The camera had looked unsentimentally at the injuries. The coating of white powder on her face ended just below the chin. Below it, framed by the lace trim of the chemise, the throat was open from one side to the other in a violent smile, the severed windpipe like an end of macaroni. The knife was still clutched in her fingers when they found her, its pearl handle flooded with blood. He put the picture on one side. Lucas had a feeling that Miss Batt would urge him to include it but he was not certain that he had her courage.
He had placed the picture of Anna Palmer in the top row. The bruises and scabs gave her the air of a textbook madwoman from the old days, a caricature. They were absences on the plate, clear spaces on the glass where there ought to have been flesh. After some consideration, he’d filled them with ochre and graphite. He’d restored her skin to what time would restore it to anyway and made another print. Lucas still did not believe Abse’s claim that the wounds were self-inflicted.
He’d had a further idea after he’d believed the whole process was finished. He had reinstated the print he made of Mrs. Palmer before correcting the plate. The same photograph, unretouched, was on the table now in the third row. It looked like a different woman.
The pictures covered the table, the faces looking up in three long rows. Grave eyes, light ones, troubled ones and intent ones, gathered together in one indiscriminate family. Lucas took a last, long look at them and went into the parlor. He threw himself into the chair, relit his pipe and clamped the slender stem between his teeth. He had one leg over the arm of the chair; the foot wagged urgently and silently in the air where it hung.
THIRTY-FOUR
Emmeline was convalescing in Catherine’s bedroom. Querios Abse thought he heard the sound of laughter coming through the floorboards from the bedroom above. He sat up in bed, adjusted the bolster behind him and lit the candle. A board creaked overhead. Women’s voices. Then another sound that might have been weeping leaking through the blank ceiling, seeping through the cracks in the plaster. Then laughter again.
It was unsettling. Querios stretched his hand over the cold expanse of cotton on Em’s side of the bed, felt the uninterrupted contact between the top sheet and the bottom one. He brought his hand back and laid it over the solid warmth of his own chest. He missed her. Sometimes, between sleep and waking, he reached out for her and then remembered, readjusted himself to what was. Emmeline alive but injured and at his hands—all because of the blasted bird.
Everything was different. He and Benedict ate alone at one end of the dining table. Catherine spent all her time with her mother. Catty wore eccentric costumes—bloomers one day, a red velvet scarf wrapped around her head another, Em’s old opera slippers on bare feet. She appeared at odd hours of the day and night, made brief responses to inquiries, and disappeared again, bearing plates of shortbread or almond pudding, trays of soups and jellies up to the sickroom, all fancifully decorated with leaves or berries for which she had rooted around in the garden. She treated him coolly.
The fact of the matter was, she spoke as if he was the child and she the head of the household.
“Mother’s tired,” she would say, putting her head around the door of the sickroom when he tapped for admittance. Or, “Not now, Father. We’re talking.” It irritated him, but since, as she seemed silently to remind him, he had been the one to cause the injury, Querios felt at a loss to protest. Everything would return to normal once Emmy was better.
Benedict had been a comfort. He was easier to get on with when it was just the two of them. The work the young man was doing at the ragged school was admirable, if you stopped to think about it. Some of the lads arrived starved and half-naked. They only came for the food, the warmth of the fire, Ben said. Spent their time playing, throwing chalk around the room, and generally being children when, in the world, they had to act like men. A proportion settled to their studies.
Boys graduating from the school were employed by makers of guns, canes, cabinets, matches, blacking, shoes, cards, locks, ink, watches, emery cloth, gold lace, violin strings. They’d found work with paper stainers, bookbinders, type founders, ivory turners, engravers, jewelers, smiths, printers, bricklayers, horsehair pickers.
They had a new benefactor, a man who’d never been to school himself yet made a fortune in patent remedies—a liver powder that Querios in actual fact had used on occasion. The philanthropist wanted to give a chance to young boys. They were looking for premises in order to start a boarding school.
