‘But how might you define a diseased mind?’ I said. ‘Is Miss Mothersole’s mind diseased because she wishes to read, to write, to learn, to travel? Or Susan Chance’s, because she does not behave as we would like her to?’
He smiled. ‘Or you, because of who you are and who you pretend to be?’
‘Who I am is irrelevant here.’ I was right – for once. Who others were was more significant than the role I was playing.
‘Rutherford was sure we could intervene, was sure we could slice out the problem once we had agreed whereabouts in the mind it lay. I disagreed. He determined to show me he was right, and so he used my sister.’ He put Pole’s brain down on the table. ‘He was wrong – wrong to experiment on her, and wrong in the way he was thinking. I was at the House of Correction when he did it so I was not here to stop him.’
‘Did he know Letty was your sister?’
‘He did not. I didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Dr Mothersole knew.’
‘Oh, he’s no trouble. In fact, he suggested it. He knew my father, knew what had become of him. He would not have told anyone.’
‘But you must have hoped for a cure. When all’s said and done wasn’t Rutherford trying to help?’
‘John Rutherford helped no one but himself,’ said Dr Christie. He sighed. ‘The hereditary malady. You know what it’s like, Jem, to labour under such a sentence. My father. My sister. Every day I asked myself whether it would also be my fate.’ He picked up the doll. ‘She used to enjoy the needle. Before Rutherford saw to it that she would never enjoy anything ever again, though as you pointed out, the results of her handiwork were less than proficient.’
‘You were fortunate that Pole was here to conceal what you had done.’
‘I didn’t need Pole!’ snapped Dr Christie. ‘I managed well enough. Indeed, it is his fault that—’ He stopped.
‘That what? That I am standing here accusing you of Dr Rutherford’s murder?’
‘I had the matter perfectly in hand.’
‘You intended to make it look as though Susan Chance had killed Dr Rutherford?’
‘Quite so. I knew about Bess Bodkin from the records at the House of Correction. It was something Susan Chance alone was bound to be familiar with. I had no idea that Hawkins’s wife would also be from the Rents, and Pole too.’ He shook his head. ‘I was unlucky there!’
‘But to kill a man?’
‘What of it? It is not such a difficult thing to do, not to a man in my profession. And using Rutherford’s own damned phrenological callipers was rather poetic justice.’
‘And Letty saw everything?’
‘Yes. I took her with me and told Rutherford who she was. I told him that when she came to Angel Meadow she was troubled – angry and erratic – but nothing we could not manage. But she became his experiment. He thought only of his reputation, of how he might further our understanding, of how phrenology had something to offer medical science after all. Phrenology is for fairgrounds and quacks. It has no place in medicine and my sister deserved better. I put her here to keep her safe and Rutherford as good as killed her.’
‘And after you told him who she was?’
‘He laughed! He said that perhaps madness was hereditary if I was such a goose that I could not see the value of his work. He offered to put my name on his paper! The paper describing what he had done and which he was to submit to the Mind and Brain Society. He said that I had sanctioned the procedure simply by putting her into Angel Meadow in the first place.’ Dr Christie’s face had turned white with fury. ‘And so I seized the callipers that lay on the table and I drove the point of them through his head.’ He laughed. ‘I wonder whether they went through his “organ of arrogant stupidity” for he would have had a very large one. Then I sutured his mouth closed – to deflect attention onto one who was already guilty. Susan Chance would end up either on the gallows or in an asylum, which was where she belonged anyway. Leticia watched,’ he went on. ‘Then I took her back to her ward.’
I remembered what Pole had said while he waited to die: I had to protect her. I could not have her sent back to the gallows. He had killed Dr Golspie to prevent him from telling us that he had seen Mrs Hawkins in Dr Rutherford’s mirror. He had stuffed me into the coffin to prevent me from reading Miss Mothersole’s notebooks in which Mrs Hawkins was implicated. And yet these actions were based on Pole’s erroneous belief that it had been Mrs Hawkins who had killed Dr Rutherford.
