A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  Feeling refreshed, Isobel emerged to find Riot carefully brushing out his spare suit.

  “Do we have a plan, Riot?” she asked.

  “I generally bide my time and look for an opening, but just in case you find an opening before me—” He handed her a pick. “This generally works for filing cabinets.”

  She tucked the pick in her handbag. Given that Cooper Hospital and Napa Asylum both required a warrant, they had decided to forego the official red tape at Bright Waters.

  A cool breeze cut through the sunshine, rustling through leaves and making the trees sing. Isobel inhaled the surrounding wildness—dry earth and pine.

  “Not at all an unpleasant place to convalesce,” Riot observed.

  “Not outwardly,” she said, sinking into an armchair by the window. “There are dark sides to asylums and sanitariums. A murderer and rapist will get a fair trial, but a woman who has a mind of her own can be locked away for life by her husband’s signature.”

  “Don’t fret, Bel. I swear I won’t leave you here.”

  “How kind of you, Riot. I’m not sure I could think of a way to escape,” she said dryly, gesturing at the open expanse of wilderness.

  “Well, one thing we know for certain, it’s doubtful that Violet was here against her will.”

  “And I’d wager, if that blue dress I found was any indication, that Violet worked here while she was in Napa the first time.”

  Riot nodded. “Shall we tour the grounds and see if we can’t uncover any hidden horrors?”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  ✥

  “This is the hot mineral bath. A restorative to calm the nerves.” The pool was spacious, and the smell of sulfur and earth was strong. Steam hissed from the water. “We recommend alternating between the hot and cold,” the physician explained.

  Dr. Julius Bright was as jovial as his name. “Through that door, we have wet blanket wraps, volcanic mud baths, and a masseuse.”

  “Oh, Atticus, don’t you dare leave me here.” Isobel clung to his arm as if he was about to shove her into the steamy pool. It looked utterly delicious. “This is all for show.”

  Riot patted her hand, looking to the doctor in apology. “It’s not like that newspaper article, darling. I promise.”

  The doctor ushered them out of the calming pool and into a hallway with open arches on one side. “Perhaps I can ease any fears you may have, Mrs. Morgan.”

  “I read an article,” she said in a half-way to panicked voice, “about a reporter who feigned madness to investigate a madhouse. The doctors appeared to care, but they didn’t, not one bit and terrible things happened. Her name was Nellie Bly, don’t you remember, dear?” Isobel looked at Riot with desperation, but nearly lost it when she saw the glint of humor in his eye. He was enjoying this.

  “I do recall,” he said in grave tones.

  Before she succumbed to laughter, she looked at the doctor and threw accusations at him. “You’re only showing us the civil areas. I’m sure you have all kinds of terrible practices behind closed doors. As soon as my husband is gone, I’ll be locked in a cage.”

  Bright shook his head. “Not at all, ma’am. We do not use restraint and the patients are free to refuse any of our suggested treatments. Everything here is as open as you see. Let me show you our ward where the most ailing reside. But I ask that you remain calm—these women are fragile.”

  They walked from a Mediterranean like setting to a more clinical building. Bright bent his head to a passing nurse. The woman smiled, and stepped forward, opening one of the doors. It was unlocked.

  A clawfoot tub sat in a tiled room. Pristine and scrubbed, the bath faced a shuttered window. The nurse opened the shutters. Palm trees swayed in the afternoon breeze. “We use hydrotherapy here, cold and hot, depending on the ailment,” the nurse explained. “The patient determines the length of treatment. As you can imagine, for privacy’s sake, we can’t show you an occupied room.”

  “Because you have tied them up,” Isobel accused.

  “Oh, no, ma’am, we don’t restrain our patients,” the nurse stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Isobel’s arm. Her touch was calm and sure, and she seemed a good-natured woman.

  “But what if a lunatic flies into a rage and murders me while I’m sleeping?”

