John Harwood: The Asylum

He crossed to the panel. Lights around the room began to go out, one by one, until only a lamp above the vestry door remained. With a mocking sketch of a bow to Lucia, he drew out a bunch of keys, strode to the vestry door, unlocked it and departed, turning the key behind him. The echoes flitted around the chapel, fading into silence.

My first thought was to remain where I was, wait for his return, and try not to make a sound while he was doing—whatever he meant to do to Lucia. Then, perhaps, I could escape when everything was quiet. But he would surely go straight to my room, and then the hunt would be up. And how long could it be before he decided to make a thorough search of the gallery?

No; my only chance was to recover my writing case, find a way out, and hope that Dr. Straker’s clothes were still where I had left them. Dressed as a man, I might pass for one of my pursuers.

I rose stiffly to my feet and moved unsteadily along the gallery and down the stairs.

“Georgina! For pity’s sake, help me!”

I did not look at her but went straight across to the other door I had seen. It was heavy and close-fitting; when I tried the handle, it did not even move against the frame.

Keys. Or an implement; something heavy enough to break open the gallery door. Or to use as a weapon against Dr. Straker. The light was too dim to see into cupboards and drawers. I thought of trying the panel on the wall, but if he was watching from outside and saw the light . . . I moved from bench to bench, ignoring Lucia’s pleas.

“Be quiet,” I said as I passed behind the chair. “If you speak again, I will bind your mouth shut.”

She began to weep instead. I would not look at her.

After a hasty circuit of the room, I had found a hammer, a chisel, a heavy screwdriver, a candle and a packet of vestas. Fury at this woman I had never truly known, except through the pages of my journal, had kept the worst of my fear at bay. I turned to face her at the last.

“Georgina! I did love you, I swear! I would have come back for you!”

“You are incapable of love,” I said. “Or truth.” I stood looking down at her, trying to recover something of those lost weeks, but nothing would come. Terror had blurred the likeness that had deceived so many. Her eyes were glazed; the kohl had run in dark, glistening streaks.

“At least untie me,” she pleaded. “Give me a chance of life.”

“What chance did you give me? I would sooner release a serpent.”

Her head sagged forward; the chair shook to her trembling.

“What will he do to me?” The words were scarcely audible.

“He may tear your heart out and roast it before your eyes, for all I care.” But then I thought, If I leave her thus, I am no better than she is.

“If I escape him, I will save you if I can. For a prison cell.”

“Let me loose for a moment, or I shall soil myself.”

“You have soiled yourself already,” I said, and turned my back on her.

It was so dark in the corner by the desk that I had at last to light the candle. I worked the blade of the chisel into the gap between the drawer and the frame and pounded it with the mallet—the noise was so deafening that I expected Dr. Straker to appear at any moment—until the whole front of the drawer broke loose with a rending of timber. My hands were shaking uncontrollably; it took me an age before the writing case was safely buttoned inside my dress. And then I could not manage the lighted candle as well as the tools; I blew out the flame and dragged myself up the stairs, pursued by Lucia’s cries.

With the tools clutched to my bosom, I was forced to edge sideways into the darkness between the wall and the heaped furniture. I had gone only a few steps when the hammer slipped from my grasp. Stooping blindly to retrieve it, I lost my balance and fell against the stack, dropping the candle.

An ominous tremor ran through the floor. I was scrambling back toward the gallery when the whole pile collapsed with a roar like thunder. Something struck me between the shoulder blades, and I was flung violently forward, into oblivion.

I knew, as the throbbing in my head became too insistent to ignore, that I had been unconscious for a long time. I was lying on my back, in darkness, with one arm against a stack of chairs and the other jammed against a wall.

I grasped the rung of a chair. The whole pile shifted alarmingly as I levered myself onto my side, wincing at every movement, then rose painfully to my feet and tested my limbs. There was a cold, sticky patch on my temple, which stung like fire when I touched it, but nothing seemed to be broken. If I could find another way out, I might still escape.

As I emerged onto the gallery, I heard, far above me, the tower clock striking the half hour. But it was surely much too dark for half past six; it must be half past seven. They would have been hunting me for an hour at least.

On the western side, the windows still glowed with a dim, purplish light, which seemed to float in the upper part of the chamber. All was deathly quiet, except for the pounding of my heart, and a faint singing in my ears. Or was it the vibration I had felt before?

Below, the lamp still burned by the vestry door. Lucia’s white, terrified face peered upward; the marks left by the kohl looked like streaks of blood.

If I were to hide beneath a bench nearby, I might be able to slip out while Dr. Straker was occupied—I shuddered in spite of myself—with Lucia. But I could not descend without her seeing me; she would surely betray me if she thought it might save her life.

No; the safest thing would be to remain hidden up here until he had—finished with her. When daylight came, I might be able to move enough of the debris to reach the gallery door.

The invalid chair creaked. Lucia was fighting to free herself, straining until her eyes stood out in their sockets and the chair rocked back and forth on its wheels. She forced her head forward, struggling in vain to reach the straps with her teeth, and at last collapsed into harsh, choking sobs.

No, I thought, no; I cannot bear it. My feet had carried me to the stairs, without the slightest notion of what I meant to do, and my hand was upon the rail, when I heard a lock turn over. The vestry door flew open; Dr. Straker appeared, and strode across to the panel without so much as a glance at Lucia. Lights sprang up along the wall behind her. He moved on to a black cabinet nearby, opened the door, and reached inside; I heard a series of rapid clicks, like a ratchet, followed by a flash of blue light.

“Well, Miss Ardent,” he said, speaking over her shoulder, “you have caused me trouble enough for one night. Miss Ashton is still at large; we will recapture her soon enough, but I have no more time to spend on you.”

Lucia tried to speak, but it came out as a sob.

“You will feel nothing, I promise you; nothing at all,” he said, turning back to the cabinet. “It may comfort you to know that your death, at least, will serve some useful purpose. Your body—or, as the world will believe, Miss Ferrars’ body—will be found in the wood tomorrow morning. Heart failure—regrettable in one so young, but then her mother had a weak heart. Foolish young women will persist in wandering about strange woods at night, exposing themselves to shocks of all kinds—if you will forgive the expression . . .”

Lucia was making a low, keening sound, like a wounded animal in its death throes. He took the leather coronet in both hands, pressed it down on her head until the outer band was almost covering her eyebrows, and tightened it at the back, with the wires looping down from the chair. Then, from the bench, he picked up a small dark box, with more wires attached to it. He came around the chair and stood looking down at the terrified Lucia, with the wires trailing behind him. Then he raised his right hand in a gesture of finality.