“What about Lake House, Father?” Ben had joked. “It would fit the b-bill perfectly.”
Benedict’s stammer seemed mainly to have cleared itself up. Querios had told Emmeline it would. Children did get better so long as you didn’t interfere too much.
There was one consolation for him in the accident. It had driven the magistrates out of his mind. He could barely remember to anticipate their next visit unless he spotted the note he’d written himself on the desk, listing the preparations still to be made. The list was too long to tackle now and somehow he didn’t have the heart for it. When he tried to work on the figures he could not remember what the information related to, had no more idea what they meant than if they had been hieroglyphs or Hebrew.
Lately, Querios Abse felt like that about all of his life. That he could not recognize it, that it did not belong to him except by accident, by some mistake at the lost and found, and that his allegiance to it was ended.
* * *
The whistle blasts, three long, distant shrills, startled everyone. Violet threw her shawl over her head and whimpered that her time had come. Lizzie Button dropped to her knees. Mrs. Featherstone grabbed a curtain and began to wrap herself in it, turning in circles until she disappeared in a shroud of frayed brocade. More blasts pierced the air, louder this time and from nearer by. The air seemed to tremble with them.
Anna ran to the window, kneeled on the seat, and tried to pull it open. The frame refused to budge; it was nailed shut, she saw, like the bedroom window. She pressed her nose against the glass. The sky outside was thick and low, the sheep gathered in one corner of the field with their heads up. Men’s voices hung on the air, along with the sound of wheels turning on gravel.
The door opened and Lovely came toward her at a noisy run, tying her apron strings over her stomach. She stopped in front of Anna with her face alight with excitement and laid her hands on Anna’s shoulders.
“It’s them, miss.”
“Who?”
“The magistrates. It’s yer chance to speak out.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? You’ve got to.”
Anna’s heart began to pound.
“I can’t. I’m too frightened. Of the chair.”
Lovely’s face was urgent. She glanced over her shoulder and shook Anna lightly.
“You oughter be more frightened of staying here the rest of yer days. It’s yer chance, miss.”
She ran out of the room in her small, quick steps, her clogs bouncing on the boards, back toward the patients’ rooms. As the door closed, Mrs. Featherstone stumbled; the curtain hooks tore away from the rail and she toppled to the floor, still wrapped like a mummy. A cloud of dust rose, filling the air. Anna helped her out of the tangled cloth and sat her in Batt’s chair. Mrs. Featherstone’s eyes were terrified.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Featherstone,” Anna said, her own heart thumping with terror, her voice high and unfamiliar. “No one is after you. The magistrates have come to help you. To help all of us. Sit down and be patient.”
A smell began to seep into the room, like a bonfire. Anna made herself return to the window seat. It was true that she was frightened of the chair. She was terrified of being strapped into it again, kept there for as long as Makepeace’s whim demanded. But Lovely was right. It was her chance. The only one remaining to her. She had to take it.
She would speak calmly. She must make an impression without appearing to be a hysteric. She must speak slowly and make sure they understood. Not so slowly as to
try their patience. If only she had her own clothes. Her hair. She ran her hands over the bristles on her head and groaned. Hearing a tinkling sound, she looked up. Makepeace was in front of her, her keys swinging on their holder.
“Mr. Abse says you’re to see the gentlemen. I don’t know why, I’m sure. There’s others here more deserving to give an account of themselves.”
Anna jumped to her feet, goose pimples rising on her flesh under the scratchy dress. She swallowed and tried to keep her voice level.
“Where are they, Makepeace? I will speak with them.”
Whistles shrilled again and Makepeace’s mouth twitched.
“I told him we should introduce Miss Todd. Or even Button. But he doesn’t listen to me. He never did.”
“Take me to them.”
Makepeace turned on her heel and walked toward the door without a backward glance. Anna followed, her heart pounding faster than ever. As she passed Lizzie Button, Button reached up from where she sat and caught at Anna’s skirt.
