Dark Asylum
Dark
Asylum
E. S. THOMSON
Angel Meadow Asylum, 18th September 1852
The first time I saw the devil I was six years old. The vicious thoughts that filled his head were etched upon his face in every line and shadow. I saw greed and malice in his grinning shrivelled lips, lust and death in his black, empty eyes. He gave me nightmares, and the others laughed at me for being so fearful. After all, it was only a crude woodcut on the back of one of the boys’ penny bloods. Only Goblin understood. He didn’t laugh. He said that I should put the image from my mind and that I would soon forget. But I never did. And when I saw the devil again, many years later, I knew exactly who he was.
Chapter One
He lay on his back in the centre of the floor, a dark crescent of blood about his head. Above the left ear a long metal object projected. His face – my God, I shall never forget it, nor would anyone else who looked on such a sight, for it was like nothing on earth I had ever seen. The eyes were blackened with blood, as if the sockets had been daubed with the stuff. The ears were missing, cruelly severed so that the wounds gaped in two dark gashes; the lips darned shut with six long, black stitches. They gave the face a crude death’s-head appearance, like a child’s drawing. Beside me, I heard Will give a faint moan, and fumble in his pockets for his salts. I was half tempted to ask for a whiff of them myself – and I with my years as St Saviour’s apothecary too! Why, I had seen faces so eaten away by the pox that it was impossible to tell where mouth ended and eye socket began. I had seen flesh corroded by gangrene, cancers swollen and pustulant – those were the wounds nature inflicted upon humanity with wanton capriciousness. But this? This was nothing one would ever find in nature. This was vicious and calculated, brutal and terrifying. This was man’s handiwork.
I leaned closer, until I was breathing in the iron reek of blood, the earthy odour of flesh and hair; so close that I could almost taste the fear that had broken from the skin as life left it. Between the blackened lips and beneath those taut strands of bloodied wool something pale protruded.
‘The tongue?’ whispered Will.
‘The ears,’ I said. ‘I believe they have been cut off and stuffed into the mouth, the lips sewn closed over them.’ The eyes too, I could see now, had been sutured with two crossed threads.
‘Dear God,’ said Will. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
I had no answer. ‘Have the police been summoned?’
Dr Hawkins, Angel Meadow’s physician superintendent, shook his head. ‘I thought it best to call you first,’ he said. ‘After what happened with Dr Bain at St Saviour’s last year – without you the matter would never have been resolved. But I will be sending Pole out for them directly. Pole!’ He waved a hand towards the shuffling attendant waiting in the hall. ‘Go along. The watch passes down St Saviour’s Street at twenty past five. Find the constable and tell him there’s been a murder at Angel Meadow Asylum. A doctor. Hurry now!’
‘And the body was found by whom?’ I said.
‘Mrs Lunge.’
‘Is she here?’
Dr Hawkins shook his head. ‘I sent her back to her room to lie down.’
‘Is she sedated?’
‘She refused. She said she did not wish to be sedated whilst a murderer was at large about the place.’
‘Might she be prevailed upon to explain what she saw, how she came upon him?’ I had met Mrs Lunge many times. She had always struck me as a hard sort of woman and I had the feeling she would not blench at being summoned back to so horrible a scene.
‘I’m sure she will,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘I’ll fetch her myself.’
The moment the doctor had gone I set to work. We had to move quickly – when the police came they would be all over the place, touching things and making a mess. I pulled out my lens, and the rolled canvas pouch that contained my pocket collection of scalpels, probes and scissors.
‘What’s this?’ said Will, pointing to the metal object that protruded from the head. He sniffed again at his bottle of sal volatile. ‘It looks like some sort of measuring instrument.’
‘It’s a set of phrenological callipers,’ I said. I crouched down to turn the head in my hands. I had seen those callipers – a long metal handle with a pair of blades projecting from one end like a pick-axe – and others like them, many times at Angel Meadow, though I had never imagined they might be used for such a purpose. I put my fingers to the wound. The handle hung down; the blades, closed so as to create a long spike, had been smashed through the left pterion – the thinnest part of the human skull. I almost vomited as my fingers felt the cold mush of blood and bone and hair. The blades had been driven into the head with a single blow.
