by S K Rizzolo
Such was “keeping commons” in the Inner Temple: students of the law dining at least a fortnight of each term in Hall, eventually completing twelve terms to become eligible for the Bar. As fully qualified barrister, Buckler was not strictly required to attend, but often did anyway. Dimly, he sensed that participation in this communal activity was good for him, for the conversations, occasionally thought-provoking, often trivial and irritating, brought him out of himself.
On this particular evening a dialogue of the latter variety had erupted of which Buckler found himself the unwilling focus. It was begun by Leonard Crouch, a barrister who could be counted on to serve up the latest gossip at table with all the skill of a blunt-axed executioner. Buckler had no doubt Crouch believed it his duty to enliven the proceedings; still he wished that the man’s entertainment might be got at someone else’s expense.
“You’ve nothing to say, old boy?” another man named Rutherford said after a time. “That, of course, lends rather more credence to this foolishness than it might otherwise have had. Surely, you’ll tell us the whole.”
“That he won’t do,” said Crouch, grinning evilly. “No true gentleman ever tattles. But as far as I’m concerned, silence is an admission of guilt. Anyway there were several witnesses…”
Rumor of his visit to Penelope Wolfe in St. James’s Square had reached the Temple, via one of the other morning callers, who, unbelievably, was some sort of relation to Crouch. Now Crouch amused himself and anyone within earshot with a series of broad references to a certain coy lady and her “willing” soul that needed only a little more encouragement. The bastard was literate, you had to hand him that, damn him. And while thy willing soul transpires/At every pore with instant fires,/Now let us sport us while we may…
Another voice broke into Buckler’s thoughts. “You’re a sly one, sir. I wouldn’t have figured you for the type.”
“According to hearsay, the pretty, little er…widow had eyes for no one else in the room,” remarked Crouch with arch disapproval. “Got your blood up, Buckler?”
Buckler ignored them, turning instead to strike up a conversation with his neighbor on the other side, an earnest, fresh-faced young man, newly called to the Bar. This served for a time, at least until the replies to Buckler’s polite queries became monosyllabic as the younger barrister addressed himself to his beef.
Having bided his time, Crouch broke in. “Buckler,” he said, “I must counsel caution. I understand the lady is no widow at all but rather a deserted wife whose husband can be counted on to spoil the fun one fine day. Perhaps you will favor us with your opinion of the relative merits of swords versus pistols? Fighting with a blade must be thought sadly old-fashioned, but it does have a certain cachet that blowing a hole in one’s opponent quite lacks. Do you not agree?”
Buckler took a frugal gulp of his port before replying. “As I’ll never have to make such a decision, I couldn’t say, Crouch. You may know better.”
“I?” he said, throwing a glance around the table. “You do me too much honor, sir. I have never yet been out, nor am like to. I fancy myself a peace-loving sort of fellow and have no need to prove my mettle thus, I assure you. Not to mention that I have far too much respect for the sacred bonds of matrimony ever to come between a man and his wife.” He gave a cringing, unctuous laugh.
Buckler felt his face grow hot, but he fought to keep his anger from showing. The gibes didn’t bother him on his own account, but he found that he did mind, terribly, hearing a crass fool like Crouch bandy about Penelope’s name.
He let the expectation deepen, then said, “I never supposed you’d actually participated in an affair of honor, much less one inspired of passion, Crouch. Despite your obvious talents, I should imagine that passion is not a challenge to which you would ever rise.”
Cracks of laughter greeted this sally, and several of the Benchers looked over curiously from their table. Crouch was, for the moment, silenced.
Finally, the meal wound to a close, an under-butler bringing out the bowls of rose water the diners used to wash their hands. A few minutes later, Buckler made his way to the exit, but paused in the doorway to exchange a few words with a colleague. Crouch soon joined them.
“Stopping to admire the Rysbrack?” he asked jovially. “A fine piece, what?” He pointed above the doorway at the white marble carving of the Pegasus, the Inner Temple’s perennial symbol.
