Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2) (22 page)

With a smile, Charlotte said, “My last article published was about The Caerphilly pit disaster in South Wales. Eighty-one people lost.”

Sigmund nodded and said, “You talked to a lot of people for that story, families and friends of the deceased. The repercussions of something like that are rarely understood. The strength and bravery to rebuild lives and to continue on was captured well. I guess it helped that you, unfortunately, have had some experience with that sort of thing.”

“The parallels were difficult,” she agreed. “Losing my husband was devastating. I thought I had overcome all those dark feelings, but have recently realized that I have not. And then to see you, someone who was involved… well, the hurt is still raw.” She dabbed her eyes, but was determined to not get emotional once again and quickly asked, “In your investigation, have you heard of a patient by the name of Prudence?”

“No. Who is that?”

“Prudence was a patient that was said to be cured and released not long before I got here. According to those I have talked with, Prudence was far gone, mentally, and a very unlikely person to be cured.”

Nodding excitedly, Sigmund said, “That is the type of evidence that makes me think that there is something more sinister than a disease that is affecting the patients.”

Both Charlotte and Sigmund turned their heads at the sound of the piano. It was the same woman from the other night. The music was hauntingly beautiful.

Sigmund asked, “Do you know much about her, the piano player?”

“No, just that her name is Priscilla Voth and that her talent is enchanting.”

“An associate of mine was at a demonstration some years back where Doctor Madfyre injected her with a serum to try and help her. The theory being that her mind was focused so much on piano playing that it didn’t allow for other things, like reason or communication.”

Charlotte listened intently as she had not heard of this.

Sigmund continued, “The serum worked, to a degree, as Priscilla was able to talk a little for the first time in her life. However, it took away much of her piano skill which terrified her. I am assuming you have seen the scars on Madfyre’s face, and, of course, his mechanical eye?”

Charlotte nodded.

“They are the result of that experiment. Priscilla, in her agony of loss, attacked him.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t have many more details other than the serum’s effect was not permanent. Evidently the whole affair shook Madfyre pretty bad and he stopped his research.”

“These poor patients.” Charlotte lamented. “At best, they seem to be regarded as burdens, but more often they are regarded as worthless beings that can be treated horrifically without repercussions. My article will help to change that.”

She could tell that Sigmund was hearing only some of what she was saying. There was a distracted look on his face. “What is it?” she asked.

“What if,” he said, “Doctor Madfyre did not stop his experiments. What if they are still happening and the cause of the missing patients?”

“You think that he is actually successful in curing them?”

“I don’t think so. I know for a fact that several people from Bedlam have died. Besides, if a doctor found a cure for insanity, would not that be a news story that would sweep the world? No, I do not believe these patients are being cured.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, trying to be fair and think of any counterarguments that could be made – there were not any. “You are right. If a cure exists, it would almost certainly be known. So that means he is testing his serum on patients here with deadly outcomes?”

“It is a theory that fits the facts that I have, but I need more proof.”

Sigmund sounded tired or, perhaps, frustrated. Charlotte sympathized. Spending any amount of time in this place wore down a person. The grim surroundings pulled darkly at one’s spirit with the constancy of gravity. Charlotte asked, “What is your plan on getting more proof?”

Sigmund leaned in close, as if his next words were more condemning than their conversation had been thus far, and said, “I have the ability to open locked doors. I am going to wait for the next patient to be taken and try and follow.”

Many questions came to Charlotte’s mind, but she asked the most pressing one first. “Follow where?”

“I am not sure. All I know is that they are taken to the first floor and then somewhere from there.”

“I want to help.” Charlotte said determinedly. “I want to go with you.”

“I don’t know,” Sigmund responded. “If I am right, then we are talking about a murderer. This is very dangerous.”

“I am aware that you don’t know me well, Sigmund. But be assured that I am a smart, capable, and brave woman. You probably think of me as a possible hindrance, but I will be an asset.”

She stared into his eyes as he stared back. The struggle could clearly be read on his face. Charlotte added, “You have to take me, otherwise I will expose you.”

