The Queen of Bedlam (34 page)

Greathouse frowned. “Must be a tremendous expense to keep all these people up.”

“This property was given to us by the colony and we have generous Christian benefactors who help with our costs,” Hulzen said through his shifting blue cloud. “The town of Westerwicke has been very supportive, as well. Their physician, Dr. Voormann, sees to the medical problems of our patients for a nominal fee. Some of the women there prepare the meals, again for a small fee. So yes, there is some expense involved, but we know that if this hospital were to fail, it would mean putting our patients out upon the road.”

“Well,” Greathouse said, and perhaps only Matthew could detect his unease, “I’m sure no one would want that.”

“We are modern in our approach,” said Ramsendell as Mariah returned bearing a tray with two pewter cups of cider and a wooden cup of tea. She set it down upon the table, Ramsendell thanked her, and then he returned his attention to Greathouse as she went back to her work. “You’ll note neither Curtis nor I wear checked shirts.”

Greathouse had already plucked up his cider and taken a drink. “Pardon?” he asked.

“Checked shirts,” Ramsendell repeated. “Medieval physicians wore checked shirts when they approached an insane person. They believed the demonic spirits of madness couldn’t get through the checked cloth into the soul.”

“Nice to know,” Greathouse said, with a quick grimace that had meant to serve as a polite smile.

“Your work here is very beneficial, I’m sure,” Matthew spoke up, “but I don’t see what we can do for you.”

“First things first.” Ramsendell drank from his tea and turned the cup between his hands. “Again, we appreciate the speed of your response, but I think Curtis and I would like to hear something about your agency before we go any further.”

Matthew nodded and remained silent while Greathouse held forth for the next five minutes on the history and purpose of the Herrald Agency, emphasizing their high standards and tradition of success in the field of “problem solving.” He recounted cases involving recovered jewels, artwork, stolen legal documents, missing persons, forged diplomatic papers, and also gave mention of an assassination attempt in London undone by himself just the past December. “But I have to inform you gentlemen,” he concluded, “that our professional services do not come cheaply. Our time, like yours, is valuable. We charge a flat fee for investigations and also require the payment of all expenses. Of course the fee will vary, according to the task.”

“Do you charge to hear the particulars of the problem?” Hulzen asked, puffing on his second pipeful.

“No sir,” Greathouse said. “We begin only when a contract of agreement is signed.”

The two doctors were silent. Matthew finished off his cider while waiting for them to speak again. Hulzen stared at the ceiling as he smoked his pipe and Ramsendell twined his fingers together before him on the table.

“We’re not sure you can help,” Ramsendell said at last. “Not sure at all, really.”

“You must have at least thought we could.” Greathouse leaned back in his chair, making the legs creak. “We’ve come a long way. We’d at least like to hear the problem.”

Ramsendell started to speak and then looked at Hulzen, who took one more draw from the pipe, expelled smoke in a thin stream, and said, “We have a young man-a resident of Westerwicke-who goes to New York to buy medical supplies for us at the Smith Street Apothecary. His last trip was on Thursday. He stayed overnight, at a boarding house in your town, and came back on Friday. He brought something with him that…well…” He glanced at Ramsendell as a prompt to continue.

“He had breakfast in a tavern there,” Ramsendell said, “and brought back a copy of your broadsheet.”

“The Earwig?” Matthew asked.

“The very same.” Ramsendell offered a tight smile that faded. “We have a patient who likes to be read to. A special patient, I suppose you could say.”

Greathouse tensed at that one. “Special? How?”

“Oh, certainly not violent. In fact, she’s extremely docile. The others call her the Queen.”

“The Queen?” Matthew recalled Jacob using that term outside.

“That’s correct.” Ramsendell watched Matthew’s eyes for a reaction. “Did you ever think that here you might meet a queen? The Queen of Bedlam, as it were?”

“Our problem,” said Hulzen, “is that we wish to find out who she is. Her proper name, and where she comes from. Her history, and…why she’s in her current state.”

“What state would that be?” Greathouse almost flinched as he waited for a response.

“Locked,” Ramsendell replied.

