John Harwood - The Asylum

One more half-landing, and I could see a passage, flagged in stone this time, leading straight ahead. I stumbled down the last flight, hearing voices descending from above. There was the longer passage Hodges had mentioned, leading away to my left. And a man, a tall man in dark clothes, a dozen paces ahead of me, pausing with his hand on a doorknob, and staring in my direction.

If I took the passage on my left and waited a moment, he might go on into the room; then I could double back. But then the people on the stairs would cut me off. There was no help for it: I kept walking toward the man, feigning oblivion.

It’s the voluntary patients, so walk like you belong.

Ten paces, five, and still he did not move; I had come within three feet of him when he faced me directly and spoke.

“May I be of assistance?” A sombre, questioning voice, challenging my presence and compelling me to glance up at him. He was older than I had thought at first glimpse, tall and stooped and gaunt, with a long, haggard face, sunken eyes, and scanty grey hair swept back from his forehead. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

“Thank you, no,” I murmured, and slipped past him without breaking my stride. I heard something, a cough or an exclamation, I could not tell, and felt his gaze fixed on the back of my neck. But now the end of the passage was in sight. I could see the door, and the glow of stained glass in the fanlight above it. My legs were shaking; the flagstones swayed beneath my feet; distant voices echoed behind me, but still no one cried, “Stop her!” The handle turned in my grasp, the heavy door swung inward, and a moment later I was through, breathing damp, icy air and squinting against the light of day.

A gravel path ran along the side of the house in both directions, bordering a lawn about twenty yards wide, and beyond that, coppices of trees, their autumn colours fading above mounds of dead leaves. Through the branches to my left I caught a glimpse of ivy-covered brickwork. I set off along the path to my right, almost running now, listening for the view halloo and the crunch of pursuing footsteps, but still it did not come. Grey stone gave way to new brick; still the door behind me was in clear view, and still no one emerged. I passed beneath the branches of a copper beech, around the corner and onto a broad gravel forecourt, and there, fifty yards ahead of me, was the gatehouse, with two massive oaken gates standing open, and a wagon drawn by a pair of horses rumbling toward me.

I slowed my pace a little, feeling the great bulk of the asylum at my back and the pressure of a hundred eyes peering down at me. Now, I thought, now someone is bound to catch me. I still had the keys clutched in my left hand, but there was nowhere to drop them. The driver of the wagon, a stout, rubicund man, tipped his hat to me as he passed; I waved timidly in reply.

Twenty yards; ten; still no one in sight. From the gatehouse on my right, I caught the smell of bacon frying, and I felt a mingled pang of hunger and nausea. The wall loomed above me; I passed beneath the arch and onto a rough, stoney road. There was no other dwelling in sight, only bleak, rolling moorland, rising until it vanished into the mist. A fine rain was falling, gathering in tiny beads on the fabric of my cloak.

Liskeard’s four mile to your right. I did not see how I could possibly walk four miles. I was shaking with fear and fatigue, but I set off anyway, throwing the keys into a muddy pool. For hundreds of yards, it seemed, the road ran straight alongside the wall; every time I looked back, I could still see the gate. On the Isle of Wight, I could have covered four miles in an hour; at this plodding pace, assuming I did not collapse, it would take me nearer two. Hodges would be found long before I could reach Liskeard, and then Dr. Straker would wire—but of course he could not wire from the asylum; he would send people on horseback, perhaps even dogs, to recapture me.

At last the road began to veer away from the wall, and then to slope downward, until the top of the wall had sunk below the skyline. How far had I come? Half a mile, surely. I was beginning to believe that I might actually escape, when I heard the sound of hooves and wheels coming up over the hill behind me. There was nowhere to hide; nothing but low, tussocky grass and boggy ground; a rabbit could scarcely have concealed itself.

I glanced back fearfully, just as a pair of horses, hitched to a wagon, appeared on the skyline and began to descend toward me. It was the wagon I had seen on the forecourt; I recognised the red-faced driver. Yet he seemed in no particular hurry, and as he drew closer, I could hear him whistling.

“Mornin’ miss,” he said cheerfully as he came up beside me. “Come from the asylum, haven’t you? Not much of a day for walkin’.” He had a pleasant country accent, not unlike Bella’s. Curls of grey hair protruded from beneath a greasy billycock hat ;his nose was even redder than the rest of his face.

“No,” I replied, thinking frantically, “I was expecting to be met, but the gentleman has been delayed, and I must get to Liskeard station.”

“Well, you’re in luck, miss; I’m goin’ that way myself. Jump up now; there’s a step by your foot there.”

He leant down, grasped my wrist, and lifted me onto the bench beside him. A flick of the reins and we were off, only at a walk, but at least double my previous pace. I was wondering how to account for myself when it struck me that there must be a constant flow of voluntary patients to and from the asylum; it might be best to stay close to the truth.

“Do you live in Liskeard?” I asked my rescuer.

“Bless you no, miss. George Baker is my name, and I live in Dobwalls, over that way,” he said, gesturing to his right.

“And . . . do you have children?”

“Yes, miss, three boys—fine, strapping lads they are—and two girls, both in service now, and a credit to their mother.” And with that he was safely launched, needing only occasional prompting. The air seemed even icier now that I was no longer walking. I huddled into my cloak and tried to subdue my shivering.

We had driven for perhaps twenty minutes when I heard the sound of galloping hooves coming up very fast behind us. George looked over his shoulder; I dared not lift my head but shrank lower on the seat. Seconds later, a big bay horse shot past us, with the rider, heavily cloaked and muffled, bent low over the horse’s neck; he did not even glance in our direction.

“ He’s in a hurry,” was all my companion said before returning to the story of young Bart and the escaped piglets while I weighed my own chances of escape. Was the horseman on his way to the telegraph office? Or to the police, to have me arrested at the station? Would I be better to try and secure a lift to some other town, and catch a train from there? Perhaps I could change my cloak if there was a ladies’ outfitter in the town. But that would mean delay . . . and most likely the horseman had nothing to do with the asylum, or he would have stopped to make sure of me.

I was still wondering what to do when we crested a rise and a sizeable town came into view, less than a mile away.

“Not far now,” said George. “Come up, there!” He flicked the reins, and the horses broke into a trot.

A few minutes later we were rattling through the streets of Liskeard, with George pointing out various landmarks while I watched covertly for policemen. There were none to be seen, but several people greeted George as we passed, and looked curiously at me. I felt sick with apprehension, but it was a strangely fatalistic kind of fear: I would escape, or I would not, and there was nothing more I could do about it.

When at last we drew up beside a small, whitewashed booking office, still with no policeman in sight, I remembered I had only the three golden guineas.