Sigmund’s expression took on a look of disbelief and Charlotte immediately condemned herself for that statement. It was wrong and not true. “I am sorry, Sigmund. I did not mean that. I will not turn you in. It is just that my desire to help these people is strong. They do not have a voice, but they will. I need to do this. It is what my husband would have done.”

Sigmund’s face softened. After another few seconds he finally said, “Look, nothing is going to happen tonight. The police have two constables placed in the building, so I have a hard time believing that there will be any after-hours activity. Tomorrow evening we will talk again and I will give you my answer. Deal?”

Filled with mixed emotions, Charlotte narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. He had not accepted her help, but also had not turned it down. “It is a deal,” she answered with a bit of dejection in her voice.

With the agreement now struck, the two of them gave attention to their thoughts while the piano music provided a dark canvas to paint them on.

*   *   *

At nine o’clock, the orderlies, Mr. Thursby and Mrs. Rathbone, ushered the patients out of the community room and towards their respective wards. After the deal with Charlotte, Sigmund had been trying to think of a way to verify if she was really who she claimed to be. All his instincts told him that she was trustworthy, but if he was to include her on his investigation of a possible murderer, he needed to be absolutely sure – for both their benefit.

As he exited the community room, he still was not sure what to do. Without leaving the asylum, how could he get any information on her? From the second floor landing, he looked down on the lobby and spotted the two constables that Holmes had told him about.
Of course!
he thought and quickly started down the stairs away from the group.

“Mr. Maxwell, come back here!” Mr. Thursby called out sharply from behind. “Constable, stop that man!”

At the bottom of the stairs, one of the constables placed himself as a barrier. Sigmund was hurrying down the stairs, but not running, and slowed as he approached the final steps. In a low voice that only the constable could hear, he quickly said, “I am Sigmund Shaw and need to get a message to Chief Inspector Holmes.”

It took only a moment for the constable to understand who was in front of him and he looked up at Mr. Thursby and said, “Do not worry, sir, I have him.” He grabbed Sigmund’s arm and slowly walked him up the stairs. In a low voice, he asked Sigmund, “What is the message?”

“There is a patient here that claims to be Charlotte Merrihail, a writer for
The Strand Magazine
on an undercover assignment. I need to know if she is who she claims to be.”

Without looking at Sigmund, the constable answered, “That will not be a problem. You take care.” He then released the arm and gave Sigmund a little shove.

It was a good performance,
thought Sigmund. With his head down, he walked passed Mr. Thursby and into the men’s ward. He did not make eye contact but could feel the stare of Thursby. It did not matter, Sigmund got his message out.

33.

The alarm clock rang and in less than a second, a hand clapped down on it extinguishing the sound. Chief Inspector Gabriel Holmes was awake. He always woke before his alarm and took those few minutes to think through his potential activities. The quiet contemplation gave his day a clear plan; a purpose and motivation to get out of bed.

The ring of the alarm still echoed in his ears when a new sound unexpectedly broke through. A knock at the door.
Well this is
peculiar,
he thought
.

“Just a moment,” Holmes called out while rising from his bed. After donning his robe and slippers he walked towards the entrance to his home. Running his hand through his still messy hair, he quickly realized that it was an ineffective action. He frowned and concluded,
if someone chose to visit at this early hour, they should not be expecting a well-dressed and well-arranged occupant
.

When he opened his door, he was surprised to find a constable waiting on the other side. It took only a brief moment to realize that this was one of the men that was assigned to the overnight watch at the asylum – Constable Beasley. Holmes heart sank as he wondered what else could have happened.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for the early hour,” said Beasley. “I came straight here once my shift ended at Bedlam.”

“It is quite alright, constable. Is there a problem?” Holmes voice had a little more eagerness than he usually allowed.

“No, sir, it was a quiet night. I mean, quiet in that there were no noticeable activities. The sounds of that place are as unsettling as anything I have ever heard. Nightmare quality.”

“Very well, constable.” Holmes was getting impatient. “If there is nothing to report, then why, may I ask, exactly have you come here?”

“It is Sigmund Shaw, sir,” answered the constable. “He asked me to give you a message.”

“Sigmund!” Holmes exclaimed.
Does he want out?
“What did he say?”

