Anne Perry - Seven Dials

“Charlotte-” he began.

“He’s in Bedlam!” she interrupted.

It had the effect she had intended. His eyes widened and some of the color drained from his face. “Are you certain?” he said quietly.

“No,” she admitted. “But it fits all the facts that we have. Stephen Garrick suffered terrible nightmares, far worse than ordinary people’s, and they went on even when he was waking, delusions of blood and fire and screaming. He had uncontrollable fits of temper and weeping.” Her words fell over each other. “He drank too much to try to rid himself of whatever it is that tormented him, and he took opium. Martin Garvie knew all about it, because he was the only one who could help him. But he was losing control of the situation, and he went to Sandeman to ask his advice, but there was nothing Sandeman could do either. And it was shortly after that that Stephen Garrick, and Martin, left Torrington Square early in the morning, without proper luggage, yet did not leave London in any way that we can trace. And the carriage returned to Torrington Square within a few hours, so either they traveled on by public means or they did not go far.”

He stood still, turning over in his mind what she had said. She saw the gravity in his face. If he was going to criticize her for going back to Seven Dials, it was going to be long after this was dealt with.

“Can we get him out?” she said quietly. “Martin, at least, doesn’t belong there. I know he may have gone originally to help Garrick, but he wouldn’t have done it willingly without letting Tilda know. That proves there is something badly wrong.”

“Yes, it does,” he agreed, but she could see he was still deep in thought. “But we must be careful. Someone had the authority to place Garrick there. That can only have been his father.”

“For Stephen Garrick, yes, but he had no right to put Martin there!” she protested. “At least not morally. I suppose he’s a servant, so legally-”

“Yes… I know that,” he interrupted. “But we must be careful.”

“Get Mr. Narraway to do it!” she said urgently. “At least to be there. You need Stephen Garrick because he was in Alexandria with Lovat, and now that Yeats is dead as well…” She trailed off. A hideous thought was filling her mind and she could see it in his eyes also. “Do you think that’s why his father put him there?” she whispered. “To protect him? Is someone from Egypt after them all? Are his nightmares actually terror?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But it is possible…”

She heard the unhappiness in his voice. “You don’t want it to be her-do you?” she said gently.

“No… no, I don’t. But it looks more and more like it. I heard what happened in court today.” His face filled with distaste. “I don’t know if it is what Ryerson wants, but his defense is doing everything they can to blacken Lovat’s name. I suppose it is to cause reasonable doubt that there could be many others who wanted to kill him. I can’t see it doing much good. Ayesha Zakhari was at Eden Lodge. Surely anyone else who killed Lovat out of passion would hardly follow him around at three in the morning into someone else’s garden.”

She realized as he said it that he was admitting a kind of defeat. He had not wanted Ryerson or Ayesha to be guilty. He had performed every contortion of reason to argue another solution, and had at last run out of the power to delude himself any further.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, putting out her hand to touch him. “But let us at least save Martin Garvie?”

“Yes… yes, of course. I’ll go and find Narraway now. Thank you for that.” He smiled bleakly, taking her hand and holding it with exquisite gentleness. “I’ll deal with the issue of your going back to Seven Dials later.” And he kissed her very softly before he turned to leave.

PITT LEFT KEPPEL STREET with his mind whirling. Bedlam! If Ferdinand Garrick had committed his son to an asylum whose very name was a byword for horror, then he must have had a powerful reason to do so. Was Stephen Garrick insane? There had been no mention of any kind of mental weakness in his military record; in fact, it had been excellent. He had shown courage and initiative, physical prowess and mental agility. He was perhaps the most promising of the four.

Pitt strode down towards the Tottenham Court Road and hailed a cab, climbing in and shouting Narraway’s address.

If Garrick was indeed mad now, what had driven him to it? Was it overuse of opium? Why had he taken to drinking excessively and smoking a substance that distorted the emotions and perceptions?

Or had he seen something in Egypt which had driven Yeats to the recklessness which had ended in his death, Sandeman into a kind of exile in Seven Dials, and Lovat to be the victim of murder? Had Ferdinand Garrick consigned his only son to Bedlam to protect his life?

From whom? Ayesha Zakhari? In God’s name-why?

That thought was still repellent to him, but he could no longer ignore it. The evidence had to be faced.

He reached the street where Narraway lived, alighted, paid the driver, and strode across the wet footpath in the mist. There was no echo to his footsteps; everything was muffled. On the step of Narraway’s house he pulled the lion-headed doorbell.

It was answered by a discreet, gray-haired manservant who recognized him immediately.

“Good evening, Mr. Pitt,” he said, stepping back to allow him in. He had no need to question what Pitt was there for, or if it were urgent. He saw the answer to both in Pitt’s face before he preceded him across the hall and knocked briefly on the door of the study before opening it.

“Mr. Pitt, to see you, sir,” he announced.

Narraway was sitting in an armchair with his stocking feet on a stool, and a plate of sandwiches on a small table at his elbow. A cut-glass goblet of red wine sat next to the plate.

“This had better be worth it,” he said with his mouth full.

The manservant retreated and closed the door behind him.

Pitt sat down in the other chair, after pulling it around a couple of feet to face Narraway.

Narraway sighed. “Pour yourself some claret.” He gestured towards the bottle on the sideboard. “Glasses in the cupboard.”

Pitt stood up again and obeyed, watching the dark liquid reflecting facets of silvery light as it filled the bowl. “Charlotte found Martin Garvie and Stephen Garrick,” he announced.

Narraway gasped and then coughed as his sandwich went down the wrong way. He jerked forward in his chair and reached for his wine.

Pitt smiled to himself. It was exactly what he had intended.

Narraway swallowed hard, cleared his throat and sat back. “Indeed?” he said, not quite as gratingly as he would have done had he not choked. “It seems you do not have your wife under control after all. Are you going to tell me where he is, or do I have to guess?”

Pitt turned around with the claret and came back to sit down before replying.

“Actually she went to see Sandeman again.” He made no comment on her lack of obedience to instructions. He crossed his legs comfortably and sipped. The claret was extraordinarily good, but he would have expected no less from Narraway. “She persuaded him to tell her the truth, or at least some of it. Garvie confided in Sandeman that Garrick was in a very bad way indeed with nightmares and delirium. Sandeman is almost certain that both he and Garvie have been taken to Bedlam.” He ignored the horror in Narraway’s face and continued. “Garvie perhaps unwillingly, since he apparently has had no opportunity to tell his family. It fits with all the facts we know. The question is, do Garrick’s nightmares stem from his use of opium, some madness inherent in or, far more seriously, from something that happened during his service in Egypt? And-”