The Asylum (37 page)

“Your two patients who died of seizures. Frederic told me.”

“Are you saying that he
knows?
”

“He—he suspects.”

Dr. Straker stared up at me.

“No,” he said at last, “I don’t believe you. Frederic is incapable of concealing anything from me.”

“But
I
know,” I said. “You have just admitted it, and now you mean to murder me.”

“Upon my honour, Miss Ashton, you are mistaken! You may call this murder if you will,” he said, gesturing toward Lucia’s body, “though I prefer to think of it as self-defence; she would happily have murdered
you.
But the others, no; I meant to cure, not kill them. Both men were in the grip of incurable melancholia, and had been so for years. Both had tried repeatedly to end their own lives; one had spent more than half his adult life in a straitjacket. And we have—or had—no effective treatment for such patients. None whatsoever. For all my experience and training—in theirs and so many other cases—I might as well have been the proprietor of a country hotel.

“And then—why should I not tell you, since you will not remember?—I had been experimenting with galvanic stimulation of the brain, and thought I might as well try it upon the younger of the two. With the dynamo recently installed, I had all the power I needed at my disposal, and also the means of controlling it precisely. At the accepted levels, the treatment had no effect whatever, but as I increased the voltage, he began to report some relief. The benefit, however, was fleeting. I raised the level still further—and induced a seizure.

“When my patient regained consciousness, he had lost all memory of the treatment, and of the fortnight preceding it; so far as he could recall, he had never set foot in this room. And for the first time in years, he was free of his affliction; the black cloud had lifted from his mind. The remedy that had eluded so many had been delivered into my hands.

“But I have seen too many false dawns. I watched, and waited, and kept my counsel, and all too soon, the darkness began to encroach again. I decided to risk another treatment, and this time, the seizure proved fatal.

“Judge me if you will, Miss Ashton, but what else could I have done? On the one hand was the certainty that, without my intervention, the man was doomed to a life of torment and would sooner or later make away with himself. On the other was at least the possibility of a cure. I dared not confide in anyone; if the Commissioners had heard of it, we might have lost our licence. But I vowed that my patient’s death would not be in vain.”

Dr. Straker’s gaze had not left my face. He was standing no more than five paces from the foot of the stairs, his head thrown back. He seemed to be summoning all of his eloquence; his voice had grown louder as he went on, until it echoed like a preacher’s in the darkness overhead. Surely, I thought, the attendants must be searching the grounds for me? Clutching my makeshift weapon, I kept as still as I could, praying that someone would overhear him.

“For the next few months, I devoted every moment I could spare to testing and refining the apparatus. I felt certain there must be a level at which the memory of past suffering would be purged altogether, the mind cleansed of its morbid tendencies, the patient freed to begin life anew—and so I ventured to try it upon the older man. You may recoil, Miss Ashton, but consider: you can establish how much power it takes to stun a rat, and how much more to kill it. But you cannot ask the rat if it recalls the shock, or whether its state of mind is in any way improved. For that, you must have a human subject: how else can the science of mind ever advance?

“This time I proceeded with the utmost caution, raising the voltage so gradually that he recovered from the initial seizure within minutes, but still with no recollection of what had happened. And again, the relief from melancholia was short-lived. I induced two more, at slightly higher voltages, and was on the verge of proving my theory, when—it was a fault in the apparatus, a fault I have since eliminated, but sadly too late for my patient.

“But I had kept my vow; their deaths were
not
in vain, Miss Ashton, for I had learnt exactly how much power I could safely employ, and I had perfected my apparatus, albeit at grievous cost. And so, when it became necessary to—eliminate your memory of certain events—I was able to proceed with confidence. It was, as I said, a textbook demonstration; I only wish the Commissioners could have witnessed the proceedings.

“And now, Miss Ashton, now that I have been absolutely candid, you must be able to see that I mean you no harm. I understand your reluctance, but you must think of the greater good. If I were to release you now, my work would be lost, my reputation ruined, and Tregannon Asylum bankrupted. Frederic would lose his inheritance; and besides all that, I should very likely be hanged for murder. Whereas you need only undergo a brief, painless treatment for all these unpleasant consequences to be averted.

