Island of the Mad

by Laurie R. King

  A most peculiar experience, and one that made my eventual sleep none the more restful.

  Chapter Eight

  LILY HAD A FULL BREAKFAST arrayed in the dining room when I came down, to Lady Dorothy’s consternation. Having eaten little of my dinner the previous night, I was glad enough for the solidity of the offering, and her mild protests faded as she watched the trays empty.

  Afterwards, we took Lily up to the missing woman’s rooms, and asked what she had found after the occupant departed on Friday.

  “What do you mean, what did I find?”

  Her wariness suggested that we might be accusing her of stealing, but Lady Dorothy reassured her otherwise. “We’re only interested in how the rooms looked, Lily. Had Lady Vivian left anything behind? Or perhaps she took some of her things with her?”

  “It looked pretty much like it does now—except for the camp bed, of course, that we’d set up for the nurse. Once we cleared that away, this is what it looked like—though naturally I cleaned everything, stripped and re-made Lady Vivian’s bed, dusted all over.”

  “Re-made?” I asked.

  “Yes. It was tidy, but she’d slept in it, so—”

  “Do you mean to say that Vivian was making her own bed?” Ronnie’s mother was surprised.

  “Either she or the nurse did.”

  “Odd.”

  “It was like that most days. I’d thought it was maybe something she’d been made to do in…there.”

  “What about the clothing?” I asked. Vivian Beaconsfield went into Bedlam in 1921. The things I’d found in the wardrobe and drawers showed clear evidence, in odour and appearance, of having spent the intervening years packed away against the moths.

  Lily looked sideways at her employer. “Mum, I didn’t know if you wanted it all put away. I was going to ask you in a few days.”

  “That’s fine, Lily. But did my sister-in-law take anything with her? There are empty spaces on the bar in the wardrobe.”

  “I left three extra coat-hangers, since I wasn’t sure where the nurse would want to put her things.”

  “There are four here now,” I pointed out, and stood back to let her hunt through the garments and identify what was not among them. Meantime, I looked again at the display-wall behind the dressing table, and drew the two empty spaces to Lady Dorothy’s attention. She puzzled over them, agreeing that there had been something in each, but she could not tell me how long those particular nails had been unoccupied.

  “She had ever so many little treasures hanging here. Some of them, like the masks, she’d mostly leave in the same place, but others she’d change all the time. I say treasures: some of them were pretty—her own little drawings, or an envelope with an exotic stamp, once a square of maroon velvet she’d found at the hat-maker’s. But others were very peculiar, indeed. A dirty twig. A scrap of paper from a street-corner. Once I found the wing of a little bird she’d come across on one of her walks, all dried-up and gruesome. I made her take that one down, it was unhygienic. And some of the masks were very odd, too. Look at that thing—it’s the shell of a turtle, if you can believe that, all stuck about with hairs and heaven-knows-what. And that African object! Would you want to sleep with that watching over you? Give a person night—”

  “The mask!” Lily’s exclamation cut off Lady Dorothy’s litany, and we turned to her. “That’s what’s missing! That horrid half-mask with the moustache!”

  “Oh heavens, you’re right—how could I have forgot that?”

  “There’s a mask missing?” I asked.

  “A most peculiar wall decoration, made by this woman in Paris who’d build realistic masks for soldiers who were wounded in the face. So the poor things could hug their children and go out in public without people staring.”

  “I’ve heard of them, though I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such a thing.” Even the concealment in Le Fantôme de l’Opéra looks like a mask, not an artificial face.

  “It had a little moustache on it—heaven only knows where Vivian got the thing, but it’s been up here for years, since…well, around when she began to get ill. Lily, you didn’t take it down?”

  “No, Mum. Though I was tempted to. Oh, but Mum? There are some things missing from here, after all. I’d put out one or two of her boys’ outfits, in case she’d still want to go for one of her walks. That empty hanger held a pair of trousers and a coat.”

