Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries)

by Delphine Woods

  ‘And hate each other for all our lives?’

  ‘You have no choice, Katy.’

  It would be a perfect solution, I supposed. Bertie would stand by me if I told him the child was his, I knew he would; even he could not abandon me if I were pregnant. And then we would be married as I have always dreamed.

  But there would be the child between us, and I would know it was not his because it wouldn’t have his dark hair and it would grow taller than him and, one day, he would realise I had tricked him.

  But we would be married.

  ‘I would have to leave here,’ I said. ‘Leave you and care for the child.’

  Persey nodded. ‘But you would visit?’

  ‘Every week.’ I took her hand. ‘I would find Edward for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I am not working here, I can look for him. I will go to your house.’

  ‘I searched everywhere for him.’

  ‘But you said you were not… thinking straight. Perhaps you missed something?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘A man’s body cannot vanish without a trace. How was it that the servants never saw him?’

  ‘Of course they saw him.’

  ‘But they said they hadn’t.’

  ‘Katy, they were Welsh. My husband was Welsh and a good master and a generous landlord.’

  ‘So, perhaps one of them knows something? After all these years, they might be willing to speak for you.’

  ‘That is dangerous talk, Katy.’ She slipped her hand free of mine and back to Annie. She was sucking in her lower lip, stroking Annie faster and faster.

  ‘You don’t want to leave, do you?’

  I saw her swallow, and for an instant, she was old Mrs Leverton again, a frail woman, a stranger.

  ‘If I walked out of those gates, I would only be going to the scaffold.’

  ‘You would know the truth.’

  ‘I know the only thing that matters. I killed the man I loved.’ Her eyes had been shimmering. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

  I had been a fool. She was right, there was no way out for her.

  A great gust slapped the windows and sprayed rain down the chimney. The fire ebbed, the heat diminishing. With a dawning sensation of numbness, I left Persey in her seat and unlocked the cupboard, finding a basket of chopped wood and the fire poker. I unlatched the fire guard and piled the logs high.

  I was leaning over, prodding at the amber ashes. I remembered my thoughts about burning in a pyre as the fire began to strengthen and a bright yellow gash of a flame spat at me.

  The heat was growing, the wood belching out burning splinters. I held my left hand towards it, palm up, letting the flying embers stab my skin. My insides turned, the baby reminding me it would soon be ripping my skin to get out, like its father had ripped my flesh to get inside. Childbirth is the worst pain, women say. Worse than burning?

  I put my hand in closer to the flames, mesmerised by the roar of yellow and orange and red, the charring of the wood, the crackling and hissing.

  There was noise behind me, but I couldn’t define anything.

  I watched the flames, the poker in my right hand jostling the wood so that it burned harder, sparks shooting out at every angle until a sizzling piece of ash, the size of a halfpenny piece, landed on the soft flesh between my finger and thumb. I gasped and drew my hand clear of the flames. I was bending at the waist, the tip of the poker close to my right foot.

  I had been the same that night – bent over, gasping with the sharp sting of pain, looking at my feet.

  Someone was coming up behind me, I heard the footsteps. They had been dull that night, the hard earth muffling the sound, but now they were sharp and clear.

  Someone was saying my name, though there had been silence that night.

  Bent over, finding the world upside down behind my skirts, I could see a darkness approaching. And I remembered, I had seen the same thing that night. The movement of black in the greyness, coming closer, too fast for me to comprehend it.

  Then an arm reaching over my back, pulling at my shoulder, knocking into my face.

  Whiteness.

  Something pressing into my mouth. My tongue tasting bitterness on the material. My hands reaching up to grab the arm that pinned me to his chest, his nails scraping across my cheek as I shook my head, something hard coming between my teeth. I bit down. A cry of pain. The whiteness disappeared; the arm released me.

  I was free.

  Then a whoosh, a crack, blackness.

  There was a hand on my shoulder now, dragging me upright.

