At length I found myself alone in the crowd with Dr Hawkins. Love seemed to agree with him, and he looked younger – and happier – than before he left for France. The rose in his lapel was ruby red. ‘Good to see you, Jem,’ he said, shaking my hand warmly. ‘Thank you for coming. I realise you dislike these sorts of gatherings – your father was just the same.’
‘You know me too well, sir,’ I said.
‘How are you? Are you sleeping?’
‘I’m in good health, sir,’ I said. ‘But I must congratulate you—’
‘Yes, yes, Jem, we will come to that in good time. But what of your Mr Quartermain? Young Gabriel? They’re both here, I think?’
‘Yes, they are, and we are all of us glad to have you back amongst us.’ I meant it, truly, and I could not keep the relief out of my voice.
Dr Hawkins heard it and he looked at me sharply. ‘Rutherford treating you well, I hope?’
‘Well enough,’ I said.
Dr Hawkins rubbed his chin as the crowd surged and ebbed about us. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Stiven dislikes the fellow too. I saw you talking to him just now. D’you know him?’
‘An old friend of my father’s, sir,’ I said. ‘You say he knows Dr Rutherford?’
‘He and Rutherford have crossed swords in the past. You know Stiven has a ward?’
‘Miss Susan Chance. Dr Stiven says she is a felon.’
Dr Hawkins nodded. ‘She was only a child at the time so one might be able to forgive her, though the law made no such distinction. The girl was ten years old – old enough to know what she was about, some might say.’ He shrugged. ‘She has certainly landed on her feet, though her start in life was not so fortunate.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s not clear what her origins are precisely, only that she comes from Prior’s Rents, and that her mother was a whore who set her daughter to the same profession. Not that the girl was ever used in that way, but that was the beginning of it. Her mother sent a man to her – a so-called gentleman from a respectable family who enjoyed visiting the less salubrious brothels. The night was cold; the girl was put into a bed and told by her mother that she would soon be warmed up good and proper, and that she must do anything that was asked of her to please the nice gentleman. But Susan Chance was having none of it. When the man climbed into bed with her she fought him off, seized the poker and dashed his brains out.
‘As you can imagine, the girl was sentenced to hang. But Stiven argued that she was rendered temporarily insane, driven out of her wits by hunger, cold, neglect, poverty and lack of moral guidance. All the usual things, I suppose. Plus the shock of realising that her mother had sold her for sixpence. According to Stiven, anyone forced to live in those conditions and treated in such a way by their own mother could scarcely be responsible for their actions.’
‘One might excuse the behaviour of any number of children in Prior’s Rents on similar grounds,’ I said.
‘Perhaps we should,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘Perhaps we should be looking elsewhere for the guilty rather than sending such unfortunates to prison. And yet, in this case, there was a little more to it. It appears that the girl Susan went on battering the man long after he was dead. The first blow may well have been fatal – we must assume it in-capacitated him as what chance would a ten-year-old ragamuffin have against a well-fed man? And yet when they found them the fellow was unrecognisable. His pocket book proclaimed his identity, for his head was completely pulped. “Human jam” were the words used by the constable. How she had the strength to commit such violence for so long I don’t know, as the sustained ferocity required would, in normal circumstances, be beyond the capabilities of a child.’
‘An accomplice?’
He shook his head. ‘There was no evidence that anyone had aided her, for the door had been locked from the inside and the key was found in the fellow’s pocket. Anyway, Stiven used the violence of the act as evidence in the girl’s favour. He suggested that the whole event indicated a complete but temporary derangement. If she had felled her assailant with one blow, that would have been a different matter. And yet she went on and on and on beating him. How else might she have managed so prolonged an attack – why else would she have done it – had she not been insane? And if she were insane when she committed the deed, then she could not be hanged for it.’
‘The McNaughton Rule?’ I said.
‘Precisely. A recent addition to the statute books, and one which has already proved controversial, but it was central to the girl’s defence: at the moment of the crime Susan Chance was suffering from a disease of the mind. Of course there were those who were not so generous. Rutherford was a witness for the prosecution. He said the girl was clearly guilty, knew exactly what she was about and should hang. He made life very uncomfortable for her – she was weeks in Newgate. But they followed McNaughton to the letter. She could not be hanged once insanity had been established. Two medical men agreed to it: I was one – the girl deserved a chance and I could not condemn one so young to the gallows – and Stiven was the other. I can’t account for his motives, though he is known to be a good man, from what I hear – a clever one too, and not to be underestimated despite his penchant for coloured silks and face powder.’
