Secrets of the Heart (12 page)

“Fair enough. Both you and Melton will accompany me. The rest of the students will care for the others here. One of the patients at the asylum is in need of medical attention.”

Ashcroft Asylum.
Devlin steeled his heart for what lay ahead.
They may as well send me straight to hell.

C
HAPTER 7

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

—S
HAKESPEARE
,
M
ACBETH
, A
CT
V, S
CENE
III

A
SHCROFT
I
NSANE
A
SYLUM
loomed in front of Devlin like a giant bird of prey. The rain had let up considerably overnight, yet a light drizzle continued to fall. It did little to improve the appearance of the menacing gray fortress surrounded by a high stone wall. A huge, black iron gate provided the only public entrance.

Devlin tried to convince himself he had nothing to fear as they approached the building. He was not successful. Each moment he came closer to the asylum, he gave up more and more of himself to the wretched place. The asylum seemed to possess his very soul.

The memories crashed in on him as though it were yesterday. He remembered arriving home from boarding school the summer after his eleventh birthday.

“So, you have returned.” His father frowned at him.

“Where is Mother?” Devlin asked, as he peered around his father to look for her. His heart beat like a drum in anticipation.

“Your mother was admitted to Ashcroft Asylum this spring. She is not herself.” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you, but you are old enough to understand. She is gone.”

“You are lying.” He shook off his father’s hand and took the stairs two at a time until he reached his mother’s room. “She must be here,” he said nervously, unwilling to accept his father’s words. Tears blurred his progress. “Mother! Mother!”

Devlin tugged open the door. Instead of the pleasant smell of his mother’s perfume, the musty odor of disuse assaulted him. White sheets covered the furniture like phantoms in residence.

His father entered the room. Devlin turned on him. “You did this! You never wanted her here. You never loved her. I hate you!”

“That’s enough, young man. You don’t understand.”

“That’s right. I don’t understand.” Tears coursed down his cheeks. Devlin glared at his father, showing him the rage he felt. “I want to see her!”

Again, his father placed a hand on Devlin’s shoulder. “You cannot,” he said, his voice cold. “I forbid it. Ashcroft is no place for a child.”

“Ashcroft is no place for my mother!” Devlin pushed the unwanted hand away. “Let her come home,” Devlin pleaded. “I want to see that she is all right. I must.”

“That is not possible. She is too sick to leave.” His father turned away. “You must accept it.”

“I will not accept anything until I see her for myself.”

The memory faded, but the anger and hurt lingered in his heart, stubbornly clinging to him, invisible cobwebs of pain. He shook his head to clear his mind, but still he saw the past looming in front of him, an unconquered demon.

Devlin had never entered the asylum to visit his mother; his father had held firm and refused. His letters went unanswered. He didn’t know what her day-to-day activities had been during that time. He’d imagined all kinds of horrors. No one dared talk about it, and then she had died. Now he would come face-to-face with what he’d feared most: the reality of asylum life.

Devlin struggled to maintain an appearance of calm that he did not feel. Emotions stampeded through him, out of control. He ached to turn back.

As they approached the main gate, a guard stepped from a small shelter. He did not appear to be a friendly sort and eyed them suspiciously. “What be yer business, gentlemen?”

“We are here to see Mr. Amos Sullivan,” Langford said. He gave the guard a dire look. “We are from the hospital. Sullivan wants us to take a look at one of the patients.”

“He told me ye was comin’. I just like to make sure. Can’t trust no one these days. The rich are always comin’ up with ways to spy on ’em that’s lost their wits. It amuses ’em.”

Devlin spoke up. “I can assure you, we have not come here to be amused. Nor do we find others’ suffering something to laugh about.”

“’Tis as it should be,” the guard said, pushing open the heavy iron gate. “Good luck to ye. Ye’ll be needin’ it when ye meet with Wiggins.”

They rode through the open gate. A chill of apprehension crawled up Devlin’s spine.

“What do you suppose he meant?” Melton asked. “This place gives me the shivers.”

“It means,” Langford said, “that we may anticipate… the unusual. I haven’t been here in years. They had a doctor, but I heard he left some time ago. They will have a hard time filling the position. Always do. Here’s Sullivan.”

Sullivan was a tall and gangly man whose mouth sagged at the ends humorlessly. What remained of his hair scattered across his head like a spider’s web. He looked more like a lunatic than any manager of an insane asylum should.

“Grayson, Melton, may I present Mr. Amos Sullivan, manager of Ashcroft Asylum. Mr. Sullivan, my students. Perhaps you can take one of them into your employ.”

“So good of you to come. Let us discuss the problem in my office. The stable boy will see to your horses.” He nodded to a tall, slender boy with dark circles under his eyes.

Sullivan turned and led the way through a long stone corridor. Devlin heard a great cacophony of sound muffled by the walls of the asylum: people talking, laughing, crying.

They entered Sullivan’s well-lit office. Immediately struck by the spaciousness of the area, Devlin thought the man enjoyed life a bit above his position. He’d imagined it would be small, stifling, and cluttered. Instead a cozy fire burned in the hearth, and the room emanated organization and comfort.

As if reading his thoughts, Sullivan said, “I try to keep my office as hospitable as possible since this is where I meet with family members.” He looked directly at Devlin. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

Langford chose a comfortable-looking wing chair, while Melton and Devlin found seats nearby. He wondered if the need for their presence had caused the commotion within or if disorder reflected normalcy for those committed.

Sullivan distanced himself behind his desk. “My most urgent need is for a patient named Andrew Wiggins. He usually keeps to himself, doesn’t cause trouble. Yesterday one of the guards teased him about Amanda, the girl who escaped. Said she ran away because of him. He went berserk. Nearly beat the guard to a pulp. Took another four guards to dislodge him.”

