John Harwood - The Asylum

“Thank you so much for your kindness,” I said. “I should like to give you something for your trouble, and if you will just wait until I have bought my ticket—”

“Bless you, miss; there’s no need for that. It’s a pleasure to have someone to talk to. You have a pleasant journey, now, and I’ll be on my way.”

I thanked him again and clambered stiffly down. My knees wobbled as I set foot on the pavement, which seemed to sway with the same motion as the wagon.

“Sure you’re all right, miss?”

“Yes, thank you, just a little tired.”

It struck me, as I waved goodbye to George and made my way unsteadily into the booking office, that he had not asked me a single question about myself.

The clock above the counter said twelve minutes to nine. There were two people ahead of me, and a moment later I felt someone at my back. It took all of my resolution not to glance over my shoulder. My hands were shaking so badly that I feared they would give me away. If the horseman was a coincidence, I told myself, and if the people I passed on my way had not raised the alarm—and surely I would never have passed the gate if they had—then it was quite possible that Hodges was still locked in the infirmary; she might not be found for another hour. I clasped my hands and breathed as deeply as I could.

The clock had moved on to eight minutes to nine before I came up to the counter.

“When is the next train to London?”

“Well, miss,” said the elderly official, “there’s the stopping train at six minutes past nine, or the express at eleven, but the express’ll get you there sooner. Or you can change at Plymouth, and take the London express from there.”

“When does the stopping train reach London?”

“At ten past five, miss.”

I was about to buy a first-class ticket when I remembered asking Frederic about the first-class fare; if they searched the train, that was where they would look for me. Just as they would expect me to catch the express.

“I should like a second-class ticket for the stopping train to London.”

“Thank you, miss. One pound three and six, if you please.”

He directed me to the second-class ladies’ waiting room, where I meant to stay until the last possible moment. The platform was in a deep cutting, reached by a ramp that passed directly beneath the cloakroom window. There were no policemen visible, and no one I recognised from the asylum, but if they were waiting for me, they would be standing out of sight, in the shadow of the embankment. A wave of dizziness rolled over me. I felt my knees giving way, and grasped the sill for support, just as a whistle shrilled in the distance.

“Are you all right, my dear?” said a kindly voice.

A stout, grey-haired woman was peering anxiously at me.

“I am feeling faint, but I must catch my train; I think I hear it now.”

“Come along with me, then.”

Drawing my arm through hers, she picked up a large basket and led me down the ramp and onto the platform just as the train pulled in. Through the sheltering clouds of steam, we must have looked like mother and daughter; I could not, I thought hazily, have hoped for a better disguise.

Three minutes later I was seated beside her on a hard wooden bench, watching the platform slide away behind us.

Seen through the grimy windows of a cab, London by night looked truly infernal. Gaslight flared over wet cobbles; blackened figures moved amidst the glow and smoke of braziers, sending grotesque shadows capering across the walls behind them. I had passed beyond exhaustion into a strange, febrile, hallucinatory state in which the prospect of food, bath, and bed receded endlessly before me. I had never been so cold for so long, not even on the night of the landslide, and yet every few minutes I would sink into a waking dream in which I was simultaneously basking in the warmth of a blazing fire, and jolting through the streets of Marylebone, until the lolling of my head jerked me awake again. I did not know where exactly in Marylebone I was, but in a few more minutes I would be home and safe.

Mrs. Tetworth, the second of my rescuers, had kept me company as far as Plymouth, and even fed me with pastries from her basket. After that, it had been an endless procession of stations and fitful dreams, and the grinding discomfort of the uncushioned seat. My fear of capture had diminished as the hours crawled by; I had thought of getting out at Acton and taking a cab from there, but instead I had managed to attach myself to a middle-aged couple, who saw me through the barrier at Paddington—again without a policeman in sight—and into a hansom.

And now we were turning in to Tottenham Court Road, where the press of vehicles grew even heavier, and the gaslight fell upon crowds of pedestrians hurrying through the thin rain—to me an utterly incongruous spectacle, for it felt like three o’clock in the morning—and then in to Great Russell Street, past the looming bulk of the British Museum, and at last in to Duke Street, halting by the black mouth of Gresham’s Yard.

I clambered down stiffly, paid the cabman, and waited for a moment in the shadows opposite. Lights were burning behind the curtains on the first and second floors of my uncle’s house; the time, I thought, must be approaching seven o’clock, his dinner hour. Today was Monday—no, Tuesday—so it would be curried mutton, the dish I liked least of Mrs. Eddowes’ seven, but my mouth watered at the thought of it. Two men in greatcoats went by, glancing curiously at me; I could not remain here long. A woman, muffled against the cold, came briskly up the other side of the street and turned into Gresham’s Yard, and I followed her upon instinct.

The yard was lit by a single gas lamp on the wall opposite the entrance. The woman disappeared into a narrow passage beneath the lamp: a blind alley, leading to a house whose occupants I did not know. There were lighted windows all around, but I could see no one else in the yard. Ten feet away to my left, the area below the entrance to my uncle’s house was in deep shadow.

I stumbled the last few paces, climbed the steps, and hammered on the door. As I waited, I thought something stirred in the darkness of the area below. But then came the welcome sound of hurrying footsteps and the familiar rattle of the bolt. The door swung back. Light dazzled my eyes; my mouth was already opening in greeting when I saw that the person standing there was not my uncle, or Cora, or any other maidservant.

She was myself.

For one stupefied moment, I thought that someone must have left a dressmaker’s mirror in the hall. But this was not the haggard and travel-stained reflection I ought to have seen. This was myself as I had been before those missing weeks, before the asylum, with my hair pinned up as I had pinned it a thousand times in my own mirror, wearing my favourite pale blue gown. Glittering upon her breast I saw, as a hand fell upon my shoulder and a sound like rushing water filled my ears, my dragonfly brooch, its ruby eyes glowing like tiny drops of blood.

I woke in the infirmary at Tregannon Asylum, after an interminable nightmare in which I was either freezing cold or unbearably hot, only to realise that the nightmare was, in truth, beginning again, even to the appearance of Dr. Straker in the same rumpled tweeds and dark blue tie.

“Good afternoon, Miss Ashton. I am glad to see you looking a little better; we have been quite worried about you.”

I did not attempt to reply.

“You do remember, do you not, your escape—very resourceful it was, too—and your visit to Miss Ferrars?”

I nodded slightly; there seemed no point in denying it.

“I am glad to hear it. I knew, as soon as I found Hodges locked in here, that you must have bribed her. I gave her the choice of confessing at once, or risking a long prison sentence: she gave up the brooch, and I dismissed her on the spot. Of course, you were well on your way by then, but we came up by the express—I had only to imagine what I would have done in your place to anticipate your every movement—which gave me just enough time to return Miss Ferrars’ brooch and persuade her to cooperate. She is still, I am afraid, very angry about the theft of her writing case, but she agreed to open the door to you when I told her it might be essential to your recovery.”