by Simon Parke
‘You think so?’ asked Peter, who found glory in a beach pebble. But Geoff wasn’t listening. He sensed – wrongly – that he’d been given a stage.
‘Might all have been very different, of course; very, very different. The town was close to acquiring funding in the nineteenth century – significant funding that would have quite transformed the place. We would have got a pier of our own, a promenade with gardens . . . like Eastbourne.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Who knows what happened? But the money disappeared, the promises dissolved and they missed out. Brighton probably got it . . . they tend to. Brighton gets everything. Though they’ve now got the Green Party as well, so you can’t win them all!’
‘Quite.’
Tamsin hated the Greens messing around with Hove’s parking. Momentarily, Geoff was a kindred spirit.
‘So no seafront grandeur for Stormhaven,’ said Geoff. ‘Not that the locals mind. It keeps visitors away, and believe me, no one here wants visitors. The tourist office is run from a cupboard in the police station.’
‘A cupboard with a desk,’ said Peter, slightly on the defensive for his new home.
‘But still a cupboard, Abbot. Everything in this town is designed to keep people away.’
And that’s exactly how Tamsin felt in Stormhaven: an unwelcome visitor. The abbot had somehow become part of the local furniture, wandering around in his odd clothes and smiling at people. But Tamsin was an unwanted visitor . . . a stranger.
‘And Rosemary?’
‘Rosemary?’ Geoff looked blank, like a child in class who has drifted off, suddenly caught by a teacher’s question.
‘She’s why we’re talking with you. We’re not looking to buy.’
‘I didn’t know her; I mean, not well. I didn’t know her well.’
This was an answer they’d heard before. No one seemed to know Rosemary well.
‘You knew her from the Etiquette Society.’
‘Oh yes, I knew her there obviously, but not otherwise. I mean, she was a churchgoer, I think, which is fine, it’s a free world, but it’s not a habit of mine, shall we say? The theatre is my temple.’
‘And who do you worship there?’ asked Peter.
‘Very amusing, Abbot.’ Geoff felt stung. ‘But contrary to popular belief, not all actors worship at the shrine called “Ego”.’
‘I’m sure not.’
‘Though I can’t deny people do speak very well of my performances. So what is a man to do? Now, if that’s all—’
‘And obviously you’ll know number nine, Church Street,’ said Tamsin, stepping in. Geoff Berry seemed to seek approval as much for himself as for his properties.
‘A desirable three-bedroom terraced house in the heart of Old Stormhaven; four-minute walk from the station, three minutes from the sea.’
‘And also a brothel.’
‘Well, so I hear . . . I mean, so I have read. There has been a little coverage in the Silt, and while I have no time for the paper usually—’
‘You don’t need to apologize.’
‘I mean, I had no idea, of course. No idea at all.’
‘I thought you knew every property in Stormhaven.’
‘To know the property is not to know the activity therein.’ Geoff looked smug, as though he’d delivered a good line rather well. ‘That’s the difference between an estate agent and a journalist, Inspector. What people do behind their firmly closed doors does not appear in our brochures.’
‘It might make them more interesting if it did,’ Tamsin said. ‘So you really didn’t know?’
The estate agent sighed like a slightly deflated balloon. ‘There were rumours.’
‘Rumours?’
‘There was concern about house prices in the road dropping, if it turned out to be true . . . and became known. So obviously I wasn’t going to publicize it; that would not have served my clients well. No one wants to discover that their precious little property, their life’s investment, is two doors down from a knocking shop.’
‘So you did know.’
‘There are degrees of knowing.’
‘And degrees of lying,’ added Peter.
‘And Rosemary’s involvement there – what was your degree of knowing about that?’ said Tamsin.
‘I had absolutely no idea.’ He sounded adamant.
‘No idea as in some idea?’
‘No idea at all. Really not. No. She lived in Stormhaven, so she was seen around, quite naturally. I do remember – yes, it’s just come to my mind – a conversation about the place.’
