by S K Rizzolo
“I am come to offer my report, my lord.”
“Save your breath. I have no intention of hearing it. In fact, consider yourself discharged, Mr. Chase. You may present your reckoning.”
Placing both hands on the highly polished mahogany desk, Chase leaned forward. “What’s this? There has been progress made, and I am not the man to leave a job half done.”
“Your work is finished. We have no further need of your services. Now get out.”
“I have discovered that your footman was a lying, treasonous Jacobin, my lord, guilty of some foul conspiracy against our government. He is entangled somehow with that West Country prophetess Rebecca Barnwell who anticipates an end to the world, a time when rich men like you will get their deserts. I should think you would wish to get to the bottom of this matter. To think of the taint touching your household, your womenfolk…your wife.”
“You go too far, Chase,” said Ashe, his brows snapping together. “I shall feel no compunction in reporting this insolence to your superiors.”
Chase drew out the knife Penelope had given him. “The murder weapon, my lord. I’m told it belongs to your father-in-law.”
As Ashe rose from his seat, his chair toppled to the carpet. He came round to grab Chase by the cravat. “Not another word,” he ground out, yanking with surprising strength so that Chase lay half across the desk. Nostrils flared, Ashe stared into his eyes, then let go. Chase banged his cheek painfully on the corner of the desk and stumbled to his bad knee with a jarring thud. As a red rage clouded his vision, he listened to Ashe’s labored breathing and imagined smashing his fist into the other man’s jaw and disarranging that thin, sneering nose.
After a moment, he got to his feet. “I’ll go, my lord, but be assured I am not through with this business.”
Face white and strained, the secretary still hovered in the corridor. “Are you hurt?”
“Eavesdropping, Finch?” Chase was too tired to inject much heat into his tone.
“Sir, this conspiracy you spoke of. What does it portend? This…female, the prophetess. Do you believe a woman could be privy to a plot such as you describe?”
“You know of her?”
“Not really, just what anyone has heard. There is something, however. No, it is quite possible I am too fanciful.”
The secretary shook his head, but as Chase merely waited, brows lifted in question, he at length stammered, “I heard what you told Lord Ashe about the prophetess. Could it be that Ransom had come under her influence?”
“What sort of influence did you have in mind?”
“I have often thought the authorities do not act decisively enough to put down religious enthusiasts, Mr. Chase. Such fanatics are a danger to everyone. Perhaps this female led Ransom to conspire against his master to further some wicked plot. And if it should be that the servants in other households are similarly vulnerable to corruption? We none of us would be safe.”
Chase smiled wryly. “As Ransom was safe? That’s the trouble with your theory, sir, for if Dick Ransom is the villain of this piece, who murdered him?”
***
As Penelope lifted her hand to knock at Lady Ashe’s sitting room door, she heard raised voices and hesitated.
“Damn it, Julia. You will learn the behavior expected of a lady in your position, or I shall find a way to teach it to you.”
“Keep away, you coward,” came the reply, shrilly defiant yet with a genuine note of fear that crawled up Penelope’s spine. “Oh, I learned what you are long ago.”
“I’ll kill you for humiliating me thus. How dare you embroil me in your sordid tricks. To think it was felt necessary to drop a warning in my ear about my wife. My wife.”
Swift footsteps crossed the carpet, and Penelope heard a little cry, quickly suppressed. After a moment there was a sound as if something had toppled to the carpet. An ominous silence ensued.
Penelope backed away, intending to efface herself as quickly as possible, but instead found herself approaching the door again to knock. When Lord Ashe opened it almost immediately, she quailed at his expression, but forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, my lord.”
He bowed, standing aside for her to enter.
“Penelope,” said Julia on a note of glad relief, “have you brought the flowers?” She was on her feet in the center of the room, an overturned chair at her back, embroidery frame at her feet.
Penelope glanced down at the basket she carried. “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to arrange them now?”
“Do. This room needs a bit of color. You will excuse us, Ashe?” she added, pointedly avoiding his eyes. “I make no doubt you have many demands on your time today.”