“Don’t go, Anna. It’s a—”
“I must, Lizzie.”
She hurried past her—through the dining room, where a maid was engaged in a violent sweeping of corners and on past the linen store, the wardrobe. As she walked, she rehearsed her appeal. She would speak on behalf of the women of England, any of whom could suffer this same injustice. No. She would convey only her own case—her personal experience. She took a breath and changed her mind again. She would speak unemotionally, as a man might, as if she explained the case of a friend and was barely concerned about it herself at all. No …
They were outside Makepeace’s room. The door stood ajar. Makepeace pushed it open with an expression of disgust.
“The patient’s here,” she said loudly, gesturing for her to enter. “As per instructions.”
Anna stepped into the room and looked around. It was empty. A cup of coffee sat untouched on Makepeace’s table and some other odor hung in the air, sweet and thin. As she opened her mouth to protest, a man stepped forward from behind the door and clamped his arm around her waist, his hand over her lips. It was Fludd. He forced her down onto the chair. Makepeace smiled as she stooped in front of Anna and pressed a cloth over her nose and mouth.
The cloying smell filled Anna’s head. She saw Fludd’s blue eyes, intent on some purpose and felt her limbs trapped in the vise of his hands. Makepeace’s voice was distant, too far away to make out what she said or for it to matter. Anna’s eyes slid past her to a host of spotted butterflies dancing over gold and purple and scarlet petals.
* * *
The magistrates were used to being delayed in reception rooms. It was generally acknowledged that a quarter of an hour was fair play and all three men, as the twentieth minute approached, had begun to fidget with their cuff links and drain the dregs of their sherry glasses.
Sir John Earle was once again leading the party; he had Mountford-Smith with him and a new chap, Hogben, on his first inspection. Querios Abse stood between them and the door. The signal from Makepeace, two rapid shrills, long pause, two more quick blasts, had not come. Querios rocked on his heels.
“Won’t you take another glass?”
Thumps came through the molded plaster ceiling. As one, the magistrates glanced upward. Sir John Earle straightened his wig and got to his feet.
“Thank you for the refreshment, Abse. Now, if we could proceed.”
He pushed straight past Abse and set off from the study, Abse hurrying to get in front of him on the stairs. Sir John had been to Lake House before on several occasions. It was he who had described the airing grounds as “dismal” and suggested carriage rides for the guests, bemoaning the lack of recreation.
“How many d’you have at present, Abse?” Sir John said, on the landing. “Numbers up at all? Any improvement on cures?”
He had a way of curving his mouth as he spoke, as if the curt smile could take the sting out of the words. Querios assumed his most dignified voice.
“The figures are in the ledgers, Sir John, all in the proper order. Ready for your perusal. I believe our cure rate is as good as anybody’s, although there is, as you would expect, wide variation within the different classes of disorder.”
“We don’t need chapter and verse, old chap. Just a fair sample. I’ve got an early dinner date in town.”
They were at the top of the stairs. Makepeace had had more than enough time to straighten things out and to take the agreed steps. He must have failed to hear her signal, Querios told himself. He grasped the handle, flung open the door to the dayroom and flattened himself against the wall of the landing.
“After you, gentlemen.”
He followed the magistrates into the room. The sight met his eyes like a physical blow. One of the curtains lay in a heap on the floor. Button was on her knees, praying. Violet Valentine called for her mother. Featherstone cowered on what used to be Talitha Batt’s chair, her face covered in smuts. There was no sign of Makepeace.
“Looks like a battleground in here, Abse,” Sir John remarked pleasantly.
“Is there a piano?” came an eager voice from behind. “Any caged birds? The room doesn’t appear to offer sufficient diversion.”
Button jumped up off her knees. She got in front of Sir John before Querios had a chance to prevent it and stood twisting her hands together, the charred piece of wood clasped under one arm.
“Sir. It’s not right. There’s a patient who wished to speak with you. She’s been taken from us this very minute.”
