‘How unwell, is he going to die? I could not stand that.’
I gently took her arm and slowly walked her off the platform. ‘No, he is not going to die but he will need much care. I have a horse and carriage with me, and Asif to drive. We can visit him in hospital now. If that is what you wish?’ She nodded in the affirmative. We walked arm in arm out of the station to the waiting carriage, no small talk was needed, just like an old married couple, happy in our own company. At the carriage, Asif effortlessly lifted her case onto the roof rack. Marie thanked him for his help. Then I helped her into the carriage and sat beside her. I had already discussed the route with him. The hospital was located about five miles west of Gravesend, just off the London Road, in Dartford. We set off.
Strangely now we were sitting so close together it almost felt awkward. I did not know if this was the appropriate moment to tell Marie how much I had missed her, how I still longed for her. But no, that was too soon. We had to reunite Marie with her son first, that would be emotion enough for one day! So, we spoke about normal things, how the French court was doing in Chislehurst, Napoleon’s gall bladder problems and how they affected her position in the household. Then we went on to talk about how Pierre had been discovered, the condition he was in. Clearly this cast a shadow over her happiness. I myself was concerned at the state the boy would be in when we reached the hospital. I tried to keep these doubts to myself.
The carriage clattered along the London road towards Dartford for almost an hour before we pulled off and entered a side road. Asif drew the horses to a stop. I looked out and there before me were the gates of the hospital, with the inscription ‘City of London Lunatic Asylum’ and below that the year, presumably of its opening, ‘1866’. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Marie had also seen the sign.
‘William, what is this? It says lunatic asylum; you have brought my boy to this?’
I was also dumbfounded. I could not believe my own stupidity – I had not bothered to ask Gordon the details. I had just relied on Asif to get us here quickly and without fuss. I scratched around for suitable words. ‘I think it must have been the only hospital available. I’m sure all will be well inside.’ Then shouted to Asif, ‘Carry on. Drive us up to the porter’s office.’
Marie sunk back into her seat; it was as if she had been slapped in the face. We parked the carriage outside the porter’s office, and I went inside to sort out the procedure for seeing Pierre. The porter was a gruff old fellow with mutton chop sideburns and not much hair on top. His reddened face showed a poor choice of diet or too much time spent in alehouses. He offered to take us to the boy. I went back to the carriage and helped Marie out. We looked about us. The hospital itself was a fine modern building, built in the Gothic style and surrounded by landscaped gardens. This good experience seemed to calm Marie. I turned to Asif. ‘Can you look after the horses? I’m taking Marie in.’
At that I took her by the arm and entered the hospital. The porter was clearly impressed that such an attractive and well-dressed woman was visiting and immediately became much more helpful. He took us out of his office then down an immensely long corridor. I could tell Marie was apprehensive. The porter spoke in effusive tones.
‘This is a marvellous building. Even the corridors are specially built; long and wide, so you can walk for hours, even when it is raining outside. A lot of the lunatics like walking.’
The word ‘lunatic’ seemed to hit Marie like a hammer. I gestured for her to say nothing. We carried on. As we got deeper into the bowels of the hospital the noise of the inmates became louder; shouting, hollering, crying, repeating words again and again. We passed one of them, who was pissing up a wall. The porter stopped and clipped his ear. ‘Get on with you. If I see you doing that again, you’ll be locked in.’ The lunatic looked back with blank eyes. We all moved on. Finally, at the end of the corridor there was a small ward to our left. The porter pointed. ‘There he is, the French boy. Anything else I can do for you?’
He stood, unmoving, I got the hint and put a crown into his hand.
‘Thank you sir, you know where I am if you need help.’
At that he departed back down the long corridor.
We looked into the small ward, thankfully it only had one bed, and in it was Pierre – no doubt of that. Marie had finally got to see her son. She raced into the room and was about to throw her arms around him, then she hesitated. Yes, it was definitely Pierre, but his eyes looked dead. There seemed to be no recognition that the woman coming towards him with open arms was his mother. He was just lying in bed, chewing a sheet, staring, mumbling incoherently. Marie turned to me. ‘What has happened to him? What have you done?’
I could say nothing, my hopes for a joyous reunion between mother and son were in tatters. She reached over and gently touched her boy’s forehead. Still no sign of life, no reaction. ‘Pierre, it is me, I’ve come for you.’ At that she sat on the bed and tried to hug him. It was sad, almost pathetic to watch. Still little reaction ensued from the boy. She sat back on the bed clearly distraught and lost for words. ‘What has happened William, why has this happened?’
I was as concerned as her but had no answers.
‘I don’t know; I can only guess that all those months incarcerated in an underground cell have severely affected his mental health. I had no idea he was this bad.’ We were in silence for a few seconds unable to say anything; the silence was rudely broken by some furious banging on the door – it was one of the patients shouting and hollering about nothing. A few seconds later an orderly arrived and dragged them away, screaming. Marie looked at me, her eyes welling up with sadness. ‘We must get him out of here. Get him back to things he might remember, things that will heal his soul.’
