by Mark C. King
“So when you injected me with the serum, it should have killed me?”
Shaking his head, he said, “No, not certainly. I had a near breakthrough on my previous attempt. The results were not as firm as I would have liked, but there simply was no time left. You see, my love, the situation was this: I knew my methods, if found out, would land me in jail and at that point my capture was imminent. So I took the risk to inject you before there was no chance. If the serum worked, then you would be healed and all would be well. If the serum did not work and it killed you, then that would be a better thing for you than to be left alone in that awful place.”
Amberlyn stared at the floor between them in silence. After several seconds, she said, “So the accounts I heard were true. You experimented on patients in order to try and help me.”
Silvester nodded enthusiastically, although she was still not looking at him. He was afraid to speak. This conversation had diverted to a precipice and he didn’t want to risk going over it.
She finally looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, “Silvester, your care for me in the asylum was an amazing display of love. Your desire to see me healed, is, well, a very natural feeling. The fact that you actually healed me is something that I will be in debt to you for.”
“Please, Amberlyn, I would do it all again to be with you.”
Ignoring the comment, she continued, “However, your methods are beyond reproach. You murdered people, Silvester. And, you have made me the motivation, the reason, for those deaths!” Her voice was starting to rise, “Where is the man I loved? He would not have hurt anyone.”
Confusion was Silvester’s first reaction followed by being scared. She was saying awful things that frightened him as to what point she was heading towards. Why couldn’t she see that the end results justified the means? He was desperate. “Please, Amberlyn, do not talk like that. I had no choice.”
“You had a choice!” she was yelling now. “You could have chosen to not kill people. Oh God, Silvester, what have you done? You talk about the sacrifices you made for me, but I would have sacrificed for you too. I would have chosen to stay in that state of madness if it meant for you to not have turned into this.”
Silvester didn’t know what to say. He certainly had not looked at things that way.
“Guard!” she called out sharply.
“No, wait! Please don’t go!” Silvester pleaded.
The guard walked up and asked, “Is there a problem, miss?”
“No, I don’t believe there is,” Amberlyn answered. “I want you to witness this.” She then took the engagement ring off of her finger and placed it on one of the flat cross bars of the cell door. “Silvester, you were my first love. Many of your actions over the last several years I hold in the highest regards and am grateful. But you have changed. Your have become dark, menacing even. Consider our engagement broken.”
“Oh no! Please, no!”
With tears flowing from her eyes, she concluded, “I cannot love you anymore.” Without another word, she turned and walked quickly away with the guard by her side.
Silvester stood at the bars and watched her leave, still struggling to assimilate all that just happened. When she was out of sight, his eyes fell to the ring that she left on the crossbar. The symbol of his happiness returned.
Finally, a single phrase rung out in his mind, she was gone. With that crystal clear message surpassing all other thoughts, Silvester fell to his knees and wept bitterly. She was gone.
47.
Charlotte Merrihail had hardly left her apartment for several days. After leaving the asylum, she went straight to her parent’s home and stayed the night under the warmth, love, and protection of family. The next day, and for days after, her time was devoted to one thing – writing her experience. There was so much to remember and she didn’t want to forget anything. Reliving the experiences in this way extended the grief, but by Friday, she had the first draft of her story. She knew it would need editing, but the heart of it was down and she no longer needed to worry about forgetting details.
When a telegram came that afternoon, she was a little surprised to see that it was from Sigmund Shaw. It was an invitation to lunch at his sister’s home the next day. Some of the old feelings of anger and hurt still lingered in her towards Sigmund, but she was determined to overcome it. Living her life with anger or regret was not something that she would abide any longer.
When she arrived for lunch on that Saturday, the welcome she received was very warm from Sigmund and his family. Charlotte immediately fell in love with Sarah – she was so bright, so funny, and brave. Charlotte saw a lot of herself in that young woman and was completely flattered by Sarah’s excitement at meeting her.
“Miss Merrihail,” Sarah asked, “how did you become a writer? I think that is something I would like to do.”
“Oh really?” Charlotte answered. “I think there should be more female writers. I stumbled into this line of work by complete accident. I simply wanted my husband’s story told accurately. Now, if I can do it on accident, I think you can certainly do it on purpose. I understand that you can be quite a determined person.”
Sarah beamed at the response and Sigmund said, “That is a brilliant idea, Sarah. You could be a tremendous writer. I wonder why we haven’t thought of that before.”
“You really think so, Uncle Sigmund?”
“Yes, I really do.” And he did.
At the end of a wonderful day of talking, laughing, and eating, Charlotte got up to leave. She thanked the family profusely and hoped to see them again. She promised to keep in regular touch with Sarah.
