much thicker than the manager’s.
“Yes. Why?”
He did not answer at first, but then he said: “That is not a... nice place.”
“Oh? How so?” Holmes had always told me that locals were the best source of information, so I fancied I could learn something even before I departed.
“There are stories, legends about the house...”
“What kind of stories?”
I caught him exchanging a look with the doorman, and my driver suddenly fell silent. “Never mind. I will take you there.” It was all I would get out of him, even after pressing the fellow for more information along the way. The Institute was located on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by open land – I imagined so that if any of the ‘residents’ should wander away from the place (allowing patients outside their wards was already becoming common in facilities like this), there would be nowhere for them to go. Nothing for miles in any direction but greenery, so they could be easily spotted and escorted back.
I saw this as I was driven up the long, winding path towards the estate: towards the house itself, a faded tan mansion with massive doors, huge square windows on its first two floors and smaller, arched windows in the roof. A structure no less impressive than the Hôtel Meurice in its own way, it was nevertheless in far worse condition, with cracks in the walls and ivy climbing the sides. It reminded me, in a lot of ways, of the imposing Baskerville Hall, where I’d stayed the last time I had been information-gathering for Holmes. I hoped I would have better luck here than I did there.
My driver dropped me off at the door, but did not dawdle once he had been paid – with instructions to return around six – for already there were men venturing out to meet me dressed in the navy-coloured smocks and loose trousers of orderlies. One had long, dark hair that came to his shoulders; the other had much shorter hair and tattoos on his arms, where his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Of the two, the latter had the kindlier face.
“I’m Dr Lane,” I called to them, holding up my hand in greeting. “I have an appointment.” The long-haired one examined my (fake) papers and then looked at me, as if expecting to see some sign of my deception. Luckily, I was well-versed in pretence by then – and the best lie is always the one closest to the truth. I was a doctor and I have always had an interest in places such as those, ever since an uncle of mine was placed in one when I was in my twenties. The same man then searched me, but found nothing other than a fresh, blank notebook and pencil.
“Dr Malahide will be pleased to see you,” he muttered gruffly, in tones that said he was anything but. “Henri, show our guest to the Doctor’s office.”
“Bien sûr, Gerard,” said the tattooed man. “If you would come with me...”
“Thank you,” I told the orderly, following him into the Institute.
It was actually very similar inside to the Vulcania, only much larger. A single set of stairs rose ahead of us, and corridors ran away on the left and right. Here and there, I spotted more men dressed in the same uniform as Gerard and Henri. I was desperate to see what lay along those halls, but Henri was already bidding me to follow him. There had been attempts to renovate inside, more so than the outer part of the mansion, but they were largely superficial. When we paused at a set of double-doors, I saw where the most modern ‘improvement’ had been made. When Henri pressed a button, the doors opened into what looked like a small room, but was in fact a lift – or, as the Americans called them, elevators. He got inside, then beckoned me to do the same, assuring me it was quite safe; I wasn’t convinced at all. There was only enough room in that thing for three or four people, I surmised, but even with two it felt cramped as the doors closed. Henri pressed the top button and the carriage rocked as it began to ascend.
“Have... have you been working here long?” I asked my guide, more to take my mind off it all than anything.
He looked over and shook his head. “Not long, monsieur. But long enough.”
“I see... and before that, a sailor?”
The fellow frowned. “How could you know this?” I realised I had slipped up. Too used to being around Holmes and his methods, I had just come out with the deduction without thinking – through sheer force of habit.
“Oh... er, your...” I pointed to the tattoos on his lean, but well-muscled forearms. He followed my gaze down to first one arm, then the other. “They indicate a person who is well-travelled. And on the underside there: that one especially, suggests someone with nautical leanings.”
He turned over his left arm, which had a small mermaid on the underside. “You see a lot, Doctor,” he stated.
“It helps in my line of work.”
“I was once a sailor, oui. A ship’s cook.”
“Ah,” said I. “A noble profession.” I thought I saw a smile then, the corners of his lips rising. He nodded and I felt confident that I had extricated myself from what could have been a very troublesome situation.
The lift ground to a halt and I thought for a moment we were stuck; but the doors opened once more and allowed us to exit. We hadn’t walked much further when Henri paused at a large oak door.
“Here we are,” he said, giving a rap on the wood.
There was a muffled, “Come.”
My guide opened the door for me and held out his hand. “Thank you, Henri.” Even as I was stepping over the threshold, and taking in the room – wall-to-wall with bookcases and tomes I would have loved to read at my leisure, punctuated here and there with human skulls and models of the brain – a man with slicked-back hair and spectacles rose from his seat behind the desk.
“Dr Lane, I presume?” His accent bore only the slightest trace of French. He held out his hand for me to shake across that well-ordered desk. The handshake itself was limper than Laurence Cotton’s, which Holmes would no doubt have said belied Malahide’s position at the hospital. Either that, or he was holding something back. “Please, please – take a seat. Can I get you something? A little morning tea, perhaps?”