  I sprang around. The hot poker whirled through the air and smacked into bone.

  A cry. Gasps. I looked up to find everyone staring at me, attendants holding onto their patients like they were dogs readying for a hunt. Persey remained seated, her face white, her black eyes wide, perching on the edge of the chair as though she might leap up and wrestle me to the floor any minute. At her feet, a crumpled body, his hand cradling his face as he rolled onto his knees, his back to me.

  It took some moments for him to stand. Everybody held their breath.

  Then he turned towards me.

  I had split the skin on his cheekbone. A deep gash oozed blood which slid down his cheek and dripped onto his stiff white collar. The red made his blue eyes shine.

  ‘Put the poker down, Miss Owen.’

  Dr Basildon took a step closer.

  ‘Stay away!’ I held the poker out before me, swooshing it from side to side to keep him at a distance, backing myself into the corner of the room.

  ‘Take the patients upstairs,’ he said over his shoulder.

  There was a shuffling of feet, some moans of disappointment, Wini’s stern voice as she forced them to keep moving.

  Persey remained in her seat, forgotten by everyone but me.

  Dr Basildon lowered his arm. He opened his mouth, moved his jaw from side to side, and winced.

  ‘I’m sorry, I…’ The blood stains were growing, seeping onto the breast of his shirt. ‘I didn’t mean to hit you.’

  ‘It is all right, Miss Owen. Put the poker down.’

  He was beginning to blur. It was hard to breathe. ‘What is happening to me?’ I said to Persey, who now made her way to Dr Basildon’s side.

  ‘Go to your room, Mrs Leverton.’

  She did not listen to him.

  ‘I can’t live like this,’ I said. ‘Everything… everyone… I remembered something.’

  ‘What?’ Persey said, inching closer, but Dr Basildon grabbed her arm.

  ‘A white handkerchief…’ I tried to recapture the image, but it was fading.

  ‘Go to bed, Mrs Leverton, I will not tell you again.’

  ‘A white handkerchief. What next, Katy? What happened next?’

  It was leaving me. I slapped my head; I would make the memory stay. ‘I bit something… I think. And then, pain at the back of my head.’

  ‘Put the poker down, Miss Owen!’

  There was a thunder of footsteps coming my way. Mrs Thorpe shot into the day room. She pointed at me as she leant against the wall, closing her eyes, her skin mottled pink rather than its usual grey as she gasped for air. Three men ran past her, charging for me. Daniel was at the front.

  I lifted my poker. ‘Get away from me!’ I swung it at him, making him jump back. ‘What did you do?’ My own voice was unrecognisable.

  Daniel was perfect again, the one bruise I had given him long healed.

  ‘What did you do to me?’

  His peers glanced sideways at him. Daniel stared at Dr Basildon, scared for the first time.

  ‘I haven’t done anything, sir, I swear.’

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Katy, hush.’ Persey tiptoed towards me. The men started and tried to grab her, but she shook them off. ‘You must calm yourself, Katy. This is dangerous.’

  Her face told me all. We were lost.

  The men had cornered us. They waited, ready to swoop on me. Dr Basildon�
�s right cheek was scarlet. Behind him, under her mistress’s chair, Annie cowered, her big black eyes gazing at me as if I were a stranger.

  Persey touched the poker. I let her take the weight of it before she dropped it on the floor. She held me in her arms and hugged me tight as I sobbed.

  Then they were pinching my skin, tearing us apart. We reached for each other, both of us crying. Annie barked as her mistress was carted away by a rough male attendant. More hands smothered me, on my arms, my legs, pushing and pulling at me as I writhed to get away.

  Then the clink of a syringe. The floor on my back. A damp palm crushing my forehead. The crescent of Daniel’s face upside down as he towered over me. The pierce of metal into my skin as Mrs Thorpe jabbed a needle into my neck.

  Then darkness.

  I write by moonlight. The candle is gone, the matches taken. Miss York and Marion are not allowed in.