We spent several minutes by his bedside, hoping, praying for some sign of recognition. Nothing occurred, just a blank face staring back at us. Finally, Marie seemed to make up her mind. She kissed Pierre on his forehead and said quietly, ‘We will be back for you Pierre. We will take you away from here and bring you home.’
At that she made to leave. I touched her arm. ‘Is that wise Marie? Is he ready?’ She was clearly not in the mood for discussion. ‘Come, let us find what paperwork needs to be done to get him released from this hellhole.’
She then virtually marched down the corridor and back to the porter’s office. If Marie had her way we would have dragged Pierre out there and then, but clearly there were procedures. I persuaded her to go outside and sit in the carriage while I talked to the porter. She agreed. The porter clearly felt his job was not to be too helpful, but I ascertained that a letter from the person who had originally sent Pierre to the hospital, and was paying his keep, Gordon, was required to get his release. It also appeared that release could take place immediately the said letter of authority was produced. I thanked him, bade farewell, and stepped back into the waiting carriage.
‘We need a letter of authority from Gordon to legally remove him.’ She seemed alright with this.
‘Then let us get back to Gravesend now and get this sorted.’ I agreed to this course of action and within seconds the coach was out through the gates, heading east along the London road.
Thirty-Six
The Journey Home
Within the hour we had arrived back in Gravesend and I let Marie off at the Eagle, then proceeded on to the fort. Luckily, Gordon was in, so I was able to appraise him of the situation. With a heavy heart he wrote out a letter on headed paper giving me permission to remove Pierre from the hospital. I could tell from his demeanour that he was now tired of this whole affair. I left him in his office and returned to the Eagle with his letter in my pocket.
Marie had made herself at home in my room. She seemed both elated at her son’s reappearance but sad about his condition, and fearful of what the future might hold. She gently took my hand and sat me on the bed.
‘Was Gordon alright about removing Pierre from the asy
lum?’
I nodded and showed her the letter of intent. ‘Thank you so much William, I owe you everything.’
She then gently put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me. She continued, ‘But I have something to tell you. I am no longer welcome at the French court at Camden Place. I must return to France.’
I decided that talk was for later on. I looked into her eyes and kissed her full on the lips. She responded in kind and we were soon together on the bed. All the problems of the day, all the horrors of the lunatic asylum, were swept away. In the bedroom Marie was a different person – younger, softer, nicer. She could shut the world out and invite you into her magic kingdom. And that she did.
Sometime later I reluctantly got out of bed and dressed. We were both now hungry so went downstairs into the bar. I knew the food here was indifferent, but we were both in such a good mood that nothing could spoil things. I turned to her. ‘Let me come with you to France. The three of us, we could set up home in Paris. What do you think?’
She seemed both touched and surprised. ‘William, that is so kind of you, but what would you do in a foreign country?’
‘I’d do the same as I do here, private investigations, journalism. I know it would take me a while to learn the language, but we could get there together.’
She looked both happy and perturbed by my answer. ‘I think you underestimate the difficulties William. You have a life here – would you really be willing to give it all up for me?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, without hesitation.’
She gently touched my hand. ‘Let us see what tomorrow brings. This is such a big decision, perhaps we both need to sleep on it.’
And so, the conversation ended, and we had a simple meal of bread and cheese before returning to our room. Such was my passion for Marie we got little sleep that night. I could tell she felt the same. Both of us were half awake, waiting for dawn to break. This was a big day in our lives; we both knew it.
At 7 a.m. I left Marie and headed for the fort. Asif was already up with the horses fed, watered, and groomed. He took the leads, and we headed off down West Street, picking up Marie at the Eagle’s front door. It was another fine morning. The London road was clear of traffic and we made steady progress.
By nine o’clock we were back at the gates of the asylum. Marie and I left the stagecoach, leaving Asif in charge. At the office we saw the same grizzly porter as we did yesterday. I showed him the letter from Gordon and he dolefully showed us through to Pierre’s bedroom. Clearly nothing had changed. I also noted that the lad had wet the bed. Pierre seemed oblivious of his own urine and lay comatose in a foetal potion on the bedspread, chewing his thumb. I addressed the porter.
‘We will be taking him to another hospital. We do not think this asylum is suitable for his requirements.’
The man seemed indifferent. ‘You’re welcome to him,’ were his only words. Then he left us and presumably returned to his office.
We were now left with Pierre.
Marie scrabbled to get him out of bed and dressed.
I stood by, fairly useless. No sense was coming from the boy. Just animal noises. No recognition of his mother. Despite this Marie did not lose her cool. She stuck to the task. Finally, we had him dressed and I collected his meagre belongings. We then half walked; half dragged him along the long corridor. All the while there was an endless backdrop of mindless shouting and swearing from the other inmates.
It was with relief that we got out of the asylum, into the warm sunshine and put Pierre into the coach. Marie sat alongside him. With the boy settled, she called out through the window, ‘Can we go straight to Dover?’
I looked at the ever-patient Asif, he looked at me. I felt duty bound to tell her that it would be a long day’s drive.
‘Marie, that will be a good ten-hour journey, are you sure?’
‘Yes, it will be too difficult getting Pierre on and off trains. Let us ride down to the ferry at Dover.’