  That might explain how Vivian got away without being noticed: if one asked a ticket agent whether he’d seen a nurse and a small, blonde woman, he was not likely to talk about a dark-haired one and her moustachioed son.

  Perhaps I could touch up that picture Ronnie had given me, to add a grease-pencil moustache?

  Which reminded me: “This picture of Vivian—is that the missing jewellery?”

  Ronnie’s mother came over to see. It was a formal, posed photo of Lady Vivian at nineteen, her pale hair gathered behind a sparkling tiara, her low-necked gown framing the heavy necklace, a matching piece around the wrist of her long kid glove. All three looked too heavy for her delicate frame. From the fresh and hopeful expression on her face, I knew the picture had been taken early in her Season, before she realised that the only way the significance of those diamonds could be any clearer would be if her dowry were piled beside her in gold sovereigns.

  “Yes, they were her mother’s pieces. The Selwick jewels are, I’m afraid, mostly paste—good paste, and pretty, but still. My husband’s grandfather was something of a gambler,” Lady Dorothy explained, sounding apologetic.

  “Ah, yes: Vivian’s inherited money. Was there much of it?”

  But that was going too far. “Oh, I wouldn’t know,” she said quickly.

  Both of us were conscious of Lily standing across the room. Well, I could always track the mother’s fortunes through Debrett’s. “Did Vivian’s mother have much of a family?”

  “I’m afraid not; in fact, I believe the name has pretty well died off. There’s a second cousin from one of the Colonies, New Zealand or perhaps Australia.”

  “That’s too bad. Do you mind if I borrow this photograph? So we know what we’re looking for?”

  “Certainly. I have a copy in one of the albums downstairs.”

  I removed the picture, leaving the silver frame on the dressing table: three gaps in the wall now.

  “And Vivian broke into the safe, I understand?” Only after I said it did I think this might also be something Lady Dorothy would not care to talk about in front of the maid, but she did not hesitate to reply.

  “Yes, Edward was furious. It was—well, he was angry. Far more angry than he’d been about the jewels themselves. Perhaps he never thought of those as his. We don’t know how Vivian found the combination, although since it’s never been changed she might have known it all this time—or Edward might have it written down somewhere. He’s not good with numbers.”

  “What did she take?”

  “Well, that’s what’s odd, it doesn’t sound like much. A hundred pounds or so, which is considerable but not compared to the necklace. And two or three small things that belonged to her mother and to Thomas—a Fabergé egg, a Medieval locket, a funny little Roman creature that was dug up on the estate years ago. Knick-knacks, really, but just valuable enough that Edward didn’t like leaving them around, in case they tempted strangers.” Or servants, I thought, without looking at Lily.

  “Was he fond of them, perhaps?”

  “Edward? No, though Thomas loved the little Roman thing—probably a dog. Edward’s just as happy to have the insurance.”

  “So why is he angry?”

  “I don’t know. She may have taken something else that he doesn’t want to tell me about.”

  Now I did look at Lily, but could see that she did not know, either. Interesting.

  “Lady Dorothy, is there anyone I should be sure to talk to? Anyone
on the estate who was a particular favourite of your sister-in-law when she lived here? The cook, stable hand, one of the housemaids?”

  “Most of the servants in the main house are new—such a turnover these days, isn’t there? And Vivian never seemed to have much of an interest in the horses, so I wouldn’t know about the stables.”

  “There was one girl in a number of her drawings—wait, let me find her.” The two women followed me to the other room and waited as I paged through the 1902 volume to a drawing of the dark-haired girl. I then took down the one labeled 1908, done when Vivian Beaconsfield was seventeen. There was the same face, grown into womanhood.

  Lady Dorothy placed a finger on the more recent image. “That’s, um…”

  Lily had no hesitation. “The Bailey girl.”

  “Of the cheese-making Baileys?” I asked.

  “Their eldest,” Lady Dorothy replied. “Ellen?”

