John Harwood: The Asylum

“I am afraid not, sir.”

“A pity. Well, good day to you, Miss Ashton. I shall look in again on Wednesday, if not before.”

His cool, sardonic smile seemed to linger as he closed the door behind him; the rhythm of his departing footsteps was exactly as I had heard it from the gallery above his workroom.

At a little before five o’clock on Monday, I was standing at the back of the old house, scanning the woods around me for signs of pursuit. Birds were making a great clamour, and there were constant rustlings and cracklings in the undergrowth around me. I could not get enough air, no matter how rapidly I breathed, and at every movement amongst the trees, my heart would give a great jolt and seem to stop altogether.

All afternoon I had waited beneath the copper beech by the forecourt, pretending to be immersed in a book, alternately wondering if the tower clock had stopped and wishing the quarters would not strike so frequently. The shadows were lengthening, and the evening chill beginning to descend, before the gatekeeper emerged from his lodge and opened the gate. A few minutes later I saw Dr. Straker cantering up the drive on a glossy bay horse. He passed through in a flurry of gravel, spurring his horse in the direction of Liskeard. The gatekeeper did not lock up after him but remained by the entrance. As the hoofbeats faded into the distance, I heard a rumble of wheels from the opposite direction.

A small black carriage, enclosed like a London hansom, turned in through the gate and pulled up in the middle of the drive, about twenty yards from where I was sitting. No one got out; the driver remained on his box. I could not tell if there was anybody within.

Nor could I afford to delay any longer. I rose to my feet, made a play of stretching, and set off across the grass, fighting the temptation to hurry or look back until I had passed out of sight of the carriage.

My original plan had been to entice Lucia away from the house, by way of hints dropped during our supervised conversation. She wanted the wills; I wanted my freedom. If she believed I was prepared to strike a bargain with her, she might slip out and meet me somewhere private. I would force her to change clothes with me, and then somehow imprison her for long enough for me to reach Plymouth, show the papers to Henry Lovell, and trust in my powers of persuasion. Lucia, or so I had persuaded myself, would not have risked an interview with him; far safer just to forge my signature on a letter whenever she needed money.

It had seemed a desperate enough scheme when I first thought of it; as the day approached, it looked altogether hopeless, but without a disguise of some sort, I would certainly be apprehended. I had thought of stealing into the servants’ quarters and taking a maid’s uniform, but every foray had ended at a locked door, until I realised that the key was already in my hand. Dr. Straker was not especially tall; dressed in the clothes from his workroom, I would have a far better chance of escape. If necessary, I would fill my pockets with biscuits and walk all the way to Plymouth. I had found a place on the boundary wall, on the far side of the wood, where the trees grew close enough for me to scramble onto the top.

If I found enough money for the train, I would leave at once. I had brought my writing case with me, secured beneath my dress with strips torn from a petticoat; the outline was visible, but my cloak concealed it. Otherwise, I would hide everything I needed and leave immediately after breakfast the following morning. I had excused myself from luncheon often enough that my absence would not be noticed until the evening, by which time I ought to be in Plymouth. And even if the alarm was raised earlier, they would be looking for a woman, not a man.

I reached the alcove in the wall, took one more fearful look round, and eased the door open. Before, the sound had been muffled by the rain; now, every creak of the hinges echoed like a gunshot. As I stepped inside, I thought I heard a twig snap somewhere nearby. But I dared not look back. I hastened up the stairs, through the door at the top, and on to the gallery. The muddy trail I had left ten days ago seemed quite undisturbed.

On legs that shook as though I had been stricken with palsy, I let myself down through the hole in the floor, with the whole flimsy staircase quivering in sympathy. Clothes, money, food, I told myself. The fear will not kill you unless you give in to it.

The space beneath the gallery floor was much darker. Several large pieces of machinery, partially covered by dust sheets, were ranged along the wall: they looked like massive spinning wheels except that the wheels were made of glass. A desk, littered with papers, stood in the corner by the staircase. The wall itself was blank except for a doorway at the far end.

Clothes, money, food. The closet door was shut, but not, to my overwhelming relief, locked. I took down a shirt, a waistcoat, and a frayed tweed suit, such as a countryman might wear for rough walking, wondering why he kept a wardrobe here. The shoulders were too big, and the sleeves too long, as were the trousers, but not outlandishly so, and his heavy tweed overcoat—with a scarf to cover my throat—would help to conceal the disparities. I felt in all the pockets, hoping for coins, but found only lint and fragments of paper.

The hat would have covered my ears if my hair, which I had pinned as high and as tightly as I could manage, had not held it up. I saw at a glance that the boots were far too large, but the cuffs of the trousers would cover my own shoes.

Money and food. The biscuit tin was half full of ginger biscuits, stale but perfectly edible; I crammed them all into the pockets of the overcoat and returned to the desk, where I draped the clothes over Dr. Straker’s chair, and rifled through every drawer, but I found only papers, many of them filled with elaborate diagrams and mathematical symbols. Every nerve was screaming, Take the clothes and go; but without the train fare, I would have to stay another night, or sleep in the open; a woman dressed as a man could not ask anyone for shelter.

I looked frantically around the room, wondering if there was anything I could take to a pawnbroker in Liskeard. But I had never pawned anything in my life, and all I could see were tools and scientific instruments, which were sure to arouse suspicion.

There was, however, a cabinet on the other side of the floor, with a drawer at the top. An invalid chair, with an opening in the seat like a commode, stood nearby; I was sure it had not been there ten days ago. As I approached, I saw that leather straps had been attached to the arms and legs: once secured, the occupant would not be able to move. I imagined, all too vividly, a patient in a fit of mania, teeth bared, face distorted with fury, straining to break loose.

Hanging from one of the handles was a curious piece of headgear, like a coronet made of thick brown leather, with black-coated wires trailing away from it. Inside the circlet were two polished metal discs, about the size of a half-crown and six inches apart.

Take the clothes and run.

I opened the drawer.

Inside were dressings and bandages, several stout leather straps, neatly rolled, some crescent-shaped pieces of gutta-percha, about the size of my hand, an open case of surgical instruments . . . and a fine silver chain, glittering faintly as I drew it out.

The key to my writing case.

Again I became conscious of that low, resonant hum, not so much a sound as a faint vibration coursing through my bones and teeth. I put the chain over my neck and ran, scooping up the clothes and clutching the hat by the brim as I scrambled back up the stairs, squeezed past the furniture and through to the antechamber. Should I change my clothes here, or in the chamber below? I would rather freeze in a ditch than stay another night within these walls.