Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

Upwitch and Graham crept out of the church and looked about. There were no deputies waiting to arrest them amongst those who had assembled on the steps and front lawn — a ruffled and rattled congregation of Milltowners trying to cobble some meaning from what they had just heard. Their number included the school headmaster Alphonse Chowser and his cook Maggy Finching, and the orphaned boy Jack.

“What is happening, Vicar?” asked Chowser, speaking for the group. “Nothing good, Mr. Chowser. For now, though, we must keep the people calm. Take those who will go with you into the church. The church has always been our refuge and it will prove to be so in its most literal sense to-day.”

“My school was burnt down last night, Reverend Upwitch. Do you think that those who did this now intend to do even greater harm to this town?”

“I do, Mr. Chowser. I think that what we’ve just heard is only a prelude to that which is to come. For now, I would advise that you spread the word to all that you can to come together here. There is strength in numbers, sir, and power to be gained from the Lord’s offices.”

Chowser nodded. Maggy had stepped away from him. She looked about, a distressful shadow crossing her face. “Maggy, help me do as the vicar advises. Help me direct these people into the church.”

“I must find Vincent.”

“In time, dear woman. I need your help here and now.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Maggy, taking the hand of a frightened old woman. “Into the church, madam. There is safety there.”

Mr. Howler’s voice could be heard outside the door of the attic room. “I cannot let you out, Muntle. Dr. Towlinson has forbidden it. It’s a preposterous request.”

“And what if there is no more Dr. Towlinson?” asked George Muntle. “What are you talking about—‘no Dr. Towlinson’? Don’t be daft. Keep yourselves quiet. I know that you have missed your dinner. I’ll try to find you something to eat and put it through the slot at the bottom of the door. I assume that this is how Towlinson delivers your meals.”

“No, Mr. Yowler,” said Mr. Bolo with twitting bite, “he generally glides in wearing a waiter’s habiliments, and we all sit politely as he tucks a bib beneath each of our chins.”

“Silence, man!” chid George Muntle, casting daggers at his darkly droll attic companion.

“Mr. Howler, ’tis Professor Chivery here. Attend me, sir. There is no likelihood whatsoever that your employer Dr. Towlinson will be returning to this hospital. Nor is Dr. Fibbetson. Indeed, no one who climbed up to the Summit this afternoon is in any shape to come back down. Which puts you in charge, young man. You and only you. Now you may choose to awaken that long dormant conscience that lives within you and do the right thing and unlock this cursed door that has unfairly entombed us, or you may continue like a booby to follow the orders of dead men until you too should be dead — drowned under the thousands of tons of water that will soon be visiting this valley.”

“Tons of water? Foh! I should heed the entreaty of a lunatic? Double foh! You waste my time, gentlemen. There are people pounding at the front door and I must see what it is that they want. There are only three orderlies and myself attending the Bedlam circus to-day, and I haven’t another second to engage you.”

The Limbo Returnees, now clustered close round the heavy steel door, listened to the retreating footsteps of Dr. Towlinson’s beleaguered assistant and sighed and groaned. George Muntle pounded a fist angrily into his opposing palm.

“What a shit!” said Mr. Bolo.

“We must break out the windows,” suggested Newman. “No one will come to stop us, for didn’t you hear that Howler and the orderlies have more important things to do?”

“Ah, yes,” said Quilp. “But first we must find the windows. Where are they, Muntle? You were here when they boarded them over.”

“Somewhere along that wall,” said George Muntle pointing. “But mind how you bring sunlight in the room, for some of us could go blind!”

“A warm purblindness I would relish!” declared Bolo, looking about for something with which to begin to tear away at the false wall. “Each of you: find something to break through that wall. Professor, there is a chair beside you that you may use.”

Professor Chivery’s countenance had now changed. It was a most queer look, which seemed to indicate that the window of lucidity had unfortunately closed. “Stage one, and then stage two, and after that, stage three,” he mumbled. “But there is no stage four.” Taking Newman by the arm with a wild-eyed look: “You will tell it that way, boy? You will tell it that way to the letter?”

Newman nodded.“I will, Professor. Go and sit, sir. We have work to do.”

Before Howler opened the front door to Bethlehem Hospital upon Highbury Fields, he made certain that all three of his orderies were standing with him. Amongst the surviving quartet of asylum employees was Oscar, the cellar attendant. The young man was especially interested in finding out who was so bent upon disturbing the quietude of the building he helped to superintend that they should pound upon a door with such rudeness. Oscar clutched an India rubber hose in one hand behind his back to be ready should the reason prove to be a hostile one. The hose had always served him well to keep those under his care from objecting too strenuously to his rough treatment of them, and it would most certainly do the trick here as well, he thought.

Waiting upon the portico before the front door of Bedlam was a larger crowd than Howler and his associates had anticipated, for those present included not only myself and all of those who had been gaoled along with me — both the men and the women — but Mrs. Pilkins and her husband and their two daughters, and several others who had family members locked inside.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Howler,” greeted Muntle brusquely. “Please step aside. We are taking over this institution.”

“By whose order?”

“Our newly-formed Council of Concerned Citizenry,” said Antonia Bocker.

“I don’t recognise it,” said Howler.

“Matters not, sir,” I returned. “Give us your keys. We have very little time and intend to release everyone from their cells.”

“Are you mad?” returned Howler.

“No. And neither are most of the men and women you have locked up in here.”

Howler shook his head. “I cannot allow it. I have my orders.”

Muntle put a heavy hand on Howler’s shoulder. “As sheriff of Dingley Dell, Howler, I am countermanding all of your orders in the name of the law. Kindly surrender your keys to Miss Bocker and Mr. Trimmers and Dr. Timberry. Then move aside and suffer us to remove these people to safety.”

“They are safe where they are. And besides, Mr. Muntle, you are no longer the sheriff of this Dell and consequently have no authority here.”

“On the contrary,” said a man standing to the rear of the gathering. “I was made sheriff when Boldwig left with the others to climb to the top of the Summit.” It was Magwitch, and he stepped forward to clap a hand of support upon Muntle’s back. “In turn, I have restored Mr. Muntle to his former office. He is the soul arbiter and enforcer of the law in Dingley Dell now, for there is no longer a Petit-Parliament. All of its members have been slain.”

“How do you know this?” asked Oscar, dropping his India rubber hose from a hand that had suddenly gone limp.