Without another word he turned on his heel and departed, closing the door with some force. Penelope and Julia were left staring at one another. Feeling hot color in her cheeks, Penelope crossed the room and righted the chair. Then she bent to retrieve the embroidery frame.
“Thank you,” said Julia softly.
“’Tis nothing, my lady. I’ll just go and fetch some water for the flowers before they begin to wilt.”
“Wait, Penelope. I must just tell you—”
Feeling suddenly exhausted by all the emotional undercurrents in this house, Penelope could not bear for her to continue. John Chase had counseled her to mind her own affairs, and, at the moment, that seemed an eminently desirable notion. “Shall I ring for tea? I own I am thirsty after my battles with your gardener over which of his pretty blooms to cut.”
Julia’s hand came out to grasp hers. “I would have thought that you of all people would understand my difficulties,” she said, her voice thickened with tears. “Yet you set yourself above me, judge me. You don’t see, Mrs. Wolfe.”
Just as abruptly, Penelope was ashamed. Julia knew enough about her companion’s marital situation to realize this shaft would go home. And was it true? Did she keep the vain and frivolous Lady Ashe at arm’s length because they were of such different worlds, or because they were, at bottom, much the same: two women who, having made unwise matches, lacked the moral constitution to make the best of them? Was that the source of Penelope’s scarcely concealed impatience, her contempt that was, in truth, aimed at herself?
“I see you are unhappy, Julia, and, indeed, I am sorry for it.”
“You have your Sarah, but I…I have nothing. Ashe reproaches me for seeking a bit of fun as if a few gowns and some debts of honor are anything to remark upon. He calls me barren, the barren wife who has failed in the one duty required of her.” She laughed wildly. “How am I to bear a child of my own when much of the time he behaves as if I don’t exist? The fool!”
“Ma’am?”
Julia shook her head, lifting one white, bejeweled hand to dash the tears from her eyes. “When I was small, I had a nurse who, I am certain, was the one person to love me. But she was sent away a year or two before my mother died in childbed. After that, there were only my father and Ashe who was always…there.” She looked up. “You at least chose your fate, I believe, Mrs. Wolfe, so the responsibility for your marriage must be yours. I never chose mine. My father was determined to keep the property safe. I was to be brood mare to satisfy his desires and Ashe’s. Never my own.”
She dropped Penelope’s hand. “Oh, I am so tired.” Moving slowly to the door, she said over her shoulder, “I must go and have a rest. You will arrange those flowers?”
“Yes, I will. My lady, if I have failed to show proper gratitude for your many kindnesses…”
“You may keep your gratitude, Mrs. Wolfe. ’Twasn’t that I asked of you.”
***
The next day John Chase paid a visit to St. Mary of Bethlehem Hospital, despite the fact that he put little faith in Edward Buckler’s theory. It seemed to him a wild supposition that Dora’s visitor might actually have been the prophetess, and yet the significance of Barnwell’s name cropping up yet again could not be denied.
Chase, however, was not granted an interview
with the apothecary Haslam, dealing instead with the steward, a truculent individual who had no use for the Runners in general and no intention of allowing this one to address a patient. But Chase was able to wring from him Dora’s surname, which was Lubbock, and also the name of the hospital in Islington where she had formerly been incarcerated.
This institution proved a pleasant surprise. Standing in the sun-bathed entry that contained a leather-bound book open on a table as well as an arrangement of fresh violets in a tall urn, Chase was kept waiting only a few minutes after he sent in his name. A surreptitious glance at the book informed him that this comprised a record of guests to the establishment, but he had time to peruse only the top page before he was joined by a portly, plump-cheeked gentleman in a black frock coat. He had round eyes alight with intelligence and good humor and a small, delicately molded nose and mouth.
“Good morning,” said Chase, politely removing his hat.
“Ezra Broughty at your service, sir. I am physician at this establishment. Bow Street, eh? What can I do for you?”
“I understand you once had a patient called Dora Lubbock here. She is now at Bethlehem Hospital.”
