Whispers of Bedlam Asylum (Sigmund Shaw Book 2)

by Mark C. King

  The heat from the building caused Sigmund to turn his head in protection. Above the roar of the fire, Edmund’s screams grew louder and more terrifying until Sigmund awoke suddenly in his Bedlam Asylum room. The man’s terrified screams still sounded in his head. After a few blinks he realized that the screams were not just in his head, they were also coming from down the hallway.

  Leaping out of bed, he ran to his door and checked the handle – it was locked, of course. Placing his cheek against the door, he tried to see out his little window, but the angle was poor and he couldn’t make out anything.

  “Hey!” Sigmund yelled. “Hey! Someone let me out!”

  He thought about using his lock picks but wasn’t sure how he would be able to explain his release. “Hey! What is happening?”

  The frustration of not knowing what was going on grew with every passing minute. In addition to his yells, he started pounding on the door.

  In between his yells, he listened for anything that could give him a clue as to what was happening. His blood went cold when he made out the word, ‘dead.’

  Who was dead?

  It must have been close to an hour before someone thought of Sigmund. At that point, he had given up yelling and pounding and was sitting on his bed, fuming at his impotence.

  When he heard footsteps approaching, he stood up and was slightly disappointed to see Basil’s face in his window – disappointed since Basil wouldn’t have a key. “Sigmund, I forgot that you would still be locked in here. I’m so sorry.”

  Sigmund certainly did not blame Basil and asked excitedly, “What is going on?”

  “Doctor Exton is dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “They won’t let anyone get close, but the rumour is that he was murdered in his office. Beaten to death.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “I don’t think so, but Scotland Yard has been notified.”

  Sigmund paused to take in this information. Was this related to his investigation or just an unfortunate circumstance?

  “Basil, can you find Mr. Pegg or Mr. Thursby and see about getting me out of this room?”

  “You can count on me,” Basil said with a military salute and a smile.

  Sigmund grinned at the bit of humor and then sat back on his bed. His grin faded as he contemplated his week in Bedlam - two deaths that he knew of, an attempted rape, and the unjust beating of a patient, himself.

  This was the place where the broken were to be fixed, but what do you do when the place itself was broken?

  30.

  Three Years Prior, Late Spring…

  Silvester pulled out the box from his pocket and asked, “Amberlyn, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?” Lifting the lid and exposing the ring, he held it out to her.

  Her lips opened and her eyes grew wide. She stood up and put her hands to her mouth and whispered, “Oh, Silvester…”

  Her face looked angelic, the sun highlighting her dark hair, but in an instant, her expression went from astonishment to fear. The boat rocked from side to side threatening to throw Amberlyn overboard. Silvester instinctively stood and reached for her, to try and stabilize her, but that only made things worse. During the few seconds of this, it all seemed to happen in slow motion. At some point, Silvester knew that she was going to fall into the Thames and there was nothing he could do about it.

  With his own balance compromised, he ended up falling backwards and landing hard at the bow of the boat, his legs above his head on the bench seat. Simultaneously, Amberlyn screamed and fell over the side.

  His body was in an awkward position and he tried to push himself back up and onto the seat. However, as he strained, his arms gave out as a point in his back erupted in pain. It was so sharp and so unexpected, it literally took his breath away and caused his eyes to tear. Once again on his back, he was now afraid to move, afraid to cause the pain to return.

  “Amberlyn? I might need your help.” he called out. There was no answer.

  Very gingerly, Silvester started to push himself up, but the pain started to come back, so he lowered himself down again. He had no idea of how he would right himself. This was so embarrassing! Would his almost fiancé have to row them to shore?

  “Amberlyn? Are you alright?” There was still no answer. Silvester wasn’t worried about her at first, after all, it was only water and she knew how to swim. “Amberlyn, where are you?”

  Again, he tried and failed to move. Sweat broke out on his brow as his situation became more concerning. Why wasn’t Amberlyn responding? How was he going to move?

  “Amberlyn!” he was now yelling. “Please! Answer me!” There was no response.

  His breathing grew rapid as each second passed without hearing her voice. He grew desperate – a true desperation at the level of life and death. Without allowing time for his mind to reject the thought, Silvester jerked his body sideways and he hooked his arm over the side of the boat. The pain caused him to scream out in agony and his limbs felt numb as his lower-back felt like he was being stabbed. This new position allowed his head to be above the side and to see into the water. What he saw made him forget his pain for a moment.

  Amberlyn was floating face-down in the water, a swirl of muted blood next to her head.

  “Oh, no,” he said to himself and then yelled, “Amberlyn! Someone, help! Help me! Please!”