  “We specialize in nervous disorders—especially acute paranoia,” Bright explained, sharing a look with Isobel’s husband. “However, even with issues of uncontrollable hysteria and anger, I find that the environment alone has a calming and restorative effect. One can hardly rage in paradise. Nurse, perhaps you can allow Mrs. Morgan a peek at one of the patients while I speak with her husband.”

  Isobel let herself be coaxed away from Riot’s arm. She followed the nurse down the hall. The woman opened the door a crack.

  Isobel looked inside. Steam filled the room, stirred by a cool breeze from the open window. A heavy canvas drape covered the open side of the bathtub. There was a hole in the canvas for the patient’s linen wrapped head.

  “Can I get you anything, Miss?” the nurse whispered.

  “No thank you,” a drowsy voice replied.

  “Very good, Miss. Ring if you need anything.” The nurse gently shut the door, and explained, “The canvas top is to keep the heat in—not the patient. She can remove it on her own at any time.”

  “But some asylums restrain their patients.”

  “Not as much anymore, but some do, yes. With straight-jackets and such.”

  Isobel recalled the heavy jackets from which she had watched a man, after much wiggling and contorting, escape. They were made of canvas, too. Her thoughts drifted to Henry in the bath, and the canvas like thread she had discovered on the floor.

  “We don’t use such things here, however.”

  “Does the Napa Asylum?”

  The nurse frowned, weighing the wisdom of truth over deception. She eyed Isobel and decided on the former. “Years ago, yes, but now—I can’t say that I know, ma’am. I would not be surprised. There are dangerous sorts in that asylum, but not here. Dr. Bright is very progressive. Patients are always treated with respect.” Likely due to their deep pockets, thought Isobel, but she did not say it aloud.

  Riot and the doctor joined them, and the group moved to a corridor where they could speak freely. “As you can see, Mrs. Morgan,” said Bright, “we do not restrain anyone. The mind, I am a firm believer, must have time to heal. A safe environment is key.”

  “What about privacy?” asked Riot. “My wife is concerned about her reputation. If word were to reach certain ears—”

  “The president himself could not pry records from my hands,” the doctor assured.

  Isobel looked at Riot. Their ruse would have to continue.

  ✥

  The moon hung like a bulb, bright and beaming, in the clear night. Its light streamed through the orchard leaves, touching ground like a soft rain. Isobel crept beneath the branches, listening to the crunch of leaves. She paused at a trunk, and looked back at her noisy companion with irritation. Riot wore a dark suit and fedora and he carried his silver-knobbed walking stick. Hardly conducive to burglary.

  She narrowed her eyes and straightened, preparing to deliver a scathing rebuke of whispers.

  “Enjoying yourself, Bel?” he said in normal tones. His voice made her jump in the dark.

  “We’re breaking into an office,” she hissed. “Some caution is advisable.”

  He looked around. “We’re likely the only ones awake and the lights are on in the buildings. They’re as good as blinded.”

  Isobel blew out a breath, swallowed down irritation, and walked through the trees. When the square silhouette of the main office building came into view she stopped. A few dim lights shone through the shuttered windows.

  The sound of crunching footsteps disappeared. Isobel glanced behind her and nearly ran into a tree. Riot was nowhere to be found. A quick whistle brought her around. A dark shadow stood against the white adobe. His gloved hand covered the
silver knob of his stick.

  Isobel hurried across the open ground and pressed against the warm wall. “You’ve done this a few times, I see,” she whispered in his ear.

  “A few.” Warm breath tickled her neck like a breeze. “Can you reach it?”

  Isobel swallowed, her heart suddenly racing. She focused on the building. From their earlier meeting in Dr. Bright’s office, they learned that the first-story windows and doors were barred, but the second-story had meagre latches. It was only a matter of reaching the windows.

  Adobe was smooth, but the hacienda style structures had the most convenient support beams protruding from the wall. Riot interlaced his fingers, and bent his knees, preparing to hoist her. Could she reach it, he had asked. To prove she could, she checked the clearing, looked and listened, then trotted back, ignoring Riot’s offer.