“He said that there is a patient that claims to be Charlotte Merrihail from The Strand Magazine on an undercover assignment. He would like to know if she actually is who she purports to be.”

Holmes regarded the request for a moment and then asked, “Is that the end of the message?”

“Yes, sir. That was all he asked.”

With an inward smile, Holmes thought,
I do not think I will ever stop being surprised by that man.
Nodding at the constable, Holmes said, “Very well, Constable Beasley. You did the right thing bringing this information to me right away. You had a long night, why don’t you go home and get some rest.”

Beasley smiled at the compliment and said, “Thank you, sir. I believe I will take your advice. Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you, constable.” Holmes closed the door and thought about his morning routine of quiet contemplation and how it took only a few minutes of his day to alter his plan.

Once dressed and breakfasted, Holmes made his way to Scotland Yard. He had a little time to pass before
The Strand Magazine
offices would be occupied, so he tried to focus on some paperwork and reports from the asylum murders. The interviews with the staff and patients had turned up nothing of interest and he hoped Sigmund would have better success on his end. It pained him that so far he could add so little to the whole affair.

Leaving Scotland Yard, he hailed a carriage that took him to the offices of
The Strand
. After asking the driver to wait for him, he took a few quick steps through the cold and rain and into the office lobby. A matronly woman was seated at a desk and looked up at him as he entered. She asked, “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, I would like to speak with Charlotte Merrihail.”

“Oh, I am sorry, sir, but she does not have an office here. Mrs. Merrihail only visits when she has an article to submit to her editor.”

Not surprising
, thought Holmes. “Then may I speak with her editor?”

“I am afraid that without an appointment it would be quite impossible. Mr. Godwit is very busy today, but his schedule looks fairly clear for Wednesday. Would you like an appointment for then?”

It was time to pull rank. “That will not do at all. Let me introduce myself. I am Chief Inspector Gabriel Holmes of Scotland Yard.”

He watched as her face took on the anticipated look; a combination of surprise and concern. “Oh dear! My apologies, Chief Inspector. I had no idea.” She stood up and walked around her desk. “Please follow me and I will take you to his office.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said amiably and followed her up a stairwell and to a hallway with a row of doors.

They stopped outside of the second office and the secretary opened the door slightly. Sticking her head in the room, Holmes could hear as she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Godwit, but Chief Inspector Holmes is here to see you.”

“The Chief Inspector?” a voice from inside asked in astonishment. “Please, show him in.”

The woman opened the door fully and stepped to the side. “Please enter, Chief Inspector.”

Holmes nodded politely and walked into the office. The editor stood from behind his desk and extended his hand in greeting. As Holmes shook it, the editor introduced himself, “Hello, Chief Inspector, I am Warren Godwit.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Godwit.”

“Have a seat please.” The two men sat and Godwit asked with a touch of nervousness, “Is there trouble, Chief Inspector?”

“To be perfectly honest with you, I am not exactly sure,” Holmes replied. “I am here about one of your writers, Charlotte Merrihail.”

Godwit’s face seemed to immediately drain of blood and took on a look of anguish. “Oh, please, no,” he said and started to shake his head. “It is all my fault. I should have never agreed to her plan.” Godwit’s now sad eyes looked at Holmes and asked, “What has happened to her?”

The reaction was not like anything Holmes had expected. He tried to calm the man down by saying, “I did not mean to cause you any concern, Mr. Godwit. To the extent of my knowledge, nothing has happened to Mrs. Merrihail.”

“Oh, thank God!” the editor exclaimed with true relief. “Her current assignment is a dangerous one and once you mentioned her name I assumed the worst.”

“A question about her current assignment is why I am here. Is Miss Merrihail currently in Bedlam Asylum?”

Although Mr. Godwit looked much better than a moment ago, he still had a look of concern. “Why, yes, she is. How do you know that? Is she in trouble with the law for her false admission? Please understand that her motives are pure. She wants to write an article about life in Bedlam with the goal of helping the poor patients of that place. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I am the one who gave her permission.’