“Now—will you come down, or must I fetch you?”

The floor seemed to be dropping away beneath my feet. I dared not reply, for fear of betraying my weakness.

“No? Then I fear I must disarm you. You have the advantage of position, but I have always fancied myself at singlesticks. I shall try not to hurt you any more than—”

He was interrupted by the jangling of a bell on the wall behind him.

“That will be Frederic; I told him my engagement in Bristol had been cancelled. He knows not to ring unless the matter is urgent, but it will have to wait.”

Crossing to a stand by the vestry door, he drew out a heavy blackthorn stick and moved toward the stairs. All the blood seemed to drain from my body.

The bell rang again, more insistently. Muttering irritably, he strode over to it and stabbed with his finger at a bell-push.

“That should silence him.”

“But now he knows you are here,” I said desperately. I took a deep breath and cried, “Frederic!” thinking he must be close by, but Dr. Straker merely laughed.

“That is an electric bell, Miss Ashton. Frederic is in the asylum; if you had a steam whistle, he would not hear you.”

“But he knows I have escaped; he will wonder why you are not directing the search.”

“He may wonder all he likes. You will be found unconscious in the wood, close by Miss Ferrars’ body, as it will seem; he will blame himself for defying me.”

In a few strides he had reached the foot of the stairs. The railing shook; I leant forward, raising the length of wood, and flung it like a spear at his upturned face. He tried to fend it off, but it struck him lengthwise across the forehead; his stick clattered to the floor, and he slid back down the stairs, clutching at the railing. I was back at the head of the stairs with another piece in my hand, shaking like a leaf but determined now to survive, before he had recovered his balance.

“You leave me no choice,” he said, breathing hard. “I meant every word: I would have spared your life, but you have made that impossible.”

He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, turned toward his desk, and froze.

“I should have known better. Throw down those papers while you still have the chance.”

I made no reply. He moved out of sight beneath the gallery, and I heard the scrape of a key. When he reappeared, he had a pistol raised in his right hand.

“You cannot escape me, Miss Ashton. I promise I will not shoot you if you come quietly.”

I flung the wreckage at him and recoiled from the opening. The crash reverberated around the tower; but the echoes did not cease. Someone was pounding on the vestry door.

“Damnation,” he muttered. There was a brief silence, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps as the hammering resumed. I peeped over the balustrade, just as he turned to look up at me. His face was very pale, and there was a smear of blood across his forehead.

“Be silent, and you may yet live,” he said, slipping the pistol into his coat pocket. A moment later he had reached the door, but he did not open it.

“Frederic!” he shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”

I heard a muffled reply but could not make out the words.

“Go back to the house! I will join you shortly!”

The reply evidently did not please him.

“Frederic! I insist that you return to the house!”

Another flurry of hammering.

He turned the key in the lock and braced himself. The door, I remembered, opened outward: he evidently meant to force Frederic back and confront him on the other side. But the door was wrenched from his grip, and Frederic, lantern in hand, burst into the room.

“Dr. Straker, you must come
now!
We have searched every . . .”

He set down his lantern, took a few tentative steps toward the invalid chair, and froze, transfixed by the sight of Lucia’s body.

“In God’s name, sir, what have you done?”

Dr. Straker’s hand went to his coat pocket. I tried to scream but could not utter a sound.

“She would have ruined us—everything we have worked for.”

Frederic turned to face him and caught sight of the pistol in his hand, the barrel downward to the floor.

“You—you murdered her?”

“If you had only obeyed me, you need never have known.”

Frederic took a step toward him. Dr. Straker half raised the pistol. Then his shoulders sagged, and his hand fell to his side.

“Enough,” he said wearily. “Miss Ferrars has defeated me.”

He contemplated the weapon for a moment, and with a faint, ironic smile, laid it carefully on the bench beside the lantern.

“Frederic,” I said, finding my voice at last. He stared as if mesmerised while I descended, weak from the reaction. Dr. Straker, too, stood motionless until I had come up beside Frederic. Then he bowed to me, extended his hand to Frederic (who shook it mechanically), and crossed to the cabinet on the wall, taking up the leather coronet as he passed.

