Anne Perry - Seven Dials

“All right, Pitt!” Narraway said abruptly. “You don’t need to spell it out for me!” He rose to his feet in a single, smooth movement, the last of his sandwich still in his hand. “Yeats is dead, Lovat murdered, Sandeman has lost himself in Seven Dials, and now it seems Garrick is in a lunatic asylum with nightmares that have driven him mad.” He picked up his glass and drained the claret. “We had better go and fetch him. See if we can get any sense out of him.” He looked meaningfully at the glass in Pitt’s hand.

Pitt was not going to leave a claret of that quality behind. It was a pity not to savor it, but there was no time. He drank it quickly and put the glass on Narraway’s table.

Narraway ate the rest of his sandwich as they reached the door and he took his coat from the stand.

Outside, he walked briskly to the end of the street and hailed a hansom, Pitt only a stride behind him. He gave the driver a one-word command: “Bedlam!”

The hansom lurched forward and Pitt was thrown against the back of his seat. He said nothing; he would find the answers to all his questions as to how they would accomplish their task when they reached Bedlam.

It was quite a long journey, and it was not until they were rattling over Westminster Bridge, the lamps along the Embankment reflecting patchily through the mist onto the river, that Narraway at last spoke.

“Agree with anything I say, and be prepared to move quickly if necessary,” he commanded. “Stay close by me; on no account allow us to be separated. Do not act arbitrarily, no matter what happens. And do not allow your emotions to distract you, however humane or commendable.”

“I have been to Bedlam before,” Pitt said dryly, refusing to permit the memory of it into his imagination.

Narraway glanced at him as they reached the end of the bridge and started climbing the rise on the other side, past the railway line running into Waterloo Station. At Christ’s Church, they swung right into Kennington Road, where the huge mass of the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital loomed against the night sky.

The hansom stopped, and Narraway gave the driver a sovereign and told him to wait. “There’ll be four more for you if you are here when I need you,” he said grimly. “And your licence canceled if you are not. Wait as long as you need to. I may be a short time, or I may be hours. If I have not come out by midnight, take this card and go to the nearest police station and fetch half a dozen uniformed constables.” He passed a card over to the man, who was sitting wide-eyed and by now seriously alarmed.

Narraway strode over the path and up the steps to the front entrance of the hospital, Pitt half a pace behind him. They were met immediately by an attendant who barred the way firmly and politely. Narraway informed him that he was on a government matter to do with the security of the nation, and he had a royal warrant to pursue his business wherever it took him. One of the inmates had information urgently needed, and he must speak with him without any delay whatsoever.

Pitt’s stomach sank as he realized just what a risk they were taking. He had accepted without question that Charlotte was right, and Garrick was here. If she was mistaken and he was in some other asylum, Spitalfields, or even a private institution, then Narraway was not going to forgive him for it. He was startled when he realized just how completely Narraway had trusted him, even more when he remembered that it was actually Charlotte’s word he was taking.

“Yes, sir. And who would that be?” the man asked.

“He came here in the early morning in the second week of September,” Narraway replied. “A young man who brought a servant with him. He could be suffering delirium, nightmares and the effects of opium. You cannot have had more than one like him that week.”

“You don’t know his name, sir?” The man scowled.

“Of course I know his name!” Narraway snapped. “I do not know by what name he was admitted here. Don’t pretend to be a fool. I have already informed you that I am on Her Majesty’s business of state. Do I need to spell out more for you?”

“No, no, sir, I…” The man did not know how to finish the sentence. He swiveled around and scuttled off across the hallway and then turned right, along the first wide corridor, Narraway on his heels.

Pitt’s mouth was dry and he was gulping air as he followed them through empty passages with blind walls and locked doors on either side. He heard muffled moaning, laughter rising higher and higher and ending in a shriek. He wanted to drive it from his head, but he could not.

Finally they arrived at the end of the wing and the attendant hesitated, fishing for the keys on his belt, glancing nervously at Narraway.

Narraway gave him an icy stare, and the man fumbled, poking the key blindly, stabbing at the hole until Pitt could sense Narraway on the edge of snatching it from him.

The key slid in and turned the lock at last. Pitt half expected to hear screaming and braced himself for the attempted escape of a lunatic. Instead the door swung wide open to show two straw mattresses on the floor, one occupied by a figure crouched over, head half buried in a gray blanket, hair wild, and what they could see of his face unshaven.

On the other mattress a man sat up slowly and blinked at them, his eyes full of fear and a kind of despair, as if he no longer even hoped for anything except more pain. But there was still reason in him, at least at the moment.

“What is your name?” Narraway said, immediately stepping half in front of the attendant and preventing him from moving forward. He was addressing the sitting man. His voice was firm, but there was no harshness in it, only a tone that demanded answer.

“Martin Garvie,” the man replied huskily. His eyes pleaded for belief, and the fear in him cut Pitt like a knife.

Narraway took a long, slow breath. When he spoke again his voice shook a little in spite of the masklike control in his face. “And I presume that is your master, Stephen Garrick?” He gestured towards the wretched creature still huddled on the other mattress.

Garvie nodded warily. “Please don’t hurt him,” he begged. “He doesn’t mean any harm, sir. He can’t help his manner. He’s ill. Please…”

“I have no intention of harming him,” Narraway said, then gulped as if he could barely catch his breath. “I’ve come to take you somewhere better than this… safer.”

“You can’t do that, sir!” the attendant protested. “It’s more than my job’s worth to let you-”

Narraway swung around on him, his eyes blazing. “It’s more than your neck is worth to stand in my way!” he threatened. “I can wait for the police, if you insist, but I can promise you that you will regret it if you force me to go that way. Don’t stand there like an idiot or they’ll lock you up in here too!”

Perhaps it was the last suggestion, but the man dissolved in terror. “No, sir! I swear, I’m an honest citizen! I-”

“Good,” Narraway cut him off. He turned to Pitt. “Lift that fellow up and assist him out.” He indicated Garrick, who had not moved, as if the entire intrusion had barely penetrated his consciousness.

Pitt remembered the stricture to obey absolutely, and walked over to the recumbent man. “Let me help you to your feet, sir,” he said gently, trying to sound like a servant, a familiar and unthreatening figure. “You need to stand up,” he encouraged, sliding his hands under the man’s shoulders and easing up what was almost deadweight. “Come on, sir,” he repeated, straining his back to lift.

The man moaned as if in intense pain, and Pitt stopped abruptly.

The next moment Garvie was beside him, bending over. “He’s here to help you, sir!” he said urgently. “He’s taking us to a better place. Come on, now! You’ve got to help! We’re going to be safe.”