‘Was it Rutherford?’ I said. My heart was suddenly racing. ‘Did Rutherford take the pictures?’
‘No,’ said Will. ‘Apparently it was a chap named Gunn. He’s dead now. Afterwards no one bothered to find a replacement, though it seems Dr Christie is quite interested in the approach.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I held up the burnt fragment. I could feel my excitement draining away. ‘So this is the image of a convict? Why would Dr Rutherford keep such a thing?’
‘No,’ said Will again. ‘She is not wearing a convict’s dress. This is a different image altogether.’
‘Whose?’
‘That, I cannot say.’
‘Oh. Oh well.’
‘Actually I quite enjoyed taking the woman’s likeness. I’m going to ask the governors whether I can have that old camera—’
‘I think you should,’ I said. I could not help but feel frustrated.
Angel Meadow Asylum, 18th September 1852
But Goblin and I hardly knew how to live when we were not in the Rents and it was not long before we drifted back to the world we knew – back to that thieves’ kitchen. We sat on either side of the fire and we laughed to find ourselves back where we had started. I had a fine dress, dainty shoes and bangles on my wrists, but Goblin had, nothing, nothing but bruises from the fights he had got into, for there were plenty of crooks who wanted me for their own – a clever girl who had learned to speak like a lady would be useful to anyone wanting to gull the quality out of a few sovereigns. How Goblin suffered because of it! But he never complained, and he never asked me for anything.
It wasn’t long before they found us. There is no honour among thieves, no matter what the penny bloods say. We were betrayed by our own kind, for there was a reward upon our heads paid for by Mrs Day, and what comradeship we thought we had found amongst those we had known all our lives was illusory. The remains of Mr Knight and Mr Day were never found, for the heat of that fire had turned their remains to cinders and blown them away on the wind. Whether they had been murdered or not was impossible to prove; whether the fire had been set could not be wholly established. But I had taken Mr Day’s keys and we had burgled his house. Our complicity was indisputable – and, when they came for us, I was sitting before the fire wearing Miss Day’s dress and Mrs Day’s jewellery.
It is said that the air of Newgate was enough to kill a man, and that those inside it numbered the worst, the most degraded and wicked men and women in all England. They are wrong. The worst men in England make up judge and jury, are masters and property owners who crush the rest of us and drive their carriages over our bones. My fellow prisoners might be vicious and selfish, but it was life that had made them so. Capricious and unfair, it was a life that put some men above others, made some rich and some poor, that forced those with nothing to seek comfort in the only way they knew how – by taking from those who had more than enough. I had only sympathy for the wretches who surrounded me, though they tore the ribbons from my hair and left me with nothing but the clothes I stood up in. We women were kept together in long airless wards, the windows high in the walls and thickly barred, so that the light that entered was dim and tainted. Inside there was such a crying and wailing — some had children with them, though how these fared in that hideous place I had no idea, for they must surely have suffocated, or else died of misery and want before their mothers were released. Many of the women were barely clothed, but covered themselves as best they could with whatever rags they could lay their hands on. We slept – if such an activity might be called sleep – laid out side by side, like bodies in a plague pit, though the noise raged all night. The air was thick with our own stink, and we were afforded no dignity whatever, obliged to manage ourselves, and all that made us women, with miserable fortitude.
I denied the murder of Mr Knight and Mr Day. I denied setting alight to the blacking factory. I admitted only the theft. The deaths of the two men and the destruction of their premises could not be proved to be my handiwork, but I had clearly profited from the death of my employer. I said he had tried to rape me, that I had been assaulted and molested. No one listened – I was the daughter of a whore, what more might be expected but that I would turn to similar pursuits? I was sentenced to hang. Goblin — younger, and therefore clearly led stray — received seven years’ transportation. I saw him in the courthouse. Only a few weeks had passed, but he was not the boy I had known. He had grown hard and fierce. His face bore the marks of ill-usage – a black eye, another missing tooth, a part of his ear lobe torn away. Poor Goblin. I never saw him again after that, and I can only hope that he found happiness; that he succeeded where I have failed.
