Beneath London (33 page)

“They’re closely watched, sir, and allowed to smoke if the door is ajar, the more problematic cases, not at all.”

“Has this always been an asylum?” St. Ives asked as they walked along the corridor.

“No, sir. The house was converted to a hospital after the Lunacy Act in forty-five. There was a need for genteel quarters then, with the bad old ways gone forever and the hospitals being torn down. Dr. Peavy has had it for eight years now, and has made improvements of his own.”

The doors ahead of them were closed. There was nothing more to be seen.

“We’re at the end of it, Mr. Broadbent,” the attendant said, his face half turned away. “This wing anyway. Would you like to have a look at the kitchen?”

“I wonder if Dr. Peavy is in?” St. Ives asked. “I’d prefer simply to speak to him. The hospital is more than adequate, actually.”

“The Doctor is in if he’s not indisposed,” the attendant said. “We’ll proceed to the kitchen and dining area, if you will, and I’ll tell one of the scullery boys to inquire. Dr. Peavy is a busy man, however. It’s always wise to make an appointment, sir.”

Following along again, St. Ives said, “I was told by my wife’s Aunt Leticia, who is well known to Dr. Peavy, that he might be available if I mentioned her name.”

“Aunt Leticia it is, sir,” the attendant said without turning around. On they went, into the lobby again where things were carrying on apace. It was there that the attendant’s identity came to St. Ives like a cloud rolling away from the sun. His name was not William at all, but was Willis, Willis Pule. When St. Ives had last seen Pule some ten years ago on Hampstead Heath, the man had been maniacally insane, capering and shrieking. At the end of that long, unlikely evening, Pule lay comatose in a dogcart full of dead carp, the cart driven away into the night by none other than Doctor Ignacio Narbondo himself.

St. Ives’s apprehension of danger heightened, and it came into his mind that he had failed to send a note to the Half Toad. He had asked Theodosia to promise Alice that he would. No one on earth knew where he was.

They entered the enormous kitchen, which smelled of cabbage and boiling potatoes. “Wait here, if you please,” Pule said, and he walked away across the room to where a hulking young man labored over a heap of dirty dishes. His demeanor resembled that of an unhappy mountain gorilla. Pule said something to him, and the young man scowled at St. Ives before going out through a side door.

Pule returned, saying, “Jimmy’s gone to inquire. It shouldn’t take long before you have an answer.” He leaned back against a long wooden table between St. Ives and the door to the lobby. A stout, grizzled man sliced up a quarter-side of beef with a long knife nearby.

Pule’s face didn’t reveal anything about his thoughts, and there was no real indication that the man knew him – except, thought St. Ives, that he had lied about his name. Was it coincidence that Pule had ended up in this particular madhouse? Or were Narbondo and Peavy related in some sense? Certainly they both carried out insidious medical experiments…

“You mentioned that you had a brother,” St. Ives said to him, this new possibility just now entering his mind.

“Yes, sir, dead these past four years.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. I ask because you look quite familiar to me, as I said. What was your brother’s name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all, sir. Willis was his name. Willis Pule.”

“
That
solves the mystery,” St. Ives said. “I knew him, do you see. I’m sorry to hear of his death.”

“Yes,” Pule said. “A great tragedy to be sure. We looked much alike, although he was a year older.”

The gorilla-like scullery boy appeared in the doorway, nodding and waving them forward, and they set out down a corridor lined with potted plants that ended in a stairway.

“Dr. Peavy’s at work in the cellar,” Pule said. “Aunt Leticia must have been the byword.” At the top of the stairs, Pule said, “Stay here, Jimmy, in case the Doctor has need of you. He mentioned wanting something from the chemist not long ago.”

Jimmy nodded and did as he was told. St. Ives followed Pule down a broad, well-lit stairs, looking down onto the top of his head. It appeared for all the world as if he had thread-like silver wires protruding from his scalp. Had he been victimized by Peavy? Certainly no one would be a willing participant in brain experimentation.

Then he wondered whether Pule had lied to him about having a brother – that he had recognized St. Ives from the first. If he had, of course, it might mean nothing at all. Dr. Peavy would scarcely be aware of Pule’s grievances. Still… He was certain that he could dispose of Jimmy, despite his evident strength, if he made a surprising, determined rush up the stairs and simply bowled through him, then straight out the door and around to the rear, where the alley gate stood open. But he could scarcely return with his friends after doing so. This entire venture would come to nothing.

They reached the bottom landing now, and turned up another corridor that led to a bright doorway. St. Ives followed Pule into what turned out to be a large surgical theater, on the floor of which a thin man who might have been thirty-five years old manipulated a series of wires that ran into a large, glass-fronted box on wheels, something that might have transported a zoo animal. The glare of the lamps obscured whatever it was that lay beyond the glass. A jolly-looking man sat in one of the theater seats, looking very much like the brothers Cheeryble out of
Nicholas Nickleby
. He stood up and bowed ceremoniously to St. Ives, and then stepped down the several stairs and extended his hand.

“Doctor Peavy, I presume,” St. Ives said, shaking it.

“Jules Klingheimer is my name, sir. Dr. Peavy is at work yonder. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Professor Langdon St. Ives?”

“Indeed,” St. Ives said.

“I’ve been keen to meet you for a good long time, sir. I feared that you were lost underground, however.”

“I found my way out, in fact.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Were you much knocked about? Your head has taken a shrewd blow, I fear.”

“That and sundry bruised ribs.”

“A tolerably small butcher’s bill, thank goodness. You supped well underground, I don’t doubt.”