‘Pole only killed Dr Golspie,’ I said. ‘Though he used the same method, his handiwork was far clumsier. And yet we had all assumed that he had killed Dr Rutherford too.’
‘I have no idea what Pole was thinking,’ said Dr Christie.
‘But you didn’t kill Dr Golspie?’
‘No.’
‘Nor bury me alive?’
‘No. Of course,’ he said, ‘as Pole is dead and has already shouldered the blame for everything, and your dear Susan is released, perhaps you might show some compassion?’
‘I should let you go? Say nothing?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I cannot.’
‘You will be sending me to hang.’
‘You killed a man.’
‘A man whose crimes speak for themselves.’
‘Dr Christie—’ I faltered. Could I really send a man to hang after all that I knew about execution? I thought of my father, of Mrs Hawkins. Who was I to condemn a man to such a death – for Dr Christie would end his life on the gallows, there was no doubt. I did not disagree that Dr Rutherford’s actions had demanded retribution. But to kill him in cold blood? Was that justice? What had been Dr Rutherford’s crime against Letty? Ambition? Curiosity? Should all doctors who made mistakes and errors of judgement in the quest for knowledge be condemned? His behaviour on board the Norfolk was no worse than many who had gone before and after. Did it demand his murder? And yet, was I not glad to have one less petty tyrant in the world? I was; I could not deny that either.
‘Are you any better than Dr Rutherford, or Pole?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to send you to hang, but nor can I let you go.’
‘They are the only choices.’
‘There is one other.’ I took out my watch. It was the one my father had given me before he was hanged, the one his own father had bought for him when he had finished his apprenticeship. It was not unlike Dr Christie’s, only my father’s was engraved with the words Jeremiah Flockhart, Licentiate of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries—. I pinged it open, the way I had so often seen Dr Christie ping open his own, balancing it like a golden clam-shell between my fingers. I pressed it again and in the back of the lid another compartment opened. Inside was a small fold of paper.
‘I have this,’ I said. I plucked out the tiny packet. ‘It’s for when I feel that I have become more like my father and my uncle than I would wish to be. Death won’t be painless, but it will be quick.’ I laid the fold of paper on the table between us and pushed it towards him. ‘It is against the laws of men and God, but the decision rests with you.’
I felt as though I were rising up from a deep pool. I had no thoughts, only that I was warm, and comfortable. I could hear sounds, but they were familiar and restful – a low, swirling, rattling sound, and a rhythmic, gentle grinding. I let them lull me. For a moment I could not recall what they were, but as I surfaced I recognised the sound of pills rolling in the silvering box, and the grating of the pestle and mortar. I opened my eyes
I was in my father’s chair, my stockinged feet on the footstool, my shoes warming beside the stove. Someone had placed a cushion of lavender and hyssop beneath my head and tucked a blanket around me. A small saucer of rose geranium oil evaporated on the stove top.
‘Hello,’ said Will. His sleeves were rolled up, and he was holding the silvering box in his bandaged hands. Beside him, Gabriel ground nigella seeds: I could smell their rich, woody spiciness rising from the bowl. The apothecary was warm and cosy, the lanterns aglow, the bunches and baskets of herbs adding
to the heavy, earthy scent of the place. The ranked bottles of powdered root and leaf glittered on their shelves, the dark wood of the mahogany drawers below them rich and burnished. Gabriel had dusted, and the place looked neat and well-ordered, just the way I liked it.
‘You’ve been asleep for ages,’ said Will.
‘How long?’
‘Since you came back from Angel Meadow.’
I recalled how tired I had been, exhausted after all that had happened, all we had endured. I remembered sitting down before the stove, my head in my hands. But after that—
‘Five hours,’ said Will. ‘I made you more comfortable. Would you like something to eat? A cup of tea? How’re you feeling?’
‘Better,’ I said. I sat up. ‘Five hours?’
‘At least. Dr Hawkins came down. He was glad to see you sleeping; he said not to wake you. He’s taking Mrs Hawkins abroad for a while. Dr Mothersole and Dr Stiven are to superintend the asylum.’
