Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  "You're thicker than you look." Edgecombe snatched back the bottle and pointed it at Lincoln. "Very well, go in search of more evidence, but you'll forgive me if I insist my sister remains at Harcourt House rather than return to Emberly with her husband."

  Marguerite stared down into her teacup. Her shoulders drooped, her mouth was slack, and her body slumped. She looked as though she'd given up altogether. It was hard for her. She may not love her husband, but she seemed to depend upon him. Now a long, dark shadow had been cast over his honor. It must feel like the very ground trembled beneath her feet.

  "I must insist that his lordship is not made aware of your suspicions," Lincoln said. "Not yet."

  I touched Marguerite's knee again, rousing her. She blinked at me then handed me the teacup. "I would like to lie down now," she announced.

  Lincoln and I alighted from the cabin and watched it roll away. Dawkins, standing on the footboard at the back, waved at me. I waved back.

  "Did you learn anything from him?" Lincoln asked as we returned inside.

  "He hasn't been there long enough to have heard much. Yardly is very loyal, though. If he helped Lord Harcourt remove Buchanan, he wouldn't tell us."

  "Remove him to where? If he's not dead, he must be held prisoner somewhere. Not at Emberly, or the other servants would know; I doubt all of them are so loyal to Harcourt that they would cover up murder for him. The village is too public. He could be paying a farmer to use an isolated barn. But why? What's the point?"

  "Revenge? Frustration?" I shrugged. "To lord it over his brother and prove that he has all the power and money? If he's jealous of Buchanan, it might simply be a case of one-upmanship. Perhaps being pressured to pay off Buchanan's debts was the last straw."

  "True, but it brings us back to the question of where he's being held."

  We returned the tea service to the kitchen, and I set to washing the dishes in the scullery, mulling over the problem of the missing Andrew Buchanan. The more I thought about it, the more I suspected Edgecombe was right, and Lord Harcourt must have a very big hand in his brother's disappearance. He'd fought with Buchanan and had the power to keep the servants quiet if they saw anything.

  Buchanan wasn't dead. We'd proved that. So where was he? Where could Harcourt hide a person and keep him alive without raising an alarm? Somewhere that Buchanan's shouts for help couldn't be heard.

  Or wouldn't be believed.

  I dropped the teacup into the water and ran out of the scullery. I dried my hands in my apron as I sprinted through the kitchen.

  "Charlie?" Cook called. "Where you off to in a hurry?"

  I didn't stop to answer. I took the stairs two at a time and burst into Lincoln's sitting room without knocking. He was near the door, as if he'd been expecting me, which, I supposed, he probably was.

  "What is it?" He searched my face, his own handsome one marred by signs of worry. "What's wrong?"

  "Tell me about Bedlam."

  Chapter 14

  Bethlehem Hospital for the insane—Bedlam to most of us—looked more like a museum or courthouse with its imperial dome and columned entrance. Located in St. George's Fields, behind a tall iron fence, it took us some time to get there in the midday traffic, allowing me to quiz Lincoln about the place. What he told me chilled me to the bone. Apparently near relations could have someone committed for madness simply by filling out a few forms. After a medical assessment, which could be bought for an undisclosed sum, the madman or woman was then admitted and treated. Treatments varied according to the severity of the madness, from undertaking simple tasks like embroidery or laundry, to cold baths, shackles and isolation. It seemed so medieval.

  "This is where Lord Harcourt sent poor Marguerite," I said as we entered the vast, empty entrance hall. "And all because she was sad over her baby's death."

  "Also where he may have committed his brother."

  We'd briefly discussed the likelihood of Buchanan being sent here and decided it was very much a possibility. Harcourt knew about this place after having his wife committed a few years ago. It would be easy enough to take Buchanan there after a fight if he was dazed from a head wound, and administering certain drugs would insure his continued compliance. Any complaints would be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. Buchanan could disappear in this vast hospital, and Harcourt knew it. If he wanted to be rid of his brother without killing him, this was the place to send him.

