by Mark C. King
“The Chief Inspector?” a voice from inside asked in astonishment. “Please, show him in.”
The woman opened the door fully and stepped to the side. “Please enter, Chief Inspector.”
Holmes nodded politely and walked into the office. The editor stood from behind his desk and extended his hand in greeting. As Holmes shook it, the editor introduced himself, “Hello, Chief Inspector, I am Warren Godwit.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Godwit.”
“Have a seat please.” The two men sat and Godwit asked with a touch of nervousness, “Is there trouble, Chief Inspector?”
“To be perfectly honest with you, I am not exactly sure,” Holmes replied. “I am here about one of your writers, Charlotte Merrihail.”
Godwit’s face seemed to immediately drain of blood and took on a look of anguish. “Oh, please, no,” he said and started to shake his head. “It is all my fault. I should have never agreed to her plan.” Godwit’s now sad eyes looked at Holmes and asked, “What has happened to her?”
The reaction was not like anything Holmes had expected. He tried to calm the man down by saying, “I did not mean to cause you any concern, Mr. Godwit. To the extent of my knowledge, nothing has happened to Mrs. Merrihail.”
“Oh, thank God!” the editor exclaimed with true relief. “Her current assignment is a dangerous one and once you mentioned her name I assumed the worst.”
“A question about her current assignment is why I am here. Is Miss Merrihail currently in Bedlam Asylum?”
Although Mr. Godwit looked much better than a moment ago, he still had a look of concern. “Why, yes, she is. How do you know that? Is she in trouble with the law for her false admission? Please understand that her motives are pure. She wants to write an article about life in Bedlam with the goal of helping the poor patients of that place. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I am the one who gave her permission.’
Holmes liked Mr. Godwit. He was a man that was clearly concerned about the welfare of one of his writers and was even willing to accept legal consequences on her behalf – not that there were any. “Once again, sir, I must set you at ease. There are no legal issues here. I cannot give you all the details, but I can tell you this much. I have a man on the inside who is also doing some investigation at Bedlam. He has crossed paths with Mrs. Merrihail and asked that I confirm that she is who she claims to be. As you can understand, the words of a patient are not the most trustworthy.”
“Quite so,” said Godwit with renewed relief. “What is the purpose of your investigation?”
“I am afraid that I cannot divulge that. But, if Mrs. Merrihail is at all involved, then her next article may be even more sensational than either of you originally anticipated.”
Mr. Godwit leaned heavily back in his chair, looking tired. “Chief Inspector, I readily admit that I was not excited about her request. Each day that she has been there has proved to be a heavy weight on my mind and my conscience. Can you tell me that she is not in danger?”
Once again, the concern shown was touching. Holmes wished he could tell the editor that there was nothing to worry about, but he could not lie to this fine man. “Mr. Godwit, I cannot give you the answer that you want. Bedlam is not a safe place. I do not know of any danger that is specifically targeting her, but I cannot in good conscience tell you that she is free of any harm.”
The editor stroked his beard as he considered the information. He asked, “The person that you said that you have inside, is he a good man?”
Looking Mr. Godwit in the eyes, Holmes nodded and said, “One of the best.”
When the Chief Inspector stepped out of the offices of The Strand, he knew he had all the information he could gather outside of Bedlam Asylum. Unfortunately, it only seemed to muddy the waters. He had no idea of the significance, if any, of Sigmund working with Charlotte Merrihail. The fact that Cecil, the Bedlam patient who murdered Dr. Exton and then died with the brain ailment, was related to Sigmund’s investigation would normally have been a positive revelation, but the deviation from the established modus operandi made this a confusing variable. The analytical mind craves patterns and these unexpected turn of events breaks the consistency of systematic thought. Variables are the frustration of logic.
Climbing into the waiting carriage, Holmes directed the driver to the asylum. In a few short minutes, they had reached Waterloo Bridge. The greyness of the day, the blackness of the Thames, and the chill that was as pervasive as the London fog itself did nothing to help Holmes’ troubled mind. His reliance on another person, Sigmund – not even a fellow police officer – was taxing his fortitude. To have so much out of his grasp was not a familiar, nor welcomed, feeling. It had nothing to do with trust, for Holmes had the utmost confidence in Sigmund, but his feelings had to do with the impotence of his involvement. To be a spectator is the worst punishment for the driven.
The gates to Bedlam were open, no doubt to help with the police comings and goings, and Holmes’ carriage stopped just outside of the six pillars in front of the entrance. When Holmes paid the driver and told him not to wait, it was easy to see the relief on the man’s face. The driver took a quick frightful glance at the building and then wasted no time in snapping the reigns and moving away from asylum. With all the rumours and with all the current events, Holmes could not blame the man.