‘Amazing how the memory works.’
‘Yes, I did actually ask her once if she’d heard any of the rumours.’
‘You actually spoke with Rosemary about the rumours?’
‘I did, yes. I recall it now.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said she had heard them and discounted them as the fanciful inventions of those with too much time on their hands . . . which included half of Stormhaven, by her accounting!’
Peter smiled. He could hear Rosemary saying that, so maybe it was true.
‘When, in fact, all along she was just a common or garden tart,’ added Geoff. He snorted a little. ‘Quite a performance, really, if you think about it. There she was playing bloody Mother Teresa, when all along, well . . . though clearly someone saw through her.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Tamsin acted surprised.
‘Well, why else was she killed?’
‘Perhaps it has nothing to do with the brothel.’
Geoff’s amused grunt indicated he didn’t agree. ‘If you play with fire . . .’
‘Perhaps it’s about the asylum. Who knows?’
‘The asylum?’
‘Well, it is rather staring us in the face, isn’t it? I mean, that’s where she was murdered.’
‘It’s what they call “a lonely spot”, I believe. Not a place where you’re likely to be disturbed.’
‘True. Though also a valuable site, as we all agree.’
‘I didn’t agree.’
‘You merely said it wasn’t as valuable as some other sites. That could still leave it very valuable.’
‘No crude pun intended, Inspector, but given Rosemary’s apparently keen interest in sex – aren’t you rather taking your eye off the ball?’
He was proving quite irritating.
Sidney Stokes was a short man, probably mid-eighties, and he sat before them now with a small case on the table. They were in the interview room in Stormhaven police station, which was open for four hours a day. Outside these hours, someone would have to come from Lewes to deal with a crime; and no one from Lewes wanted to come to Stormhaven. The police shared these premises with the Stormhaven Tourist Centre, with whom, in the cause of cost-cutting, they also shared a kettle, a fridge and an interview room – though the Tourist Centre called it their kitchen/diner.
An Elton John tribute act was the next big thing at the Barn Theatre, according to the posters.
‘Looks mildly interesting,’ Peter said, casually. ‘He’s a singer, isn’t he?’ He was thinking that he should involve himself more fully in the town’s cultural life. Tamsin’s mind was elsewhere. She’d booked the interview room, but now Shirley from the Tourist Centre wasn’t happy.
‘Where am I going to have my lunch?’ she asked.
‘We won’t be long,’ said Tamsin.
‘How long?’
‘Not long at all.’
‘My sandwich and drink are in the fridge, and there’s only one kettle here. So there’s no tea for anyone until you’re out.’
‘Half an hour, max.’
‘I’m not waiting half an hour.’
But what else could Tamsin do? Sidney Stokes had walked in here and demanded to speak with her. She could hardly say no to the man; hardly hold up a murder enquiry because it clashed with the Tourist Centre’s lunch rota. So while Shirley ate her well-filled sandwiches on the front desk, which wasn’t ideal
– a strong smell of bloater paste everywhere – Tamsin and the abbot spoke with Sidney across the table in the ‘interview room’.
‘I don’t want you to think I’m being nosy,’ he said.
‘We’re not thinking anything,’ said Tamsin. ‘Just tell us what you want to tell us.’ And hurry up about it . . .
‘I’ve lived in Church Street for thirty-seven years.’
‘Really?’ said Peter encouragingly. Unlike his colleague, he liked history. ‘You must have seen some changes.’
‘No, I haven’t seen any changes really.’
And that summed up Stormhaven, thought Tamsin. The land time forgot.
‘Apart from the new beach huts; not sure what I think of them.’
‘They do divide opinion,’ said Peter, though he couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t like them. A seafront should have beach huts. If you haven’t got a pier or sand, you really do need beach huts, especially in that whipping wind across the shingle.
‘But there comes a moment,’ said Sidney.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Tamsin.