  Summoning resolve, she ran at the wall. With practiced speed and one swift movement, she placed a foot on the smooth wall. Her rubber sole caught, and she pushed up, not out, leaping for the beam. The tips of her fingers caught wood.

  For a breath, she dangled, stilling her body, and then pulled, hoisting herself up. When her balance was assured, she unfolded her Tickler, and slipped the blade through the crack between shutters. The tip found the lock, and she nudged it away from its loop. She eased the shutters open, and climbed into the office.

  There were no lights. Isobel listened, and then slunk towards the door, pressing her ear to the wood. No light seeped from beneath the crack, and no footsteps echoed in the hall. She reached for a cushion and tucked it in front of the door jam. Her trusty pocket lantern came next. Light filled the office.

  Earlier, as Riot had sat conversing with the doctor over Isobel’s planned treatment, the doctor’s file cabinet had mocked and teased. So close at hand. Now, she moved forward, running her fingers over the wood. It appeared to be a simple lever lock, the same on which she had practiced.

  She withdrew the pick. It reminded her of a cobra about to strike—head slightly bent and forward with a long stretch of neck. With a steadying breath, she inserted the head into the rounded part of the keyhole. The neck slid into the flared bottom. Gently, she turned the pick to the right, closed her eyes, and felt it catch, then rotated the metal, lifting the tiny internal lever. It clicked.

  Isobel smirked, withdrew her lock, and opened the cabinet. Its secrets belonged to her now. She thumbed through the records; one after another, but there was no Clowes.

  A mocking voice chided her. “Daft-brained,” she muttered. Pride deflated, and feeling foolish, she quietly closed the cabinet of C’s, reaching for the drawer labeled as F. Violet hadn’t checked in under her stage name.

  Holding her breath, Isobel repeated the picking process. This time the click mocked instead of congratulated. She yanked Elizabeth Foster’s file out, flipped through it in the dim light, and paused on a page. Her heart sank.

  Isobel closed the file with a slap, tucked it under her waistcoat and braces, and locked the drawer. Eager to feel fresh air on her face, she folded up her lantern, tossed the cushion back on its chair, and climbed out the window.

  A soft whistle caught her with a leg over the sill. She hesitated, and then went for it. For a split second she hung. The tell tale lightening of the night warned of an approaching guard.

  She let go, and dropped, landing in a crouch. Arms hoisted her up, propelling her towards the orchard.

  A voice cut through the night. “Who goes there!” The lantern swung towards the wall where she had fallen. Her back was to a trunk, Riot at her side, peering at the guard and his light. She peeked to the side, saw the lantern move, and pulled Riot closer as they edged around the trunk, avoiding the gleam. Footsteps approached, the light brightened, and Riot put a hand to his lips, turning his head. A perfect owl’s hoot sounded ten feet away.

  The lantern raised, as the guard looked through the branches. His footsteps moved on. Isobel exhaled, and she felt Riot relax in front of her. Bark pressed against her back, and warmth radiated from the man in front. He looked down into her eyes.

  “You can throw your voice,” she whispered, impressed.

  “A useful skill,” he said quietly. “Where did you learn to run up a wall like that?”

  “I’m short, I have to make do,” Isobel grinned. “It helped that Lotario and I ran away to the circus when we were thirteen. I’m afraid my parents were under the impression that we sailed for Hawaii. It was months before the hired detective tracked us down.”

  “Hawaii,” he shook his head. “I wonder how your parents got that impression?”

  “I wonder,” she mused innocently. “I’m positive that you would have unraveled our ruse long before that other detective. Is the guard gone?”

  Riot inclined his head, and took a step back. “Long ago.”

  ✥

  Days were hot, but nights were cold. The fire burned low in the bungalow. Riot tossed another two logs on the glow, and Isobel sat down with her plunder. She stared at the record for some time, remembering what she had glimpsed inside. With a sigh, she opened it, and began to read.

  Sometime during her page flipping, she became aware of a glass filled with honey colored-liquid. Needing reinforcement, she downed the glass in one. It was smooth and warm with a bite at the last.

  “Southern Comfort?” she asked, looking to the man across in question.

