by A. E. Moorat
Secure location, he thought. To remain there until the danger had passed. And the carriage had returned him home.
Where could possibly be more secure than that?
He heard the sound of her coming into the room.
'You know,' he said to her, 'I thought I had lost you to Lord Byron, all those years ago.'
'Darling,' chided Lady Caroline, who settled on the sofa beside him. 'I want no more talk of George. That's all in the past now. You know that. I'm back, my love. Back with you.'
He opened his eyes to see her. She sat with one leg pulled up beneath her bottom. He liked it when she sat in that position. She reached and touched his hair, brushing his fringe from his eyes, and in response he relaxed even further into the soft welcome of the sofa, the comforting embrace of home and of the attentions of his beloved Caroline. (Who had returned-after all those long years. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr Don bloody Juan!)
For a moment or so the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire that Caroline had laid. She'd sent the staff home, she said, so that they had the house to themselves. It was because she wanted to spoil him, she said. Because he'd been working so hard lately.
'Come on, William,' she chided him, laughing, 'don't fall asleep on me just yet. I want to know all about what you've been doing.'
'Well,' he said, 'we moved the prisoner to Lanthorn, just as you suggested, my darling, and after the usual business of the day we took the Queen there to see the prisoner, but I'm afraid there was an attack.'
'Oh dear,' cooed Caroline, fingers still playing with his hair. 'Was the prisoner killed during this invasion?'
'Torn limb from limb,' said Melbourne, a note of pride in his voice.
'Oh, good.'
'Yes, I thought you would be pleased, my darling. I thought it might earn me a kiss...'
But there was no kiss forthcoming.
'I hope you stayed well clear of any action,' she said simply, in reply.
'I had your words running through my mind, my darling,' he smiled, 'though unfortunately I sustained a knock to the head.'
'Oh, my love,' she purred, 'where? Show me where.'
He took her hand and guided it to the back of his head where he had a bump like a half-egg. She stroked it, for a moment, then dug her fingers into it, giggling a little as she did so.
'Ow,' he pulled away, pained.
'Oh, I couldn't resist it,' she smiled.
'There always was a sadistic side to you, Caroline,' he said, rubbing the back of his head, 'but I do believe it's been even more pronounced since you came back to me.'
'It's what you love about me,' she said softly, into his ear, and he supposed that she was correct, and once again he closed his eyes.
'You do deserve a kiss, after all,' she said and she felt her lips brush his cheek and enjoyed the sensation of it; the tingle it left when she withdrew.
'Another,' he asked, his voice dreamy and faraway, and she kissed him again, and Lord Melbourne thought that he had found true happiness at this house here in Piccadilly, and that if her were to die now, well he shouldn't much mind...
'William,' she shouted, into his ear.
He shot upright.
'Don't fall asleep now, dear,' she said, her voice back to its usual volume, 'for there is more work to be done.'
'More?'
'Yes, you see, I know where the Prince is being held.'
'You do?'
'Darling, why, of course, I do. Caroline knows everything.'
'Yes-yes, of course, dear,' he said, smiling. Of course she did. When the Prince had gone missing, why hadn't he simply asked Caroline where he was being held? Or was that before she returned? All of a sudden he couldn't remember.
Caroline...
When had she...?
How had she...?
'Ssh,' whispered Caroline into his ear, noting that he had tensed and that his head was jerking like that of a passenger who has awoken from a nap on the omnibus and fears he may have missed his stop. 'Ssh,' she repeated, calming him, 'ssh.'
And he relaxed once more.
'Everything will be all right,' she murmured, her lips brushing his ear as she spoke. 'We just have one more thing we need to do.'
'Yes, Caroline,' he said, feeling light-headed, dizzy even.
'We need to send Maggie Brown to the Prince. We need to send her to the workhouse in the Old Nichol Rookery. So that she can fetch the Prince. Can you see to it that she gets the message? And that she goes alone?'
The thought nagged at him. He didn't want Mrs Brown hurt, did he? No, not Maggie Brown. She's on our side, isn't she? He thought she was. He wasn't sure. Caroline would know, of course. Yes, that was right. Caroline would know.
'We're not going to hurt her, are we?' he asked Caroline. 'We don't want to hurt Maggie Brown, do we?'
'No, of course not, silly,' said Caroline, 'of course not. Now run along now, with your message.'
An hour or so later, Melbourne reappeared. Caroline sat on the sofa still, as before, and he took a seat beside her.
'Is it done?' she asked. 'Is the message dispatched to Maggie Brown?'
'Yes, my darling.'
'Good,' said the succubus, who smiled at him, before extending one long pointed talon, and jamming it deep into Lord Melbourne's heart.
XLIII
The members of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association, as they bumped and rattled along in the unprecedented number of four carriages in convoy, were most excited at the prospect of their impending visit to that famous institution, Bethlem Royal Hospital.
Or, as the asylum was perhaps better known: Bedlam.
Or...as some in the carriages were wont to describe it, in the name of inducing their fellow prayer association members to even greater heights of anticipation: 'the place where the lunatics are kept'.