I nodded to Asif. ‘Very well, let us get moving.’ At that he whipped the horses into life, and we set off down the old London road heading for the coast.
I knew the old coaching route from memory, although these days I usually took the train if travelling to Dover. The route followed the old Roman road, Watling Street – Gravesend, Higham, Rochester Bridge, Faversham, Canterbury, Dover. There were numerous coaching inns en route where the horses could be fed and watered. I had no exact idea what times the mail packets sailed, but hopefully we should make Dover before sunset, and get the last ferry to Boulogne before nightfall.
The route was not without its pleasant diversions, with the white chalk pits etched into the hillsides towering above the distant Thames. This countryside then gave way to the softer, lusher landscapes of rural Kent. We passed over the River Medway at Rochester Bridge – and I could see to my left the meandering stretch of river at Strood, where I had been stabbed by John Bennett. Then onwards through Rochester high street itself, with its fine castle and cathedral. All should have been well, but a strange feeling of unease gripped me. I could not put my finger on it but eventually it came; the weather was turning. It was changing from bright sunshine to dull and heavy. And the humidity was building. Even sitting on top, with the wind in my hair I could feel the closeness gathering. Below us, inside the coach all seemed to be going well. Pierre was just sitting quietly, his eyes dead to the world, but at least Marie could now relax slightly. By the time we reached the hop fields of Faversham the humidity was noticeable, a clamminess prevailed. There must be a storm coming, and a big one at that.
The day wore on. We had to push the horses hard. Stops at coaching inns were perfunctory affairs – food and water for the horses and little time for anything else, then back on the road. I marvelled at how the Royal Mail coach drivers did this day in day out, as I was already getting tired. The wind was now in our faces, driving from the south – from the English Channel itself.
We rode through Canterbury, hardly noticing the beautiful cathedral, then dipped southwards, going through the sparsely populated open chalk downlands. We made one final stop at the Bell Inn at Lyddon. I could tell Asif had noticed the humidity as he threw a bucket of water over the sweating horses. I asked Marie if she was alright and she nodded. She had no wish to leave the coach, clearly she was nervous of anything which might cause Pierre to become excitable or restless.
Standing alongside the horses, I turned to Asif. ‘The wind is strengthening and changing direction. It is coming from the south-west now. Will that make the crossing choppier?’
He was clearly concerned. ‘The English Channel, very narrow at Dover, bad storm, no good.’ We left it at that and got back onto the coach and drove on.
Finally, Dover came into view, it was now early evening and the light was getting odder by the minute. We passed Crabble Mill, on its outskirts, and weaved down the cobbled streets of this growing town. Then finally we got a glimpse of the sea ahead. The English Channel. Somewhere beyond that was the French coast but the heavy cloud obscured any view of that.
We took the coach down to the road alongside Dover Town station, where it was a short walk to the ferry terminal dock on Admiralty Pier. Asif skilfully stopped the horses, who were by now only too grateful for a rest. We were all tired, but the sight in front of us gave us no comfort. Crowds were milling around, mostly people who had come off the train. Leaving Asif in charge, I walked over to the ferry dock entrance. A uniformed man with a strong moustache stood there arguing with a few irritated travellers.
‘I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen. There will be no more ferries tonight. Due to bad weather, all crossings are cancelled until further notice.’
There was much displeasure from the waiting crowd, but I could see his reasoning. The winds were now westerly and must be racing down the channel and squeezing through the straits of Dover. Beyond the wind there was the ever-present threat of a violent storm. Whe
n this storm broke, it was going to be vicious, and a boat on the English Channel was no place to be. I walked back to the coach and told everyone the news. Asif was not perturbed but Marie was clearly desperate. Was this a sign from God? We had come all this way but could not get out of the country, yet.
I quickly thought about my memories of Dover from a previous trip. There was a good hotel alongside the town station on the seafront, the Lord Warden Hotel. We could try and stay the night there. I told them of my idea and as there was no alternative, they agreed. It was a fine building with views over the harbour and Admiralty Pier. As I dismounted from the coach, I could feel the first raindrops on my collar. I went inside to talk to the receptionist. Clearly many more people wanted to stay the night because of the adverse weather, so I could only obtain one room in the hotel proper. There were also some quarters at the back where the servants could sleep and stable their horses.
I decided to give Marie and Pierre the hotel room, and I would sleep in the servants’ quarters with Asif. I returned to the coach and all agreed that was a good course of action. We were all by now so tired and fearful of this cruel weather that to find lodgings at this hour was a comfort in itself.
Within half an hour all was resolved. Marie and Pierre had been settled into their bedroom on the ground floor and myself, Asif and the horses were sorted out with our overnight accommodation in the servants’ sleeping quarters. Getting Pierre out of the carriage and through reception had not been too difficult. I had told the clerk on reception that the boy was a simpleton but that his mother would make sure there was no trouble. He seemed to accept this without query.
The rest of the evening was spent quietly, while the thunder rolled on outside we kept our heads down. Marie had food sent to her room. I ate in the servants’ quarters. They were a rough and ready lot down there, but not too concerned about a gentleman in their midst. I simply explained it away by saying the hotel was full, which was a half-truth, anyway.
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