“Indeed, sir. Sad case. Why does she interest Bow Street?”
“Actually, it is another female, said to be her friend, whom I seek. She is another such as Miss Lubbock.” Chase tapped his head.
“Her name?”
“Rebecca Barnwell.”
The pleasant smile faded as Broughty tugged absently at his rather large cravat and lowered his rounded chin into its folds. “Is that not the name of the woman who claims the Last Judgment is upon us?”
“The same. Miss Barnwell’s name has come up in connection with a murder inquiry, and I have reason to believe she may have visited Dora in Bedlam recently. Dora Lubbock may know something of the matter, though I was not permitted to see her.”
Broughty’s eyes had turned wary, and Chase was aware of the need to keep this man’s feathers smooth, for clearly, the physician feared anything that would reflect poorly on his place of business.
“Nonsense,” Broughty said. “Dora has been locked up for more than a quarter of a century. Besides, she is an innocent, no danger at all to anyone, except perhaps to herself. As for Miss Barnwell, she is a public figure and well respected, even revered.”
“I was hoping to persuade you to consult your records, sir. But to start with, what can you tell me of Dora Lubbock? How long was she in your charge?”
“Oh, she came well before my time. Had God been merciful, she’d have ended her days here among those who knew her tragedy and pitied her.”
He sent Chase a sharp glance that seemed to probe the Runner’s motives and character. Apparently, whatever he saw satisfied him, for he continued without further prompting. “She is a woman who has lived for many years under a load of guilt so heavy it cannot be thought strange that it drove her mad. ’Twas the old story, Mr. Chase. When she was young and comely, she fell under the eye of some scoundrel who seduced her and left her to bear her shame as she could.
“The child was fostered out, but Dora found the load of opprobrium too heavy and was unable to resume her normal life. Eventually, her family sent her to us.”
“From where, sir?”
“It was a long time ago. I’m afraid I do not recall the details. My predecessor was not one to maintain records, and in any event he destroyed any papers before my arrival. Professional jealousy, I suppose, for he and I had very different notions as to the proper treatment of lunatics. Which brings us to your other request. I’m afraid I can tell you nothing of Miss Barnwell.”
“You mean, don’t you, that you could shed some light if you so chose?”
Broughty’s tiny mouth drooped, and the lids came down over his bright, knowing gaze. Chase felt sure he was about to be dismissed, but then the physician said, “She visited Dora, always wearing a veil to conceal her identity. Dora told me who she was.”
“They were friends?”
“Yes. Dora admired her deeply. She lived for Miss Barnwell’s visits, though years would go by without us seeing her. I presumed she came as an act of Christian charity, yet I admit I wondered how it all came about unless she’d known Dora in her youth.”
“Or had once been a patient here herself.”
Broughty nodded. “I own I thought as much myself. You see, Dora made a remark I have not since forgotten.” As if striving for the exact words, he paused, then lifted somber eyes to Chase’s face. “She said that Miss Barnwell was the only person in the world who understood her loss.”
Part V
At the faint, plaintive cry, Rebecca curled one arm over her ear to deaden the noise and burrowed deeper into the straw mattress. From this position, she could not lift her other arm, attached as it was to a heavy chain ending in an iron ball that nestled amongst the loose bits of straw, filth, and rat droppings on the floor.
She had long ago accustomed herself to the physical discomforts. The smell of human excrement, her own and Dora’s. The raging thirst and numbing cold that left painful chilblains on every finger and toe. The bleakest hours of night when the voice of God deserted her, and the demons returned, howling. But it was the times when the child called for her, and she could not go to it, that tried her most. It was then she wanted to die, would have thrust the knife in her own breast, if only oblivion might be her reward. And yet, knowing that the Lord would hold her accountable, Rebecca did not believe in oblivion, and, for that reason, would never have taken her own life.
“Do you hear that?” she whispered as the cry came again.
Straw rustled as Dora turned on her mattress. “Hear what? They won’t be coming with the gruel yet. The shadows are not thick enough.”