  He couldn’t hold the position anymore and fell to his back. The pain of the jolt caused him to scream again, an agonizing wail made worse by the inclusion of the emotional pain of Amberlyn being in trouble. From that lame position he continued to yell for help and, unable to hold back any longer, his screams were soon mixed with sobs. The absolute terror and frustration of the situation were overwhelming him.

  He tried to right himself again and cursed as his body failed him as it listened to his pain and not his mind. Falling back increased his agony until he felt a tingling coldness, like his blood had been replaced with ice water, and a darkness started to narrow his vision. An instant nausea caused Silvester to vomit, the retching only adding to his already considerable pain. His last thought before losing consciousness was, Someone, please help her, please help my Amberlyn….

  31.

  “Faster, driver!” Holmes yelled from the cabin. He was rewarded by a little jolt as the whip was applied to the horse.

  When the news came in that there was a murder at Bedlam, Holmes feared the worst. The identity of the victim was not provided and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that Sigmund had gotten into more trouble than he could handle.

  Why did I agree to his scheme? he chastised himself as he bounced on his seat, the cab going faster than comfort would dictate. Dark clouds were gathering over London, but the heart of the storm had not yet hit. A soft drizzle gave a small glimpse of what was to come.

  As the driver took the turn hard onto Lambeth Road, Holmes was pushed firmly against the side wall and would swear that the carriage was on two wheels as they turned onto the grounds of Bedlam. The sound changed and the ride smoothed as the tires left the cobblestone street and rolled onto the gravel drive, but such a trivial thing hardly registered in his mind.

  Before the carriage stopped, Holmes had already jumped out into the cold and wet and took quick steps, all but running past the six columns, to the entrance. Inside the building, his eyes scanned the grey scene. A few people were milling about, orderlies by the look of their dress, while two men were gathered near the left set of doors – the lower level of the men’s wing. They seemed to be standing guard and Holmes allowed for a modicum of hope as he knew that Sigmund’s room was on the second floor. However, he had to allow for the possibility that they may have moved his friend.

  Holmes walked quickly towards the group and recognized Dr. Madfyre and his mechanical eye, as one of the two. The doctor looked up at the approach and said, “Ah, Chief Inspector Holmes, thank goodness you’re here. The situation is untenable.”

  Before addressing the doctor, Hol
mes looked briefly at the other man that was with him and recognized him from the day that he brought Sigmund. It was the large orderly, Mr. Pegg. The poor excuse for a man had a smirk on his face that annoyed Holmes to no end.

  “Tell me, doctor,” Holmes said, “who is the victim and what is known of the crime.” His heart raced as he awaited the answer. Please don’t be Sigmund.

  “The victim is our Doctor Exton, our physical care physician. He appears to have been beaten to death in his office.”

  As the words sunk in, a feeling of relief flowed through Holmes. Sure, it was sad that a human had died, but Sigmund was alive. With the worst case scenario behind him, his mind started into its familiar track of gathering evidence. “Please show me to the office, doctor.”

  The large orderly opened the double doors and Madfyre led the way. Dr. Exton’s office was the first door on the right with another orderly outside of it. This one was average height and had well-arranged dress. Madfyre called out, “Mr. Thursby, please unlock the door and let the Chief Inspector in.”

  “Right away, sir,” responded Thursby as he produced a key to unlock it.

  Holmes asked, “Has anyone disturbed the office?”

  “No,” answered Madfyre, “not to my knowledge. I found him myself this morning and have kept the door locked and guarded at all times.”

  “Very well. Please step aside, Mr. Thursby, and someone show my driver to this room once he has seen to the horses.”

  The small office of Dr. Exton showed many obvious signs of a struggle. A chair was tipped over, a patient’s cot was askew, items that once rested on a table were scattered across the floor – broken glass, medical tools, and an assortment of papers. Of course, the dead man was the biggest sign of trouble.

  Careful not to disturb items that could give clues, Holmes approached the body of Dr. Exton. The victim was laying on his back, eyes open, and covered in blood. There was a large gash on the head which was probably the death blow. Such a wound couldn’t have been made by a fist, some sort of heavy, blunt object had to have been used. Holmes stood and examined the surroundings looking for anything that could be the murder weapon.

  When his eyes fell on a stone bowl, part of a mortar and pestle set, he knew that it was almost certainly what was used to kill Exton. An autopsy would no doubt match the wound with the bowl, confirming his suspicion, but it was fairly plain. One question answered, but the larger question remained – who did it?

  “Chief Inspector.”

  Holmes looked up and saw his driver, Constable Bollmann, standing at attention.

  “Constable, I believe I have found the murder weapon. Be sure that when the coroner arrives, he takes the mortar and pestle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What we need to do now is see if there is any evidence of who might have done this. After that, we will start interviewing the staff and then the patients.”

  “We are going to interview… the patients?” asked the constable incredulously.

