The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls Page 20

  ‘Hmm? What’s that?’

  The surgeon had lit an opium cigarette and was blowing smoke rings towards his colleague.

  ‘Put that out immediately!’ shouted Dr. Stockill.

  ‘What the devil?’

  ‘Bloody imbecile! Don’t you know never to bring an open flame near these chemicals? No, of course you wouldn’t know that. You butchers never do.’

  In his agitation, Dr. Stockill had forgotten all about the noise.

  ‘What is he doing?’

  My voice quivered, for I already knew the answer.

  ‘I am sorry, my dear Lady, but you cannot help her now,’ whispered Sir Edward into my ear.

  ‘I have to try. Help me break through to the basement.’

  ‘If you join her now, you may join her in death.’

  ‘I would join her anywhere.’

  I dug deeper into the dirt and pounded upon the boards beneath. Basil and Sir Edward seemed unsure of what to do next.

  ‘Help me!’ I screamed at them.

  Seeing that I could not be dissuaded, the rats determined to assist me instead. We clawed at the ground. We tore at the slats. But we were not fast enough.

  Dr. Stockill had returned his attention to his victim, seeming not to hear us after all. His spider’s fingers were round Veronica’s throat now; her eyes open wide, she shook violently, attempting to speak. The Doctor gently pressed a long forefinger to her lips.

  ‘We will have no noise,’ he said, his voice taking on that silvery, persuasive quality I knew so well.

  Veronica nodded.

  ‘If only obedience would save her,’ I sobbed to the rats.

  ‘I am not a cruel man, you see,’ said the Doctor. ‘I am going to give you something that will make all of this go away. But first, there is something I need you to do for me.’

  Veronica nodded again.

  ‘What a good girl you are! Now, I need you to listen closely to what I am about to tell you. There is, behind you, a door made of iron. That door opens into a chamber fitted with heating elements—elements that can reach a temperature hot enough to turn a horse to a pile of ash in less time than it takes to brew a cup of tea.’

  Dr. Stockill’s hand still grasped Veronica’s soft white neck.

  ‘In one, brief moment, I am going to put you into that chamber.’

  Veronica’s eyes flooded; she made a small, desperate sound, like a dying animal, and tried to shake her head, but the Doctor only tightened his grip.

  ‘Are you suffering?’ hissed Dr. Stockill.

  Veronica was now suspended in shock. Her lack of response frustrated the Doctor. He leapt onto the operating table and climbed on top of her, one hand twisting its way through her hair and seizing it firmly by the roots. Dr. Greavesly moved closer, viewing the scene with rabid fascination. It was agony to behold.

  ‘Are you suffering?’

  Dr. Stockill was snarling in Veronica’s face now, baring his teeth like a beast.

  ‘You will suffer as you made me suffer! You came to take her away from me! Why? Why? Why?’

  With each of these last three incomprehensible words, the Doctor pounded Veronica’s head against the slab. Blood pooled beneath her.

  ‘Good God, man!’ exclaimed Dr. Greavesly, bounding forwards to push Dr. Stockill from the table. ‘Have you gone entirely mad, Stockill?’

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ spat the Superintendent.

  Straightening his waistcoat, he took up a bottle of amber glass and dampened a rag with its contents. My friend was dying . . . I was watching her die . . . the scraping of her breath was the creaking of a thousand Death Carts.

  ‘How very fortunate you are,’ he said, returning to Veronica and adopting his deliberate tone once more, the feral passion of a moment ago having drained from his being. ‘You shall never feel the pain of your flesh melting away from your bones.’

  The beautiful eyes I loved so well pleaded for mercy, and I continued to strike at the boards as the rats gnawed as fast as they were able. Then, my breath stopped as these same eyes shot directly to where I hid, meeting mine in the dark as if she knew I was there—as though she could feel my presence, hear my pounding heart. The blood gushing from the back of her head had already soaked the wood beneath, and now spilled over the table’s edge, soiling the floor. I could hear the steady trickle with deafening clarity.

  ‘You shall not feel it, my dear, because you’ll already be dead.’

