I leant heavily on Mr Bertram’s arm and did not enter the debate. In the end he escorted me to my chamber. I was not put in the servants’ quarters, but the desk clerk had judged to a nicety my situation and Miss Wilton’s disapproval. I was in one of the smaller rooms reserved for poor relatives of rich patrons. Compared to even my rooms at White Orchards it was pure luxury. Mr Bertram informed me he had left orders for my supper to be delivered to my room and I was not to think of anything but getting well until tomorrow. ‘And if you feel worse at any point promise me you’ll ring for the hotel doctor,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Bea to check in on you before she retires.’ He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘It wouldn’t be proper for me to … She is most concerned for your welfare.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, wishing he would leave so I could rest by the glowing fire.
‘She is one of those ladies who does not find travel easy.’
‘I see.’
‘She didn’t mean anything by … I’m sure when you know her better …’
‘I’d very much like to lie down, sir.’
‘Of course. Of course. If there is anything you should need the reception clerk has orders to supply you with … well, anything. Please don’t worry about the bill. I feel it was wrong of me to bring you when you are still so unwell. I didn’t understand Dr Simpson fully. Beatrice assured me she had talked to him – you both being females – and it was understood you were well enough to travel.’
It was clear nothing less than drastic action would move him and so I made my way across to the bed and began to untie the laces on my boots. Mr Bertram fled.
A good supper, a fine night’s sleep and I was prepared to face them at breakfast in the morning. I had expected to eat in my room, but the clerk rang up to tell me I was expected downstairs. My head was clearing and I was looking forward to seeing Bea Wilton’s face when she learned she was to sit at a table with me.
When I arrived she was midway through a lecture to Bertram. She did the only thing a lady could do under the circumstances of finding herself sitting alongside her potential fiancé’s housekeeper and ignored me.
‘Moral therapy began as far back as the 1790s,’ she continued. ‘It’s quite fascinating and based around a lot of the Quaker thoughts. You know of them, of course?’
‘Of course,’ said Bertram, focusing intently on his boiled egg. He had yet to cap it and was showing all the nervousness of a man who was unsure if he would shortly be attempting to consume a running yolk in front of a lady he hoped to impress. In his shoes I would have ordered my eggs scrambled and did so to a passing waiter. He nodded, but also sniffed slightly displaying to a nicety his understanding of my station at this table. Bea broke off to beam at him.
‘It’s all about exercise and doing very routine and ordinary things. The hope is that those afflicted will be able to find a way in society in time.’
Bertram sliced off the top of one oval with such force he knocked the top onto the cloth. ‘Good gad! You mean they let them out?’
Bea gave a trilling little laugh. ‘Oh not the ones from the best families. They do tend to be the worst, don’t they? I wonder why?’
I refrained from enlightening her.
‘No, Bertram, the ordinary people, so they can be useful. Some of these institutions even have things for sale.’
‘That anyone wants?’ asked Bertram nobly trying to both ignore the mess he had made and signal the waiter.
Beatrice shrugged. ‘I have no idea. What I do know is that for a long time visitors have been absolutely forbidden in these places. But everything is changing. Have you read any of the works by Dr Freud? Such strange ideas, but quite compelling.’
Bertram blanched. ‘Beatrice, those are not suitable books for a woman!’
‘I quite agree,’ said Beatrice calmly nibbling on a slice of toast. ‘But they are quite all right if I read them as a journalist. I don’t know if he is an alienist exactly. He seems to suggest that we are all insane rather than specifically study the insane. Or maybe I have that wrong.’
‘Alienism?’ I ventured.
‘The formal study of the criminally insane,’ said Beatrice with a cold smile. She signalled to the waiter, who responded at once and Bertram’s mess was taken away. There was an awkward pause.
‘Does that mean all criminals are considered insane?’ said Bertram at last.
Beatrice laughed again. ‘Of course, darling, one would have to be insane to act criminally. Subjects of the empire should be proud to obey its laws.’