‘There’s an artery directly below this point in the skull,’ I said. ‘Once ruptured, or severed, epidural haematoma is the only possible outcome.’
‘I assume you mean death,’ said Will. ‘Death is the only possible outcome.’
‘It is in this case. The blades of the callipers have been driven in right up to the hilt.’
‘And was it a matter of luck or judgement that the blades landed where they did?’
‘Impossible to say. Given how small the area is, it was possibly both. But look at the angle of the handle.’
‘Pointing towards us a little,’ said Will. ‘The assailant was directly in front—’
‘Anything else?’
‘He was right-handed.’
‘He?’
‘Would a woman really be capable of so brutal a murder?’
‘I think a woman might be capable of anything.’
‘Is strength required?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Only determination. And luck. Any higher or lower and the result may well have been nothing more than a severe fracture.’
Will took a deep breath and turned away. ‘God help me, Jem, but I cannot bear to look.’
‘Then don’t.’ I was bent over the corpse, peering at the gashes at the side of the head and noting the precision and neatness of the stitching – this was no ragged, hasty butchery, that much was clear. From my set of knives I selected a scalpel. Leaning close, I snipped off a length of suture from the corner of the sewn mouth. I folded it carefully in a scrap of paper and slid it into my pocket book. The stitching, and the severing of the ears, had been inflicted post mortem – there would have been much more blood otherwise. What had pooled about the skull was from the head wound only. I put out a finger and dabbed at the surface. The edges were almost dried. Close to the head, however, where the blood was most abundant, the stuff was still sticky, though a satiny meniscus, thick and gluey, had started to form. The face, despite its stitches, had a rigidity to it, the lips straining against their threads as the muscles had contracted in the early stages of rigor mortis. I moved the right arm. Its nascent stiffness supported my thoughts: death had occurred no more than three hours earlier. Two o’clock. Little happened that was virtuous at such an hour of the night.
‘Does the angle of the blades suggest anything?’ said Will.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘But I would say that the assailant held the callipers like so.’ I clenched my fist, my arm stretched out behind me, my hand low. ‘And swung them up and through like this—’ I brought my arm round in an arc. ‘Plenty of momentum, plenty of force – a man, as much as an angry woman, could do it if they were quick enough.’
‘Their height?’ said Will.
‘Hard to say. Anything from five feet to five feet eight – my height. When the body fell backwards onto the floor it jarred the callipers and mangled the wound, so it’s impossible to be more accurate. There is one thing I’m reasonably certain about though. The attacker was known to the victim—’
‘How can you be sure it was not an intruder?’
‘What d’you make of that, then?’ said Will, pointing over my head.
Behind me, above the fireplace, the mirror was smashed into myriad shards. Knife-sharp, they radiated outward from a single point, a glittering spider’s web of cracks and fissures. ‘Mm,’ I said, turning back to the corpse. I pulled out my magnifying lens and examined the fingers. ‘No skin or hair beneath the nails. Scrubbed clean, in fact. In short, I’d say this attack was quite unforeseen.’
From somewhere outside I heard the bang of a door and the insistent jangling of keys. Dr Hawkins and Mrs Lunge? Pole and the constable? We would not be alone with the corpse for much longer.
Will was over at the fireplace. He reached forward and plucked something from the grate. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘What’s this?’ He held up a small rectangle of card. It was no more than three inches wide and four inches tall. ‘It looks like a calotype. A photograph. An old one too – hardly anyone uses the calotype method these days.’
I took the photograph from him. It showed a woman sitting alone on a high-backed chair. Her skirts were of a dark crumpled fabric, with the tight waist and fringed bodice that had been fashionable several years earlier. Behind her was a white sheet or curtain; beneath her feet were bare boards, and in her hands – what manner of horrible thing was it?