‘My father always had the highest regard for him,’ I said.
Dr Hawkins looked at me kindly. ‘Then that is all the approval the fellow needs to make him my friend.’
‘And yet Susan Chance is not a resident of Angel Meadow?’
‘Oh no. She never has been. Stiven was determined to help the child and has done all he can to change her life for the better. Once the matter of her sanity – or insanity – was settled Stiven insisted that he could take care of her – keep her safe from harm and prevent her from harming others. There was a precedent for the domestic management of a homicidal lunatic – a woman who, like Susan, could be said to have acted quite out of character – though it had been some years earlier. And, of course, Susan had age on her side, for she was young and her mind malleable. I’m still not sure quite how he managed it but Stiven was permitted to look after the girl if he guaranteed to take charge of her upbringing and custody himself. It was an experiment, he said, to demonstrate that with the right instruction, the right care and attention, the right environment, it is possible to take command of a person’s sanity. There were those who said it couldn’t be done. To batter a man to death so violently was a crime that showed something deeply corrupt within the heart and soul—’
‘But she was only a child,’ I said.
‘Even so, the point remains the same. If the assault – attempted assault – turned her wits then it might be argued that her mind is inherently unstable. Mania could erupt at any time. Stiven always carries a strait waistcoat when he is out with her – just as a precaution – though as far as I am aware he has had no cause to use it.’
I thought of the diminutive Susan Chance with her club foot and jaunty walk, her tiny hands and black, laughing eyes, and I could not imagine anyone less likely to erupt into mania.
‘Anyway,’ said Dr Hawkins, ‘she seems to have recognised it for what it was – an opportunity for a life that was better than anything anyone else had to offer. Certainly it was better than what might await her in the Rents, never mind in prison, or the madhouse. And yet, one ought not to underestimate the tug of the old ways – of habit. Heredity too.’ He hesitated. ‘She’s not quite cast Prior’s Rents off. You’ve met the girl. Didn’t you notice?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Dr Hawkins raised an eyebrow. ‘I think you like her already, Jem. Just a little? Or are my senses so old and dull that I can no longer detect such things? And Mr Quartermain too, perhaps?’
I followed Dr Hawkins’s gaze. Will stood beside the fireplace, a glass of punch to his lips. He was staring at Susan Chance – who was now being introduced to one of the Fellows of the Mind and Brain Society by Dr Stiven. Gabriel was chattering in Will’s ear, but he was clearly oblivious. He watched Susa
n as she moved away, his expression rapturous. I saw her look over at him, and I felt a twinge in my heart.
‘Good luck to you both, Jem.’ Dr Hawkins clapped me on the shoulder. ‘But, to other matters. Come and meet my wife.’
I had seen Mrs Hawkins as she passed through the crowds, shaking hands with the lunatics and greeting her husband’s friends, and I knew already that she was a beauty – not the pale sort usually so prized by men, but dark and tall with a fearless gaze.
‘Mr Flockhart,’ she said, taking my hand. ‘My husband speaks of you, and your father, very warmly.’ Mrs Hawkins smiled as she spoke. And yet, as she uttered the usual welcoming platitudes, I became certain that she was thinking something quite different – the way she glanced at me, the way her eyes sparked.
‘And the weather has been so warm,’ she was saying. ‘But I think the heat only affects ladies. Our costume is SO cumbersome and impractical, one might almost hope for a day when we can all dress as freely as men.’ She looked into my eyes and grinned, as broad as any street urchin. I felt a flash of fear and excitement. She knew! She knew that I was no man, that my shirt and britches, my neckerchief and waistcoat, my long stride and firm handshake, all were affectations and beneath them I was as much a woman as she. It was a moment only, a second when Dr Hawkins turned away, but I read in her face, in the pressure of her hand and the flash of her smile a surge of joy and a silent cheer for the act I sustained. Go on! She seemed to say, go on, Jem! I grinned back at her. I could not help myself.