Sigmund walked her out and offered to give her a ride home in his carriage. He said she was welcome to sit in the cabin and did not need to ride up with him in the cold air. She was tempted but declined – her home was in the opposite direction of his and she didn’t want to bother him so.
“Sigmund,” she asked, “have you visited Basil?”
“I have. It looks like he will be released by the end of the month.”
“Really? Is this your doing?”
“No, not at all. He had a frank discussion with Doctor Madfyre and they agreed that he is completely safe to be on his own. They concluded that his ailment is understood and manageable going forward. How about you? Have you been able to go back?”
“I visited yesterday afternoon. I felt terrible showing up in normal, clean clothes while Jena and Anne are stuck wearing the dreary attire of that place. I brought them each a new dress and warm blankets. It is not a lot, but it is a start. I simply must get them out of there.”
“How is your article coming along?” Sigmund asked.
“It is not done, but the main parts are down in writing. A little tuning and editing and it will be ready. I never thought I would write something that was more important than the death of Edmund, but this could help so many…” her voice trailed off.
“I am certain it will be great. I know at least one person,” Sigmund indicated his sister’s house, “who can hardly wait to read it.”
“Sarah is such a sweet girl. I am very happy to have met her.”
A silence fell between them and she waited as it looked as if he had something more to say but was struggling. Speculating on what his thoughts were, she wondered if her own thoughts would comply. Finally, he spoke, “Miss Merrihail, Charlotte, you are a thoroughly remarkable woman. I would be humbled if you would agree to see me again.”
There it was. The potential beginning of a courtship. She looked right into Sigmund’s brown eyes and honestly did not know what to say. Part of her wanted to say ‘yes’ to him. Part of her still had anger. A last part felt a tinge of guilt towards her husband, as if she would be unfaithful or unloving to him by agreeing to see another man, whomever it may be.
“I hesitate,” she said, “because my emotions are very much jumbled inside of me. It is like my heart is dizzy and I’m not sure what direction is correct. Perhaps I could join you and your family again
next week and we can revisit this topic then?”
Sigmund smiled at her response and said, “I think that would be perfect.”
Epilogue
Excerpts from The Strand Magazine of the article:
Whispers of Bedlam Asylum
by Charlotte Merrihail
The whispered rumours are true. The awful, terrible rumours of life in Bedlam Asylum are true. At worst, I thought they would be hyperbole, but no, they are unfortunate fact. I did not want it to be so as that puts some responsibility, and dare I say culpability, to all of us who have heard these stories and did nothing. However we justified our inaction, those poor patients suffered for it.
Some may argue, or at least question, is there sorrow without sanity? The answer is ‘yes.’ I lived among them and the emotions were real. They may not always understand what is happening to them or around them, but they felt the sadness and hardship that life in Bedlam provided. Just because there is difficulty in articulating their feelings, does not make them any less real. Now, I do not present this from any high moral ground, no, I present this from among you as one who shares in the guilt.
*
Going into the asylum, I did not expect to make friends or even acquaintances, for how could a sane person truly relate to the insane, but how wrong I was. There were those patients that were non-communicative and even violent, but there were many who were kind and helpful. The number of patients who do not belong in that place is a fearful number I never considered possible. They are trapped with next to no hope of release. The foremost of these are Annelise Devine and Jenaca Rose. One was abandoned in Bedlam for the sadness she felt at the death of her child. The other was placed there to avoid the potential embarrassment of having a strong woman in the family. Tell me, where is the insanity in these cases? If any is to be found, it is certainly not with those that were admitted, but with those that admitted them. A true and fair evaluation of all patients should be conducted at the soonest possible instance. Unjustified imprisonment cannot be tolerated.
*
I have mentioned the atrocities conducted by many of the staff and am happy to report that most are now under the care of the police. But it would not be fair to paint all with the same broad brushstroke. I refer first to Mrs. Rathbone. This remarkable woman gave proper care and treatment to the patients. A long time employee, she somehow avoided the pitfalls of apathy and jadedness. It would be hard to imagine that place without her steady influence.
Even Doctor Madfyre had his moments. Ultimately, many bad things happened under his watch as Head Doctor, but spending a little time with him convinced me that he wanted to help. My feelings are torn about him, but ultimately I think he is better suited purely as a doctor, not as an administrator. He cared about fixing things and little else.
The last one I mentioned is the biggest conundrum. He was the kindest of all the staff but also proved to be the worst. Mr. Silvester Thursby. As was mentioned previously in this article, he was responsible for the unsanctioned experimentation and death of several patients. There is no excuse for this and he will likely hang for his crimes. However, without the effects of the serum, he truly cared for the patients under his purview. He chose to help even when it made him unpopular with the other staff. No doubt the fact that his own fiancé was a patient helped him to understand that these poor individuals deserved care. Not caring for all would be tantamount to not caring for her.