‘And Dr Christie?’
‘He didn’t say. He said we should consider some time away too.’
‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘Though I’ll be glad not to go up to Angel Meadow again.’ I made as if to stand up, but Will pushed me back.
‘Rest,’ he said. ‘We can manage without you.’
‘Course we can,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’ve been doin’ without you for days. What’s another few hours?’
I pulled the blanket up to my chin. I felt warm and drowsy. ‘I might doze again,’ I said. ‘Just for a few more moments.’
‘Did you give Christie the camera?’
‘Yes.’
‘And? Does he know what to do with it?’
‘I’m sure he will do what’s right,’ I said. I had not told Will that I had a half drachm of arsenic hidden inside my watch – so that I could choose the time and place of my own death rather than await the one that fate might have in store for me. But then there are always some secrets that are best kept to oneself.
The gentle rhythm of the silvering box started up again. I closed my eyes, and slept.
Acknowledgements
There are many people who, in different ways, have helped me to write this book. I would like to thank them here. First and foremost, as always, John Burnett has listened to me talk about Dark Asylum for twelve months or more, and has read drafts and commented on my work with his usual skill and insight – John, how would I manage without you? Similarly, three other writer-friends have been invaluable with comments, corrections, and enthusiasm for the project: Margaret Reis, Olga Wojtas and Michelle Wards. This book is far better because of them.
I must also thank my amazing multi-tasking mother, Jean Thomson, who is awaiting my appearance on Radio 4, my sister and most loyal supporter Anne Briffett, and my lovely boys, Guy and Carlo, who have watched me drive away to East Lothian on three writing retreats this year – I’d never have finished without their patience and understanding (and willingness to endure an untidy house and some badly cooked meals). To Penny Cunyghame and Barbara Mortimer, loyal friends who have looked after my boys and given me the time and space to work on many occasions, I offer my love and gratitude.
Other friends have been more kind and generous than they realise, and their confidence in me and kind words about my work have been a great source of encouragement, notably Paul Lynch, Helen Wilson, and Paul Morgan – who leaves no text unanswered (especially valued during a dark and windy January in Gullane). Adrian Searle has been one of the best pals a writer could have, and has championed my work wherever he goes – once again, Ade, I’m in your debt. Thanks is also due to Charlie Hopkinson for information about photography, and Dr Gayle Davies at Edinburgh University for sharing her reading list about madness. Any mistakes in the interpretation of that information are mine alone.
As ever, I am super-grateful to Jenny Brown, my fabulous agent-friend, as well as to Krystyna Green, Tara Loder, Florence Partridge, Amanda Keats, the mysterious but brilliant copy editor I know only as Una, and all the marvellous people at Constable.
Finally, I owe a different type of thank you altogether to Trevor Griffiths, who has listened to me go on and on about this book, and made me laugh and forget all about it too.
This book was completed with the generous help of Creative Scotland.
Author’s note / Bibliography
I was guided in the writing of this book by the first-rate work of others. Richard Barnett’s Sick City (Wellcome Trust, 2008) provided me with a varied survey of the health of the city. Mike Jay’s Emperors of Dreams (Dedalus, 2000) was an invaluable source of information about the history of cannabis use. Once again, Kelly Grovier’s The Gaol (John Murray, 2009) and Wendy Moore’s The Knife Man (Bantam Press, 2005) gave me fascinating insights into the workings of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century penitentiaries and post-mortems respectively. Lisa Appignanesi, Mad, Bad and Sad (Virago, 2008); Catherine Arnold, Bedlam and Its Mad (Simon and Schuster, 2008) and Sarah Wise, Inconvenient People (Bodley Head, 2012) provided the ideas and inspiration behind the various asylum doctors, patients and practices found within this novel, whilst an exhibition at the National Museum of Scotland, and its accompanying book Photography: A Victorian Sensation, by A. D. Morrison-Low (NMS, 2015), was an excellent guide to the history and application of early photography. Finally, surely no one could write about convict transportation without referring to Michael Cannon’s Perilous Voyages to the New Land (Today’s Australia Publishing Company, 1995) and The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes (Harvill Press, 1987) – a marvellous and moving book that everyone should read. I was lucky to find such a wealth of excellent histories upon which to draw. Of course, any mistakes that lie within the pages of this novel are mine alone.