  Our footsteps echoed around the clean, too-bright entrance hall. A nurse dressed in crisp white looked up from the desk. Her lackluster hazel eyes flared briefly as she took in Lincoln's face, his dark hair tied back, and his gentleman's clothing.

  "We're looking for a patient by the name of Andrew Buchanan," he said. We'd decided not to ask if he was in here, but assume.

  She folded her hands on top of the open leather-bound ledger in front of her. "And you are?"

  "Mr. Henry Buchanan, Andrew's cousin, and this is my wife."

  Wife? We hadn't discussed playing roles, but I supposed relatives might be allowed entry whereas strangers would not. I took his arm in a picture of wifely affection. His muscles tensed.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Buchanan, but visiting days are the first and third Monday of the month, unless the governor is escorting you on a tour."

  "The third Monday is more than a week away."

  She gave him a tight smile. "Yes."

  I was worried that Lincoln might bully his way in when a door to our right opened and two gentlemen emerged. They shook hands and one thanked the other for the tour, promising to fill in the requisite paperwork and return it forthwith.

  "Is that the governor?" Lincoln asked the nurse.

  "Yes."

  Lincoln peeled away as the visitor departed. "Sir! A word, please."

  The governor waited with a strained smile and an impatient glance at the door. "Yes?"

  "My name is Henry Buchanan, cousin to Andrew Buchanan, one of your patients."

  "Visiting days are the first and third Mondays of the month," the governor said as he walked off.

  "I don't want to visit, I want to have a tour."

  The governor stopped again, his feathery eyebrows raised in an expectant air. "Go on."

  "I have a family member I'd like to have admitted. My cousin, Harcourt, told me all about the new techniques used here and I thought I'd give it a try."

  "Excellent!" The waxed pointy ends of the governor's moustache twitched. "Your cousin is a wise man. His brother is progressing admirably under our care. Ordinarily I require an appointment, but since you're here, I'll give you a brief tour. My name is Fourner."

  "Thank you, Mr. Fourner, my wife and I appreciate your time."

  I could hardly contain my excitement. Fourner had admitted that Buchanan was a patient. We'd found him.

  "If your wife wouldn't mind staying here," Fourner said. "We wouldn't want to upset her delicate sensibilities."

  Oh, good lord. Every time a man spoke about my "delicate sensibilities," I wanted to prove to him that I had none. It also made me appreciate Lincoln even more. He might be overly protective, but he never expected me to faint if I heard a crude word or saw something improper.

  Well, if Fourner wanted delicate sensibilities, he was about to get them in abundance. And I was going to get myself admitted to Bedlam as a patient.

  I withdrew my hand from Lincoln's arm and covered my face. I was about to pretend to burst into tears and then faint, when Lincoln's fingers gripped my arm so tightly that he cut off the blood flow.

  I lowered my hands and met his severe glare. His jaw was set as hard as granite. Fourner had already walked off toward the door, his steps quick and short. If he'd noticed my aborted act, he gave no indication.

  Lincoln forced out a chilly "Don't," between clenched teeth.

  "I had a plan to find Buchanan," I whispered. "I would get myself admitted as a patient today then go in search of him tonight when everyone is in bed."

  "I know." He clasped my arm and pulled me into
his side then marched me to the door where Fourner waited with a strained smile.

  "And who is it you wish to have admitted?" he asked Lincoln.

  "My ward. He's mad. Does and says the most foolish things, doesn't he, dear?" His eyes gleamed with what I suspected was mischief.

  "Alas, yes," I said. "Yet he's excessively clever and lively and one can't help but admire his quality."

  "It's often the clever, lively ones who need to come here," Fourner assured me. "I see quite a lot of that type, sadly. Your ward will be very welcome at Bethlehem Hospital, and I'm sure he'll be cured within the year with our treatments. Did Lord Harcourt inform you of our fees?"

  "He did," Lincoln said. "The cost is not a problem. Indeed, I plan to give extra to insure my ward's comfort."

  Fourner's eyes lit up. "Capital! Now, Mrs. Buchanan, if you wouldn't mind waiting here while I escort your husband through the facility. Nurse Elliot will see to your needs."

