A Madness So Discreet

by Mindy McGinnis

  “Then you can’t know it very well,” Grace shot back, and the doctor threw back his head, laughing.

  “It’s good to see you riled,” he said. “I much prefer it to this cold, thoughtful thing that used to be Grace.”

  “I know,” she said, eyes on the floor. “I had to remove myself when we went through Nell’s room with the policemen, and there was a comfort to the emptiness. I held on to it too long. It was all I had when I killed Beaton and I didn’t feel it, Doctor, I swear. I didn’t feel a thing when I cut his throat.”

  “I believe you,” Thornhollow said.

  “And that was so frightening,” she gasped, her voice cracking. “But it gave me power, to feel nothing. Me, who was so powerless. And I reveled in it for a time, but last night I knew I had to give Elizabeth something for the jury in the way of proof. So I let myself see. I saw my father, and I saw it all, right into the depths of his eyes, where there was that same nothing. I won’t do that. I won’t become him.”

  Thornhollow leaned forward. “Good. I would have you be Grace, whichever side of her you’re using in the moment. But, Grace.”

  Grace’s tea sat in her hands, untouched and cold. “I know you have reservations, Doctor,” she said quietly. “I know you don’t want to dirty your theories by using them to falsely accuse my father. Everything you’ve done for me culminates in this. It’s the right thing to do, and I thank you for it.”

  “Wait until tomorrow to thank me,” he said, resting back into his chair again. “Much like Jenny Cantor at Christmastime, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

  Grace resumed her seat the next day with Adelaide and Mr. Turner, rising with the sun in order to make sure they were assured a place in the courtroom. Dr. Thornhollow was right; now that Elizabeth’s testimony had brought a senator that much closer to the gallows, everyone wanted to be there when it was decided whether he would hang. The closeness of bodies was worse than the day before, those in the balcony pressed up against the railing, those in the back leaning against the walls when it became standing room only.

  Dr. Thornhollow took the stand, his gaze never once going to Grace or his sister.

  “I understand, Doctor, that you are formally trained in the science of phrenology, is that correct?” Pickering asked.

  “Yes,” Thornhollow said, though Grace knew he was dying to correct the terminology to pseudoscience.

  “If you would take a moment to explain to the jury in layman’s terms, please, what phrenology is, and how it works.”

  Thornhollow turned to the jury, his speech precise as if teaching a class of toddlers. “The concept behind phrenology is that the human brain is divided into seven main sections, each with a broad scope such as domestic or intellectual. These sections are further divided into areas that represent different specific functions, like hope or friendship. The more each of these sections is used, the more it grows. Likewise, if a section is not used often, it can shrivel. These undulations of the brain cause the skull itself to change form, allowing a trained phrenologist such as myself to read the bumps on a person’s head to determine their emotional or intellectual leanings.”

  “Very good,” Pickering said. “And you have had a chance to examine Mr. Mae, is that correct?”

  “I have.”

  “And what were your findings?”

  “Mr. Mae had pronounced bumps in the areas associated with combativeness, destructiveness, and suavity.”

  Adelaide leaned into Grace. “I bet he added that last bit for Elizabeth. If she couldn’t get it on record that your father is a sly son of a bitch, by God, he will.”

  “Likewise,” Thornhollow continued, “there were definite concavities in the areas represented by benevolence and conscientiousness.”

  “And in your professional opinion,” Pickering asked, “does this indicate that Mr. Mae would be capable of raping Elizabeth Martin and doing the same to Jenny Cantor, asphyxiating her, and blithely leaving her body in the snow?”

  “Oh yes,” Thornhollow said, his voice heavy with conviction that hadn’t existed until then. “He’s capable of that and more.”

  “Objection,” Atkinson said from his chair. “Unless Dr. Thornhollow would like to widen the umbrella of crimes my client has been pushed under by defining what he means by ‘and more’?”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “Dr. Thornhollow,” Pickering tried again. “In your opinion is Mr. Mae capable of the crimes he is accused of?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve irritated him,” Grace whispered to Adelaide. “His jaw muscle is ticking.”