Holmes liked Mr. Godwit. He was a man that was clearly concerned about the welfare of one of his writers and was even willing to accept legal consequences on her behalf – not that there were any. “Once again, sir, I must set you at ease. There are no legal issues here. I cannot give you all the details, but I can tell you this much. I have a man on the inside who is also doing some investigation at Bedlam. He has crossed paths with Mrs. Merrihail and asked that I confirm that she is who she claims to be. As you can understand, the words of a patient are not the most trustworthy.”

“Quite so,” said Godwit with renewed relief. “What is the purpose of your investigation?”

“I am afraid that I cannot divulge that. But, if Mrs. Merrihail is at all involved, then her next article may be even more sensational than either of you originally anticipated.”

Mr. Godwit leaned heavily back in his chair, looking tired. “Chief Inspector, I readily admit that I was not excited about her request. Each day that she has been there has proved to be a heavy weight on my mind and my conscience. Can you tell me that she is not in danger?”

Once again, the concern shown was touching. Holmes wished he could tell the editor that there was nothing to worry about, but he could not lie to this fine man. “Mr. Godwit, I cannot give you the answer that you want. Bedlam is not a safe place. I do not know of any danger that is specifically targeting her, but I cannot in good conscience tell you that she is free of any harm.”

The editor stroked his beard as he considered the information. He asked, “The person that you said that you have inside, is he a good man?”

Looking Mr. Godwit in the eyes, Holmes nodded and said, “One of the best.”

When the Chief Inspector stepped out of the offices of
The Strand
, he knew he had all the information he could gather outside of Bedlam Asylum. Unfortunately, it only seemed to muddy the waters. He had no idea of the significance, if any, of Sigmund working with Charlotte Merrihail. The fact that Cecil, the Bedlam patient who murdered Dr. Exton and then died with the brain ailment, was related to Sigmund’s investigation would normally have been a positive revelation, but the deviation from the established modus operandi made this a confusing variable. The analytical mind craves patterns and these unexpected turn of events breaks the consistency of systematic thought. Variables are the frustration of logic.

Climbing into the waiting carriage, Holmes directed the driver to the asylum. In a few short minutes, they had reached Waterloo Bridge. The greyness of the day, the blackness of the Thames, and the chill that was as pervasive as the London fog itself did nothing to help Holmes’ troubled mind. His reliance on another person, Sigmund – not even a fellow police officer – was taxing his fortitude. To have so much out of his grasp was not a familiar, nor welcomed, feeling. It had nothing to do with trust, for Holmes had the utmost confidence in Sigmund, but his feelings had to do with the impotence of his involvement. To be a spectator is the worst punishment for the driven.

The gates to Bedlam were open, no doubt to help with the police comings and goings, and Holmes’ carriage stopped just outside of the six pillars in front of the entrance. When Holmes paid the driver and told him not to wait, it was easy to see the relief on the man’s face. The driver took a quick frightful glance at the building and then wasted no time in snapping the reigns and moving away from asylum. With all the rumours and with all the current events, Holmes could not blame the man.

Inside the large lobby of Bedlam, Holmes sought out the first constable he saw. The man saluted the Chief Inspector as he approached. Holmes ordered, “Report.”

The constable shook his head slightly and said, “There is no new information, sir. Last night was quiet and we have not received any report from the coroner yet.”

“I took care of that myself,” commented Holmes. “He did not provide much that we did not already know.
If
the patient, Cecil, was murdered, we are no closer to knowing who did it.” Holmes looked around the lobby and wondered what his next move was. He certainly needed to talk to Sigmund, but had to be careful to not rouse any suspicions.

“Constable, I need to have further interviews with a few of the patients.
One
in particular.”

The look on the constable’s face confirmed he understood the order. Holmes continued, “The small office that was used yesterday, is it still at our disposal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I will meet with the patients in there.”

As Holmes walked towards the makeshift interrogation room, Dr. Madfyre exited from his office. At spotting Holmes, Madfyre called out, “Ah, Chief Inspector. I was hoping to see you this morning. Is there any update on the investigation?”

“These things usually take some time,” answered Holmes. “However, I did receive one piece of information that perhaps you could help with.”

“Me? How so?”

“Regarding the patient that died, Cecil, the coroner reported that his brain was quite damaged. He alluded to it looking like a prune. Have you any insight into this?” Holmes watched Madfyre’s face closely. Would it give away anything?