The reason for this tremendous sense of expectation was that the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association had close (though, for obvious denominational reasons, unofficial) links with the Crouch End Catholic Ladies' Prayer Association, whose members had recently conducted a visit to Bedlam for reasons of education and a greater understanding of the hardships endured by others. Those attending on that occasion had, ashen-faced, regaled their friends with the horrors they had witnessed. They had spoken of the great trauma of the visit; the horrifying sights they had been forced to endure such as were almost impossible to relate-impossible. For those sights as they had seen, as they were led along the corridors of the asylum and been permitted to peer in through the barred windows of the cells had been the most uncommonly, ungodly, profane and depraved sights, such as would stay with them for the rest of their days.
So had said the members of the Crouch End Catholic Ladies' Prayer Association.
Without hesitation, the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association had booked their own visit.
Thus, the excitement in their carriage was palpable as they travelled from Whitechapel and made their way across London Bridge into Southwark, and as they approached the imposing building at St George's Fields, the ladies gathered at the windows of the carriage to ooh and aah at the asylum.
Or...
'The Hospital, ladies.'
They were constantly reminded of this fact by Mrs Audrey Wetherspoon, the group leader, who had arranged the visit and was slightly suspicious of some of those attending, believing that they might be motivated by reasons of prurience and voyeurism and an unhealthy interest in witnessing depravity and perversion, rather than education. This trip, despite taking place during night-time, in less than sociable hours, had been over-subscribed, attracting far greater interest than other trips. Arriving at the rendezvous that night, wearing bonnets and Sunday best had been a great many faces she did not recognise, friends and family, so she was told, who were keen for the edification of the visit.
Though not keen enough on edification, obviously, to attend either the weekly prayer meetings, or, indeed the Baptist Church itself.
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br /> 'It is a hospital,' she insisted to those in her carriage, the mood dampening instantly. 'In this day and age it really is rather impolite to refer to the mentally ill as lunatics. These people are not lunatics, so kindly do not refer to them as such. I believe the polite term these days is retards, a derivation of retarded, which encompasses those who are mentally ill.'
Those ladies she was travelling with murmured 'retards' in a bid to show that they had been paying attention, although each of them secretly wished she were travelling in one of the other carriages.
Then they were craning to see once more as the structure of Bedlam hove into view. In front of it were perfectly manicured lawns, only just visible in the moonlight; trees, like sentries posted around their outer edge. The lawns were split by an approach road, into which their carriages turned, so that the asylum was now ahead of them, wide-as far as the eye could see either side-and tall, too. It towered above them, a vast, monolithic edifice behind a high perimeter wall, interrupted only by the wrought iron of the main gates.
There were more oohs and ahs, plus one or two private regrets all of a sudden. Visiting at night had seemed like such a good idea in the cold light of day but none of the ladies had expected the building to look quite so dark and fearsome in the flesh.
As they rattled along the approach road, they heard the wheels of a Hansom cab that passed them at great speed, driven by a man in a top hat, whose cloak fluttered behind him as he thundered up the road. They were able to see the cab come to a halt before the main steps of the building, and the driver drop down, one hand steadying his top hat, then taking up a cane and hurrying from the cab to the steps, not even stopping to tether the horses, flying up the steps and disappearing from view.
Goodness, thought the ladies of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association collectively. They had yet to arrive at the asylum-or 'hospital'-and already there were exciting events to behold.
Their own carriages came to the forecourt, where the Hansom carriage remained, and the ladies descended to be greeted by a member of staff who bowed and bid them gather into a group so that he might introduce himself, which they did.
He was no ordinary member of staff.
He held a flaming torch, even though there was ample light provide by the many gas lamps in the forecourt, and was dressed in the gaudy outfit of a ringmaster, and addressed them just as though he were one: 'Ladies,' he bellowed, 'only the very hardiest souls should consider themselves of sufficient mettle to pass through the doors of the legendary palace of woe...Bedlam.'
He grinned, revealing blackened teeth, and the ladies clasped one another in terror, thrilled and titillated by the ringmaster's build up.
'For medical science,' he continued, 'has no explanation for the strange, terrible, most unnaturally freakish and deviant sights you are to witness and to behold within Bedlam's feared and legendary walls. Some say the poor unfortunates imprisoned here are victims of mother nature's macabre sense of humour, twisted in the head, compelled by their sickness to commit ghastly acts; others that their brains have been infected by devils.'
The ladies gasped.
'Indeed,' said the ringmaster, 'which means I must warn you, ladies, to stick very close to me at all times. Do nothing unless I say it may be done. Touch nothing unless I say so. Am I understood?'
Indeed. The ladies nodded.
'Then let us go.'
As the party trooped up the steps to the entrance, the ringmaster asked them if they 'liked the threads' and they agreed that they did, and that the suit was most pleasing to the eye.
Although, in fact they were thinking that they cared very little for the attire of the man.
'And the little introductory speech?' said the ringmaster, 'it wasn't too much was it? You didn't think I was overdoing it a little? This is really quite a new thing for us, you see, ladies, just a way of optimising our assets in the evening, making a little money on the side, know what I mean?'
It was most colourful, agreed the ladies, who in fact wanted to move swiftly on to the section of the visit where they were able to behold the retards in action.