Inside the large lobby of Bedlam, Holmes sought out the first constable he saw. The man saluted the Chief Inspector as he approached. Holmes ordered, “Report.”
The constable shook his head slightly and said, “There is no new information, sir. Last night was quiet and we have not received any report from the coroner yet.”
“I took care of that myself,” commented Holmes. “He did not provide much that we did not already know. If the patient, Cecil, was murdered, we are no closer to knowing who did it.” Holmes looked around the lobby and wondered what his next move was. He certainly needed to talk to Sigmund, but had to be careful to not rouse any suspicions.
“Constable, I need to have further interviews with a few of the patients. One in particular.”
The look on the constable’s face confirmed he understood the order. Holmes continued, “The small office that was used yesterday, is it still at our disposal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I will meet with the patients in there.”
As Holmes walked towards the makeshift interrogation room, Dr. Madfyre exited from his office. At spotting Holmes, Madfyre called out, “Ah, Chief Inspector. I was hoping to see you this morning. Is there any update on the investigation?”
“These things usually take some time,” answered Holmes. “However, I did receive one piece of information that perhaps you could help with.”
“Me? How so?”
“Regarding the patient that died, Cecil, the coroner reported that his brain was quite damaged. He alluded to it looking like a prune. Have you any insight into this?” Holmes watched Madfyre’s face closely. Would it give away anything?
The doctor showed a little shock at first but then took on an appearance of great interest. “A prune? In what way? Color? Size?”
“I will have to put you in contact with him for particulars. I have not a medical mind. Can you at all explain his findings?”
Madfyre looked thoughtful for a moment and then answered, “I do not know of anything that could cause what you described. However, the mind is complex and I have no belief that I have come across all the ailments that attack it. Without more data, I am very much at a loss. Did the coroner provide a weight for the brain?”
The eagerness on Madfyre’s face made Holmes feel that the doctor cared more about the diagnosis than the poor dead patient. “I am afraid I was not given that detail. I will make sure the coroner comes prepared.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector. This is most interesting. Please let me know if I can assist in any way.”
“Of course, doctor. Thank you.”
Madfyre returned to his office while Holmes enter
ed the small room and awaited Sigmund. While waiting, Holmes thought about the reaction of Madfyre. He simply did not give away anything. The interest shown could point to culpability, but the demeanor was not one of a guilty person. Again, Holmes was no closer to the answer he was looking for.
Sigmund was not the first patient that was brought to Holmes for an interview. The three men that preceded Sigmund were, as far as the Chief Inspector could tell, just random individuals brought in by the constable. Despite the false role they were playing, Holmes dutifully asked each one a few questions about the murder. The answers were as expected and provided no new clues to the mystery.
When Sigmund entered and the door closed behind him, Holmes stood and gave his tired looking friend a warm handshake. “Survived another night, did you?”
Sigmund smiled and answered, “Excellent deduction, my dear Holmes.”
“Well,” said the Chief Inspector, “you seem to be in good spirits this morning. Or perhaps they have you on medication?”
“No, just wanted to make sure you knew that I still had my wits about me. I will tell you, though, this place makes one question that.”
Holmes nodded as they both sat down, “I do not doubt it. Now, Sigmund, we haven’t much time. In order to keep suspicions down, this meeting needs to be brief. I have two things that I must tell you.”
Sigmund’s ragged face allowed some expectation through, while he sat in silence and awaited the news.
Holmes said, “First, I checked with the Strand Magazine and found Charlotte Merrihail’s editor, a Mr. Godwit. He says that she is on an assignment here in Bedlam Asylum. I am not sure if that is the answer you were hoping for, but she is here pretending to be a patient.”
“I figured as much,” responded Sigmund. “I am no psychiatrist, but there is something about her sincerity that is hard to fake.”
“The other news,” Holmes continued, “is that the patient that killed Doctor Exton and then died had the brain ailment that you had described. He is somehow connected to your search.”
Sigmund rubbed a hand down his face as he concentrated on what he had just heard.
Holmes asked, “Any theories?”
“I am convinced that the ailment is not a disease, but that it is somehow caused by the hand of man. My suspicions revolve around Doctor Madfyre, but I have little proof of that.”
“He is a strange one,” Holmes agreed.
With a bit of urgency, Sigmund asked, “I need another favor.”
“Of course, how can I help?”
“I need you to remove any overnight watchmen. Whoever is behind this needs to feel as if they can continue safely. I want to catch them in the act.”
It took only a moment for the Chief Inspector to inwardly agree with the favor and he took pride in the courage of his friend. “Consider it done. Is there anything else I can do to help? Anything at all?”
With a smile of sincerity, Sigmund said, “Thank you, but no, not at this time.”