  "I'm coming," I told him with gritty determination. "My nerves will be quite safe with my husband here to protect me. He's so very capable, you see, and he understands me perfectly. It's almost as if he knows what I'm thinking before I do."

  Fourner gave a confused little laugh. "Charming. Very well then, come with me. But do not engage with the patients, no matter what they say to you. And stay close. I'll show you the men's wing, since your ward is male."

  With his warning ringing in my ears, we walked through the door into a long gallery. It looked like an extended drawing room, with comfortable armchairs spaced along the wall, and occasional tables topped with potted plants and vases of flowers. The blue and gold carpet deadened our footsteps until we paused at one of the many doors leading off the gallery.

  "The ground floor apartments are for the use of our least troublesome patients," Fourner said as he entered the parlor.

  Men dressed in plain trousers, shirts and waistcoats sat in armchairs, reading newspapers or journals. Some looked up and, seeing nothing of interest, returned to their reading. One man rose and bowed, as if we were royalty, and another sang quietly to himself in the corner. Yet another crouched on the floor, his gaze on the fire burning in the grate. A system of iron rails barred it, the gaps too narrow to reach through. There must be a key to open it, to allow the orderlies access to the fireplace but not patients.

  Fourner droned on about the latest techniques in treating troubled patients such as these by keeping them active and stimulating their mind. Restraint and medication weren't necessary. He took us back out to the gallery, then into each room leading off it. He nodded at nurses and men dressed in blue, whom I suspected were orderlies, and occasionally spoke to a patient in the condescending manner that some adults used when speaking to children.

  By the time we reached the stairs at the end of the gallery, we'd still not seen any sign of Andrew Buchanan. On the next level we found cells with up to six beds in each. There were no screens or curtains separating them, and no fires burned in any of the fireplaces. The rooms were freezing. Some beds were occupied by sleeping patients, while others were made without a single wrinkle in the covers.

  "Does my cousin reside in any of these rooms?" Lincoln asked, as we headed up yet another set of stairs.

  "He does."

  "Is he a difficult patient?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning his treatment has calmed him."

  "What sort of treatment?"

  "A combination of the latest medicines and certain incentives have seen his behavior improve considerably."

  "What sort of incentives?"

  Fourner stopped and opened a door. The whitewashed walls reflected the light streaming in from the single high window and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The room contained two copper tubs that reached to chest height with a tap sprouting from the wall into each. The room must be plumbed, as was the bathroom at Lichfield Towers, yet it contained no flushing toilet or basin.

  "What is this room used for?" I asked.

  "This is one of our incentives," Fourner explained with a smug smile. "Or, rather, a disincentive. Misbehaving patients are submerged to their necks in cold baths."

  "Cold baths!"

  "Ice-cold, Mrs. Buchanan. A few minutes in one of those tubs sees them desperate to get out again. They quickly learn that only calmness will see them freed."

  I folded my arms and hugged my chest, but it didn't suppress my shiver. "Did Andrew find himself in one of these?"

  Fourner nodded and ushered us outside again. "When he woke up, that first morning after his arrival, he was a ranting lunatic, shouting obscenities at my staff and making a nuisance of himself. But after the cold baths and two days alone in one of our India-rubber cells, he learned that submission is the best way to get along here at Bethlehem."

  Lincoln put up a hand, halting our progress along the corridor. "India-rubber cells?"

  "Lined with cork and India-rubber, actually. The lack of bedding and other amenities means they cannot harm themselves. We find the isolation gives them time to reflect in peace. It's very soothing for the mind. Medication helps too, of course."

  "Of course," Lincoln said drily.

  "The cells are just along here, if you'd like to take a look. One is currently occupied—" He was cut off by a high-pitched shriek that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. "Ah, yes, that would be the patient now. It must be time for his medication."

  Two orderlies and a nurse rushed past us. One of the orderlies unlocked the door, but was shoved backward as soon as he opened it. A man dressed in a white gown flew out, pushing the other orderly into the nurse. She screamed, fell back, and curled herself into a ball. The syringe she'd been holding rolled away, and the patient snatched it up.

