A Loss of Angels Page 2

  Alice sat back, easing her sore ankle, and fingered the folder in her lap.

  “It might be personal.” he continued. “Perhaps he walked past me one evening, took a sudden dislike. He saw that I would be unable to offer any defence, and thought, yes, this one will amuse me...”

  “Let's talk of when this all began, Augustus. Remind me.”

  The rest of the time was given over to his recent past, his dreams and feelings for family, home, any route by which she might bypass this paranoia. As reports of the Deptford's Assassin's deeds appeared in the newspapers, he had read them aloud to his sister at breakfast. And in time he had conceived the notion that he would be next, clinging to that idea with the hunger of a mediocre man seeking recognition, even if only as a victim.

  She had seen other paranoiacs, of course. It was not unknown for a man such as Walton to believe that his sister, for example, or a neighbour, was trying to poison him. That was a typical kind of delusional insanity. To fixate on a figure such as Mr Dry was more unusual.

  Alice, however, had a process. If she could gently untangle Walton's paranoia rather than challenge it too directly, weaken his grip on the delusion, there might be hope.

  Felicia Walton was waiting in Alice's office. They shook hands, went through the ceremony of tea, coffee, no thank you, and sat facing each other across Alice's cluttered desk.

  “Is there any progress?” Miss Walton was a handsome woman in her early thirties with dark hair tied severely back. Her outfit that day was rather close to mourning dress, black silk and crepe.

  “It's a slow business, Miss Walton.” Alice smiled. “But be of good cheer. Your brother is safe here, well-fed and rested. You were right to bring him away from London. With time, and some of the modern techniques...”

  Miss Walton nodded. “The modern techniques, yes. The asylum's pamphlet says that you worked with Sigmund Freud.”

  “Not exactly.” Alice tried to look re-assuring, having already sought to have the pamphlet corrected. McLeod had brushed her complaints aside. “I did speak with him, occasionally. I studied under Josef Breuer, who mentored him. I'm well-versed in the latest developments, I can assure you.”

  It must have been difficult for her, to see her only brother descend into such a state.

  “Would you like to talk about how you yourself feel?” she added.

  Miss Walton had little to say on that topic. Alice sensed some strong emotion, something which lay beneath the organised exterior, but could not divine its nature. They talked instead of treatments which might be employed. To drug Walton into blank-eyed submission would take less than a minute. To disassemble his delusion through psycho-analysis, with his active involvement, might take weeks, but would bring a lasting result.

  “If it is a matter of the fees...” said Alice.

  “One pound, fifteen shillings and sevenpence per week, plus medical fees. We will manage, doctor. Augustus' employer has agreed to contribute towards the cost. He is a hard worker, a good man.”

  “I'm sure he is, Miss Walton. And we will do our best.”

  With Miss Walton's departure, Alice returned to her own quarters to darn her best grey stockings.

  Darning was her fishing, a way of doing quite little for a considerable time. It was a habit instilled in her by her mother, who had used needle and thread to escape from the diatribes of Alice's father. As another politician was denounced in the parlour, another pair of socks would appear, a large hole in one heel. Alice wondered how many of those holes had been made by her mother, ready for the evening ahead.

  She pricked the tip of one finger with her darning needle, just to see the tiniest bead of red, to ponder on that symbol of the life-force. Michael Reade, who had killed - and might do so again. Augustus Walton, who was sure that he was soon to be killed. Blood that had flowed, and blood yet to come.

  The next day, Thursday, was marred by heavy cloud and a cold wind from the coast. Alice visited Reade that morning, and tried to explore if excess of alcohol had perhaps caused some permanent psychic damage to the man. Without success.

  He seemed to be one of those men who drank heavily without obvious harm, apart from mood, until they dropped dead in middle age from organ failure. Dr Jenkins, the asylum's neurologist, concurred. And Reade was yet only thirty two years old. The same age as Alice.

  When he began once more to tell her how God Himself had sent Laura to be at his side, that he had known her purity and divine grace from the moment he met her, she ended the session. These recitations were repetitive, only serving to increase her suspicions of coaching. She would have interviewed Laura Tallboys directly, but the widow had been in seclusion since the appeal, too shocked by the possibility that Reade might live.

  In her office she sifted her correspondence, hoping for replies from former colleagues on the continent, but finding nothing arrived yet. The morning newspaper bore a rare half-tone photograph on its front page. A reproduction of a studio work which must have been posed earlier that year. It depicted Lucia and Eliza Tallboys, so alike, in simple white dresses, light shining on their blonde hair. The caption read “The two little angels destroyed by the murderer Michael Reade.”

  Alice considered going round the women's ward to check up on Martha Jenkins, but there was sudden shouting outside. She had removed her boots to examine her ankles, and clicked her tongue, trying to re-lace the things as quickly as possible.

  Hotchkins was at her door.

  “It's Mr Walton, doctor. All of a panic, he is. I brought him inside, but he's calling out that the Deptford Assassin is here, in the grounds.”