I was to be hanged on 13th July. My mother did not come to see me. I heard she had died, and I was glad she had been spared the spectacle of watching her only child standing on the scaffold. I remembered how she had stitched and stitched as the light faded around us, the men’s feet heavy on the stair. She had left me with one certainty in my heart: that I would do all I could to keep from living a life like hers. Now, I would, not even have the chance to try. The only person who did come to see me was the Ordinary, as was the right of all of us who were to spend our last night on earth in the condemned cell. But there was nothing I wanted from him. What had God ever done for me? How might he help me now? And so I sent the man away. Alone, I watched the evening bleed into the night, the night seep into a crimson dawn. The window was small and double barred, the room itself a foetid dungeon hardly fit for a dog. My ankles were chained, though where I might run to was a mystery for the door was triple locked. I lay upon my narrow plank bed and felt the lice crawling on my skin, though I would be free of such petty torments soon enough. The crowd, I knew, expected a good death. I was to give them one they would never forget.
Chapter Ten
The following day Will and I went up to Angel Meadow. The day had turned grim; the clouds barely cleared the tops of the houses but lay, brown and unmoving, as if weighted down by the city’s pestilence. The asylum windows stared out at the city. At the door, I did not ring the bell to summon Pole, but unlocked it myself, Dr Hawkins’s iron keys cold and heavy in my hand.
Downstairs in the men’s wing the inmates were agitated. No one had told them that Dr Rutherford had been murdered – Dr Hawkins had given express instructions that the matter should not be mentioned by anyone – but all the same they could sense that something was wrong. A number of idiots with whom Edward had been particularly friendly were gathered at the door to his room. They surged towards Will and me as we approached and the babble of voices grew in volume. Where’s Edward? Has he gone? Is Dr Rutherford angry again? Some of them were crying, others moaning and rocking from side to side, though I was certain that most of them had no idea what all the emotion was about.
‘I brought him this.’ A fist was thrust into my face. Its owner opened it to reveal an earthworm writhing upon his palm. Two others had caught mice and were holding them up by their tails. ‘Presents!’ shouted one. ‘For Edward!’
Pole was waiting for us outside Dr Golspie’s room. ‘I’ve told ‘em you was coming, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll be wanting to see him for yourself, sir?’ He jangled his keys. But I had my own keys now and I did not need a chaperone. I jangled mine back.
‘Thank you, Pole,’ I said. ‘You may go now. Or at least—’ I gestured at the patients milling about outside Edward’s room. ‘Perhaps you might see that everyone is settled?’
Dr Golspie’s room was rather crowded. Dr Christie and Dr Hawkins stood side by side looking down at Dr Golspie, who had evidently just been released from his strait jacket. He was sitting on his chair running his hands through his hair. His skin was as pale as suet, with a sickly sweaty sheen to it. The room was warm and close, and stank like a rabbit hutch on a summer’s day.
‘For God’s sake, Tom,’ I said. ‘Look at the state of you! And the smell of the place!’ I marched across the room and threw open a window. In fact, I was surprised his mania had not lasted long
er, though I did not mention it.
Dr Golspie looked up at me ruefully. ‘I believe apologies are required, Jem. Will. I have behaved abominably.’ He shook his head. ‘And Dr Hawkins tells me that Dr Rutherford is dead.’ His shaking fingers plucked at his pale dry lips.
‘You find Dr Golspie somewhat recovered, Jem,’ said Dr Hawkins.
‘A reckless experiment, sir,’ said Dr Christie. He looked tired, the black circles of a sleepless night that ringed his eyes making his lashes look like gossamer. He was watching Dr Golspie closely. ‘And yet one that is not without merit.’ He looked at Dr Hawkins. ‘The patient is yours, sir. But, may I?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Dr Hawkins waved a hand.
‘I’m no one’s patient,’ snapped Dr Golspie, recoiling. ‘Get away from me, Christie.’
‘Come along, sir,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘We cannot let you out of this room until you demonstrate that you are master of your own senses.’
‘I am quite in charge of myself,’ said Dr Golspie.