There was a silence. Smoke still drifted at the ceiling, and beyond in the other room the black-haired woman continued to diligently polish the gleaming glass vials.

“I think we ought to meet her,” Matthew said.

“Yes.” Ramsendell pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ll make the introductions.”

Twenty-Six

To the surprise of both Matthew and Greathouse, the two doctors did not lead them into the stone building after they left the office. Instead, they began walking on a pathway along the asylum toward the other house at the garden’s edge.

The light was dwindling. Poles that held lanterns were set up at intervals, as on the streetcorners of New York, and a gray-clad man with a bald pate was touching a match to the candlewicks. “Good evening, sirs,” said the man cheerfully as the group passed, and Dr. Ramsendell answered, “Evening, Charles.”

“That was another patient?” Greathouse asked when they’d distanced themselves. When Ramsendell nodded, Greathouse said, “Call me slow, but I’m not fully understanding why you’re letting lunatics out and about when they ought to be locked up.”

“As I said, we have an enlightened attitude here. Unlike the London asylums, which to be honest are so overburdened the doctors there have little choice but to throw all the patients together into one mass. I will admit that we take some risks in giving a few of our charges special privileges and responsibilities, but not without proper evaluation.”

“Don’t any of them try to run away if they get the chance?”

“We are very careful in assigning freedoms,” said Hulzen, who trailed smoke from his pipe. “It’s true that we had two escapes seven years ago, the first year we began operation, but on the whole the patients who are afforded tasks are pleased to be trusted. And of course we make sure their minds are firm enough to understand the consequences of imprudent action.”

“What might that be?” Greathouse prodded. “Whipping them until their backs are bloody?”

“Not at all!” There was a little heat in the response and smoke almost blew in Greathouse’s face. “We detest the primitive approach. The most drastic punishment here would be solitary confinement.”

“You might like to know,” Ramsendell added as they continued walking the length of the asylum, “that Charles and two other patients serve as night watchmen. Of course we do have a pair of men from Westerwicke who are paid to act as guards during the day.”

“Dr. Ramsendell!” someone called. It was a husky voice yet silkily pleasant. “Dr. Ramsendell, might I have a word?” The voice of a salesman, Matthew thought.

Instantly Ramsendell seemed to tense. His pace faltered, nearly causing Matthew to collide with him.

“Dr. Ramsendell, won’t you show a little Christian pity to a sick and sorrowful man?”

Matthew saw a face peering through the bars of one of the asylum’s unshuttered windows. The eyes caught his and held them with almost an unbreakable force, so much so that Matthew felt his own stride slowing to a stop.

“Oh!” said the man. He grinned. “Hello there, young dandy.”

“Come along, Mr. Corbett,” Ramsendell urged.

“Mr. Corbett, is it?” The grin widened, showing very large teeth. “Dr. Ramsendell is a very fine man and a wonderful physician, Mr. Corbett. If he says you need a stay here, you should well believe it is for your good and the good of all society. But beware his wrath, for one small lapse of judgment might mean you must eat your supper all alone.”

The others had stopped just beyond Matthew, and now Hulzen came back to his side and said quietly, “It’s best not to speak.”

“And Dr. Hulzen thinking not only am I mad, but also deef!” The man made a clucking sound and shook his head. “For shame!” He curled big-knuckled hands around the bars and pressed his face forward. He had a wide, square-jawed face with pale blue eyes that held such pure merriment no one would believe it was the moonshine of madness. His hair was straw-colored, parted straight up the middle and the sides turning to gray. His thick mustache was more gray than straw. He looked to be a large man, his head almost to the top of the window and his chest a massive bulk in the gray asylum uniform. His fleshy lips moved, wet with saliva. “I’ll repeat my offer to shave you, Dr. Ramsendell. I’ll polish that beard right off. Give your chin and throat a fine going-over. Eh?” He began to laugh, a frog’s croak from deep in that barrel chest, and suddenly the glint in his eyes caught red and for a passing instant Matthew thought he might be looking into the face of Satan himself. Then the glint went out like a fire under a trapdoor and the man’s voice, soft and salesmanlike again, reached out for him. “Step nearer, dandy. Let’s have a look at your throat.”