  She stared at the attendant, blank for a second. It wasn't possible…

  “Get the dogs out, Hotchkins, just in case. And have Mrs Merson tally the patients. It may be only a straggler, after all.”

  High Helmsley's dogs were not exactly dangerous. The bloodhounds, two of them somewhat elderly, were used to pick up the trace when the occasional patient wandered out of the grounds. She doubted they would even bite, but they had a satisfactory howl when aroused.

  She found McLeod on the front steps, pointing his cane to direct staff in their endeavours.

  “Crivvens, man. Can ye no climb a tree? Smithley, have ye checked the Lodge or no?”

  “It won't be anything.” said Alice, hoping she was right. “It's Walton in a state, I fear. Hotchkins says that Walton saw a figure, a dark figure by the lily pond. He panicked.”

  Five minutes later they watched Armitage drag a thin, gaudily-dressed man from the bushes and shove him in front of them.

  “Yorkshire Evening Press.” the man gasped. “We have a right to --”

  McLeod's cane cracked across the reporter's shins, eliciting a yelp. “Ye're a trespasser, a ne'er-do-well, on private property, disturbing the peace of distressed gentlefolk, laddie.”

  “You have Michael Reade,” the man said, and pointed at Alice. “This, this so-called doctor, is the woman who will deny justice!”

  “Ye sleekit de'il, we ha' monny a sick body here, wi' families that'll sue if I name ye to them.” McLeod's accent grew thick, his face dark.

  “We should call the police.” said Alice, as an attendant staggered towards them, holding back three large dogs. Saliva ran from their heavy jowls, and the youngest bayed with excitement, enjoying his unexpected run.

  The reporter eyed the hounds. “I'll go, sir, I'll go. But the hangman will have his day!” He let Armitage haul him down the main drive, down to the Lodge and public gate.

  McLeod scowled after them. There were worried faces at many of the windows, staff and patients. He turned to Alice, lowering his voice. “There'll be more of his kind if we don't crack on, lass. And I dinna fancy meeting the Board yet.”

  “I might fail to prove the case, either way.”

  “If you do, they'll stamp on my neck awhile.”

  Alice wanted to ask more, but she was struck by the sight of Armitage leading the reporter away.

  “Who's at the
Secure House?”

  McLeod swung round. “Hotchkins, Arliss, check the House. Now.”

  But there was nothing amiss. The doors to the cells were secure, and shutter after shutter revealed that each room held its usual occupant, neither more nor less. Michael Reade was sitting on his bed, willing only to complain at being disturbed.

  McLeod had them wire Dr Jenkins to return from the York City Asylum where he was studying delirium tremens, whilst Alice sought out Augustus Walton.

  “He was there as well.” said Walton when she sat with him. He had his glasses in his hands, turning them over and over. “Mr Dry, I know it. He used this, somehow, perhaps to see where I was quartered.”

  “But everything is safe, secure.” she reassured him. “The grounds have been scoured, the bushes thrashed. They are walking the lower park at the moment, ensuring that no more strangers are about.”

  Walton subsided a little, and sighed.

  “I heard through my open window. I heard the newspaper reporter. What does he mean about Reade? Isn't he the one who killed those children?”

  “You mustn't worry yourself, Augustus.”

  “My sister told me. Terrible, terrible. Is it true that he will be declared mad and escape the hangman?”

  She ran her hands through hair which had fallen over her cheek. She was tired.

  “I don't know. I really don't know. He might, but this is none of your concern. Augustus, will you let me give you a mild sedative?”

  He stopped fiddling with his spectacles. “I… yes, doctor, that might be best. You're sure, sure now, that Dry is not in the grounds.”

  “He is not.” she said with finality.

  She gestured in a waiting nurse, and together they settled Walton down. A small glass of water, a tablet. When they left, he was laid on his bed, outwardly calm.

  “Observation, please.” said Alice. “If he shows any more signs of distress, call me.”

  Dinner that night with Dr McLeod was a mixed affair, part professional exchange and part a way of recovering her composure. Alice sliced through a rare lamb chop with little appetite. McLeod's single malts she avoided, but his claret was welcome enough.

  “Is it possible, is it even vaguely possible,” McLeod asked, pushing a slightly burned potato to one side, “That the Deptford Assassin might really have business with Walton?”

  “I can't see why, or how. They live in different worlds. If there is some connection, it would need a police division to find it.”

  “Hmm. Reade then. What's happening there?”

  “He has no interest in analysis, hardly co-operates. He knows, I'm sure he knows that he can be found out. It can be done. His unkempt state, for example. Did you know that although he won't wash or shave, he secretly cleans his fingernails? Arliss saw him. I want to confront the man.”

  McLeod's jaws worked on a lamb-bone, seeking the last morsel of flesh. He gave an apologetic smile, and slipped the bone into his napkin. “Nails alone won't do it, lass.”

  “But now I have this.” She handed Mcleod a paper received only an hour before by the last post. “From a friend, one of Tourette's old students at the Salpetriere.”

  The Scot abandoned his lamb for a moment, peering at the printed pages.

  “Aye, poor old Tourette. So, 1897. Was it reprinted, circulated?”