Author Q&A
Do you have a particular process for writing a book or does it vary?
I have to write about my characters – who they are and how they might think and behave – before I can really get a sense of where things are going. The location of my stories is important, too, so I try hard to get this right at the outset. I’ve come to accept that writing the first third of a novel is the trickiest part for me. It’s always the bit I re-write the most – setting out the people and the place, as well as a suitable crime. After this, the rest seems to follow much more easily.
In terms of the physical process of writing, I always write longhand at first, with a particular type of fountain pen, in a particular type of notebook. I have three fountain pens – two with broad nibs for speedy writing, one with a fine nib for editing my printed manuscript. I write longhand because I can’t touch type. Using a pen means I can write quickly, I can doodle if necessary (I do a lot of doodling), and I’m not distracted by the internet. The pens are important. A biro is no use – all thin and slippery – it has to be proper ink. If I don’t have my pen, I can’t go on. My notepad has to be A4 in size with thick pages and widely spaced lines. Thin lines and cheap paper are an abomination. Once the pen and the paper are right, anything can happen.
Is there a particular place where you prefer to write?
I write anywhere. The notebook and fountain pen habit is useful here. I’m quite short of time due to life commitments other than writing, so being able to whip out a pen and paper at any time and place is the only way to make progress. I wrote much of my first novel on the number 23 bus on the way up to work. I’ve written in coffee shops whilst waiting for my sons to finish judo or sitting by the side of the pool during their swimming lessons. I’ve done it standing up beside the stove while the steam from a pan of boiling pasta wilted my paper. That said, I have two places that I love: the National Library of Scotland (if anyone sits in my favourite seat I lurk nearby until they go away), and a little hideaway I know by the sea in East Lothian. It’s there that I really make progress, though the isolation and long days at the desk are hard going. It’s great – but also terrible. Like lancing a boil.
Where did the idea of Jem come from?
I wanted a principal character who would be a strong wom
an, one who could go anywhere and do anything without having to apologise for her gender. Disguise seemed the best option – anything else seemed unconvincing, especially given what I knew about Victorian patriarchy and the exclusivity of the medical profession. There was a real-life example, too: James Miranda Barry was a woman who had disguised herself as a man in order to read medicine at Edinburgh University. She qualified with an MD in 1812, several decades before any women were officially admitted there. Barry worked as an army surgeon all her life and her sex was only revealed post mortem.
The cross-dressing woman is not a new phenomenon in literature, but how else might a woman in the 1840s be free to do as she pleased? How else might she be educated as well as any man and able to speak her mind on any subject she chose unless her true identity was hidden? And how would it feel to be placed in this role by a parent – which is what happens to Jem – rather than choosing it for oneself? How might she reflect on the lot of women and her position as an impostor amongst men? I thought these might be interesting ideas to write about.
I gave Jem a red birthmark across her face to add an extra dimension of disguise, and also to give a tangible focus to her feelings of loneliness and isolation. When I started the Jem Flockhart books, I was suffering from a painful and unsightly skin condition known as Red Skin Syndrome. It lasted throughout the whole time I wrote the first book, though I was given some medication to help (it also helped all my hair to fall out, thereby exchanging one distressing situation for another). Despite the red skin, which affected my face badly, I still had to go out and about. I noticed people would look at me twice – a casual glance at a fellow human being quickly followed by a stare of horror and pity at the red mask that covered my face. They never saw the person beneath. I decided to use the red mask – but without the physical pain that I had endured – for Jem. I thought it would give her something to hide behind, something that she depended on for concealment, but also something she hated. Now that I’m mostly recovered when I’m writing about Jem and her birthmark I have to remind myself how isolated I felt at that time. But Jem is a strong character, and she now has Will as a confidante and friend, so things are not as bad as they once were for her either.
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