‘I mean, I don’t want to waste your time or anything.’
‘No, really, you’re not,’ said Tamsin, counting the seconds of her life as they slipped away. ‘Not at all.’
‘We’re very glad you found the time to speak with us,’ added Peter soothingly. ‘Would you like some tea?’
He’d noticed the kettle in the corner, the shared kettle.
‘I mean, neighbours come and neighbours go,’ said Sidney, ignoring the offer. ‘Nothing’s for ever, I know that. I mean, I miss Mrs Carstairs obviously.’
‘Mrs Carstairs?’
‘I miss her.’
‘No longer with us?’
‘No longer with us, no. Passed away, sadly.’
‘People do pass through our lives,’ said Peter, ‘and we miss some of them.’ He wondered how Mrs Carstairs had passed through Sidney’s, but had no time to ask. And he found himself missing Rosemary now, as he sat in this strange little room in Stormhaven police station; though in truth he hadn’t missed her for years. It was just the finality of it all. She had been offered to him so briefly, so surprisingly – and then snatched away. Suddenly, here she was in Stormhaven! And then she wasn’t . . . and had maybe become more interesting for that reason. Yes, that was possible. Would he be knocking on her door this evening if she was still alive? That was the question. It was possible he might . . . just supper or something.
‘So how can we help you?’ said Tamsin.
‘I don’t think you can.’
‘So why are you here?’ The tone betrayed her boredom, which could flare quickly into aggression.
‘Maybe I can help you. I live in Church Street, you see.’
‘You mentioned.’ He now had half of her attention.
‘And I have some film for you.’
‘What sort of film?’
‘Footage of the brothel at number nine. I thought you might be interested.’
He now had her full attention. ‘What sort of footage?’
‘It’s been closed for twenty years,’
said Peter.
The abbot and Tamsin stood once again in the cold emptiness of Gladstone Ward. This time she looked around the place properly, with appalled incredulity. Old metal beds, which had somehow survived the slow looting of time, were scattered about round the vast and vacant space, as if awaiting the arrival of another tortured mind. Flimsy curtain partitions, disturbed by the wind, protected the privacy of ghosts long gone.
She looked across at Peter. ‘Bleak.’
He nodded. The abbot stood in awe, as though in a cathedral, all other life brought to a halt. But his thoughts weren’t heavenly.
‘I’m not a fan of the mad,’ said Tamsin.
‘You surprise me.’
‘I mean, they’re deeply irritating. But who on earth thought this was a good idea?’
The abbot smiled sadly. ‘It’s had better days . . . well, glory days, briefly.’
‘Glory days? This place?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And when were those exactly?’
‘It was built in 1849 and had seven hundred beds.’
‘And that was the good idea?’
Peter had done the research that Tamsin could never do; he had to, he couldn’t help himself. He had to understand how something came to be, the story of its origins, the place from whence it came. ‘From no thing, some thing,’ as writers from the East put it. Whereas Tamsin was happy to deal with what was in front of her, without so much looking back. Life was too short.
‘Such intimate care,’ she said, with due sarcasm. Seven hundred beds? Well, they could have fitted most of them in here. She held back from calling it a room because it wasn’t a room; only in the way an aircraft hangar was a room.
‘It’s hard to believe, but it was forward-looking at the time,’ said Peter, a student of lunacy for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of. ‘There was a sea-change of thinking about mental health around that time.’
‘Tell me,’ said Tamsin. She wanted to know. ‘Perhaps just the highlights,’ she added, because she didn’t want to know that much.
‘Well, in 1847, the Lunacy Commissioners—’
‘The Lunacy Commissioners?’
‘Yes, they existed then, and they made a very big announcement. They said that the shackles and chains traditionally used on the insane should be replaced by “mild and gentle treatment”.’
‘So what was it like before that?’
‘Before that, they’d been fair game for any treatment – really any treatment at all. Physical violence, cruel restraint, emotional neglect, sexual abuse.’