Buckler’s companion gave Crouch a blank look, blurted an excuse, and moved away. With a sigh, Buckler said, “Well?”
“One further word with you, sir. It is ever my way to beguile the dinner hour with pleasantries. I trust you’ve not taken my wit amiss?”
Buckler lifted his brows, forcing a smile. “Think nothing of it.”
“It doesn’t do, you see, to set someone’s back up to no purpose. One never knows when an acquaintance may prove an asset in some matter of business.”
“Long-headed of you, I must say,” replied Buckler, not troubling to disguise the irony in his tone. He went down the stairs and out into early evening with Crouch on his heels. The day lingered, and the ancient round church near the Hall glowed serenely in the last of the golden light. Catching sight of his master, Ruff lurched to his feet, shook himself violently, and fawned at Buckler’s feet.
“Hello, old chap,” he murmured and bent to pat the dog, turning his back on Crouch with relief and forgetting him almost at once. Buckler’s momentary anger had evaporated, and he was left instead to ponder, with some dismay, why putting a bullet through the elusive Mr. Jeremy Wolfe had not seemed so unreasonable a course of action.
***
As Edward Buckler’s notoriously unreliable long case clock chimed the hour, he surveyed his chambers with a discontent that had little to do with faded upholstery and dusty books, though he vowed silently once again to give the old place a good turning out before the month was out.
“Listen to this, Buckler. They’ve placed an advertisement as they don’t wish to impose upon the Publick.” A plume of smoke from Thorogood’s pipe rose up from behind the newspaper he held before his face. His toes were stretched to the fire, a glass of punch gently steaming on the table next to him.
Buckler’s clerk, Bob, set aside his quill. “’Tis said a lady of rank has given Miss Barnwell a crib costing two hundred pounds. Satinwood ornamented with gold and gilt lattice work. There’s a cloth at the head bearing a celestial crown of gold and a blue satin canopy.”
“Good Lord. They’ve all lost their wits, the so-called prophetess most of all.”
Thorogood lowered the paper to reveal a face full of mischief. “Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae fuit, my dear Buckler. There has been no great genius without a touch of insanity. You see, she has it on the good authority of her guiding Spirit that this year, in the forty-seventh year of her age, she shall give birth to a Son who shall be called Shiloh. He’s to be a sort of king, I take it, to prepare the world for the Second Advent.”
Buckler had to laugh. After Leonard Crouch’s version of dinner table conversation, his friend’s company was welcome relief. Still, he knew it was only a matter of time before Thorogood came to the real point of his visit, which, Buckler well knew, was to determine if the promised visit to Mrs. Wolfe had been paid.
“When is this miraculous babe to make his appearance?”
“Soon,” said Thorogood. “The lady, of ‘obscure and humble origins,’ we are informed, has gone into seclusion to prepare for her accouchement. Listen. The Times has printed a letter from a clergyman recently converted to the cause. He feels a strong conviction that great events will soon sweep the face of the earth. After the period of bloodshed and chaos already upon us, a time will arrive when all mankind will live in peace and brotherly love, ‘the sword to be turned to a ploughshare, the spear to a pruning hook, and the poor man to get his bread without the sweat of his brow.’”
“I like the sound of that,” said Bob, putting down his pen again and giving the pile of papers on the des
k a contemptuous push.
“Vastly overworked, aren’t you, Bob?” said Buckler dryly. “Perhaps I ought, in all justice, to release you from this servitude.”
“Or increase his wages.” Thorogood lifted the paper again, continuing a moment later, his voice rather muffled. “So, Buckler, speaking of servitude, you’ve yet to tell me how you found our friend Mrs. Wolfe. She is well, I trust, and not beating her wings against the bars of the gilded cage?”
“What makes you think I already paid the call?”
He snorted. “I knew my proposal would prove irresistible. What did you discover?”
“More than you had anticipated, old man. Of that I am certain.” Describing the murder and subsequent events in St. James’s Square, Buckler was human enough to enjoy the expression of pure astonishment on his friend’s face.
