John Harwood - The Asylum

I was roused from my misery by a clatter of keys and the heavy tread of Hodges.

“Come along now, Miss Ashton; this won’t do. I’ve brought you a pot of tea and some bread and butter, and a nice sleeping draught.”

It was still broad daylight, but I assumed it must be late in the afternoon.

“What is the time?” I asked hopelessly.

“One o’clock. Now you sit up and ’ave your tea, and then you can ’ave a nice sleep.”

Rather than have her touch me, I sat up as instructed; she arranged the invalid tray across my knees, and departed.

Even the sight of food turned my stomach; I reached instead for the glass of cloudy liquid standing beside the teacup. Eight hours of blessed oblivion . . . and then? I paused with the glass halfway to my lips. Through the fog of anguish and horror, a single thought loomed: Once they move you, you will never escape.

And if I did not eat, I would be too weak to escape. I set down the glass and began chewing the bread in small, nauseating mouthfuls, washing it down with sips of tea, and trying to concentrate what remained of my mind. Why this had happened to me was beyond my comprehension; all that mattered was to escape (though that was surely impossible) within the next two days, find my way to Gresham’s Yard (but how? I had no money), and confront the woman (though I did not believe she existed) who had stolen my life away.

The tale of Lucia Ardent was more than bizarre; it was grotesquely improbable. No; Dr. Straker had invented the story for his own purposes—purposes I dared not begin to imagine—which made it even more imperative that I should escape.

But he knew about the writing case and brooch.

I could not remember whether I had mentioned the writing case to him, but I felt sure I had not described the brooch in any detail, either to him or to Bella.

But I had described it to Frederic.

Which meant—that I must not allow myself to think about what it meant.

Escape. I could empty the sleeping draught into the chamber pot, and pretend to be asleep—or drowsy—when Hodges returned for the tray. That ought to give me several uninterrupted hours. And I had better do that at once, before she came back and caught me.

Half a minute later I was back in bed, forcing down the last of the bread and listening for footsteps.

Escape. I already knew that the grille protecting the window felt very solid, but if I could find some sort of instrument, perhaps I could loosen it.

Or there was the door. You could pick a lock with a bent hatpin, or so I had read, but I had never tried it, and beyond this lock would be another, and another . . .

When Hodges brought the tray in, she had left the door open and the key in the lock; I was sure of it.

If I hid behind the door, and padded the bed with rolled-up clothes to make it look as if I were asleep, perhaps I could slip past her, slam the door, turn the key and run. But the door opened flat against the side wall; she would feel that I was behind it. And even if she came right up to the bed without seeing me, there would be very little room to squeeze past her. No; she would certainly catch me.

Could I hit her over the head with something and knock her unconscious? I might be able to break a leg off the upright chair, but would that be heavy enough? How hard would I have to hit her? And what if I killed her by mistake?

Heavy footsteps approached. I leant back against the pillows, turned my head toward the door, and half closed my eyes. The lock turned—a hard, effortful grating sound; the door swung against the wall as Hodges entered, and there was the bunch of keys, swinging from the lock.

“Well, that’s better, isn’t it? You ’ave a nice long sleep now. I’ll look in later, and this evening I’ll bring you some supper and another drop o’ chloral.”

I did my best to look drowsy and vacant as she turned away, stepping out into the passage to set down the tray before she closed the door. Dodging past her looked even more impossible than I had imagined. And from the sound of the lock, it would take far more than a hatpin to open it, even if I knew the trick.

Which left the window. As soon as her footsteps had died away, I went over and examined the grille, which seemed to be set into the stonework itself. I could not move it in the slightest, no matter how hard I tugged. Perhaps if I picked up the chair and ran at the grille, I might be able to dislodge it; most likely I would break the chair, and be punished accordingly.

The jug and basin on the washstand were made of enamel, too light to do any damage. I turned to the closet. The empty valise stood to one side, on end, with the hatbox on top of it.

I had glanced into the hatbox on that first afternoon. This time I took out the bonnet—a pale blue one, trimmed in cream—but found not a single hatpin. I was about to replace it when I noticed a pocket in the lining near the bottom of the hatbox. A small, squarish shape was pressing against the silk.

With suddenly trembling fingers I drew from the pocket a familiar red plush box. I pressed the catch, and there was my dragonfly brooch, unharmed.

And there was something else in the pocket—something that clinked softly as I touched it: a small drawstring purse in brown velvet, with five gold sovereigns inside.

I do not know how long I crouched, staring blankly at my brooch and clutching the purse as if it might take wing and fly away, before it occurred to me that my writing case might be here, too. But there was nothing else in the hatbox. I dragged out the valise and felt all around the lining, but again I found nothing except traces of lint.

I let out a great sob of frustration and self-reproach. If only, if only I had thought to look sooner, instead of now, when it was too late.

“Let her return my writing case and brooch” . . . If Dr. Straker found out, he would take it from me.

I slipped the purse into the pocket of my travelling-dress, put away the valise and hatbox, and got back into bed for warmth, still holding my brooch in its open box. The rubies glowed like drops of blood.

The gold pin, though sharp, was barely two inches long. Hodges would swat it away with one meaty hand and lift me off my feet with the other.

I pictured those small, knowing, covetous eyes leering down at me, and a plan began to form.

The worst that can happen, I thought, is that she turns out to be honest, and hands the brooch straight to Dr. Straker.

I sat motionless for a very long time, thinking it out. Then I got up again and put on my travelling-dress, feeling that I would have a better chance with Hodges if I faced her fully dressed. I laid the travelling-cloak and bonnet at the foot of the bed, took two of the five sovereigns out of the purse, and left them loose in the pocket of my cloak. After that there was nothing to do but pace about the room to keep warm, and pray that Hodges would look in on me before darkness fell.

At last I heard a distant thud, and then the approaching footsteps. I moved over to the window and stood with my back to it, facing the door as the observation slide opened. I heard a sharp intake of breath and a rattle of keys; the door crashed against the wall and Hodges strode into the room.

“What’s this then? Why aren’t you asleep in bed?”

My heart was pounding so violently that I could scarcely speak.

“Because—because I have something to show you.”

“And what might that be?” she asked suspiciously, moving closer.

“This.” I took the jewel box from my pocket, pressed the catch, and held it out for her to see, angling the box so that the rubies caught the light. Her little eyes flickered between the brooch and my face.

“It is the most precious thing I have in the world,” I said. “My mother left it to me; it is worth a hundred pounds.”