  My neck feels swollen where they stuck in the needle. I cannot see if I am bruised, for they have taken the looking glass too, but I run my fingers over the lump of tender skin and wince, so I imagine that I am.

  I found my diary and ink pot safe under the bed when I woke. Marion must not have told about it. I will thank her next time I see her.

  Mrs Thorpe saw me when I had woken. The dusk was fading, and I found her face in the glow of her candlelight.

  ‘How do you explain yourself?’ She would not sit; she stood at the foot of my bed. ‘What do you think Daniel has done?’

  I thought that I must tell her to save myself, so I did.

  ‘What were you doing out at that time of night?’

  I hadn’t included Bertie in the story. I had no intention of doing so. ‘I was going to visit my da.’

  ‘At ten o’clock?’ The candle flame made her nose shine, her eyes thin. ‘Do not lie, Miss Owen.’

  ‘I am not lying about what happened to me.’

  ‘Who are you engaged to?’

  A chill swamped my body. ‘I am not engaged.’

  ‘Miss York tells me you are.’

  ‘We are not engaged. Not anymore.’

  ‘Did you meet that man, Miss Owen?’

  I could not lie. ‘Yes. But it was not him who attacked me.’ She was making her way to the door. ‘Please, Mrs Thorpe, this has nothing to do with him. It was Daniel, he has been following me, he has been watching me, I am sure!’

  ‘I have already asked Daniel where he was that night. He was playing poker before he joined the search party. Your search party.’ She twisted the doorknob. ‘Mr Thorpe confirms this.’

  ‘They are lying!’

  The door shut with a click. She paced two feet towards me. ‘Are you calling my husband a liar?’ Her voice was harder than the frost outside.

  ‘No, ma’am, but… perhaps he is confused.’

  ‘Get some sleep, Miss Owen, and hope you have found your senses by the morning.’

  28

  1901

  Sunday 17th February

  My strength returned this morning. I sat up in bed, let my head catch up with the movement, then dangled my feet out. My skin prickled with gooseflesh against the cold. I put my feet into my shoes, not wanting to feel the bitterness of the floor, and found my dress hanging in the wardrobe. I put it on as best I could, though when I tried to fasten the back, my arms ached from where the men had twisted them. I ran a comb through my hair, cringing as it caught in the knots.

  Without the mirror, I could not judge my appearance, but it would have to do. I would go to Dr Basildon, apologise to him, beg for forgiveness, and tell him the truth.

  I pulled on the door handle. It would not give. I shook it until it rattled and got to my knees to peer at the keyhole. The lock was turned.

  Panic made me run to the window. Outside, the sky above was a blanket white, the cobbles were slick with yesterday’s rain. The space was empty.

  I yelled for someone to let me out, but no one came.

  The pane of glass is only thin; I could have broken it and jumped down, but my nerves were shattered, yesterday’s bravery had vanished. I kicked off my shoes and returned to bed. My mouth had dried, and I sipped from a glass of water on the table beside me, careful not to drink all of it in case no one came back.

  But they did – Marion visited me in the afternoon, scurrying inside and checking over her shoulder.

  ‘How are you?’ she whispered as she sat beside me. She pulled my hair away from my neck and frowned at what she saw.

  ‘What is happening? What are they saying?’

  ‘They know about Bertie. I heard Miss York whispering to Wini about it, saying how Mrs Thorpe will have you out.’

  ‘What of Persey?’

  Marion hesitated. ‘She is in her rooms.’

  ‘Is she well?’

  ‘They have given her a sedative. She was too excited; it is not good for her.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Mrs Leverton will be fine, it is not her you should be worrying about.’ Marion removed her glasses and polished them against her skirt. She lifted her eyes to me, pity writ across her face.

  ‘I must speak to Dr Basildon,’ I said desperately. ‘I must explain everything. He is a reasonable man.’

  ‘He is resting. It is a nasty wound, Katy.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit him! I thought he was someone else.’