  “Emma,” Lily corrected.

  “Yes, that’s right, Emma. I used to pay her a few shillings to watch the girls, from time to time.”

  “The girls?”

  “Vivian and Veronica. Odd to think, but there’s only eight years’ difference between them.”

  “More like sisters than aunt and niece.” I had known that, but only intellectually. “This Emma girl looks a little older?”

  “Two or three years, as I remember. But she was…stronger, I suppose. A working-class girl who could take care of herself, and sensible enough that I didn’t worry if she and Vivian were out all day. She moved away after the War, but it seems to me I heard she came home recently, to help her father.”

  “I should talk with her, see if Vivian went to visit. How might I find the dairy?”

  “We have a motor—just tell Lily when you want to go and Freddie will take you over.”

  But first, I needed to do the rounds of the main house’s servants, the estate manager, and the stable hands. That took me the rest of the morning, and at the end of it, I had added little to my store of knowledge about Vivian Beaconsfield other than their opinion that she was an odd ’un—an affectionate judgment, rather than condemnatory.

  One of the lads told me the horses liked her, which seemed enough for him.

  The estate agent told me, though not in so many words, that the master of the estate was spending his cash unwisely, and elsewhere.

  The cook liked Lady Vivian. (“When you find her, see if you can’t get her to eat something.”) So did the head gardener. (“Known her since she was a child. Only one in the Big House what knows the name of every flower here.”) And the Marquess’ housekeeper. (“She did the sweetest drawings for me every year, Christmas and my birthday.”) The butler and valet were new, hired by the Marquess out of London. Several of the household staff in his side were new, also, including one remarkable young woman with the shortest skirt, blondest curls, and heaviest makeup I’d ever seen on a housemaid—and the most impudent attitude. (“Oh, that one! Loony of the first degree, she is, what she makes the Marquess put up with, you’d never believe!”) I left the house torn between sympathy with Lady Vivian, and the uncomfortable sensation that bemoaning the Uppityness of This New Generation of Servants was a sign I was growing old.

  * * *

  —

  I found Emma Bailey high on a ladder in a barn that contained all the evidence of cows apart from their actual presence. She was fiddling with a light fixture two feet above her head, a position that seemed alarmingly precarious. In other circumstances I might have cleared my throat, but I was afraid that startling her would make for a rapid end to the conversation.

  However, either she’d heard first the car and then my footsteps, or she noticed the dimming effect of my person in the doorway. She spoke past her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Miss, er, Bailey? My name is Mary Russell, I’m—”

  “Don’t touch the switch,” she warned.

  “I shan’t. Do I have the name correct?”

  “That’s me.” She gave a final twist at some bit of wiring, stuck a tool into her trouser pocket, then pulled out a bulb and jabbed it into the fixture. She retreated a few rungs down the ladder. “Try it now.”

  The light went on without blowing fuses or exploding into flames. With a satisfied nod, she continued down the rest of the way, tipped the ladder back to collapse it, and swung it off the ground. She carried the heavy thing to the back wall and effortlessly boosted it onto a pair of hooks.

  Walking back across the wide floor, she rubbed her palms together in a largely symbolic attempt at cleansing and stuck out her strong right hand for me to shake.

  “Mary Russell,” I repeated.

  “Emma Bailey. I need a cup of tea.”

  I took the pronouncement as an invitation, and followed her across the tidy yard to the kitchen door of an equally tidy house. She stepped out of her rubber boots with scarcely a pause, pointed me to a chair tucked under a sturdy kitchen table, lit the flame beneath an ancient black kettle, and pulled two mugs from an open shelf: a series of movements as practiced and flowing as a dance.

  “I’ll be back in two minutes,” she said, and left. I heard her stockinged feet trot up a flight of stairs, and obediently took my assigned position in the chair.