‘In which case, you will demonstrate this by submitting to the ministrations of your colleague.’
Dr Golspie remained silent while Dr Christie took his pulse and temperature, peered into his eyes, tested his reflexes. ‘I would recommend rest and a lowering diet,’ he said. ‘Custards and other milk-based foods in particular.’
Dr Golspie snorted.
‘I concur, Dr Christie,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘Were you in your right mind, Golspie, you would see the value of the diagnosis. I might also add, sir, that I am not entirely certain that you are suited to a career in medicine. This reckless approach—’
‘It was a mistake, sir,’ said Dr Golspie. ‘I see that.’
‘Well, it hardly matters now. What matters is what has happened. Edward Eden has been arrested and charged with the murder of Dr Rutherford—’
‘Edward?’ said Dr Golspie. ‘He would no more hurt Rutherford than—’
‘We are all aware of that,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘And yet as far as the police are concerned he is a lunatic, he hated Dr Rutherford and – thanks to you – he had a set of keys in his possession and was at large about the asylum all night.’ He sighed. ‘We must correct this injustice as soon as possible. Can you remember what you did? Where you went? What, if anything, you saw?’
‘I cannot,’ whispered Dr Golspie. ‘My mind is empty of any recollection of what happened after . . . after I . . .’ He looked in dismay at his bloodied sleeves. ‘Oh, God. Oh, God!’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘You attempted to bleed yourself – had it not been for the timely intervention of Mr Flockhart and Mr Quartermain I daren’t think what might have become of you. Dr Golspie, you must remember. We must prove that it was not Edward Eden, but we must also prove that it was not you.’
Dr Golspie put his head in his hands. ‘I remember leaving that evening, sir, shortly after I’d had a disagreement with Dr Rutherford. I went to my room and I prepared the hashish paste as Mr Flockhart had instructed. It was horrible and bitter. I thought I would be sick so I washed it down with a few slugs of brandy.’
‘Inadvisable,’ I muttered.
Dr Golspie pressed his palms against his eyes. ‘I remember wondering when it would happen, when the doors in my mind that lead from sanity to insanity would open. And then all at once I was laughing, laughing uncontrollably. I looked at my hands. They looked huge, as though they were no longer a part of my body but somehow were the hands of someone else. I sat staring at them. It felt like a long time. Perhaps it wasn’t. The candle was bright, so bright that I felt I could hear the sound it made, a high-pitched singing as it gave off its luminescence, like the sound of angels—’
While he was talking Dr Golspie’s face had taken on a rapturous expression. But then he paused, and dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief. When he continued, his voice was low and cautious, and I had the feeling that he was struggling to remain his own master.
‘I could hear the roar of the fire in the grate. It was loud, the loudest thing in the room and I was amazed I had never noticed it before. I had the impression that I could hear . . . I could hear the voice of the devil himself roaring. The longer I stared at the fire the more acute the impression became, so I ran out into the corridor. It was cooler there, and I forgot about the fire completely. All at once I felt full of life and strength. My mind was . . . was altered, my senses perceiving sensations that had been hidden from me – it was then that I went back to the party.’
‘Do you remember being restrained?’ asked Dr Christie.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Golspie. ‘I remember that it was you who pulled my arms tight and forced that bridle between my lips, Christie.’
‘You were deranged,’ said Dr Christie. ‘There was a room full of witnesses who will testify to it.’
‘Pole took you downstairs,’ said Will. ‘Do you remember that too?’
‘He put me in a cell. I could not move. The hashish made me feel sick and I thought I would vomit. I was dizzy too and I lay still, very still, and hoped it would pass. The next thing I remember was Edward Eden bending over me. He set me free, I assume, for I cannot remember that either, and yet you tell me that’s what happened. I don’t know what happened next, or where I went.’
‘Next, you went up to see Dr Rutherford,’ I said.
‘Did I?’
I drew my handkerchief from my pocket, and unwrapped the charred oval object I had culled from the cinders of Dr Rutherford’s fire. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘No,’ said Dr Golspie.
‘It is a potato,’ I said. ‘Your potato.’