  "Get him!" Fourner shouted.

  But the two orderlies, while big men, were too slow. They lumbered after the patient, but he had a head start and long legs. He streaked toward us, his tangled blonde hair streaming behind him. His wide, wild eyes were fixed on Fourner, who stood in his way, blocking the stairs.

  The patient bared his teeth and raised the syringe like a dagger. Fourner threw his arms across his face and spun away. The patient plunged the syringe, aiming for Fourner's exposed neck.

  Lincoln leapt and tackled him to the ground. The syringe fell out of his hand and rolled into the corner, out of reach. The patient thrashed, his screech splitting the air. He pounded his fists against Lincoln's back, at the same time bucking and twisting in an attempt to get free.

  "Be still!" Lincoln growled.

  But the patient either couldn't hear him over his own caterwauling or didn't want to obey. He continued to thrash and punch. Lincoln sat on him but had a devil of a time trying to grasp both the man's hands to subdue him. The orderlies hung back, shouting for reinforcements, while the nurse and Fourner were both cowering messes.

  I picked up the syringe and, in the same moment that Lincoln finally pinned the man's hands to the floor, I stabbed it into the man's neck. His eyes dulled, the ridges of muscles in his shoulders subsided and he became nothing more than an empty vessel, much like a body in the moment of death when the spirit exits. Except this man wasn't dead.

  I looked down at the syringe in my hand. Whatever had been in it was powerful.

  "Remove him at once," Fourner snapped at the orderlies. More had joined us upon hearing the shouts and screams, and two picked up the patient like a bolt of cloth and carried him to the cell. "This is outrageous! I do apologize, sir, madam. This sort of thing does not happen very often."

  "Is that the medicine you spoke of?" I asked, nodding at the nurse now bustling past us with the syringe.

  "It is. Good stuff. Don't know where we'd be without it."

  "Is that what you used on my cousin to subdue him?" Lincoln asked.

  "In the first two days, yes. After that, he showed signs of compliance so we decreased the dose. He now has some consciousness and is very content during the day. At night, the doctors administer mo
re to help him sleep peacefully." Fourner tugged on his cuffs and eyed the door to the cell warily as the orderly locked it. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Buchanan. I do hope you are unharmed."

  Only Lincoln's tie seemed to have suffered from the ordeal. I straightened it for him, locking my gaze onto his. It wasn't until he closed his hand over mine at his chest that I realized I was shaking.

  "Perhaps Mrs. Buchanan would like to settle her nerves with a cup of tea." Fourner directed us toward the staircase.

  Lincoln settled my hand on his arm once again, and we descended the stairs like a companionable married couple. I hardly heard Fourner's next words. He continued with the tour, making particular note of the safety measures in place to stop the more volatile patients from hurting themselves and others.

  When we reached the second floor once more, I realized we still hadn't seen Buchanan. Either he was outside in the garden or asleep on one of the beds.

  "May we have another look into the cells where the patients sleep?" I asked.

  Fourner stopped mid-sentence and looked to Lincoln, as if asking why he was allowing me to speak. "Sir?"

  "My wife has requested another tour of this floor, and I would appreciate your compliance."

  "Yes, of course. Come this way." Fourner stepped lightly along the carpeted gallery to the first door. Lincoln entered and I followed. He must have had the same idea as me, because he strolled down the aisle between the beds and glanced at the faces of the men lying on them. Only half of the beds were occupied, none by Buchanan.

  We looked in the next room and the next, and finally found him in the fourth. I sucked in a breath at the change in him. He lay on his side, staring at the unlit fireplace with the same vacant eyes as the mad patient after his injection. Lips that I'd only ever seen curled into a sneer, moved silently, uttering something I couldn't hear. A trickle of drool dampened the pillow and his fingers clutched the blanket as if it were an anchor. His fair hair was a greasy, knotty mess and every now and again a tremble wracked him.

  I didn't like Buchanan. I'd found him to be cynical to the point of rudeness, as well as lazy. But seeing the handsome, strong man reduced to a pathetic, drooling idiot sickened me.