  The good Doctor pressed the soaked rag over Veronica’s mouth. Her face transformed from terror to despair, then, finally, to nothingness; her eyelids fluttered to a close at last.

  Dr. Stockill studied Veronica’s face closely as she expired, as though he were recording it in his memory to recall and write down at some later hour. Moving swiftly, mechanically, he again produced his bloodletting device, cutting a deep, wide slit in Veronica’s wrist. He held an empty bottle beneath the gash, filling it with her essence. Once done, he wiped his razor, snapped the blades shut, and tucked the corked bottle inside his coat.

  Turning away from the body in apparent disgust, Dr. Stockill left the basement.

  ‘Take the parts you want, Greavesly, and burn what’s left. Just get rid of her.’

  I didn’t know I was screaming until my throat seared from the strain.

  Dr. Greavesly had gone, presumably to obtain his tools of dismemberment, and I knew what he would do to Veronica’s body. Tearing at the boards with bleeding fingertips, I heard a cracking beneath me and the slats upon which I knelt gave way. Amidst splintering wood and a deluge of dirt and straw, I crashed through the shattered floor of Quarantine and into the basement at last.

  Asylum Letter No. LXII

  In an instant, I was up and on the table with Veronica’s head in my hands, shaking her body, pressing my mouth to her own, forcing my breath inside her, but she did not keep it. I pressed my hand to her chest, willing my pulse to waken hers, but no heartbeat met my palm.

  Just as I despaired, her head turned to the side and she coughed, lightly. Her eyes opened, and her breath came, but faintly, faintly . . . She may have survived the poison, a blessed miscalculation on the Doctor’s part, but too much blood had been lost. I pressed my fingers to the back of her skull and felt the fracture. I took her in my arms and cradled her sweet face, bringing my own close enough that I could hear her fading breath, the scent of bitter almonds still strong upon her lips.

  ‘Please, V . . . please don’t leave me here alone . . . please don’t go . . .’

  ‘Don’t cry, Em . . .’ she whispered, raising her hand to touch my face before it fell again, her strength now gone.

  ‘Please . . . let me come with you . . .’

  ‘No . . .’ she smiled, weakly. ‘Not yet. But I’ll be waiting . . .’

  I knew I had but seconds left with her.

  ‘There was an English lass, as pretty as a rose . . .’ I faltered, through sobs.

  Veronica’s body seized and shuddered in my arms as though her spirit struggled to leave it, and I knew she was holding on to life only for my sake. I must let her go.

  I kissed her.

  ‘You’re going home.’

  I was roused from an exhausted daze by the sound of footsteps in the dark of the basement.

  Click . . . click . . . click . . .

  My bloody arms still entwined with Veronica’s lifeless ones behind the curtain of the operating table. I listened, and did not breathe. These were not the footsteps of Dr. Stockill . . . nor of Dr. Greavesly. No, I knew these steps. A gaslight was lit, and a musty yellow bled over the walls, casting the distorted shadow of a figure across the floor. Through the narrow parting in the cloth, I saw her.

  Madam Mournington moved slowly amongst the shelves stacked with glass tubes, bottles, and piles of blood-soaked rags. She paused to lift a stocking from the coal scuttl
e, then let it drop from her fingertips.

  Still wearing her gloves and traveling hat, she appeared to have only just returned to us. Clearly unfamiliar with the basement and its contents, she passed her hand over the door of the metal furnace and turned the heavy iron wheel that opened the incinerator. I could not see inside, but I could smell the ashes. Her footsteps grew closer, and I knew it would be but a moment before she drew aside the curtain that concealed the operating table—the table upon which I lay with my fallen friend.

  The curtain was torn away just as I slid down to the ground and crouched beneath the slab. I heard a gasp, and peered upwards. Stepping back, Madam Mournington appeared startled at the sight of Veronica’s body. Then, she did something I thought very strange: Approaching the operating table once more, she placed her grey gloved hands upon the edge, and breathed deeply—a long, drawn breath, eyes closed and chin raised as though she were inhaling the essence of something foreign and trying to discern its origin. She brought her face close to Veronica’s and breathed again. Rising, the gaslight reflected in the wet streak upon her withered cheek, and she bowed her head.