St. Ives looked at the man, trying to make sense of this odd statement.

“You have the look of a man who ate a sandwich while exploring the underworld – ham and pickled onion, I’d guess, with mustard.” He paused to let this take effect. “I see that I’ve baffled you, sir. It’s merely my idea of what people commonly call ‘fun.’ Let me introduce you to Dr. Peavy. The man behind the glass window you know fairly well, I believe – our old friend Ignacio Narbondo, as alive as you and I, although ungrateful, alas.”

St. Ives followed him, noting that the lane to the open door was clear. Pule was looking into the box on wheels, his body shadowing the glass now, so that St. Ives could see into it. St. Ives spun around without a word and sprinted toward the door, cursing himself for a fool. There was a shout, but he didn’t look back. He took the stairs at a dead run, picturing Jimmy waiting at the top, and how he’d hit him. There Jimmy stood, feet planted wide, arms raised like a wrestler.

St. Ives hit him square on, running full tilt, as if no one at all blocked his way. Jimmy slammed sideways, hopping on one leg as he tried to find his balance. St. Ives spun around, his momentum diminished by the collision, and he shouldered Jimmy hard on the back, so that he flew forward, into the arms of Willis Pule, who went over backward, the two of them rolling down the stairs in a heap.

St. Ives was away again, running hard, through the kitchen door and toward the lobby. The man cutting up beef stared at him with a look of surprise on his face, and St. Ives, seeing the knife, yelled, “Fire!” at the top of his lungs. “The cellar is burning! Flee for your lives.” The man gave him a stupefied look, but did nothing at all, and St. Ives snatched up a heavy wooden rolling pin and went straight past him into the lobby, his eye on the man at the desk, who was rising now, no doubt having heard the shouting in the kitchen.

St. Ives slowed to a hurried walk, nodding pleasantly. “Give me the key, sir!” he commanded, but the man dodged away, and St. Ives was forced to knock him down. He yanked the key out of the man’s coat and leapt to the door, hearing the sound of a ruckus, probably in the kitchen. He stepped out and closed the door, taking a precious second to lock the door behind again, just as Pule and Jimmy rushed wildly into the lobby. He started around to the rear of a building, but saw immediately that the lanky man in the red cap – the driver of the van – was drawing the gate closed. St. Ives changed direction and walked briskly away toward the gate. The key in his pocket was half the size of the iron key that Pule had used to unlock the gate earlier. Could he scale the fence? Perhaps with a running start, although if he failed on the first attempt they would have him.

Then he saw that the gatekeeper was already unlocking the gate. He waved at St. Ives as he swung it open. St. Ives pitched his rolling pin into the verbena, wondering what had happened to Jimmy and Pule.

“Here you are again, Mr. Broadbent,” the gatekeeper said as he slipped the big key into his trousers pocket. When he removed his hand it held a pistol. He pointed it at St. Ives, shutting the gate behind him without looking back at it. He gestured toward the asylum with the pistol, the smile quite gone from his face now, and St. Ives knew absolutely that the old man would shoot him if he disobeyed.

TWENTY-FIVE

A
lice and Bill Kraken parted company from Mother Laswell on Fleet Street, the two of them bound for the newly built Metropolitan Police Station on Bow Street, Covent Garden, and Mother away down Whitefriars Street toward the river, in search of emanations in the environs of the infamous Mr. Klingheimer’s house on Lazarus Walk. They would meet at the entrance to Temple Church an hour hence, and then, if they missed the appointed time, at the top of the following hour.

“You take care, Mother,” Bill Kraken said. “This ain’t no time for cutting capers. If you see the man Shadwell, make certain he don’t see you. Lie low. That’s the byword, and we’ll all come home safe. I wish you had a pistol in that there bag of yours.”

“I’ve given up pistols, Bill. You know that,” Mother Laswell said to him. “I’ll take particular care. As for Shadwell, he certainly believes I’m dead. You do the same, Bill. Heed your own advice.” They stared at each other for a moment as if finding it difficult to part, which was something that Alice understood very well. As she watched Mother Laswell walk away, she wondered whether Hasbro’s notion of dividing their forces was indeed a good idea after all. They were spread thin, as the saying went, although surely there was little danger to her and Bill, who were merely chatting up the authorities for the particulars of James Harrow’s death, which should be a simple business.

They continued along the Strand now, and up Wellington Street, garnering odd glances from the people they passed. Alice was careful to walk beside Kraken, who had the habit of following behind when he accompanied Alice, as if he didn’t want to presume upon their friendship. She was anxious to avoid giving anyone the idea that she was being followed by a dangerous madman. He had a resolute look on his face, his eyes squinting, his fists clenched, his mouth working, his hair wild. It was a dangerous, rope’s-end look, as if he might break out at any moment into a rash act, which he very well might.

“I have a plan, Bill, for dealing with the police,” she said to him as they drew in sight of Bow Street Station, newly built of stone and with a low iron fence around it. An officer stood outside the door, and there were farm barrows moving past on the street – Covent Garden market starting to clear out, most of its business done in the early morning hours.

“I’d be happy if you allow me to deal with this matter of James Harrow. It won’t take but a moment for me to learn all there is to know.”

“I won’t lose sight of you, ma’am, not on your life. If you’re a-going inside that there station, then so am I.”

“It’s a
police
station, Bill. I couldn’t be safer. You, however, have much to lose if you run afoul of the police and were taken up. It would be the end of me if that happened. I don’t know what I would do. Think of what you told Mother not ten minutes ago about lying low. I’m asking you to heed your own advice, just as she did.”