  ‘Hush, now.’ She stroked my head, and I lay back on the pillow.

  ‘You must make Daniel confess. It is the only way for this all to be put right.’

  She nodded but said nothing.

  She did not believe me.

  I have written a letter for Bertie. He must know what has happened and what is coming for him. I have the letter beside me, and I shall make a copy of it here so that I know exactly what I said. I will ask Marion to put it in the mail bag for me when she visits later.

  Dear Bertie,

  I do not know how to put this into words. There is no good way to begin such a letter.

  The last time we met, something happened to me. I woke the next day with my memory lost and bruises and wounds upon my body, in the most intimate of places.

  I know it was not you who did that to me, Bertie. In my heart I know it, but the problem lies in my memory. I cannot remember how we left it. I was sure you had gone, please tell me that you had!

  My own precious Bertie, you could not have hurt me like that, could you? I know I frustrate you, and I know you are to marry another, but you would not be so harsh to me, your real sweetheart, would you?

  I had to tell Marion about you. I had no choice. But I was overheard by one of the other attendants. She hates me. They do not know you by name, only that I met my fiancé in the woods.

  I think I know who attacked me. His name is Daniel Cartwright. He is a male attendant here. I have heard him outside my room at night. He waits for me in the shadows and scares me. It must be him; I can see the guilt in his eyes, but they do not believe me.

  I am worried for you, Bertie. Tell me you were home by midnight, that your da can vouch for you. You must come and see Dr Basildon and tell him what you know. It is the only way to save yourself and me.

  They have locked me in my room. They think I have lost my wits, but I have not, Bertie. I have proof. A terrible proof, but proof, nonetheless.

  Bertie, I am with child.

  Please come. If you think anything of me at all, you will come.

  Dr Basildon is a reasonable man; I am sure he will be discreet. If he knows the truth, he will put all this right, and Daniel will be gone, and I can be safe again, and you can marry Mabel, and no one need ever know.

  I beg you, Bertie. I cannot go on like this.

  I wish you would come and take me away. I wish you would hold me and kiss my bruises. I miss you with all my heart, Bertie, my little Bertie Blackbird.

  Yours forever,

  Katy

  29

  1956

  Iris pressed a tissue to her eyes. It came away wet. She stuffed it between her knees.
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  She flicked through the last remaining pages of the diary – all blank.

  Kath’s eyes had closed. The tears that had fallen as Iris had been reading were now dry. Her breath was shallow and weak as she slept.

  ‘I got the letter.’ Albert clutched the foot of Kath’s bed and stared down at his old fiancée.

  Iris stood, an involuntary action from the shock of seeing him. She had believed he had given up on Kath again.

  She offered him her chair, but he pulled over a spare one from the patient next door. He stroked Kath’s foot through the blanket once he was seated.

  ‘I went to see him – Dr Basildon. He wasn’t shocked, you know, when I turned up. It was like he had been expecting me.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Iris’s voice was husky with emotion. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Not much. He did most of the talking. He told me to say it was mine.’

  ‘The baby? How did he know about the baby?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘Marion probably told him, or Mrs Leverton. He said it would be the best for everyone if I said I was the father. He said he would keep it a secret for me, that Mabel and Da need never know.’

  ‘How could he? Surely you’d have to marry Katy?’

  Albert nodded. She could only see a little of his face for the crookedness of his spine.

  ‘Not if she were in an asylum.’

  Iris’s breath left her. She stared at his profile in horror. A tear dripped off the end of his nose.

  ‘He said she was showing signs of mania. She was having hallucinations and delusions which were making her violent. She needed help.’ He met Iris’s gaze. ‘He was a doctor, Iris. He knew best.’

  ‘So, you lied. You said the baby was yours.’

  ‘I didn’t lie. I didn’t know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That night, the night she said she was attacked. We did…’ He pulled an old handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed it over his face. ‘She couldn’t remember it all, but we did… So, you see, the child could have been mine.’