It is sad that this bright hero of Bedlam became its darkest monster.
*
There seems to be no end to my nightmares after my experiences in Bedlam, just as there seems to be no end to the unkindness of man. As I am aware that some will doubt my claims, I take this moment to reassure you that all that I have written is the truth. I would like to think that my mind could not even dream up the atrocities I have written about. Be assured, dear reader, I am no story teller. The misery is real.
Also real are the preventable deaths of several patients and a staff member. The known ones are:
Prudence Goddard
Delphine Hubert
Roland Oxley
Dr. Gareth Exton
Cecil Vickers
Xavier Dalby
You may question me and this article all you desire, but it will not bring back, nor erase, the deaths of these individuals nor the ongoing torment of the other Bedlam patients.
I give renewed thanks for the life I have as a common Londoner, the same kind of life enjoyed by countless others. Now, I do not believe that something bad has to be experienced in order to appreciate the good. However, there is no question that a bad experience can help focus ones attention on the good they have. I am living proof of that. The simplicity of my bed shall nevermore be taken for granted.
But my ecstasy over daily comforts is tainted by the knowledge that those trapped in Bedlam have nothing approaching comfort in any form. It is an inhuman existence that cannot be tolerated. I, for one, will fight for the improved treatment, the meeting of basic needs of patients, not just in Bedlam, but in any asylum in England.
I urge all of you to stand and fight with me – not for glory of country, not for riches or fame, but for the sake of human decency. As a society, we are better than what I saw, we are better than those who mistreat unfortunates. Do not simply stand by in ignorance or disbelief anymore.
If our collective conscience is not pricked by the facts I have recorded, then we are witnessing the end of goodness. I beg you, be strong and rise above the obstacle of our apathy.
* * *
Excerpts from The Strand Magazine of the article:
The Beast of Bedlam
by Charlotte Merrihail
I mentioned in previous articles that there are many patients in Bedlam Asylum who simply do not belong there, however, there are many that do. None more so than Roland Oxley, better known as The Beast of Bedlam.
I did not meet this man personally, but talked to several that did. His condition in Bedlam was one of utter madness. It was as if he had given up on anything approaching rationality and gave in to the basest of thoughts. Animalistic is the consistent expression that people used when describing him.
My curiosity as to what could make an individual give up his humanity in that way led me to investigate his past and to share the history of this poor individual. For the sake of simplicity, and more importantly, dignity, I shall refer to him as Roland for the remainder of the article.
It was with some difficulty that I found the history for Roland. Whether from a sense of propriety or a desire to avoid embarrassment, his story was well hidden. I had thought my investigation over if it wasn’t for the fortuitous discovery of a house servant that once served his family that the history can be known. The servant shall remain nameless as she was worried about her current position and how any notoriety might affect it.
Roland was the child of Dominic and Katherine Oxley. They lived just North of London in a nice home with one housemaid. Dominic Oxley worked as a foreman at a manufacturing plant and was successful by all accounts. I talked to a few of the men who were under Dominic and, without exception, they each had the same impression of the man, that he was strict and had high standards – none could shed any light on his home life as he never spoke to them about anything except work.
When Roland was three years old, he became very ill and sustained a dangerously high fever. His mother, Katherine, stayed by the boys side doing everything she could to help him. Unfortunately, Katherine became ill as well. The house servant was tasked with the care of both of them and did her best, but also tried to keep a distance for fear of becoming sick herself. She recalled that Mr. Oxley was worried and frustrated during this time with not knowing how to control the situation.
After two weeks, Katherine died from the illness. The boy, Roland, was not so fortunate. He lived, but the sickness or the fever had affected his mind. He stopped talking and became non-responsive to those around him.
This is the point where Roland started to beco
me the animal that he was described as when older – but not so much because of his mind, but because of the treatment that he had to endure. His father was in complete distress at the loss of his wife. Although there is no one to truly blame in this kind of situation, let alone a three year old child, Dominic directed all his anger towards his son.
The first abominable thing Dominic did was to declare that not only had his wife died from illness, but so had Roland. He did not want the embarrassment of having a child who was insane. To achieve this illusion, Roland was moved from the nursery to the attic where he was left alone for most of the day. The house servant tried to give attention to the poor boy, but could never make up for the abysmal treatment of his father.
Before too long, Roland found ways out of the attic on his own. The servant allowed this but always made sure that he was back in the attic prior to his father’s arrival home. When Dominic Oxley returned from work early one day and found his son sitting in his old nursery, he became enraged. “What if there was a visitor?” he screamed at the house servant. To remedy this problem, Dominic shackled Roland with chains in the attic. These chains created the limit of Roland’s world for more than fifteen years.