Now they had arrived in a large hall.
'Here we are in what we call the central administration area,' said the ringmaster, 'which divides the male and female quarters. You didn't think we'd have men and women living together did you, madam?' he said, winking lasciviously at Mrs Patricia Parsons and Mrs Pamela Player, who each turned a deep shade of red and decided immediately to report the man for his vulgarity. 'The passageways there lead to the smaller wards, wherein the patients are placed depending on the nature-and the severity-of their illness.'
At the word 'severity' the ladies of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association drew breath, thinking that now they would be exposed to those manner of horrors that their colleagues in the Crouch End Catholic Ladies' Prayer Association had described.
How disappointed they were, then, when the ringmaster said, 'However, the seriously disturbed are not kept on this floor,' and went on to tell them how the women were involved in cooking, cleaning and sewing, 'for the purpose of their recovery these pursuits are considered most beneficial' winked the ringmaster, fingering his costume. While, the men, he explained were also involved in carrying out worthwhile tasks; indeed the wards were light and airy, and furnished with pictures...
The ladies continued to follow him, trying their best to hide the sense of anti-climax that was beginning to descend upon the group.
Then, the ringmaster turned to them and said, 'Ladies, I hope you are ready for this. Because in order that we may witness the madness first-hand we need to travel below floors.'
A collective gasp.
The ringmaster still held his torch, and he now raised it, significantly, opening a large wooden door and indicating the way down a flight of grey stone steps.
At the bottom the ladies assembled. Here the atmosphere was markedly different from the level above, which had been much like that of a hospital-a 'usual' hospital, that was-perhaps even one that was a little more modern and progressive and better-equipped than was normal.
Down here, however, the air was stale and dank. In the air a foul scent. And instead of the wards as above, furnished with home comforts, here there were simply cells lining both sides of the corridor.
'Careful, ladies, the inmates are prone to fling faeces-or worse.'
'What could possibly be worse than faeces?' asked one. There was much murmuring and shaking of heads as the women puzzled over the conundrum.
One of the ladies towards the front of the group screamed as an inmate threw himself at the bars of his cell, screaming.
'These are the hopeless cases, ladies. Those poor unfortunates cast aside by society. Their only benefit to mankind is to serve as experimental subjects.'
There was much shocked gasping and placing of hands to throats.
'What is behind that door?' asked Mrs Audrey Wetherspoon, pointing at a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway.
'That, ladies,' said the ringmaster, 'is an underground entrance to the State Criminal Lunatic asylum, the most dread section of Bedlam.'
The ladies all moved towards the door, assuming it was next on the itinerary.
'Oh no, ladies,' demurred the ringmaster, 'there are some sections of Bedlam that are simply too horrific to show.'
The ladies pretended to look relieved.
Then: 'Oh my God,' shrieked one of the prayer group, recoiling from a cell door, having been peering through the opening.
'I can't look, I can't look,' she screeched, craning to get a better look at the other ladies.
'Ah yes, the patient we call the Bishop. He pleasures himself constantly-constantly,' shouted the ringmaster hysterically, and those prayer group members not already crowding around the doorway now rushed over, only Mrs Audrey Wetherspoon and one other woman she didn't recognise were immune. The other woman, who had the appearance of a pauper, and was nursing a chill perhaps, had her coat done up tight ar
ound her throat. She wore a somewhat manly hat, too, and it was pulled down low over her eyes, which, now Mrs Wetherspoon saw, were darting this way and that. Looking in particular towards the door that led to the State Criminal Lunatic asylum.
'A man. Pleasuring himself,' gasped Mrs Wilmslow, who had physically hauled several of her prayer group colleagues out of the way in order to verify that this was indeed the case, and Mrs Wetherspoon sighed, knowing exactly what was coming.
'Mrs Wilmslow,' came the cry, as Mrs Wilmslow executed her usual trick whenever attention was in danger of leaving her alone for too long-and fainted.
'Oh,' she cried feebly on the floor, and several of the ladies bent down to help her, fanning at her face and offering words of encouragement. Those ladies remaining at the cell door suddenly, to a woman, placed their hands to their mouths.
'He has reached completion,' shrieked the ringmaster.
And in an instant the ladies of the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association were scattering-dispersing at speed from the door as they discovered exactly what it was that might be flung, that was worse than faeces.
For her part, Mrs Audrey Wetherspoon stood aghast, feeling a mixture of emotions, among them shock, outright disgust, a little shame and, if she was honest with herself, not a little amusement. She turned, seeking out the second woman who had held back, in order that she might, perhaps, share her amusement and caught sight of her at the door to the State Criminal Lunatic asylum. For a second the two women's eyes met, and Mrs Audrey Wetherspoon was about to call out, for surely this woman was about to place herself in danger, but something made her stop herself.
The woman gave a short nod of the head in thanks, and was gone.
XLIV
'I'm to go to a workhouse in the Old Nichol Rookery, there to meet the Prime Minister and a squadron of men,' said Maggie. 'There, he believes, the Prince is being held.'
Vasquez stood from the table in the cottage where she had been sitting, fidgety and frustrated at their inactivity as the Protektorate debated its next move.