  Holmes understood the concern, but there really was no other option. Just as he was about to answer, a scream was heard from the hallway which was quickly followed by shouts of, “Come quick! Hurry!”

  Holmes and Bollmann locked eyes and Holmes said, “Go!” Bollmann disappeared from the doorway immediately and Holmes was quickly behind him.

  The shouts did not come from the hallway but from one of the rooms off of the corridor further down the men’s wing. When the Chief Inspector entered, he quickly recognized it as a simple dormitory and scanned for the problem. A few patients were around, some still asleep, but a group – including Madfyre – was gathered around one particular bed on the right. He couldn’t help but again be concerned that it might be Sigmund. Nearing the bed, Bollmann stepped aside and allowed for a full view. There on the mattress was a patient, blood all over his clothes, apparently dead, but not Sigmund Shaw. He stared at the dead man and allowed another wave of relief to pass through him.

  After a moment, Holmes looked up at Dr. Madfyre and waited for the answer to the obvious question.

  “He’s dead.” Madfyre confirmed with a look of shock.

  Leaning close to the body, Holmes investigated for a clue as to what killed this patient. There were no overt wounds that would account for death – nor anything that would even account for the blood. Holmes looked at the man’s arms and hands and discovered some scratches and bruising. Standing up straight, he said to the group, “I believe we have found the murderer of Doctor Exton.”

  “What?” Madfyre asked. “How can that be?”

  “The blood that you see did not come from this man. Also, his arms and hands have wounds that are caused by someone struggling against him – I am certain that that someone was Doctor Exton.”

  “But even if that is true,” said Madfyre, “how did Cecil, this patient, die?”

  Holmes studied the dead man and wondered the same thing. Looking back up at the group he shook his head and said, “I can find no obvious reason for his death, we will have to wait for the autopsy. It seems clear that this patient killed Doctor Exton, for yet to be discovered reasons, but his death leaves the possibility of another murderer.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Bollmann commented, “couldn’t the same murderer have killed both men?”

  Nodding in agreement of the possibility, Holmes answered, “Yes, that is possible. But the blood on the clothes of this patient along with the wounds he shows is an unlikely step that another murderer would go through. No, it is hard for me to believe that this man did not kill Doctor Exton. Tell me, what kind of patient was he? Why was he here?”

  Madfyre looked at the well-dressed orderly and said, “Mr. Thursby, you know these patients more intimately than I do. Please answer the Chief Inspector’s questions”

  Thursby shook his head slowly and said, “Cecil was a docile man. He kept to himself, rarely spoke, altogether harmless. It is hard to believe he would be capable of murder.”

  “And his reason for being in the asylum?” Holmes asked.

  Thursby looked down at the body and then back up to Holmes. “He was unable to hold down a job. He increasingly withdrew from everyone as he got older until the point that his family couldn’t deal with him anymore. They brought him here to find help, or if that was not possible, to find relief for themselves.”

  “So, no history of violence?”

  “No, none.”

  Holmes turned his attention to Dr. Madfyre and asked him, “Doctor, is it unheard of for a patient like Cecil to suddenly have a change of character and perhaps turn violent?”

  “It is not unheard of,” Madfyre answered hesitantly, but then added, “it is not common either. There were no signs or symptoms of a change in his mentality. At even a hint of concern, we would have locked him in a private room.”

  “Thank you doctor. I imagine that there will be more questions, but that will be all for now.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” It was Bollmann. “The other officers have arrived. What would you like to do with them?”

  “Have them comb through Exton’s lab and this dormitory for anything out of place. I need you with me to start conducting interviews.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Doctor Madfyre, is there a place that I can talk to your staff and patients in private?”

  Madfyre thought for a moment and then offered, “Yes. We have a small room next to my office. You will be undisturbed there. Mr. Thursby, please escort the Chief Inspector.”

  Holmes and Bollmann followed the orderly to the lobby and to the offered room. It was quite bare, but sufficient.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thursby. Constable Bollmann will be needing your assistance in a little while to organize the patients for interviews.”

  “Of course, Chief Inspector. I am at your disposal.”

  After the orderly left, Holmes turned to Bollmann and said, “I will start doing the interviews myself, but will have you finish them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pleas
e arrange, carefully, for the first interview to be Sigmund.”

  Bollmann’s face showed a little surprise. He was aware on Sigmund’s undercover mission, but asked, “You don’t think he has something to do with this?”

  “I’m honestly not sure. But the very week we admit him there are two murders. That is quiet a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Bollmann took only a moment to agree. “I’ll get him now.”

  Holmes took a seat in one of the two chairs in the room and gave thought to the case. If a patient had killed someone, that would be easy to understand, or at least easy to explain. But to have a patient kill someone and then die themselves for no apparent reason was very strange indeed. His intuition told him that the answer would not be pleasant, that it would be more than just a lunatic acting out.