  “I saw,” her friend agreed. “He’ll never make a living at the poker tables, will he?”

  “Furthermore,” Pickering continued, “in all your studies of the human brain, have you found that someone with proclivities such as Mr. Mae’s can ever be rehabilitated?”

  Grace’s brow furrowed. “Why is he asking that?”

  “He’s trying to tie up his argument for the death penalty,” Adelaide whispered. “If Melancthon says that not only did your father commit this crime but that he’s likely to do it again, the jury will almost have to recommend the gallows, senator or not.”

  “Dr. Thornhollow, did you hear the question?” Pickering asked.

  “Why is he not answering?” Grace asked, a lump of fear forming in her stomach.

  Adelaide only shook her head, her own confusion evident.

  “Dr. Thornhollow—”

  “Yes, I heard you,” Thornhollow said, his voice biting. He swallowed hard, his eyes not leaving the jury. “In my professional opinion, Mr. Mae’s brain function is not only irreversible but is indicative of criminal insanity.”

  Mr. Pickering froze, his mouth still half-open to pronounce his next question. At the defense table, Atkinson was scribbling madly. The courtroom milled, a heavy buzz of whispered conversation gaining steam as those who understood explained what had just happened to those who didn’t.

  Grace’s grip on Adelaide’s arm was crushing. “What has he done?” she whispered, panic rising.

  The older woman’s gaze was cold as she stared at her brother. “He gave the defense grounds for an insanity plea.” She disengaged Grace’s clenched fingers from her arm. “I’m sorry, Grace. He just saved your father’s life.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Why?” Grace screamed, the single word so full of betrayal she could hardly pronounce it. “Why? Why?”

  “Grace, please, don’t shout,” Thornhollow said.

  “Let her shout, Melancthon,” Adelaide argued. “Let her bring down the whole inn around your ears and you’d deserve every splinter driven into your traitorous skin.”

  “I would not,” Thornhollow said. “I was under oath. It was my word—mine—that would send a man to his death, and I could not let that be.”

  “He’s not a man,” Grace choked. “He’s a monster—you said so yourself. You knew what you were doing, Doctor. You knew and you said the words anyway.”

  “Yes, I did. Grace, please. Listen to me.” He held out his hands as he crossed the room toward her. “I wanted to see him dead, I swear. But when I examined him as ordered by the court I couldn’t see it through.”

  He reached for her, one hand resting on her shoulder as she quivered with rage. “He is mad, Grace. A lifetime of unmitigated power has left his mind skewed and warped. He truly believes that he can do no wrong, building on false logic to legitimize any action, no matter how heinous, as long as he wants it to be so. He’s a spoiled child, Grace, with the appetites of a man, who answers any questioning of his actions with ‘Because I want to.’

  “I’ve seen people do horrible things, Grace. You yourself know the depth one can sink to when distanced from emotion. But in your father I see not a chasm between the man and his feelings but simply man and chasm joined as one. There is no empathy for him to draw upon when he sees another in pain. Society regards those who are insane as less than human, and in his case I could nearly a
gree as he has lost all qualities that would deem him human.

  “Before you rage at me, before you renounce everything we’ve worked toward and any claim I may have on your friendship, consider his actions through this lens. My lens. The one I view life through, in which I have taken the responsibility for the mad on my shoulders. I speak on their behalf, Grace, always. And I saw a madman in front of me when I questioned your father. It’s a madness so discreet that it can walk the streets and be applauded in some circles, but it is madness nonetheless.”

  Grace closed her eyes against his words. There had been no shame in her father, ever. Never in all the times he’d left her room had he been anything but confident and satisfied. He had wanted something and had taken it, needing no more reason than that to defile his daughter.

  Grace shook her head, the shadow of his betrayal still upon her. “It is not my place to pick and choose the mad that you defend. But I cannot agree that he is among them. If it’s childish reasoning that brings him to his actions, it is reasoning all the same. A child learns the difference between right and wrong, and violating that is exactly what brings him pleasure. He knows what he does, Doctor. He knows and revels in the doing.”