‘That depends if they have enough to eat,’ I muttered under my breath. Beatrice flashed me a look and I hid my face behind my coffee cup, but not before I saw the look of shock ripple across Bertram’s face.
‘Don’t you agree, Bertie?’ asked Beatrice.
‘I had never considered it that way,’ he said. He dabbed nervously at his mouth, waiting to see if I would step in, but I did not. ‘So this asylum we are visiting today, does it have anything to do with Freud or alienists?’
‘I daresay there might be an alienist there, but my interest is in what we classify within society as insane. I mean, one listens to doctors, but really it’s us who decides who go into these institutions, isn’t it? I’m sure you know what I mean, Bertram. Every now and then someone or something about someone crops up, even in the very best families, and it’s so much easier to give them a nice home away from all the gossip that would otherwise go on. It’s protecting them, really.’
My coffee cup clattered in my saucer. Beatrice turned to me and nodded slightly. Bertram on the other hand looked completely blank.
‘Surely there must have been cases in a family as old as yours?’
‘My family isn’t very old,’ said Bertram.
‘But it’s so very influential. Especially right now with those rotten Germans threatening to invade at any minute.’
Bertram coughed and straightened his shoulders. ‘I don’t believe there has been any formal announcement of invasion.’
‘Oh, darling, one does not announce these things! They just happen. Besides if you’ve read that book, you’ll know all about it. Every word is true.’
‘I don’t read novels,’ said Bertram. ‘Nor do I move in political circles. My family has nothing to do with international affairs.’
My breakfast lay before me, congealing. I was fascinated. I could not tell if Bertram was fascinated or repelled. But then Beatrice said something that made it clear, at least to me, that she knew nothing at all.
‘One hears so much working in the newspaper industry.’
‘Of course,’ said Bertram. ‘When is our appointment with Mr Freud?’
‘Oh, darling, we’re not seeing Freud. We’re going to see a very nice, new asylum where no one is too mad. And I am going to write an entirely suitable piece on how we help those less fortunately minded than ourselves.’
Some time later I was waiting with Bertram on the hotel steps while Beatrice put on her hat. As we had been standing there some 20 minutes I could only conclude it was a most complicated hat. ‘Might be interesting,’ said Bertram suddenly. ‘I mean, if she’s right about how only the insane act outside the law. We might be able to talk to an alienist chappie about how to actually spot insanity.’
I sighed. ‘I think people commit crimes for the most ordinary reasons,’ I said. ‘Love, envy, greed, hunger, the desire for power or even anger at perceived injustice.’
Bertram nodded. ‘I know. But it’s a nice idea that one could simply tell, isn’t it? That whole business with Pa …’
‘Ssssh!’ I hissed. Beatrice had appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘There you are, Euphemia. Didn’t you hear me saying I was going to put on my hat? You really have no idea of your duties.’
Bertram took her arm and guided her into the waiting carriage. ‘She is pretending to be your companion, not your maid,’ he said.
‘But I thought that was how she joined your household – as Richenda’s maid
?’ Bea lowered her voice. ‘That she came from a background none of you speak about.’
I felt myself flush with rage and embarrassment. I kept my head enough to know that defending myself would only open up questions I had no intention of answering and contented myself with imagining how very hard I could kick Beatrice in this confined carriage if she pushed me much further.
‘No,’ said Bertram shortly.
‘No?’ asked Beatrice again.
‘No,’ said Bertram with a heavy finality.
‘Oh, I’m so relieved,’ said Beatrice with smile. ‘When I heard she was your housekeeper …’
Bertram made a snorting noise. Beatrice patted him on the arm. ‘I’m not like the females with whom you are normally acquainted,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’m a journalist. I ask the questions others dare not.’
‘It seems to me that being an acquaintance of yours might be a risky business,’ said Bertram.
‘Indeed,’ said Beatrice. ‘My acquaintances tremble, but my friends have nothing to fear.’