“That would be lovely,” I told him.
“Henri,” said Malahide, shifting his gaze back to the orderly as I settled down in the chair in front of the desk. “If you would be so kind?”
Henri nodded and withdrew from the room.
“So, Doctor, you are here to do some research?” Malahide sat back down again – a more smartly turned-out gentleman I had yet to meet – and regarded me over the rims of his glasses.
“And possibly write a paper – with your permission, naturally.”
“Naturally,” he replied, as if I could not even leave my chair, let alone publish a thing, without his express say-so. His handshake might have been weak, but his will clearly was not. “Well, you couldn’t have picked a better facility to observe, Doctor. Our methods are quite unique, modelled – I should add – in part on some of the more progressive therapies at Charenton.”
The name rang a bell with me, and it was only later I remembered it was the asylum that had once counted the Marquis de Sade as one of its inmates.
“They favour the more humanitarian treatment of patients – as do we.” He steepled his fingers in a way I’d only ever seen Holmes do before. Indeed, there was much about this man that reminded me of my old friend, not least in his detached demeanour. “Where did you say this paper would be published again, Doctor? Your telegram was rather vague.”
“Oh, the British Medical Journal,” I said quickly, thinking it was broad enough an answer to satisfy Malahide. “I have friends who work there.”
“
Ah – and you’ve been published by them before?”
“This would be my first time... if I am successful.”
“Hmm,” Malahide leaned back and I got the feeling I was being studied, even mentally dissected. He shook his head. “A pity. I was hoping for perhaps the Journal of Mental Science, or the Asylum Journal.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” I replied. “But I felt that your endeavours here might benefit from being presented to a wider audience.” Again, if nothing else is working, try flattery.
“Quite so,” Malahide agreed. “Quite so. And how is it, again, you came across us? We are more than a little bit off the beaten track. Literally,” he added, with a chilling grin.
“By reputation,” I informed him. “Word of mouth.”
“I see,” said Malahide. “It is of little consequence, you are here now. Perhaps a dialogue first and then an inspection?”
I nodded. “That sounds most agreeable. Thank you, Doctor.”
And then we began.
OUR ‘DIALOGUE’ TOOK up most of the morning, with my taking notes (pausing briefly to sharpen my pencil) and Malahide offering the broad strokes of his work with patients at the Institute – the fundamental principles being that of rehabilitation rather than remedy through punishment.
“As you’re no doubt aware yourself, Doctor, the days of induced vomiting, of the swinging chair and water torture are long gone. We are not here to drive out the demons that were once thought to inhabit the bodies and minds of the sick. Our patients are not shackled, they are free to move around the place – under the watchful eye of staff, it goes without saying. They are medicated, but in most cases not to extremes and only for their own protection. At the Institute we are more concerned about quality of life rather than curing through heavy-handed approaches. This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition,” he added with a chuckle.
He talked at length about the mind, about studies ranging from the ever-increasing field of psychiatry to the marvels of the brain itself. “I wonder, Doctor, if we shall ever solve its mysteries,” Malahide mused, standing and stretching his legs – before taking down one of the model brains from the bookcase and turning it over and over in his hands. I felt very much as if he was never granted the opportunity to talk about all of this with other medical men; that he was unburdening himself, almost, as I jotted down notes. I was very glad of the tea and sandwiches that Henri provided, for I fear by the end my flagging interest was showing.
“What about the history of this place?” I asked, for a change of pace more than anything.
“What about it?” Malahide retorted, seated once more. “Is that relevant to what we are doing now?”
“I suppose not,” I admitted. “But readers are always interested in background.”
“I thought you said that this was your first piece, Doctor. You talk like someone who has been published before.” It wasn’t the first time I’d felt like he was trying to trip me up.
I touched my hand to my chest. “I meant as a reader myself. And although it will be my first time published by the British Medical Journal – hopefully – I did not say it was my first time published.” I smiled. “I am a little too long in the tooth for that. My work has appeared in smaller, less prestigious publications over the years, but I am hopeful this will lead to bigger and better things.” Another lie that was close to the truth, enough to satisfy Malahide anyway, as he noticeably relaxed. “I just thought maybe something about how this place used to belong to an aristocrat, a Lemarchand –”
If he’d relaxed before then he visibly stiffened now. “Where did you hear that name?”
“I... it cropped up in my research. Was he not the owner at some point?”
Malahide laughed out loud at that statement. “The owner? The owner...? Oh, my dear Dr Lane, I think you need to look again at your so-called ‘research.’”
“I’m... I don’t understand.”
“Then allow me to explain.” This time he laced his fingers and leaned forward, onto the desk. “The Lemarchand name is one associated with madness in this region: it is in the blood. Many years ago one of their clan did have an association with a nobleman of these lands, which is where the confusion might have arisen, but never once did any of them own this place. They did not have the means.”