  “I procured a bottle on the train.”

  “A man with forethought. It doubles as comfort or celebratory.”

  “You look as though you need the comfort.” There was puzzlement in his voice. She handed him the file. “Violet caught Virgil with another woman, or so she first thought. It was a man.”

  Riot looked up from the pages, surprised.

  “Virgil’s childhood friends’, Henry and Elma, reported him to the dean,” the words tasted bitter on her tongue. “Two physicians put their mark on a slip of paper and signed his life away—all because he had a taste for men.” She reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass. The liquid brought little comfort. Thoughts of her own twin and his possible fate screamed in her mind. A stark reminder that the both of them walked a precarious line.

  Riot flipped through the doctor’s notes, and Isobel turned to the hearth, watching the dance of flame. When he reached the end, he tossed down the record of betrayal, and removed his spectacles, cleaning the glass. “Violet hoped it would cure Virgil’s unnatural desires; instead, he died in the asylum.”

  “I’d say that’s worthy of guilt.”

  Riot spoke his thoughts aloud. “Violet was working here, to be closer to Virgil, and when he died—she cracked.”

  “And moved to the Y.M.C.A. where she attempted to drown her sorrows with chloroform and morphine.”

  “The headaches, the injury from the light, and her grandmother’s death are all in Dr. Bright’s notes. It looks as though she deteriorated rapidly: severe melancholy, hallucinations, hearing voices, and an acute interest in the supernatural.”

  “That same letter is in there.”

  “In the same handwriting,” Riot added. “Only Violet claimed she discovered the letters on her bed. However, Dr. Bright was under the impression that she was manifesting a dual personality and writing them herself.”

  “Understandable,” Isobel said. “The treatment seemed to work. The letters stopped.”

  “And she was discharged, returning to the stage.”

  Isobel sat forward, elbows on knees, anger welling up inside her like a storm. “How could they, Riot? Take a man’s freedom away, a friend no less, all for their own moral peace of mind?”

  “I doubt morals had much to do with this business,” Riot observed. “More like jealousy and ego. Remember, Violet had her eye on Virgil. It was likely her own twisted heart she had in mind. I’ve seen a woman shoot a man because she couldn’t have him, and a man do the same. And as for Henry and Elma—money might have been motivation. Anything to keep an heiress happy and remove the object of her affecti
on.”

  “Whatever it was, betraying Virgil was murder,” she said with contempt.

  “The pieces still don’t fit.”

  “No,” Isobel sighed. “Well, yes they do; I just don’t much care for where they’re pointing.”

  Riot took a long sip of his drink. “Virgil’s lover was disguised as a woman. There’s no mention of his name, or that he was ever arrested.”

  “Lotario and I have been cross-dressing since he was forced into knee breeches. I sometimes forget that we’re not the only ones who swap genders like hats.”

  “It’d explain the inconsistencies: this so-called Violet hiring Thorton when she was supposed to be here, the letters, the conflicting descriptions of her brooch, and the fact that Elma didn’t seem to recognize her caller.”

  “Ruin, not suicide might have been the lover’s aim—a quiet sort of revenge.” Isobel sat back, curling her legs in the chair, toying with her hair as she thought. “I wonder if August tested Henry for any drugs—laudanum or chloroform? The lover could have lured Henry to the house with the note, overpowered him, forced him into the tub, and then, when Violet arrived at the house later in the evening, she would have been confronted by Virgil’s lover. With her shaky history, that’d certainly be enough to drive her to suicide.”

  A log shifted, fire sparked and popped, and Riot stirred, reaching for the bottle. He paused, glanced at her, and then set it down, nudging the glass away. “That’s a fair amount of planning,” Riot said into the quiet. “There’s a calculating mind behind this.”

  “How did I escape? With difficulty,” Isobel quoted. “How did I plan this moment? With pleasure.” Poised to drink, she eyed him over the rim of her glass. “What would you do for someone you loved?”

  Riot replied with a quote of his own. “Hatred is blind; rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.”