My mind boggled with the games this woman was playing. She had hinted that Mrs Wilson’s love child might have been locked up in an asylum. Was she now suggesting that courtship would prevent her from revealing any unpleasant truths about the Staplefords? I only knew she had picked the wrong man for strategies. Bertram clearly had no idea what she was talking about.
The carriage clattered to a halt and we all climbed out. Bertram checked his pocketwatch. ‘Are we on time?’ he asked.
‘Oh, darling, you didn’t think I’d let them know we were coming, do you?’
And with that she swept up the path towards a large white house. Bertram and I were left staring after her in horror.
Chapter Six
Inside the Asylum
‘Isn’t she splendid?’
It was then I realised that I had been mistaken on two accounts. Firstly, the look on Bertram’s face was one of positive astonishment rather than horror and I had, for some time now, been making too much of coincidence. I had, as others had often chastised me for in the past, allowed my personal feelings and prejudices to influence my judgement.
None of Beatrice Wilton’s comments had anything to do with Mrs Wilson and the séance. Her designs were far more earthly. She was planning ahead to the commitment of Richard Stapleford so Bertram’s status as head of the family would be assured. Even the desire to be a journalist – something I could grudgingly admire – was liable merely to be a substitute for entertainment until she found herself a husband. I suspected she was an heiress in her own right, but as my mother would have put it she smelled of “print” and “the shop”. The mystery of Mrs Wilson’s attack remained, but Beatrice Wilton’s behaviour was all too easily explained. The Stapleford title might be new, and in my opinion of no great importance, but to Beatrice Wilton being able to add the word “Lady” before her name was the height of her ambition. Hence her ridiculous nom-de-plume: Lady Grey.
‘I don’t believe you need me here, sir,’ I said to Bertram. ‘I can offer no possible insights in how an asylum works or should work.’
‘You underestimate yourself, Euphemia. Before you arrived at breakfast Beatrice informed me she had suspicions about this place.’
‘Suspicions?’ I asked.
‘She felt she could not say more without prejudicing me, but keen observation is key!’
‘Are you coming?’ called Miss Wilton. She had the door open, and while she didn’t exactly have her foot wedged over the lintel the gentleman in front of her appeared large and intent on filling the frame.
Mr Bertram hurried over to help. It very quickly became clear that tours of the asylum were not available. Not even for a price. This time even Mr Bertram blushed at Miss Wilton’s vulgarity. However, by dint of throwing around the nebulous power of the press we were finally conducted into a Dr Frank’s office and told he would see us shortly. By this point I was in a blush of mortification from my toes to the crown of my head.
As the door closed behind our dour escort Miss Wilton settled herself in a chair and took off her gloves. ‘I feel that went rather well.’
Mr Bertram muttered something incoherent and I walked over to study a print on the wall.
‘Oh come, Bertram. This isn’t a social call. The press have the right to be forceful to gain information that is in the public interest. We are the eyes and ears of the empire.’
‘Yes, but, Miss Wilton – Beatrice – they are trying to accommodate us.’
‘All signs of – well, at present I can say no more – but all signs would have been hidden.’
‘Of course. Of course. Although if the staff are generally of the size of our escort then I doubt there will be anything that can be done about seeing beyond the limits they set.’
‘I can ask questions, Bertram. Do not underrate the power of enquiry.’
‘But can you be assured of the veracity of their answers?’ I said without thinking.
‘I will know,’ said Miss Wilton grandly. ‘And then I will be able to take matters further. You couldn’t possibly understand.’
As there was nothing I could say in response without lowering myself to her standards I turned my attention back to the print. It was an aerial view of sorts that assumed the vantage point of above the property and yet able to see through the walls and roof. The grounds of the asylum were extensive. To my astonishment it appeared to resemble more of a country house than any hospital I had imagined. Littered among the grounds were various buildings containing long rows of accommodations for men and women as well as central buildings where it seemed from the whimsical drawings some sort of extended family life took place. The grounds were scattered with pretty outbuildings and sports fields.