  From beyond my view, I heard the creak of a door, and Dr. Stockill emerged. Hurriedly he walked, carrying a crate of chemicals. Upon seeing his mother, the Doctor froze. Slowly, he set down the crate. He had gone shock white.

  ‘Mother . . .’ he said, his voice thin and tremulous, ‘I did not realize you had returned. What are you doing down here? Why don’t you come upstairs and let me bring you some tea? The journey has surely exhausted you.’

  Madam Mournington had her back to her son; hidden beneath the table, I had view of them both.

  ‘Mother, please . . . come upstairs. Come and tell me of your time in Coventry. I trust Aunt Augusta is well? Please, Mother dearest, come . . . this is no place for you . . .’

  For the first time since I had known the man, Dr. Stockill sounded frightened. After a dreadful silence, Madam Mournington spoke. She did not turn round.

  ‘There was a part of me that always knew . . .’ she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  ‘Mother . . .’

  ‘I always knew, and yet I did not believe it. How could I? How could a mother think such a thing of her own child?’

  ‘Mother, please . . . you don’t know what you’re saying . . . you’re tired—’

  Madam Mournington turned to face the Doctor at last, a piece of cloth quivering in her outstretched hand—the cloth that Dr. Stockill had used just hours before to end Veronica’s life.

  ‘My son . . . my son, you know well that I . . . I cannot smell a thing in this world . . . cannot detect odor of any kind . . . and yet, I can smell this. How can that be?’ she begged him, fluttering her fingers against the cameo brooch at her throat. ‘You are a doctor . . . a good, learned doctor . . . can you tell me this? I can smell the body of this girl . . . it is on her breath still . . . Tell me, Monty, my son, my own boy, my only . . . was she awake when you put this cloth over her mouth? Did she cry? Did my daughter cry?’

  Madam Mournington’s voice had become strained and tight—a thread threatening to snap. The cloth fell from her hand. Her son advanced towards her, but she backed away, retreating to the other side of the table as if truly afraid of him. If she only lowered her eyes, she would see me, crouched at her feet.

  ‘Almonds . . . cherries . . . peach pits . . .’ she said, sniffing the air once again.

  It was then that I saw the bottle. Upon the ground, just out of my reach, the vessel of amber glass had toppled from the table when I had leapt upon it. My mistress had seen it too, for she bent to retrieve it, nearly touching my hand in the process.

  Rising, Madam Mournington studied the label.

  ‘Cyanide. Poison . . . even an ignorant old woman knows that much. How would you have obtained such a chemical at that age?’

  ‘Mother—’

  ‘You took from me the only thing that ever gave me the slightest happiness . . . that ever gave me a single shred of joy. You robbed me of my child. You robbed me of my life. I could have been human—I could have been alive, but you took my heart and you murdered it. You made me into this! A hard, bitter, cruel old woman who can feel nothing . . . and now it is too late . . . my God, what have I done . . . what have I done . . .’

  Nervously fingering the Ward Key suspended from her corseted waist, Madam Mournington turned away, still clutching the bottle. She walked a distance from the table and, when she turned back, her eyes found mine. We stared at one another, my pulse pounding in my ears. Surely my mistress would alert the Doctor to my presence, and I would be the next inmate burnt alive. She had only to point her finger in my direction. But she did not.

  ‘I am your child, Mother,’ said the Doctor, but slowly, treading carefully.

  ‘You are not my child. You are a monster. And why?’

  She was pleading now.

  ‘Why did you do it? She was your sister! Your own blood!’

  The Doctor cringed at this last word.

  ‘But I had to, Mother,’ he answered, with terrifying calm. ‘I couldn’t let her steal you from me, could I? I couldn’t share you. You can understand that, can’t you? I did it for you, Mother—for us. You didn’t really want her, did you? One was enough. You didn’t really want her, and I saved you . . .’

  ‘You’re mad . . . you’re truly mad . . .’ gasped Madam Mournington in disbelief.

  The Doctor began to walk towards her; she backed away.

  ‘Don’t come near me!’

  ‘Mother, I had to . . .’

  Dr. Stockill halted mid-step as his mother lifted the bottle of cyanide.