I spoke with her for only a few more minutes. I could see she was tired – so many people to meet, so many hands to shake. She was faultless in her manners and her conversation. ‘Do tell me about the physic garden,’ she said. And, ‘You must bring Mr Quartermain up for dinner.’ But something, I knew, had passed between us. What, exactly? I could not fathom it and my mind whirled as I tried to make sense of my impressions. Of one thing, however, I was certain. I am a skilled and practised dissembler. All my life I have played a game, deceiving the world about who and what I am, and I have become adept. I liked Mrs Hawkins very much, but I could recognise a fellow impostor when I met one.
The evening wore on. I came across Gabriel, who was looking bored so I sent him off to Mrs Speedicut, who was sure to have a seed cake in her room that she would be glad to share with the lad. Soon after that I found Will standing against the wall.
‘You look about as comfortable as a suit of armour,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should go soon.’
‘Where did you get to?’ he said. ‘Did you speak to Mrs Hawkins? You might have introduced me.’
I saw Dr Golspie approaching through the crowd. ‘Hello, Tom,’ I said. ‘I wondered where you were.’
‘Have you met Mrs Hawkins, Tom?’ said Will.
‘Not yet.’ He looked about. ‘Is that her over there? I see she’s stuck with Christie. Poor woman.’
‘What’s that in your pocket?’ said Will, pointing to a large bulge in Dr Golspie’s coat.
Dr Golspie drew out a potato. ‘Thought I might as well take it home for my tea.’ He sounded dejected. ‘It’s not been much use for anything else.’
‘What other use did you have in mind?’ I said. ‘Apart from eating it.’
‘Was it one of your “stimuli”?’ Will grinned. ‘For Mrs Fitzwilliam? The woman who hears voices in her head?’
I laughed. ‘This one of your new ideas, Tom?’
‘I believe that the unspoken – thoughts, feelings, dreams, fears – may build up in the mind like . . . like matter in a drain,’ said Dr Golspie. ‘If we can unblock the drain, as it were, if we can call forth these deeply embedded emotions, then the effect must surely be relief. I thought that if I could tap into Mrs Fitzwilliam’s thoughts and fears from when she was a girl in Ireland, perhaps we might come to understand the voices.’ He shrugged. ‘But the woman could not empty her mind, could not dwell on the stimulus—’ He stared at the potato gloomily. ‘Perhaps it is the wrong stimulus.’
‘Perhaps some other vegetable,’ said Will.
‘Or fruit?’ I said.
‘You mock me, sirs,’ said Dr Golspie. ‘I simply need to find the correct stimulus and ask the correct questions. My views on the matter are still developing.’
‘You think you can effect a cure by making our lunatics talk about themselves?’ Dr Rutherford’s voice was a sneer. I had not seen him approach, had not noticed him standing so close, but he had clearly heard everything.
‘In some cases, sir, yes,’ insisted Dr Golspie. ‘I believe it may well be possible. Or at least instructive.’
‘But the voices of the insane are exactly that: insane and as such not worth listening to. They have no insights into their own condition.’
‘Surely we must try. We owe it to them as fellow human beings, and there are so many different types of madness, we must develop different ways of treating its causes and symptoms. But if you’re looking for quackery you might look no further than your own approach. Photographs and head-measurings? What cure do they offer? What real science are they are grounded in?’
‘Dr Gall of Vienna—’ cried Dr Rutherford.
‘Is easily dismissed by one simple fact,’ said Dr Golspie, raising his voice to match Dr Rutherford’s. Those around us began to fall silent, listening. ‘The brain is a soft organ. It conforms itself to the shape of the skull, the skull does not shape itself around the contours of the brain.’
‘You cannot deny the success of my methods,’ said Dr Rutherford. ‘The patient Letty is no longer violent.’
‘She is no longer anything! Phrenology is dismissed by all but the most dim-witted of our profession, those who adhere to it are no more than quacks – charlatans, and fairground entertainers. You might as well pull out a crystal ball and have done with it!’
‘Tom—’ I said. But Dr Golspie shook off my hand.