  “I cannot agree, Grace,” Thornhollow said. “If I am to have any faith in humanity whatsoever, I must believe that no man could do what he has done to you and be in his right mind.”

  “What will happen to him?” Adelaide asked.

  “Atkinson will jump at the chance to use my testimony to plead insanity. Elizabeth turned the jury soundly against your father, the description of his birthmark the nail in that particular coffin. I’ll recommend he be remitted to the Wayburne Lunatic Asylum of Boston, under the care of Doctor Heedson.”

  “At least there will be a familiar face,” Grace said, her mouth twisting as she saw his logic. She knew those halls, knew the dispassion of those within them. Her father’s emptiness would be met with the same, his infection treated with nothing as his apathy met with like. There would be darkness too, a pitch to match his sins that had paraded for so long in the light.

  “A rather fit punishment for both of them, I thought,” Thornhollow said, with a ghost of a smile. “Regardless, you are safe, I promise you. And your sister as well. You need never see that man’s face again.”

  “Except I want to, Dr. Thornhollow,” Grace said. “And I want him to see mine.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  She slipped into the courthouse the next evening in her widow’s reeds, Adelaide by her side. They pushed against the tide of the crowd that milled outward, disappointed in such an anticlimactic ending to the trial.

  “Excuse us, excuse us,” Adelaide said repeatedly, a pie plate raised above her head. Grace linked arms with her so that they wouldn’t be separated, finally climbing the steps to the double doors where the last of the thrill seekers had gathered to rehash the day’s events.

  “Whew,” Adelaide said, inspecting her plate. “The pie made it.”

  “You’re sure this will work?” Grace asked.

  “The pie? No, I bought the cheapest I could find. But people like to talk about themselves, if you give them the opening. Just follow my lead.”

  They went into the courthouse, the air still redolent with the accumulated breaths of so many. Adelaide pushed the double doors of the courtroom open, and they saw only the bailiff shutting the door to the holding cells behind him.

  “Hello.” She waved, confidently making her way up the aisle. “We’re from the Federation of Women’s Clubs, here to bring a little something to the poor senator.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” the bailiff said, straightening his shoulders. “I can’t allow that.”

  “Nonsense,” Adelaide said, with a flick of her hand. “It’s just a pie. We heard that the man is quite insane, and even if that’s the case he’s still a senator, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose so, but I don’t see—”

  “And we’d hate to have the hospitality of our town fail him, mad or not. It would reflect negatively, don’t you think?”

  The bailiff shook his head. “I don’t know about that, ma’am. All I know is that I can’t let you go back to the holding cells.”

  “Holding cells,” Adelaide repeated. “That sounds quite dangerous and exciting, doesn’t it, Madeleine? Of course, I imagine it’s all old hat to you, isn’t it? You must have such stories.”

  “I do, ma’am. I do at that,” the bailiff agreed, a small smile blossoming at her admiration.

  “I’d love to hear some,” Adelaide said. “I understand if we can’t take poor Mr. Mae the pie—after all I might have baked some instrument inside it, mightn’t I?”

  “Oh now,” the bailiff said, shuffling his feet. “I’m not saying you did anything of the kind.”

  “Good,” Adelaide said. “But nonetheless, if we can’t, then we can’t. How about you tell me a story or two over a slice while my friend goes back and has a word with the poor oppressed?” She leaned toward the bailiff, voice dropping conspiratorially. “She’s lost her husband recently, by his own hand. Told me she couldn’t live with herself if she were to hear that another such travesty happened here in our town. If she has a word or two that might settle the man’s heart, it can’t hurt for him to hear it, am I right?”

  “I suppose,” the bailiff agreed, his attention more focused on Adelaide than Grace. “But I can’t let you back there no more than a few minutes.”

  “One slice of pie, each,” Adelaide said. “Then we’ll both be quite out of your hair.” She nodded to Grace, who didn’t wait for permission from the debating bailiff before opening the door and slipping past him.