“Just today,” Buckler went on, “I received a note from Mrs. Wolfe. In some questionable manner, she has managed to obtain a little dagger she thinks may be the murder weapon, and apparently John Chase has been making himself scarce.”
“Penelope knows how to look after herself, never fear. Nonetheless, I suppose you should pay her another visit. And someone ought to make a push to locate this female with her wits gone a-begging.”
“She may have thrown herself in the river for all I can do about it, what with the world coming to an end and all that. Seems a popular enough idea these days.”
“I never took you for a millenarian, Buckler.”
Buckler drained his punch and gazed into the fire, suddenly thoughtful as he recalled the restraint marks Penelope had reported seeing on the old woman’s wrists.
“The world ends for someone every day, every hour,” he said at last. “But unwilling as I am to admit it, you’ve given me an idea. Where, after all, does one go to seek a mind diseased?”
***
Pausing in front of the iron gates, Buckler contemplated the two recumbent stone figures atop the piers, one in chains to represent raving madness caused by an excess of blood and yellow choler, the other melancholy, the result of too much black bile. He supposed it said a lot about a man’s character as to which form his madness might take.
The porter who waited at the small side entrance watched him incuriously, then lowered his head to examine the paper, signed by one of the governors, that Buckler had presented.
“If you’ll follow me, sir,” he said when satisfied.
Buckler stepped through the entrance and accompanied the man up the sweep. The palatial building of stone and brick stretched out before them, a long frontage with a protruding wing at either end, the whole embellished with foliages and decorative work. Buckler recalled that the structure was modeled on the Tuileries in Paris, an insult which Louis XIV was said to have felt keenly. As they approached, however, it became clear that the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem, popularly known as Bedlam, found itself in a ruinous state, made obvious by the presence of scaffolding, fractures, uneven walls, and areas of settlement.
“We’ll be moving to St. George’s fields as soon as the new hospital can be built,” said Buckler’s guide, having read his thoughts with accuracy.
Buckler forbore to comment, for as they entered the hall, a man came forward to greet them. In his late forties, he wore the dress of a gentleman and carried himself with a swaggering sort of authority. “Good day, sir. Our steward is otherwise engaged, so I shall myself inquire as to your business. I am John Haslam, apothecary here.”
“Good day, Mr. Haslam. I am Edward Buckler.” He held out his hand, which the apothecary took rather warily, then offered his piece of paper. “Here is my letter of introduction from one of your governors, Mr. Justice Burns. I am seeking a poor, mad woman I had hoped might have come in your way.”
“’Tis usual for a governor to accompany you himself on any visits to the Hospital. We cannot allow outsiders to disturb our routines or upset our patients,” replied Haslam, his eyes still on the letter.
Buckler bowed. “I shall not trouble you for long, sir. Perhaps you might just check your records. To tell you the truth, there’s so little to go on it is unlikely you will be able to assist me.”
“Who is this woman you seek, and why do you seek her?”
Why indeed? When Buckler had broached the notion of this visit to Bedlam, he had sensed Thorogood’s unease. And although the old lawyer was too wise to express his misgivings, Buckler had understood it all. Thorogood deemed Buckler’s mental state too fragile to sustain a visit to the madhouse. In the last year Buckler had suffered several bouts of melancholy that had confined him to his bed for days at a time. He himself could not fathom the origin of this misery, for there was nothing particularly awry with his life other than a moribund career and a persistent feeling of separateness from his fellow creatures that often threatened to overwhelm him with its bitterness.
Now, studying the apothecary, who awaited his answer with obvious impatience, Buckler realized how foolish he had been to come. The chances of learning anything to the purpose were practically non-existent. On the other hand, as he looked around the sunlit, spacious hall, he was relieved to note that no thought of the hospital’s hidden horrors disturbed him. He might look upon the wretches who lived out their lives between these walls with no deeper emotion than pity.