  An orange cat wandered through the doorway and sat, tail around its front feet, facing the general direction of an empty bowl. I knew it was in fact studying me out of the corner of its eye, balanced between sudden flight and coming over to butt at my legs. Indistinct voices came from overhead, Emma Bailey’s and a softer one. Floor-boards sounded. I followed the slow progress of creaks, a door opening and closing, silence for a time, then a sudden flush of water gave a clear indication of prosperity: indoor plumbing.

  Considerably more than two minutes had gone by before I heard the sure feet descending the stairway. Her hands were clean when she came in, and she’d paused to run a comb through her hair. She glanced at the steaming cup on the table in front of me and down at the cat in my lap, but continued on to the sideboard.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind if I made the tea,” I said. “Everything was there.”

  She didn’t comment, merely filled her cup, adding sugar and milk. She bent down to pour a dollop from the jug into the cat’s bowl—the cat having deserted me the moment she appeared—and carried her mug back to the table. I couldn’t tell if she minded my presumption, which was interesting. People are normally easier to read.

  “As I said,” I started again, “my name is Mary Russell. I’m a friend of Ronnie Beacons—Ronnie Fitzwarren.”

  Emma Bailey’s gaze shot up from the mug, locking onto me. Her eyes were deep brown with faint streaks of orange, and surrounded by thick black lashes under naturally arched brows. “I hear her aunt has gone missing.”

  “That’s right. Ronnie asked me to come and see what I could find out.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because it’s not an easy thing to do with a small child.”

  “No, why you?”

  “Because I’m good at asking questions.”

  Miss Bailey studied me from out of that impenetrable gaze. Whatever she saw, sitting across the table, seemed eventually to satisfy her. She took a hefty swallow and then sat back in her chair, the mug clasped between her hands. “Very well: ask.”

  “Did you see Lady Vivian when she was here last week?”

  “No, I haven’t seen either her or Ronnie in years.”

  “Why not? You were friends, weren’t you?”

  “Of a sort. Before the War, maybe. Not so much once she grew up.”

  “She used to make sketches of you, in her books. The last one I saw was done in 1909.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “She came out—was presented in Court—in 1910.”

  “Around then.”

  “Then travelled to France and Italy
for some months afterwards.”

  “That’s right.”

  Her watchful attitude was remarkably like that of the orange cat, waiting for me to pass some undefined test, to prove that I might be worthy of approach.

  I had been watching her in return, and now chose my words with care. “Vivian Beaconsfield was pretty, and had both money and a title, yet she never married. She didn’t even seem to meet any men she particularly liked, either during the Season or when she was travelling in Europe.”

  Miss Bailey raised the cup to her lips for another swallow.

  “Is there…a reason for that?” I asked carefully. “That you know of?”

  Her eyes remained very still. After a moment, she supplied an answer that lay behind her words. “Perhaps.”

  “Ah. That would explain some things.”

  “Do you think so, Miss Russell?”

  In fact, I did. In the Victorian era, upper-class families had been known to lock away their eccentric women, whether the sin was an illegitimate child, conversion to an extreme religious sect—or, being a lesbian. Granted, the disapproving wealthy were more likely to employ a private asylum over shameful Bedlam, but even a public institution knew how to hold secrets. Lady Dorothy’s puzzlement over Vivian’s lack of suitors suggested that she was an innocent, but it could explain some of the Marquess’ eagerness to close the door on an inconvenient half-sister.

  Particularly since he was clearly feeling a financial pinch, and the mother who had bequeathed Vivian her diamonds also left an inheritance.

  So, should I simply let matters go? Let the madwoman slip away?

  Reluctantly, I decided that no, I couldn’t. Greedy uncles, dubious nurses, asylum superintendents lining their pockets at the expense of their inmates: there were too many questions whirling around one small pale-haired woman. I could help her—but I had to find her first.

  The woman across the table had said something that the rapid firing of my brain had obscured. I looked up. “Sorry?”

  “I said, I’m not bad at questions myself.”