“Mr. Corbett?” Ramsendell stepped in front of Matthew and looked into his face, as if to shield him from a wicked spell. “We really should be going on.”

“Yes,” Matthew agreed. He felt sweat at his temples. “All right.”

“I’ll remember you!” the man behind the bars called as his audience walked away. “Oh, I’ll remember all of you!”

“Who in blazes was that?” Greathouse asked, glancing back once and then not daring to glance again because the big hands were running up and down the bars as if seeking a weak place to crack.

“That,” Ramsendell answered, and for the first time Matthew and Greathouse heard distaste-and perhaps a shudder of fear-in his voice, “was a problem we shall be ridding ourselves of soon. He was sent to us almost a year ago from the Quaker institution in Philadelphia. He’s more cunning than insane, I can tell you. He fooled me into giving him work privileges, and the first chance he got he tried to murder poor Mariah back at the red barn.” He motioned toward the road that led to the outbuildings. “Well, the Quakers have found out it seems he was a barber in London and he may have been involved with a dozen murders. We’re expecting a letter in the autumn instructing us to take him to the New York gaol to wait for ship transfer to England. A constable will of course be coming over as well to make sure he arrives in irons.”

“If it was up to me, I’d take him on the road and blow his brains out,” Greathouse said. “A pistol could save a lot of wasted money.”

“Unfortunately, we have signed a decree with the Quakers verifying that he will be delivered to New York in good health. On our Christian honor.” Ramsendell took another two steps and then said thoughtfully, “You know, if this business goes well with the Queen, you gentlemen might consider our hiring you to escort Mr. Slaughter to New York.”

“Mr. Slaughter?” Matthew asked.

“Yes. Tyranthus Slaughter. An unfortunate name though possibly well-deserved. But do consider that task if at all feasible, sirs. Just thirty-some miles. What could go wrong? Ah, here’s our destination.”

They had reached the house by the garden. Matthew smelled the scents of honeysuckle and mint. A few fireflies were sparking in the branches of the elm trees beyond. Ramsendell took a leather cord holding several keys from a pocket of his waistcoat, slid a key into the front door’s lock, and opened it. “Watch your step, gentlemen,” he said, though it was an unnecessary precaution for the open door had exposed a lamp-lit corridor with a long dark blue runner upon the floor. One lantern sat upon a small table and about midway along the corridor was a wrought-iron chandelier of four lamps, previously lit by-Matthew assumed-either Charles or one of the other trustees. As Matthew followed the two doctors in-and Greathouse lagged a few steps behind as if mistrustful of this unknown but perfectly normal-looking residence-he noted four closed doors, two on either side of the hall.

“This way, please.” Ramsendell continued to the last door on the right. He rapped softly on it, waited a few seconds, and then said, “Madam? It’s Dr. Ramsendell and Dr. Hulzen. We’ve brought two visitors to meet you.” There was no response. He looked at Matthew. “She never answers but we think she appreciates the formality.” He pushed another key into the lock and turned it. “Also we do respect her privacy.” Then, louder, and aimed toward the lady within: “I’m opening the door now, madam.”

That particular action also brought neither word nor rustle of motion. The doctors entered first, then Matthew and a decidedly timid Greathouse. Matthew caught another sweet scent; not of the garden this time, but rather of some flowery perfume or oil within the room. It was still dim here, blue twilight spilling between the open shutters of two windows. Matthew saw that the windows in this chamber were not barred, but were wide to the evening and the outside world. One faced the garden, while another was situated toward the forest where the fireflies pulsed.

Hulzen lit a match. He touched it to the triple candlewicks of a lantern that sat upon a table below the garden-facing window. The flames strengthened, illuminating in gold what appeared to be the parlor of any well-kept house in New York. But more than well-kept, Matthew decided as he gazed around. Richly maintained would be more accurate, for on the floor was a beautiful rug of small purple, gray, and blue squares, and upon the pale blue-painted walls were paintings within gleaming gilt frames. Hulzen went about lighting a second three-candle lantern that stood on a pedestal across the room, now revealing a white-canopied bed with ornate scrollwork, a pair of high-backed chairs with gray upholstery, and a round oak table that bore at its center a wooden bowl holding a few ripe apples and pears. Near the bed was a large wardrobe of some dark and luxurious wood so sinuously jointed that Matthew thought it must have been crafted by a true master’s hand and cost a small fortune. Little red flowers and green leaves had been meticulously painted around the edges of the wardrobe’s doors, which were opened by a latch that appeared to be if not pure gold then very near it.