I thought about the receipt now, the pillar – had it been falsified by someone selling the piece to the gallery? Perhaps by Malahide himself? But to what end? For what purpose? Why not just sell the thing himself under his own name? Unless he didn’t want anyone to know. These were things I could not quiz him about, as I was not supposed to know.
“They are a poor family, have been for long, long time. Nevertheless, one does what one can to help.”
To help? I grasped his meaning, then, connecting what he said about the madness to the Institute. “You have members of the Lemarchand family here?” I almost blurted out.
“One member,” Malahide told me. “His wife and children did not know what else to do with him, other than to seek my advice. He is... was quite a severe case. Violent even. Fortunately he is much more sedate these days.”
Sedate, I thought, or sedated?
“I’ve obviously gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick,” I said to Malahide.
“Indeed,” replied the man, looking at me again over the rims of his spectacles. He smiled suddenly and took out his pocket watch. “My,” he observed, “time really does fly when you’re... I expect you’d like that tour now?”
“If... if that’s all right?”
“Certainly.” Malahide went to the door and called out for an orderly. I was thankful when it was Henri who responded again; I like to think maybe he was even loitering nearby, aware his duties were not concluded. “Well, Doctor, it was nice to make your acquaintance. Do let me know if there is anything else I might do for you while you are on these shores.” He held out his hand as I rose from my seat; the grip was definitely firmer this time.
“You’re not coming with us?”
“You have your paper, Doctor; I have my reports.” With that he flashed me another smile, before seeing me out and leaving me in Henri’s hands. “Do let Henri know if you want to see anything in particular. Nothing is out of bounds.”
I spent a much more agreeable hour or so being escorted round by the orderly, who took me to a selection of some of the rooms, including along those ground floor levels, which were not unlike soldiers’ billets in their make-up: sparse, but comfortable-looking at least. Some of the residents were at home, reading or – in the case of one grey-haired man – just staring out of the window at the view, which I had to concede was idyllic. Some of the more severe cases, Henri told me, were being treated in the hospital wing, where I saw several women in nurses’ uniforms attending to those in bed. It was similar to many other hospitals I had been in. If this place – and Malahide himself – was hiding anything, then they were doing an exceedingly good job of it.
As we toured around, using the stairs at my insistence, I engaged Henri in conversation, discovering that he was born in Leon and had left home as soon as he was able, to see the world. “Being a ship’s cook seemed like the most sensible option,” he told me. He was not old, in his late twenties I would hazard, but had already seen more of the globe than many men – including myself. “However, there comes a time, does there not, Dr Lane, when a man must return to his homeland and settle down?”
“And this was the job you chose then?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “It is rewarding work for an honest day’s pay. What more can you ask?”
When I felt our time was drawing to a close, Henri asked if there was anything else I wanted to see, recalling Malahide’s instructions. “Actually...” I said, “Dr Malahide mentioned a patient who might be of some interest. By the name of Lemarchand?”
Henri considered this for a moment or two, perhaps weighing up whether ‘anything’ might extend to ‘anyone.’ “Oui,” he said eventually. “Monsieur Lemarchand will be in what
we call the ‘dayroom.’”
“Then,” I said, beaming. “I think I should very much like to speak with him, Henri. And directly, if it is all the same with you.”
CHAPTER TEN
Games, Puzzles & Toys
THE ‘DAYROOM,’ WHICH was on the ground floor, was a wide open space that – I imagined – must have served as some kind of ballroom in the past. A place where the previous owner held his parties over a century ago, perhaps? Now it was full of tables and chairs, with patients dressed in white smocks rather like the orderlies’ uniforms (aside from the colour) scattered about amongst them. Some were playing cards (one was even building a house of cards, and failing), some occupied by board games such as draughts and Snakes & Ladders, and some working out puzzles. One patient not too far away was tracing his finger around an intricate metal maze, attempting to find his way to the centre, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Another, a young blonde woman who might have been Claire Thorndyke a few years from now, was slotting together pieces of wood to form some sort of shape. All seemed occupied, and happy enough in their tasks – with a male orderly posted in each corner of the room, and one halfway up each side.
Henri took me through the maze of tables, this way and that – stopping briefly to pick up a dice that one of the patients had accidentally thrown onto the floor and deliver it back to the man – then he pointed to a fellow sitting at a table on the far side. “There is M Lemarchand,” he informed me.
I took in the man from a distance, also dressed in white, his closely cropped hair and large, brown eyes. They were fixed at a point under the table, where he was staring vacantly, although as I drew closer, I could see that his gaze was concentrated on something in front of him. He was folding paper, over and over, creating shapes. On the floor around him were the efforts of his labours thus far today, mainly birds fashioned out of the paper he’d been given, the remaining sheets of which I could see were arranged haphazardly on the table. The man finished his latest toy and brought it up where he could admire it. He pulled on an end of the paper, making the wings flap – up and down, up and down.