‘I might also add that you have no empathy, sir,’ he cried. ‘You make no effort to understand those in your care, no effort to meet their individual needs. You expect the same from every one of our female charges – obedience, docility, silence. And I fear you will slice and chop till you get it.’
Dr Golspie turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd. Dr Rutherford remained where he was, his face white with rage. But it was clear that those around us – mostly doctors and benefactors – were in complete agreement about the need for obedience, docility and silence amongst women, for they looked after Dr Golspie in some surprise.
‘Impudent fellow!’ said a bald, round-shouldered man I recognised as the President of the Mind and Brain Society.
‘Empathy?’ said another. ‘A gentleman in this profession must be strong, not weeping into his tea over the plight of his patients.’
Dr Rutherford’s frown eased. The buzz of conversation started up once more.
A string quartet struck up a waltz, the music echoing upward, mingling with the sooty wraiths that guttered from the lamps. The conversations around us grew louder; a big fat man bore down upon Dr and Mrs Hawkins, his wife and daughter following in his wake.
‘Mothersole, ma’am,’ he cried, bowing low over Mrs Hawkins’s hand. Not only had I never seen so tall a man, but I had also never seen one as obese as he. His upper arms looked to be thicker than his daughter’s waist; his bald head a mound of dough into which someone had pushed two raisins, his eyes small and beady above the rosy quivering folds of his cheeks.
‘Dr Mothersole is a visiting physician,’ I heard Dr Hawkins say. ‘He is with us for a few weeks, taking notes and helping out and so forth. He is a well-known philanthropist and an advocate of what might be termed hygienic methods of care – exercise, music, recreation.’
‘My daughter is writing my life story,’ boomed Dr Mothersole. He indicated the girl standing at his side. She was as thin as her father was wide, her shoulders so narrow and drooping that it was a wonder her dress did not slide off them onto the ground. ‘It is most educational for her.’
‘My father feel
s it will improve his chances with St Peter if he has a coherent biography,’ murmured Miss Mothersole, a notebook and pencil clutched in her inkspotted fingers.
‘I am patron of many charitable enterprises, in addition to my celebrated commitment to the lunatics of the city,’ said her father. ‘The Ear Dispensary. The Truss Society for the Relief of the Ruptured Poor. The Limbless Costermongers Benevolent Fund. In the eyes of God we are all men.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mind you, Mrs Hawkins, we may well all be men, but such as they are as akin to me as a stray cat is to a lion. And whereas one would be tempted to kick a stray cat, one has only respect and reverence for a lion.’ I saw Mrs Hawkins suppress a shudder, perhaps at the nearness of the man, whose face was so close to hers that his breath disturbed a curl of her hair. Dr Mothersole turned to his wife. ‘Is that not so, my dear?’
Mrs Mothersole had been standing beside her husband, looking up at him adoringly. ‘Yes, my dear,’ she crooned. She put out a hand and pawed at his sleeve. ‘Oh, it is so!’
Dr Mothersole beamed and turned to his daughter. ‘Write that down, my dear: “there are few lions and far too many stray cats”.’
The crowd swelled and shifted. I saw Mrs Hawkins and Susan Chance standing side by side, their heads close together as they talked. Beside me, Will was looking troubled. I knew he hated crowds – especially ones indoors. He was a country boy at heart and the close atmosphere, warmed by bodies and breath and poisoned by smoke and coal dust, made him uncomfortable. Perhaps we should leave, I thought. We might take an evening stroll to the physic garden. He would like that, I was sure.
‘This place is far too hot,’ he muttered. ‘How long do we have to stay here? Can’t we go to Sorley’s for something to eat? I’m starving.’ Then he spotted Susan, and his face brightened. Mrs Hawkins had disappeared. I looked about and saw her being escorted from the room by Dr Hawkins, her hand to her brow. Will was about to weave his way through the crowd towards Susan when Dr Christie hailed us.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Mr Flockhart, I must apologise for my conduct last time we met. To scrutinise you in such a way.’ His pale eyelashes caught the light like cobwebs. ‘Unforgivable.’ He followed my gaze to Susan, and the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘There’s a curious specimen,’ he said. ‘No wonder she’s caught your interest. She manages well enough, I suppose, though her own nature is sure to catch up with her one day. You know of her background?’
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