‘Mine?’
‘It is a stimulus. For Mrs Fitzwilliam.’
‘Oh,’ said Dr Golspie. All at once his face cleared. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Yes, it is. I did go to see Dr Rutherford. He was surprised to see me.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ muttered Dr Christie.
‘He looked . . . It was as if he was expecting someone else.’
‘Well,’ said Dr Christie. ‘I’m quite certain that whoever he might have been expecting it certainly wasn’t you.’
‘What happened next?’ I said.
‘He mocked me.’ Dr Golspie took the potato in his hand. He turned it over and over until his fingers were black with soot, as if the feel of the thing awoke the memories of what he had done with it. ‘He mocked my ideas, my approach to medicine – my attempts to understand madness. He was holding one of his damned phrenology skulls. Caressing it. Telling me its characteristics.’ Dr Golspie looked at his fingers, as if seeing them properly for the first time. ‘I threw my potato at his head as hard as I could.’
‘It smashed the mirror?’
‘Yes,’ Dr Golspie’s face cleared, so that he looked just like his old self. ‘Yes,’ he said again, this time with more confidence. ‘I was frightened then. I thought he would ring for Pole, or some of the attendants, to take me away again, but he didn’t.’ He frowned. ‘He didn’t. I wondered why.’
‘So what did he do?’
‘He laughed. He said, “Is hurling vegetables the best you can do? Go away, Golspie. Go away and rave at the moon. It is all you are fit for.’” Dr Golspie put his hand to his head. ‘I began to feel dizzy. The noise, the hot room, the skulls, Dr Rutherford’s grinning face.’ He wrung his hands together and his voice rose in agitation. ‘The light was too bright. It dazzled me, blinded me as if I had knives in my eyes, and I had the most peculiar image flash into my mind, a face but not a face, eyes and lips and noses, but not put together properly, not as it should be.’ Dr Golspie’s cheeks were suddenly paler than ever, and a sheen of sweat gleamed on his forehead. His lips had drained of blood, and his expression was now so fearful that I could hardly bear to look at him. He swallowed, and took a ragged breath. ‘It was the face of a demon, Jem, of a monster.’ He put his hands over his eyes. ‘It was looking straight at me, and yet not at me. I knew its name, and yet I did not know it. It knew me, I could tell. I could sense it. Oh!�
�� Dr Golspie lurched to his feet and seized me by the shoulders. ‘Jem,’ he whispered, ‘I can see it even now, in my mind’s eye. Have I gone mad? Tell me I have not gone mad.’ His breath was sour, his eyes wild and darting.
‘You killed Dr Rutherford!’ Dr Christie shouted. ‘That’s what you remember!’
‘No!’ cried Dr Golspie. ‘He was alive when I left.’
‘Yes! These are fragments of memory – eyes, lips, monstrous faces – these are the fragments that speak of your own murderous act.’
‘Christie,’ said Dr Hawkins. His voice was calm, authoritative. He shook his head.
‘Fragments,’ whispered Dr Golspie. ‘Like knives in my eyes.’ He looked from me, to Dr Hawkins, and back again. And then all at once his face cleared, and I knew that Dr Golspie was as sane as any of us.
Chapter Eleven
Dr Golspie sank back onto his chair. ‘I didn’t kill Rutherford.’
‘But you have as good as admitted—’ cried Dr Christie.
‘Dr Christie,’ I said. ‘Let us not be hasty. If Dr Golspie had murdered Dr Rutherford then he would surely have been covered in blood. Did he commit the crime, then change his clothes and wash himself? Of course he didn’t. When Will and I found him the blood we could see was on the furnishings, on his own hands, and on his shirt sleeves. Surely it would have been daubed on the door handle if he had entered his own rooms after murdering Dr Rutherford. It would be on his shoes and trousers. Dr Rutherford’s room was neat and tidy; would Dr Golspie, in his madness, really have cleared away scissors, needle, thread – all the evidence of his handiwork?’
I was thinking quickly. Even to my own ears my arguments sounded weak and desperate. Dr Golspie had been covered in blood, there was no mistaking it.
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