Hulzen lit a third lamp. Its glow spread upon the opposite side of the room from which Matthew and Greathouse stood. Illuminated was a small fireplace, cold now in the midst of summer. What was remarkable there was the fireplace screen, an intricate golden metalwork of tree branches upon which perched painted birds-cardinal, robin, bluebird, and white dove-in richly daubed original colors. Above the mantel was a framed painting that Matthew stepped closer to see; it depicted a scene of the waterways of Venice at what seemed to be blue sunset much like the current horizon.

He swept his gaze across other objects, his mind taking in a treasure of details: small bottles with blown-glass flower caps sitting atop a dresser, a silver hairbrush and handmirror beside them; a set of six little horses that looked to be carved from ivory; thimbles arranged in perfect order beside a pair of spectacles; on another small table a Bible, a stack of slim pamphlets, and…yes, there was the latest Earwig too.

“May I introduce you?” asked Dr. Ramsendell.

Matthew looked up from his discoveries. Ramsendell was standing next to the window that afforded a view toward the forest. Beside him was the high back of a dark purple chair, and now both Matthew and Greathouse could see that someone with white hair was sitting there.

Ramsendell was speaking to the woman in the chair. “Madam,” he said in a quiet voice, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Hudson Greathouse and Mr. Matthew Corbett. They’ve ridden from New York to see you. Would you come forward, gentlemen?”

“After you,” Greathouse said under his breath.

Matthew approached Ramsendell, as Dr. Hulzen stepped back and watched.

“This is our Queen, sirs. We call her ‘Madam,’ for the sake of propriety.”

Matthew stopped. He was looking down at a small-boned, frail woman who paid him not the least notice, but who continued staring out the window at the display of sparkling lights in the trees. He thought she must be well over sixty. Sixty-five, possibly. Closer to seventy? It was hard to tell. She was almost swallowed up by her silken homegown, which was the pink hue of the palest rose. On her feet were slippers of the same material and color but adorned with small bows. The woman had a cloud of thick, neatly brushed white hair, and her face, which Matthew saw in profile, was heavily lined yet innocent and almost childlike in its repose. She stared straight ahead, her soft brown eyes glittering with lamplight. She was focused entirely upon the dance of the fireflies. Below an uptilted, elegant nose her mouth moved occasionally as Matthew watched, as if she were posing questions to herself, or making some observation that was silent to her audience. Her hands, which clasped the armrests, bore no rings and neither did she wear any necklaces or other personal statements of fashion. Or statements of identity, Matthew thought.

“Does she have a wedding ring?” he asked, thinking aloud.

“She arrived with no jewelry,” Ramsendell said, “but all the furnishings here came with her. We have taken the liberty of searching for letters or any other identifying papers. Nothing gives us any clue as to who she might be, though it’s obvious she is-was-a woman of means.”

“No name or initials in the Bible?”

“A new volume, it appears. Not even a fingermark on it.”

“Maker’s marks on the furniture?”

“Someone thought of that,” Hulzen said. “The marks have either been rubbed away or, where they were burned into the wood, cut out with a small chisel.”

Greathouse came forward and stood beside Matthew. “Can she hear us?” It had been spoken in what for him was nearly a whisper.

“She can hear perfectly well. But rarely does she respond to anything, and then it’s either a quick ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or-at best-some cryptic statement neither Curtis nor I can fathom.”

Matthew saw the woman cock her head slightly to the left, as if listening a little more intently, but her placid gaze did not change and she made no further motion. Since it appeared that Hudson Greathouse was paralyzed in the presence of the mentally infirm, Matthew decided it was up to him to steer the course. “I think we ought to be told the whole story.”

Ramsendell nodded. He regarded the woman with a tender expression as he spoke. “She came to us in April of 1698-”