From the dining room beyond, Querios at last heard the signal. Two short blasts. Long pause. Two more. The magistrates glanced at each other as Makepeace hurried across the floor toward them. Her eyes were dull and her cap askew.
“This lady fancies injustices at every turn, Sir John,” she said, getting hold of Button’s arm, thrusting her to one side. “She’s not herself.”
She made a gesture as if she brought a bottle to her lips, winked at the men. Querios could smell the gin from where he stood. The magistrates had remarked in the last report on her “unwearied kindness.” All a charade. He turned his head away and made a sudden, overdue, decision. He would dismiss Fanny Makepeace as soon as he found a replacement. Might even do it before he found someone else.
Button had bobbed around Makepeace and stood in front of Sir John again, flushed to the roots of her hair.
“I have never taken alcohol in my life, sir. You must find Mrs. Palmer. Speak with her.”
“I commend you for it,” Sir John said, drily.
Hogben was watching, holding his new notebook open with one large thumb, a look of foolish sincerity on his face. The grandfather clock in the corner struck the quarter hour and the party moved on and followed Makepeace through the dining room. Querios brought up the rear. The magistrates showed no interest in the linen stores, the wardrobe. They passed the treatment room and although Hogben seemed inclined to linger and ask questions, Sir John did not. He sneezed more than once, brought out a fine white linen handkerchief from his pocket and passed it under his nose.
“Herbs, Sir John,” Querios said. “To freshen the atmosphere.”
Sir John’s aristocratic nose twitched. “Smells like rot to me,” he said. “Have you made the investigations that we talked about?”
Outside the seclusion room, Sir John stopped.
“What’s going on here?”
Querios spoke confidently. Almost dismissively. “Nothing, sir. We rarely have recourse to any form of restraint. We prefer to employ more up-to-date methods with our guests.”
“Really?” said Sir John. “In that case, what’s that noise?”
In the silence that followed, Abse heard moaning coming from inside. He looked at Fanny Makepeace for an explanation.
“A melancholic turned maniac, sir,” she said to Sir John. “She was determined that you’d done her wrong. Got it into her head to wreak some kind of vengeance. She’s been sedated for her safety and for yours.”
Querios couldn�
��t immediately think who she was talking about. He could only stand and watch as Sir John stooped to the observation window and pulled back the wooden shutter. He remained in that awkward-looking stance for some time before standing up with a sigh. As Sir John straightened his long, lean body, Hogben bent his short, stocky one to the observation window, then stood up looking flustered.
“I say, Sir John. This can’t be right.”
“Can’t it?” Sir John said. “Pray do explain, why not?”
After Mountford-Smith had also satisfied his curiosity, Querios stooped and looked into the room. It was smaller than he remembered, lit only by the light that filtered around the edges of a barred and shuttered window. Something lay on the floor—a large bundle of cloth, or an old sack. As his eyes adjusted themselves to the half light, the bundle first twitched, then raised itself to a sitting position. He saw a white hand, a flash of bright eyes before it collapsed down again onto the padded canvas. It was Mrs. Palmer. She was in a restraint waistcoat, a gag at her mouth. He stepped back, feeling off-balance. Fanny continued to avoid his eye.
Sir John sneezed again; his wig tipped back on his head, showing a second fringe of silver hair underneath it, sparser and straighter than the one on top. It wasn’t too late to retrieve the situation, Querios told himself. There was no law to say noisy patients should not be secluded for their own good, restrained in a humane manner if necessary.
“Best place for her,” he said.
Sir John made no response. He looked at his watch, turned on his heel and set off back down the corridor as if he owned the place. Abse had no option but to hurry behind him.
* * *
The sand was rough against Anna’s skin, the waves shushed and murmured in her ears. She must have fallen asleep on the beach. She couldn’t hear him, chattering to himself. Where was he? She should have been watching him.
The Painted Bridge Page 27