“You want us to repair the damage he caused?” Langford suggested.

“Yes, but there’s a bit more to it. Wiggins is in a secluded cell, injured. We couldn’t restrain him. Lucky to contain him at all. Amanda’s the only one that’s ever been able to calm him when he gets angry. He’ll need attention. It’ll take great skill and caution to deal with him.”

“Why?” Melton asked.

“He’s a large man and very strong,” Sullivan said.

Langford frowned. “We will do what we can, but I did not bring my students here to be injured. If it is too dangerous, we will not be able to assist you. Is that clear?”

Sullivan looked disgruntled. “Certainly, Dr. Langford. Now, if you please, follow me.”

The three of them followed Sullivan down a long cold corridor to a heavy oak door, the entrance to the asylum. Devlin thought about his mother. Fear washed through him. The guard opened the door as they approached. Devlin steeled himself. The voices grew louder, and the smell was a mixture of urine, stale air, and fear.

“The women’s area,” Sullivan said. “We have to pass through it to reach the cells.”

Devlin absorbed the surroundings. Women dressed in rags and well-attired women encircled him, some dancing, some touching his cheek, and others whispering things in his ear that made him blush. Women like this walked the steps his mother had walked. These were the sights she had witnessed every day, the odors she endured. The place she took her last breath. Panic clawed up his throat. He wondered how his father had left her in this ghastly prison.

Despite his revulsion he asked, “Why are these patients dressed so differently? I imagined they would all wear something similar.” Devlin studied a young woman dressed in rags curled up in a corner. Her sunken, bloodshot eyes misted with tears, and dark circles gave her the appearance of being so deeply haunted and lost that recovery might never occur.

“The families with money provide the clothes for them. The others are dependent on the charity of church folk and the like,” Sullivan explained.

“Why is that woman here?” Devlin asked, nodding in the direction of a patient who watched him intently from behind a long veil of gray hair.

“Melancholy. Many of the women have melancholy.

“This way, gentlemen,” Sullivan said. They continued past other patients. Sullivan stopped when they got to a large iron gate. “Open up, Henry. The doctor and his students are here to see Wiggins.”

“Right away, sir.” Henry opened the gate with a great rattling of keys. His beefy hands shook as he struggled. The door creaked open, as though it hadn’t been used in years. “G–good l–luck,” he stammered.

They filed in, and the gate clanged shut behind them. Devlin turned to find a look of relief on Melton’s ashen face.

What next?
Devlin’s nerves turned raw with the slamming gate ringing in his ears, a never-ending echo. The procession continued through a narrow windowless corridor damp with mold. No one spoke.

Sullivan pulled out a key for another door and inserted it in the ancient lock. He turned and addressed Langford. “Wiggins is on the other side confined to his cell. I don’t know how he will react to you. He doesn’t get visitors.”

Devlin watched apprehensively as Sullivan opened the door and allowed Langford and Melton to enter. He heard Melton gasp.

“What on earth?”

Devlin knew he must move forward, but his feet were leaden. A shove from Sullivan followed by a mumbled apology resolved the problem. Devlin stumbled into the chamber. He grabbed the bars to steady himself and immediately found his hand covered by another—a huge hand with long, dirty nails. Devlin slowly raised his head and looked up through the bars into the red-rimmed eyes of Andrew Wiggins.

His nails pressed into Devlin’s hand. Devlin found it hard to breathe. The man, if he could be called a man, stood over seven feet tall, his clothes ragged, torn, and much too small for him. Wiggins’s matted black hair, peppered with gray, fell below his waist. The wild mane partially covered what appeared to be features distorted by severe burns.

Devlin slowly righted himself but did not move his hand. His colleagues stood frozen. Their silence spoke their alarm.

Devlin cleared his throat. Wiggins tilted his head to one side much as a dog cocks his head when assessing someone. His long hair shifted to reveal a bulging eye. A long bloody gash sliced across his neck and disappeared into his shirt. Blood dripped from the bottom of his left sleeve and splattered large droplets onto the floor.

“Mr. Wiggins, we’ve come to help.”

Andrew Wiggins stared at him as though he were speaking a foreign language. Devlin imagined for a brief moment that no one had ever been kind to this man. “Let us help you.”

Devlin felt the pressure on his hand ease as Wiggins backed away. Trickles of blood appeared on his skin where the nails had made their deep impression. Still apprehensive, he left his hand on the bar, an attempt to reassure Wiggins.

Wiggins turned his attention to the others. Suddenly he threw himself against the bars. A growl escaped his tortured body. He raked the air, desperate to capture Sullivan in his grip.

“Get back, Wiggins.” Sullivan slammed backward into the wall. “Get back, now!”

Wiggins turned and slumped down on the dirty cot, leaning against the wall, defeated. He stared at the members of the group one by one. At that moment Devlin saw a spark of intelligence in the deformed features. Andrew Wiggins assessed them one by one.

“Now what do we do?” Melton asked. He was plastered against the wall in an awkward attempt to get as far away from the patient as possible.

“An interesting question,” Langford said, turning to Sullivan. “I told you I would not risk my students. It’s time to leave.”

“Wait.” Devlin still gripped the bars. “What will happen to him?”

“He’ll probably die of infection.” Sullivan brushed off a cobweb from his wrinkled suit. “I know
I
won’t be helping the monster.”

Devlin felt a strange sense of hopelessness for Wiggins. “I have an idea, Dr. Langford.”

“What would that be?” his instructor asked, an eyebrow arched in curiosity.