‘Who can she be?’ said Will, and then as if reading my mind, ‘And what in God’s name is she holding?’
I shook my head. There was no way of identifying who she was for her face had been burned away, consumed by the fire so that there was nothing above her shoulders but a ragged-edged space. As for what she was holding – a tangle of rope and rags, all mixed up with long strips of a curious black, leathery-looking substance. It was the most bizarre posy I had ever seen.
I am not a suggestible person. I pride myself on my rational and logical approach to life, and yet even I could not suppress a shiver at that strange ruined image. The hands were loose, the fingers languid against that horrible nosegay. The woman’s posture was half slumped, and yet erect, as though the only thing holding her up was the head-clamp photographers habitually used to keep the subject still whilst the image was forming. I opened my pocket book and slipped the picture inside.
Ten days earlier
Chapter Two
My name is Jem Flockhart. My mother died as I was born; my father hanged for a crime he did not commit. I am their only surviving child – a daughter, whose identity my father swapped at birth for my dead twin brother’s. Who I am is concealed beneath shirt and britches – and behind a port-wine birthmark that covers my eyes and nose like a Venetian courtesan’s mask. No one looks beyond such a stain and I am known everywhere as Mr Flockhart the apothecary, formerly of St Saviour’s Infirmary. Since the infirmary was razed to the ground I am also Mr Flockhart of Fishbait Lane, supplier of fine herbs and quality remedies – for those unable, or unwilling, to make the journey to St Saviour’s new location south of the river.
Do I regret not accompanying the infirmary when it left? After all, there had been an apothecary named Flockhart there for four generations. But they had allowed my father to be sent to the gallows; they had turned their faces away from the fact that one of their number had been responsible for the murder of my friend Dr Bain, and they had caused me to lose someone so dear to me that I still could not think of her without pain. St Saviour’s had made me who I was, but I had no use for the place now. I took from it only what I needed: the memory of my father, the physic garden, and my most beloved friend and companion Will Quartermain. Will had come to work on the demolition of the old infirmary, and in those terrible last days had proved himself to be the very best of men. We shared lodgings, he and I, above the apothecary on Fishbait Lane, along with my apprentice Gabriel Locke.
We were still in the parish of St Saviour’s: still close to the rookeries of Prior’s Rents and still within sight of the high walls of Angel Meadow Asylum.
The asylum had been a part of my life for as long as I could remember. As an apprentice I had rarely gone up to the place as my work at St Saviour’s kept me busy all day, but the building had been visible from the window of my bedroom and I looked out at it every morning, and every night. It was younger than St Saviour’s with its medieval cellars and ancient chapel, and yet it looked older; a dark, square-shouldered hulk as fearful to me as a prison. Hunched in her chair before the apothecary stove, as the night drew in and the cold fogs of September rubbed against our window panes, Mrs Speedicut, St Saviour’s fat old matron, had painted a vivid picture of its infernal interior: a warren of dingy corridors; the mad, affixed by chains to its walls, rending their clothes and gnawing like beasts on the straw they had pulled from their filthy mattresses.
‘How d’you know such things?’ I had asked. ‘I’ve never seen you go near the place!’
She had boxed my ears. ‘’Ow dare you question me! Didn’t my own dear Mr Speedicut end up in the place, his mind turned to mush by drink and intemp’rate be’aviour?’ I had yet to learn that the fate of ‘dear Mr Speedicut’ changed depending on whatever fiction the woman was intent upon. I remembered Mrs Speedicut sitting back and sucking on her pipe, grinning like a gargoyle as she released a brimstone cloud. ‘They got a ward for children too. Them’s what’s peculiar. Unnat’ral.’ She had squinted through the smoke at my crimson birthmark, her expression stony. ‘Ones like you.’