  Alice nodded. “Several journals, including at least two English ones. I'd just never come across it.”

  “There's a braw lot of stuff to read, lass, that's the truth. New cases, new techniques every day. I wonder we keep up.”

  “I didn't. But I imagine that someone associated with Reade's defense did. I told you he'd been coached.”

  “Then open fire on the man, lassie, open fire.”

  Alice met the morning sun, weak though it was, with resolve and some optimism. Her erstwhile colleague's letter had included a case history taken from a French medical journal. The French patient had been truly insane, lost in a religious delusion which had sprung from his own parent's extreme views. He believed a young woman in his village to be a divine spirit, entrapped by a rival. Not only had he killed her husband and an infant son, he had insisted that she, the angel, would return for him, still a virgin…

  Reade's parents were occasional Methodists, and he had evinced no known interest in religious matters before the trial. His ramblings under interview were too close, too perfect a copy of the French case to be anything but a doctor's recital of what he must say. McLeod agreed. It was enough to sway the court, enough to send Reade to be hanged.

  Her reverie was broken by the harsh clang of the fire bell. She lifted her pocket watch. There was no drill planned. Gathering a sheaf of the most important papers in her arms, she headed for the nearest exit.

  By the time she reached the side door, nurses and attendants were hauling patients into the daylight.

  “It's not the main building, doctor, it's the Secure House.” said a nurse, pointing at the swirl of smoke which came from a first floor window of the South Ward.

  “Number Seventeen.” The nurse's nearest colleague swore. “It's Andersen again.”

  The incendiarist, one of McLeod's patients. Alice had never seen him, but knew of his obsession with burning himself. How could a man in a locked cell, medicated and under regular observation, start a fire?

  There was confusion as to who should go where. The night staff, at the end of their shift and less disciplined than Armitage and his people, seemed slow. McLeod was in town; Dr Jenkins had not yet returned from the City Asylum, though he was expected within the hour.

  Alice called Hotchkins to her, and they entered the Secure House. They could smell burning, but there was hardly any smoke inside the building.

  Attendants were shepherding patients from their rooms in the South Ward, a slow job. Two of the patients were in straight-jackets; a third was struggling with his attendant. It was Robbins, the fugue case in Room Twelve, now aware, shrieking and waving his arms violently.

  “Take an extinguisher and see what can be done for Number Seventeen.” she called to Hotchkins. He lifted one of the heavy soda-acid extinguishers and staggered for the stairs. Alice ordered a syringe of chloral hydrate for Robbins, administering the dose herself.

  The smoke was thinning, and she sent a man up to assist Hotchkins. They eased Robbins into the daylight, leaving a nurse to watch him, and Alice looked over the patients as they passed her. All but the incendiarist were accounted for on that side of the building. Should she consider evacuating the rest of the Secure House? She must check for any other fires.

  The north landing was empty, but the door to Number Four was open. Only the door to Number Four. Alice gripped an unused hypodermic behind her back, and went forward...

  Michael Reade lay inside, sprawled on the linoleum. There was no need to check for a pulse. He lay face-up in a spreading pool of fresh blood, a crimson wash over the grey flooring. His throat had been cut from ear to ear, cut deep enough to show the yellow-white of his spine.

  She saw this, understood it as fact. It was the way that he was laid out, the position of his left arm, that disturbed her. His arm was outstretched towards the door, his dirty hand with its too clean nails reaching for… for what? She saw two small children in that same pose, and she saw a message there.

  There was nothing to be done. Michael Reade was dead. Alice walked slowly back down the stairs, into the hallway.

  “All safe, doctor, apart from Andersen.” said Hotchkins, his face blackened. “The poor sod suffocated.”

  “What happened?” she asked, like an automaton.

  The attendant coughed, pressing a handkerchief to his lips. “He had matches, doctor. I don't know how. His bedding was alight, and there were matches all over the floor. Doctor Urquhart, I tried --”

  “I'm sure you did. I know you did.” She patted him on the arm, as if he were a child. She looked down at her boot tips. “Reade is dead.”

  “But the fire's out.” He looked confused.
>
  “Reade is dead.” she repeated, and walked away, to comfort the living. If she could.

  Two dead, one missing. That was her report when McLeod and then Jenkins arrived. The rest of the patients were settled as best they could be, the more disturbed moved back into the Secure House. Apart from some scorching and a warped window frame, little permanent damage had been done. Armitage arrived from the Lodge, and sorted out many of the practical details with the senior nurse. They had left Alice alone, by and large, as if there were some unspoken agreement among them.

  McLeod and Jenkins found her sitting on the front steps, holding her papers on Michael Reade close to her chest. She had gathered them up from the gravel drive, a pointless act.

  “Who's missing, lass?” McLeod was gentle, indicating with a look that Dr Jenkins should go about his business.

  “Augustus Walton.” She looked up at him. “The grounds are empty, the dogs out but useless. Did he flee, convinced that the Deptford Assassin was here at last? We should inform his sister that he is missing.” Alice paused. “Or will his body also be found hereabouts?”