“You should leave now,” he said, settling the coronet over his head and turning to the cabinet. With wires trailing from his head and hands, he looked like the high priest of some bizarre sect, dedicated to the worship of electricity. The vibration crept back into my bones, gathering power as I watched. Frederic stood mute. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died on my lips. Dr. Straker raised his right hand and was flung into the air, where he seemed to hang for an instant, his arms outstretched and smoke curling from his temples, before he crashed to the floor.

The vibration did not cease. It rose in pitch and volume until it sounded like a swarm of angry hornets. Flames burst from the cabinet, followed by a vicious blue flash; then silence.

All the lights went out, except for the lantern and the yellow flames licking at the wall. Acrid fumes caught at my throat; I smelt burnt hair and flesh.

“We must run,” said Frederic, waking from his trance and urging me toward the door. I stopped beside the chair, looking down at Lucia. Her cloak had fallen open again, revealing my brooch; I had not given it a thought until that moment.

“We cannot leave her,” I said.

“We must. She is beyond our help; we will never get her through the tunnel.”

I went to unpin my brooch, and found that I could not bear to.

“Please let us try.”

“Then we must leave by the other door.”

He darted across the room, returning with the lantern and a bunch of keys.

“Let me,” I said, and wheeled her toward the far corner, where I held the lantern while Frederic tried one key after another. Burning fragments spilled from the cabinet, sending flames licking along the bench. As the lock turned over, I heard a muffled explosion, followed by a flare of white light. Liquid fire raced across the floor; I caught a glimpse of Dr. Straker’s body lying in a sea of flame.

“This way!” cried Frederic, slamming the door behind him. The chair lurched and swayed; I had a fleeting impression of rough stone walls, mottled with damp, as we stopped at the last door. Again I held the light while he wrestled with bolts and bars. Lucia’s head was hanging over the side of the chair; as I leant forward to straighten it, I saw the flicker of a pulse—faint, but unmistakable—in her throat.

We emerged into a confusion of lights, and voices shouting above the clangour of fire bells. Every window in the tower was pulsing with a fierce orange glow; men with lanterns converged upon us as we wheeled Lucia toward the dark bulk of the asylum. Someone recognised Frederic and called for orders.

“Dr. Straker is dead!” he shouted. I could barely hear him above the roar of the fire. “Too late to save . . . Bring water . . . Demolish the cloister and defend the house . . . Run to the wards . . . Get the patients ready . . . Evacuate in case it spreads.”

A window burst in a shower of glass, and smoke boiled upward; the noise of the fire redoubled.

“Round to the voluntary wing,” said Frederic. “They can take her up to the infirmary from there. If it’s safe.”

We hastened along the gravel walk between the two buildings and halted within sight of the entrance I had left only a few hours before. The old house had been dark as we passed, but now the upper window nearest the tower began to glow, and then the next, and the next. Frederic was shouting to someone nearby. Two attendants ran up and hurried Lucia away; a hand plucked at my sleeve, and I saw that it was Bella, with Frederic urging me to follow. I had forgotten that I was bloodstained, dishevelled, and filthy; I had forgotten even my exhaustion, but now the weight of it descended as if my bones had turned to lead. Leaning on Frederic’s arm, I heard him say something about a bed in the stables, and wondered if he meant me to sleep in the ruin, until we set off along the side of the building, toward the main gate.

Doors were opening all along the wall ahead of us, with people spilling out of them in every form of attire from dress clothes to nightshirts: doctors, lunatics, voluntary patients and attendants, mingled indiscriminately in the glow of the burning tower, swarming into the night.

I woke in a strange bed, with a coarse blanket prickling my neck, feeling as if I had fallen down a staircase. For a few terrible moments I was back in the infirmary, with the nightmare beginning again. Then a chair creaked and I opened my eyes, to find myself in a whitewashed attic room, with rain pattering against the window, my brooch and writing case on a little table by the bed, and Bella sitting beside me. The asylum, she told me, had been saved, but Mr. Edmund had died from the shock of it all; Mr. Frederic was the master now, and very anxious to see me. “And yes, miss”—it was plain she did not know what to call me—“the other lady” was alive, though still unconscious; they had carried her across to the infirmary as soon as it was safe.