  ‘Because of you, I have wasted my life in misery,’ said she, an unnerving tranquility having possessed her. ‘Because of you, I have nothing. Because of my own pain, I have hurt others without a thought. But you will never understand this, because you are dead inside. And now, so am I.’

  Madam Mournington raised the bottle to her lips and drank its contents in a single swallow. From Dr. Stockill arose a high-pitched shriek; he started towards his mother as the bottle slipped from her hand, crashing to the floor, releasing the overwhelming scent of almonds into the stale air. The poison had not yet overtaken her, and she rushed across the room to where I hid, stumbling as her limbs tensed and spasmed. Dr. Stockill strove to reach her, but Madam Mournington threw her body against a series of shelves laden with glass, toppling the structures and trapping her son beneath.

  My tormentor of ten long years approached me, and I crouched before her in utter astonishment. She was breathing hard, and could not speak. She clutched at her stomach, her face twisted in anguish. Her skin was flushed, her lips flecked with foam and blood. Groaning, she lurched forwards. The sight was awful; I inched away from her. This was the woman who had robbed me of my freedom upon that wet London night what seemed a lifetime ago; she had fulfilled the request of a murderer, charged me with the crime of madness for wanting to escape such a life, and then locked me inside a house of horrors to die by torture instead. She may not have held the knife, but she was part of this just the same. What could she want with me now?

  Her body contorted violently, yet she managed to locate the Ward Key from within the folds of her heavy skirt. Snapping the chain that attached the key to her waist, she held it out to me. Stunned, I could not move to take it. I stared into the old woman’s face and saw that the eyes I still believed had once been beautiful were wild with grief and desperation. Clenching the key that had taunted me for so long, her trembling hand still reached towards me, as though begging me to take it from her—to relieve her of her burden at last.

  Rising, I took a single step towards my enemy; I held out my hand and cautiously accepted the key from Madam Mournington’s quavering fingertips. Having accomplished this one, solitary act of decency, she collapsed to the ground, and with her dying breath came the hoarse whisper:
r />   ‘Run away . . .’

  Her body writhed upon the broken glass, and, with one final convulsion, and a harsh rasp sounding from deep within her throat, I knew that Madam Mournington was dead.

  But the Ward Key . . . it was in my hand. It was actually in my hand.

  Stirred to action by the Doctor’s screams as he struggled to free himself of the wreckage, I looked to the open door of the basement, and I did as Madam Mournington bade me. I did as Anne bade me. I did as Sachiko bade me. I ran.

  Upon his feet again, the Doctor sprinted after me, barring the door before I could reach it. Where a rational creature may have seen nothing but defeat, I saw one remaining chance, and I was mad enough to attempt it. Darting back towards the operating table, I leapt upon the slab and threw myself against a tall shelf nearby. As it gave way beneath me, I clambered to the top and, with strength I am quite certain I had never before possessed, launched myself upwards, clawing my way back into the cell I had only just fought to escape.

  Now back in Quarantine, the Ward Key unlocked the bolt as though it knew its task. Past the gate I tore, through the tunnel, and finally emerging from the hearth, my stocking feet sliding into the Entrance Hall. A swarm of our hideous grey ghosts flew close in front of my face, cavernous eyes wide, the gaping black holes of their mouths forming the word ‘RUN’ as a piercing shriek from all corners of the Asylum echoed the same, rising in volume as I raced onwards.

  Grasping the Ward Key ever tighter in my hand, I bolted up the several flights of decaying stairs, only just avoiding my own demise as the rotting wood snapped beneath me and the railings crumbled away, smashing upon the ground below. I heard the grinding of the gears, the rattle of unseen machinery, and I knew that Dr. Stockill was securing the Asylum.

  Surviving the ascent, I reached the barred landing of the Lunatic Wards. I fit the key into the lock and turned it; that too familiar click, and I was in! Once through the bars, I unlocked the doors of both Wards and, from a nail in the wall outside of each, took up the two rings of smaller keys used by the Chasers to lock us in our individual cells and fetters. I began with Ward B, for I knew that it would take more time to free the chained and caged than it would to loose the girls in the less confining Ward.