John Harwood - The Asylum

Throwing the hat and the clothes down the stairwell, I followed unsteadily after. But at the lowest step, my foot caught in my skirts, and I went sprawling across the tangled clothing. My head struck the floor; dazzling pinpoints of light flashed before my eyes, and I lay for a few seconds unable to move, wondering if I had broken anything.

Escape. I dragged myself painfully to my feet and went over to the window to make sure there was no one outside. Only my blurred reflection, staring back at me through the grimy pane.

My reflection recoiled from me, its mouth opening in a soundless cry of surprise or alarm as darkness swallowed it.

I was woken by hands undoing—no, doing up—the buttons of my dress. A young woman was crouching over me. I had seen her last in the doorway at Gresham’s Yard, dressed in my favorite pale blue gown. Now she was wearing a grey travelling-dress and cloak exactly like my own. Her face blurred and re-formed; I wondered hazily if she might be a dream. As she rose to her feet, the cloak fell open, revealing my dragonfly brooch pinned to her bosom, its ruby eyes glowing like drops of blood.

Lucia.

And, clasped in her gloved hand, my writing case.

I tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness swept over me. She murmured something that might have been “I am sorry,” turned, and was gone.

Using the wall for support, I dragged myself to my feet and over to the doorway. She was already ten yards away, hastening toward the ruined stable; I would never catch her now. And even if I did, who would believe me? I was the lunatic; she was Miss Ferrars, and the writing case was hers, not mine. And soon, very soon, she would be the owner of Tregannon Asylum.

She had almost reached the far corner of the house when Dr. Straker, still in his riding clothes, appeared from behind a buttress and seized Lucia by the arm. I saw, as I drew back from the doorway, that he was steering her toward me.

I tried to gather up the clothes, but stooping made my head spin so badly that I feared I would faint again. I left them where they were, scrambled back up the stairs on my hands and knees, and into the stone chamber above. There I halted, crouched by the entrance, trying to control my breathing as voices echoed in the stairwell: Dr. Straker’s as cool and ironic as ever; Lucia’s shrill with fear.

“And what, pray, are my clothes doing here?”

“ She had them.”

“I see. And where is she now?”

“I—she must have run away. Now please, you must let me go—”

“Perhaps she is within; I think we should make sure. You first, Miss Ferrars—or should I say, Miss Ardent?”

I heard a gasp from Lucia, and faint sounds of struggle.

“You may climb on your own, or be dragged, as you prefer. And do not try to escape me. All the other doors are locked.”

A sparrow could not have concealed itself in that featureless chamber. I had no choice but to retreat through the inner door, which I dared not close, along the dark passage, and onto the gallery. Daylight was fading fast.

Should I go on down to his workroom? I darted toward the stairs—but where would I hide? I fled along the gallery instead, boards squeaking beneath my feet. There was no passage at the far end: the furniture was heaped against the wall. Too late to go back. I squeezed into the only possible hiding place—beneath a small table, with chairs stacked on either side of it—and huddled there, quivering like a cornered animal. If Dr. Straker came even halfway along the gallery, he was bound to see me.

The floor trembled. I heard muffled voices, then the sound of a lock turning over. My last chance of escape had gone. The footsteps drew nearer.

“Down the stairs, if you please.” Though he was speaking quietly, Dr. Straker’s voice rang through the chapel. I could feel the staircase shaking as they descended. Lucia was making incoherent sounds—or sobs—of protest.

To hear without being able to see was more than I could bear. I crawled forward, keeping close against the side wall, and raised my head until my eyes were just above the balustrade.

Dr. Straker was standing with his back to me, one hand clamped around Lucia’s arm, my writing case in the other. He set the case down on a bench and steered Lucia toward the invalid chair.

“Pray take a seat, Miss Ardent. I am afraid the accommodations are rather limited.”

She struggled, but, with a single deft twist, he forced her down into the chair and stooped over her right arm as she flailed at him with her left. Within a few seconds he had her other wrist pinned and strapped; she kicked wildly and tried to bite him, but her legs were secured in turn, and then her upper arms, until she could only writhe helplessly as he stood back and straightened his coat.

“You will feel no pain, I assure you. It is not often that I have the luxury of working with an intelligent, fully sentient subject, let alone one to whom ethical considerations do not apply. I shall make the most of the opportunity.”

“Please, I beg of you, let me go! You have the papers; I promise, on my life, we will never speak of it to a living soul.”

“Your promise, I fear, is not a currency I can accept. Blackmailing Edmund Mordaunt was one thing; attempting to blackmail me was quite another. It amused me to let you believe that you had deceived me as you deceived your unfortunate—cousin, is she not? Miss Ashton, as she is destined to remain. Whereas you will continue in the role of Miss Ferrars—the late Miss Ferrars, if I may anticipate a little.

“And now I must go in search of Miss Ashton. We shall renew our acquaintance after dark; I regret I cannot make you more comfortable, or prescribe anything stronger than a mild sedative. A few drops of laudanum, perhaps? No? Then I must leave you. And please do not waste your breath in calling for help; these walls are immensely thick. You could scream all night, and not a soul would hear you.”

He picked up the writing case, and seemed to hesitate. I heard him murmur something that sounded like “Best not risk it.” Then he turned abruptly and strode toward the stairs. I shrank into the corner beneath the balustrade, not daring to retreat in case the floor creaked. But the staircase did not move. I heard a drawer open, followed by a muttered exclamation. The drawer closed again; a key turned in a lock.

I peeped over the edge again and saw him standing over Lucia. The writing case was no longer in his hand.

“Did you take the key?” he said sternly.

She shook her head wildly.

Caught between the terror of being seen, and the terror of not being able to see him, I dared not move my head. He moved to a panel on the wall and ran his hand across it. All around the room, yellow light sprang from what I had thought were oil lamps, shaded so as to direct their illumination downward, leaving the gallery in near darkness.

He stood in the middle of the floor, surveying his domain, and then began to move around the room, glancing under benches and opening cupboard doors—including that of the closet, which I had, after all, remembered to shut—until he passed directly beneath me. I heard the rasp of sheeting being pulled off the machines below.

My only chance, I thought, is to crawl back to my hiding place as soon as I feel his tread on the stairs, and pray that the sound of his ascent will cover any noise I make. But again the staircase did not move; he reappeared beneath the far end of the gallery and completed his circuit of the room.

Once more he paused beside Lucia, so that his shadow fell across her face. He drew a watch from his waistcoat and considered it, frowning. Then he raised his head, scanning the gallery. I held my breath.

“No,” he said at last, “I must not delay.”