“Not that. It’s the child. He is lost somewhere. I must go to him.”
“No,” said Dora, the thin edge of panic in her voice. “You must not leave me, Rebecca. You said there is work to be done, that we must wait and watch and be patient. You said the Lord will reveal all to us one day. He knows our hearts. He will look after my child—and yours. And one day, the ungodly will burn and writhe in hell.”
Tears pricked Rebecca’s eyes. Those people had stolen her child and branded her a murderess. The keepers had told her she ought to be grateful for the mercy shown her, for she might have been tried and executed for her crime. She knew better. It was not a desire to show mercy that had motivated the Master, but instead a fear of scandal. Rebecca had seen no magistrate after Jack Willard had discovered her in the church, had simply been dispatched, nearly dead from her ordeal, in a hired coach. No doubt everyone had been told she died in childbed or that she had fled her shame.
Dora was right. The Master would pay for his sins. They would all pay. Lifting her head, Rebecca listened, then, sinking back, closed her eyes in relief. The crying had stopped.
***
One wintry afternoon in February, 1794 the keepers allowed Rebecca and a half-dozen other women out of doors to pace back and forth in the yard. Rebecca had been an inmate in the asylum some seven or eight years and until then had found nothing whatever to interest her in the routine of days that followed one upon the last so that Time stretched before her, a vast desert.
It was a child who drew her attention. He stood to one side, observing the procession of ragged women with tattered blankets tied round their shoulders and blank faces fixed on their shuffling feet. Rebecca kept her eyes lowered too, but, when she thought he wasn’t looking, she sneaked glances in his direction.
A fine, sturdy boy, she thought, old enough to have lost his plump baby cheeks and put aside his petticoats. Dressed with care in a neat suit, he carried a squashed cap in his lean, brown hand. Rebecca watched as the boy’s mother, a young woman garbed in widow’s black, approached to lay a hand on his shoulder, smiling down at him. His answering smile brought a tightness to Rebecca’s throat.
After that, she saw them often, and cautious inquiry of the steward when he chanced to be in a good humor
had revealed that the beautiful young woman was not a widow at all, nor was she a wife. It seemed that her lover, the boy’s father, was a patient in the hospital.
As, gradually, the spring advanced and the bitter cold thawed to something that resembled warmth, the women were permitted to exercise for longer periods. And one morning, after a night of dreams in which Rebecca had trembled under her divine lover’s hands, as perfect as ever woman knew the touch of a husband, she felt the Spirit, a draught of cool, fresh water, heady like wine, revive within her.
Climbing up on a bench, she began to exhort her companions, her words a mixture of scripture she did not recall ever committing to memory and of messages that seemed to well up from some source both within and beyond her. She was transported, made whole, and the women leaned forward to finger the hem of her gown with reverence, their expressions, for once, alive, full of hope and anguish. Crying for joy, Dora was shouting, and some of the women could not hold themselves up but fell to the ground in their passion.
And then Rebecca felt her arm seized in a cruel grip, and she was yanked from her perch. “What’s this?” demanded a keeper, the one Rebecca dreaded and avoided whenever possible. “I see who be causing this uproar, and I’ll make you sorry for it.” He grabbed her by her lank hair and started propelling her toward the door that led to the wards. Too stunned to protest, Rebecca stumbled after him.
Suddenly, the woman and her son stepped into the keeper’s path so that he came to an abrupt halt and loosened his grasp on Rebecca. Wriggling free, Rebecca stared at her rescuers, panting with fear and excitement, sure that momentous events were about to overtake her. The boy’s mother stood tall, her black silk dress lending her dignity. Rebecca had always thought her lovely with her full lips and slumberous blue eyes, but now glimpsed a power that seemed beyond the reach of a mere female. The child too, young though he was, bore a look of determination on his small face, as he stood square, his feet planted on the path as if daring the keeper to object to his presence there. Rebecca had not noticed the mother and son before, so rapt had she been, but now she realized that they must have witnessed the entire incident.