He smiled at Haslam. “I dare say I have come on a fool’s errand. I am a barrister of the Inner Temple, sir. The woman I seek is poor and plain and very likely deranged. She bears the marks of restraints on her wrists, from which I have deduced she might once have been confined in a place such as this. The authorities believe she may have knowledge of a murder.”
“How do you come into the matter, Mr. Buckler?” Haslam inquired, his interest sharpening. “I have had occasion to testify at criminal trials, offering up my years of experience earned in the field of mad doctoring. Is that why you are here? Are you employed in the defense of some unfortunate lunatic?”
“No, sir. I am here in no official capacity. The murder occurred in the home where a friend of mine currently resides. I merely follow a hunch to satisfy my own curiosity and to lend whatever assistance to my friend that is practicable.”
After the apothecary had studied him in silence a moment, he seemed to come to a decision. “As it turns out, you may be in luck, sir, though I promise nothing, mind, and it may just be a rather odd coincidence.” He laughed once, scornfully, at Buckler’s mystified air and motioned for him to follow.
They ascended the stairs, Haslam saying over his shoulder, “I am sure you will not be disturbed by a bit of a rumpus, sir. The inmates do tend to drum their feet and sing and halloo. We restrain them only as necessary to prevent them from committing any violence. I can truly declare that by gentleness of manner and kindness of treatment, I have never failed to obtain the confidence of insane persons.”
Passing through an iron grate into the female gallery, they were indeed buffeted with a din which Haslam ignored, though Buckler shivered with his first apprehension at the unmistakable sound of chains rattling against the floorboards. They continued past an open chamber where he had a clear view of about ten women, each chained by one arm to the wall, some standing, others slouching over a bench that permitted them their only rest. He caught a glimpse of heavy breasts spilling out of the blanket covering one woman wore and saw her mouth contort in a grimace as she noticed him looking in her direction.
At the entrance to one of the cells, they meet a keeper, a burly, hard-eyed man, carrying a bucket of water.
“How is she today?” inquired Haslam.
“About as usual. I’ve given her a bit of a wash, sir, and done her feet. You mean to vomit her?”
“Not today. We’ll just go in and have a word.”
A naked woman, dark haired and plain, lay chained to a pallet in a corner of the room. Haslam motioned Buckler forward and went himself to kneel at the woman’s side. He picked up her blanket gown and threw it over her as she twisted her head away and closed her eyes. “I know you ca
n hear me, Dora. I’ve brought someone to see you. Sit up now and make your greetings.”
“A visitor?” she quavered. The straw rustled as he pulled her to a sitting position. She opened her eyes, her gaze flying to Buckler, who had lowered himself next to the apothecary. “Can it be possible? Oh, sir, are you of the nuptial party come to fetch me?”
Haslam sighed. “She believes she is to be wed to Jesus Christ, who will arrive with his prophet Isaiah and raise her to His Kingdom. I had hoped we might reach some remnants of reason, but I fear not. Answer her, sir, calmly and firmly. There are still moments when sense returns to her.”
Buckler found himself taking the hand she stretched out toward him, a profound pity choking his throat. “No, Dora. I am not the person for whom you wait.”
Her eyes closed again, tears trickling down her lined cheeks. “I know I can never be worthy for all that He is so good to me.”
Haslam said, “You had a visitor not too long since, Dora. A woman, was it? I recall the keeper mentioning the matter. She was not permitted to see you, but she did charge us with a message for you.”
There was a long pause before Dora said dully without looking at them again, “Yes. My friend.” Withdrawing her hand, she began to rock back and forth, dragging her chain across the straw as she swayed.
“I cannot tell you if this female is the woman you seek, Mr. Buckler, but she did fit your description, the scarring at the wrists and all, so I thought it worth a try.” Haslam reached forward to shake her and went on more sharply, “Dora, tell the gentleman about your friend. Did you make her acquaintance at the school where you were once employed, or perhaps at the other asylum?” He turned to Buckler. “Dora came to us from a private establishment in Islington. Her family was no longer able to pay the piper, I understand, as is often the case. I don’t believe she will answer us, sir.”