  The hallway was short and empty, with two cells, only one occupied. Grace walked up to the bars and raised her veil before her courage failed. “Hello, Father.”

  He came unsteadily to his feet, eyes wide and jaw slack. “I am mad then,” he said to himself as he stepped toward her, hands outstretched. “They said it was so, and I must be, to see the dead and talk with them.”

  “I am not dead,” Grace said. “And you are not mad. It’s easier for Dr. Thornhollow to believe it, and I will let him. But I know better, don’t I?”

  He reached the bars, his hands encircling them. “The dead know nothing,” he insisted.

  “And the living have secrets.”

  “Grace.” He said her name for the first time, and she could not help but flinch. “Grace,” he said again, reaching for her. “How can this be? You died.”

  She smacked his hands away, and the physical contact brought the truth crashing home. His eyes, which had been wide in wonder, now narrowed. “What is this? What lies have been told to me?”

  Grace laughed, the sound of her mirth jagged in her throat. “So many, Father. But they cannot match the ones you’ve told, accumulating over a lifetime to bring you here, face-to-face with the daughter you betrayed in the most shameful of ways.”

  His face contorted, rage twisting his handsome features into a sneer. “That filth Heedson! I’ll have his job!”

  “On the contrary, Father. Your very existence now supplies him with one. He’ll be in express charge of your care, I’m told.”

  “Damn you, Grace!” he shrieked at her. “What have you done, girl?”

  She leaned into the bars, her face a mask of anger. “What needed doing. You locked me away, Father, but had no key to my mind. I found it, there in the darkness. I found it and I’ve used it to your undoing, and I’d crow about it to the world if I could.”

  “I will, by God,” he screamed, striking the bars in an effort to get to her. “I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done, you lying bitch!”

  “Go ahead, Father,” she said. “Nothing you say will be believed. You’re insane.”

  His futile wrath erupted in a wordless flow as she turned her back and left him behind her.

  EPILOGUE

  The wind whipped the pages in her hands as Grace stood on the west turret, the familiar handwriting of her sister no longer send
ing spikes of fear through her heart.

  Dearest Fair Lily—

  I worried that you would not know where to find me, but you are truly magic. Living with Aunt Beth is rather nice. I found a kitten in the garden, and she let me keep her. She has a saucer of milk each night and sleeps on my pillow. Aunt Beth says I can visit Mother on the seaside if I would like, but I think sand is itchy. She says that Father is gone and I will not see him, even at the beach. I am sad, but I pet my kitten at night and she purrs. I look for your letters and I know I am not alone.

  Write Back—

  Alice

  P.S.—My kitty’s name is Grace.

  Grace’s mouth twisted into a sad kind of smile as she moved on to Falsteed’s letter.

  Dearest Grace—

  You’ll see by the enclosure that your sister is in the best of care, and that you are remembered. It may not surprise you to learn that I have a new neighbor here in the darkness. He had words with Heedson and your name came up, earning him a spot among the forgotten. I do not regret to inform you that he has a certain smell about him, one that my nose treasures above all others. I haven’t told him yet, as he seems to be under some stress. Someday I’d love to see your shining face again, and learn how this gift was delivered to me.

  Yours—

  Falsteed

  “Grace!” The trapdoor flew upward, Thornhollow emerging from the stairwell. “I thought I might find you up here,” he said, catching his breath. “Janey was half-frantic searching the grounds for you, when I remembered that you’d never returned the turret key to me.”

  “You never asked for it,” Grace said.

  “Good news?” he asked, gesturing toward the pages in her hand.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “All.”

  “Excellent!” He smacked his hands together. “Now, I’ll have to tear you away from happiness and this stunning view to come to a murder with me.”

  “Of course,” Grace said, folding her letters. “Give me one moment?”

  “A moment only,” he said as he descended the stairs, his voice floating in his wake. “There’s fresh blood spilling, Grace. And we must see which way it flows!”