“Very well then, you had better be going.” The two men stood and once again shook hands. “Take care of yourself, Sigmund. It would be bad form if this was our last adventure together.”
“Yes, bad form, indeed.”
34.
Three Years Prior, Late Spring…
Noise, light, wrong. Silvester opened his eyes a crack and was overwhelmed by disorientation. Where was he?
Flexing his fingers, he felt dirt and gravel beneath his hands and nails. His head swam with confusion and he tried to push himself up only to be defeated by a searing pain in his back. The sharpness and intensity of it took his breath away momentarily and caused a cold sweat to break out.
In an instant, his mind exploded with memories. The boat, the proposal, Amberlyn falling overboard and floating face down with blood dispersing around her head. Turning his head to the right, he could see along the shore of the Thames – somehow he was brought to shore – people were standing and looking in his direction, but Amberlyn was not among them. Turning his head to the left, he saw many people near him, some standing, others kneeling over a person – Amberlyn! She was lying on the ground, her skin was pale, her wet hair stuck randomly around her face, eyes closed.
Oh, please no! The excitement and happiness that the day started with was now only a sarcastic memory of what it had turned into. Please be okay, please!
Silvester continued to watch, helpless, unable to move, and couldn’t imagine a worse nightmare. People – his family, her family, and strangers – continued to try and awaken her, desperation emanating from everyone in sight.
Flat on his back, frozen by pain and fear, tears welled in Silvester’s eyes. The happiness that his life was depending on lay a few feet away, maybe dying, maybe dead. Moving his arm, he stretched it out towards her. Amberlyn was out of reach, but somehow it felt a little better being physically closer to her, even in this small useless way.
While blinking away blurry tears, Silvester heard shouts from the mass of people. It took a moment to refocus, but when he did, he saw Amberlyn’s eyes open. People hugged each other and some fell to their knees in pure relief. He started crying in earnest. His emotions were ravaging him unlike anything he had ever experienced and he could not accommodate anything other than sobbing. She’s alive! Oh, thank God!
Although most still gave her earnest attention, a few now looked over at Silvester. His father kneeled next to him and asked, “How are you feeling, son?”
“I can’t move. My back is hurt,” was all he could manage to get out through his emotions.
A stretcher was brought and he watched as Amberlyn was put on it and taken away. His father turned to him and told him, “They are taking her to the hospital.”
Silvester nodded, then added, “Is she alright?”
“I think so. She was not breathing at first, but eventually came around. It was a close call that gave us quite a fright. What happened out there?”
How much did he want to say? The proposal happened, but there was no answer given. “She stood up in the boat and lost her balance. She fell overboard and when I tried to help I fell back into the boat.”
“That explains your injured back. You also have a hearty bump on your head. But don’t worry, we have another stretcher coming for you.”
“I don’t care about me, just make sure Amberlyn is taken care of.”
“Just relax. We’ll get this all sorted out.” His father smiled at him, giving a first glimpse of hope that the horrible episode was over.
It was not.
35.
Charlotte slept late the next morning. Her mind had been racing with so many thoughts of her article, of Sigmund, and a potential murderer, that sleep had not come easy the previous night. But when it did, it was sound. By the time she made it to the dining room, there were only a few people around, and even less food. A bowl of room temperature porridge, as thick as paste, was her breakfast.
The forgettable meal behind her, Charlotte resigned herself to another long day in the second floor women’s ward. The consistent atmosphere was unlike anything that she could have imagined. It was a mixture of great monotony and even greater tension. The routine was to sit with Jena and Anne, reading or talking – day in, day out. The tension came from the fellow patients, who were completely unpredictable, and the orderlies, who were also unpredictable and often cruel. Adding to that stress was the unanswered question to Sigmund about allowing her to assist in his investigation. On top of all of that, there was likely a murderer on the loose.
The only relief from stress, and not insignificant, was that Charlotte no longer needed to hide who she was from her two friends. That had been an additional burden that she was happy to have removed. Unfortunately, the other items were not so easy to deal with.
Throughout that day, the one time when Charlotte’s mind was distracted from all these concerns was when Jena asked, “Do you think my husband still loves me?”
Although Charlotte had considered the joy that Jena and Anne wo
uld have when released, she had not considered some of the painful realities that that release would also cause. Her mind turned to that future day and how Jena would leave the asylum, go to her home, knock on her own door, and then…what? Her husband would answer and be shocked at seeing the wife he had abandoned standing at his, their, entrance. Would he be happy? Would he be scared?
“Jena,” Charlotte answered, “it is hard for me to believe that someone could not love you, but no part of me can excuse the actions of your husband. Because of his selfishness, and no fault of your own, I cannot believe he has much, if any, love for you.”