Miss Wilton came up behind me. ‘There is no lake,’ she said. ‘I had heard these places mimicked the great houses, but without a water feature …’
I looked at her in astonishment.
‘My dear Beatrice, I hardly think a lake would be a suitable aspect for an asylum for the mentally unbalanced.’
Miss Wilton looked at Mr Bertram blankly.
‘I did not imagine it would be so large,’ I said, breaking the awkward moment.
‘We are considered a very small facility,’ said a man in the doorway. He was of slightly below average height, neatly dressed in a tweed country suit and wearing small round glasses. ‘But then in London land is not always to be easily had.’
Miss Wilton whirled. ‘You are Dr Frank? Is that a German name? Always take them off-guard,’ she hissed to Bertram and me.
‘No,’ said the doctor in impeccable English, ‘but I am often asked the question. The issue of the collective paranoid mania surrounding the Germans and gripping the general populace I find quite fascinating. Of course, the press, such as your own paper, Miss Wilton, hardly help matters.’
Touche, I thought, warming to this little man.
‘If you would be seated I shall see what I can do to help you.’
Miss Wilton introduced herself and Bertram formally. I was dismissed as a companion and left unnamed. She then reiterated her desire to tour the establishment.
Dr Frank shook his head. ‘Impossible. These are not the days of the Bedlam asylum. We provide a sanctuary for our patients. We are an asylum from the world that has brought pressure so harshly to bear upon them. We are not a zoo.’
‘How convenient for you,’ said Miss Wilton. ‘Who then watches the watchers?’
‘The Lunacy Commissioners may visit at any time of day or night without appointment,’ said Dr Frank. ‘And they frequently do so.’
Miss Wilton appeared at a loss for words.
‘You are aware of the 1890 Lunacy Act?’ continued Dr Frank. ‘It is extremely difficult for even a pauper to be admitted in these modern times.’
‘But the country is full of asylums and their inmates!’ protested Mr Bertram.
‘Indeed,’ said the doctor, ‘a sad reflection of our time. But I assure you each person admitted goes
through a most rigorous admission procedure. There are no mistakes.’
‘Are you telling me that in the history of asylums that no unwanted members of rich families have ever been placed in the care of a place such as this?’ asked Miss Wilton.
‘One might say that all the people here are unwanted members of the human family, Miss Wilton.’
‘That is not what I meant!’
‘I know, and I wish I could answer otherwise, but it is true that the evolution of the asylum has gone through more than one unfortunate phase.’
‘So it is true!’
‘I can assure you that no modern asylum harbours anyone who should not be there.’
‘But if someone was erroneously admitted before 1890 they would not now, after 26 years, be fit to re-enter normal life,’ I said.
All heads turned towards me and Miss Wilton positively scowled.
‘You are quite right, Miss, er …’
‘St John.’
‘Miss St John. You’re not related to the St Johns of Lower Warmington, are you? A most interesting family.’
‘Would anyone confess to be associated to a family of interest to an alienist?’ I countered.
Behind his glasses Dr Frank’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well said, my dear. You are quite right. Long-term institutionalisation will rob even the sanest individual of the ability to live in the outside world. The world of the asylum is small and its morality comfortingly black and white.’
‘So those who spend much of their lives within its walls are changed?’ I asked.
Dr Frank now openly smiled. ‘You are referring to the staff, I take it? How refreshing to encounter such a lively mind. Are you also with the press?’
‘No, she is not,’ snapped Beatrice. ‘Answer the question.’
Dr Frank’s good humour vanished. ‘I would rather say that those of us who have witnessed the depressing deterioration of the human spirit under adversity or through the cruelties of nature have a different and perhaps more generous appreciation of the human race.’ He frowned again. ‘We care very much about those in our charge. Far more so than those who placed them here.’
A Euphemia Martins Mystery Boxset Vol One Page 37