Tamsin did not wish to dwell on that sort of stuff. It made her short of breath. ‘So that was quite a change.’
‘Oh yes, a brave new world in the universe of well-being. It was called “The Asylum Age”.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘No, but that’s only with hindsight. At the time, it was very good . . . a phrase characterized by moral treatment of the patients and a new respect for them. The famous Hanwell Asylum was the model for others to follow – the centre of this enlightenment. Or “good practice”, as we’d call it today.’
‘I work for the police so it’s not a phrase I recognize.’
Peter smiled. He understood cynicism, though tried not to let it be the final word.
‘Instead of living in shackles, as in the previous model, the patients were set free . . . or as free as was felt possible. Visitors to Hanwell could witness patients enjoying gardening, attending chapel and even dancing at the Christmas party.’
‘I’ve tried that. It’s always unwise.’
Her boss had once hit on her at a Christmas party; it still soured her memory.
‘But such things were unheard of in the world of the mad. This was all very different. As I say, the Asylum Age was a new dawn.’
Tamsin sighed and pulled her coat collar round her neck, against the damp chill. There was a window frame banging in the wind, through a door on the left. They approached the door now, a reasonable walk away, and looked through. There was no attempt to glamorize the space. Bare walls, bare concrete floor and space for a further twenty beds or so; no privacy curtains on display.
‘This was Victoria Ward,’ said Peter. ‘It was where the most acute patients were put – or dumped – in the later years, at least. They were left here to rot among themselves, away from public view and staff care. It became known as “The End Room”.’
‘Hard to imagine this was ever a new dawn,’ said Tamsin.
‘Well, the truth is, the dawn didn’t last long.’
‘So what happened?’
‘It’s practicalities that kill a vision. There was overcrowding, of course, when the workhouses closed down and the pauper lunatics sought sanctuary in the new asylums. And then came the economic cut-backs – these people were no one’s priority, when there was an empire to build around
the world.’
‘From one insanity to another.’
‘And quite soon, the wheels had come off the whole mental health project. Overworked medical staff, untrained, unsupervised nursing staff – it all sounds pretty contemporary, really. And by the end of the century, the idea that anyone could be cured by kindness – the bold hope of Hanwell – well, that vision had died completely.’ They walked slowly back into Gladstone Ward and towards the entrance. ‘By the 1870s, most asylums had reintroduced straitjackets and other forms of physical restraint. And drip by drip, asylums and their decaying buildings became little more than prisons for the “degenerates” and “defectives” that lunatics had once again become in the public eye.’
‘The death of a dream.’ The phrase seemed strangely poignant for Tamsin. ‘Though let’s be honest, kindness never cured anyone,’ she said, hardening again. And the abbot let it pass for now.
‘Bybuckle Asylum was also part of the Victorian rush to the seaside.’
‘They should have gone to Hove.’
‘It’s why there were so many private schools in Stormhaven. At one time there were fifty in the town.’
‘Fifty?’
‘Yes. It explains the very long station platform. It was for the Stormhaven schoolchildren at the end of term.’
‘I did wonder at its length. Four people got out of the three-carriage train when I used it. I mean, it isn’t London Victoria.’
‘And of course, care homes for the troubled arrived here as well. It was felt that the mentally unwell would benefit from the sea air – though whether they did is unclear. And Bybuckle was finally closed in 1997, two years after the Colney Hatch Asylum. After a six-month investigation.’
‘Six months? I could have done it in a week, with Friday off.’
Peter smiled. ‘It was all very controversial. There were about a hundred and fifty patients resident at the end, and there was a great deal of panic about what was to become of them. Their families were concerned at the absence of care if Bybuckle went.’
‘I can see their point. They’d suddenly be knocking on their doors. And who wants the insane sharing breakfast with them? I really couldn’t be doing with that, even if it was my mother. Particularly if it was my mother.’