I considered this exchange as Will and I walked up the broad thoroughfare – wide enough to allow a padded carriage to plunge along it at speed – that led to the gates of the asylum. I would never have guessed back then that my uncle would die in the place and my father would end up a resident, both of them driven mad by a hereditary condition that made sleep impossible. Now, as we waited to see whether I might share my father’s fate, I too had become a regular visitor. Dr Hawkins, the asylum’s medical superintendent, had become my friend, as he had been my uncle’s and my father’s. He had been away in Paris for almost a year, and I had missed him greatly, for there were things I said to him – fears for my future, worries about how I might manage my own descent into the abyss, the strain of living with the unknown – with which I had not the heart to burden Will. I was glad to think that he would soon be back. His replacement at Angel Meadow was a Dr Rutherford, who had worked there for years as a consultant and was pleased to be offered the role as superintendent, even if it was only while Dr Hawkins was away.
Initially, Dr Rutherford’s interest in my case had been rather oblique. If I was not actually mad, what purpose was there in discussing the matter? And yet his curiosity was evident, and he had agreed to continue with Dr Hawkins’s inquiries: noting down my sleep patterns, listening to my heart rate, testing my reflexes. The results were recorded in a ledger, so that any changes, however slight, might be observed and monitored. Over time, his interest in me had grown, so that I had come to dislike these consultations. Only if Will came with me did I feel less on edge.
I looked up at the asylum’s dark edifice of soot-blackened bricks. Here and there patches of moisture glimmered upon its anthracite surface, as if it were blotched with weeping sores. Above the entrance, two windows stared down the thoroughfare. At one of them a face looked out, pale and unsmiling. Mrs Lunge. The asylum’s housekeeper, she was matron, turnkey and quartermaster all rolled into one. Buttoned up to the neck in stiff black crêpe, her hair drawn back tightly beneath her widow’s cap, her keen grey eyes were fixed upon us. She would already have sent Pole down to let us in, would already have informed Dr Rutherford that I was on my way, and probably, somehow, would already know what was in the packet I had in my pocket and who it was for.
In fact, the packe
t contained a quality of dawamesc – a paste made from Cannabis indica – and it was destined for Dr Golspie, the asylum’s youngest and most inquiring physician. Truth be told, I was not entirely certain I should be giving Dr Golspie the stuff at all, for there was something reckless and impulsive about him that, although it appealed to me, also filled me with disquiet. And yet he was my friend and he had asked me, and his motives were both exploratory and scientific. He would surely treat the stuff with the respect it deserved.
‘So how are you?’ said Dr Rutherford. ‘Are you sleeping?’ The inquiry was perfunctory.
‘Yes,’ I said. In fact, I was not sleeping well at all, but I didn’t want to tell him. I had resolved from the moment Dr Hawkins left for France that I would not succumb to my father’s fatal flaw on Dr Rutherford’s watch.
‘Good, good. And we have Mr Quartermain today too. Again.’ Dr Rutherford smirked as he motioned me towards a chair. ‘I wonder how you would manage without him. Do take a seat, Flockhart. And you, Quartermain.’
He stared down at me in silence. He was popular with the ladies – those who came to see their relatives, as well as the lady philanthropists who brought flowers and read to the patients from the scriptures. I had seen him smile and simper at them, pursing his lips sweetly and crinkling his eyes. But I had also seen his face when their backs were turned, when the saccharine smile had dropped away and the artful twinkle of his eyes was extinguished. Then, he looked hollow-cheeked and morose, his eyes hard and cold beneath an angry brow. I could not make it out – did he like them or hate them? Perhaps he was not sure himself. ‘Well,’ he said, evidently tiring of watching me. ‘I suppose we had better get on with it.’
And so, for Dr Hawkins’s sake, for my dead father and uncle, and for my own hunger for life, I submitted while Dr Rutherford commenced his examination. His long thin fingers were cold upon my wrist, and I could not help but shiver. I saw a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. Damn the man, I thought. He made me feel uncomfortable and he knew it. The fact that my uneasiness brought him some amusement irritated me more than I could say.