A Death In The Asylum Part 16

*He won't like it,' I said.

*I think we've gone too far to turn back now,' said Rory. *If we're right we'll come back with proof he had a half-sister. He will have to be interested in that.'

*And if we're wrong?'

*We'll need to look for different situations,' said Rory grimly. *But I don't think we are wrong.'

*No, neither do I,' I said quietly. *I wish we were. If we're right then the chances are neither her death, nor Miss Wilton's, was natural.'

*The train leaves in two hours. I've arranged for a carriage to call in an hour. Can you be ready?'

*Of course,' I said. *Thank you, Rory. I can't imagine doing this without you.'

It is alarming how quickly one adapts to the modern era. I found the horse carriage that took us to the station extremely uncomfortable. As Rory paid off the driver my teeth chattered in my head as much from the b.u.mpy journey as from the cold. The drive through London had been full of mist and shadows. On another occasion I might have found it romantic in the picturesque sense, but this morning the world was full of menace. I constantly fancied we were being followed. Even Rory's patience was on the verge of breaking and he had given up rea.s.suring me. My dream of the night before dragged at my mind.

*Why is milk going from London to the country?' I asked suddenly.

*It's not,' said Rory. *This is the train going out to pick up the milk for London.'

*What time is it?'

*You don't want to know. There's one pa.s.senger carriage. I don't expect it will be that comfortable, but you should try and sleep.'

*I don't think that will be a problem,' I said yawning. *Maybe I'll be able to recapture that dream.'

Rory muttered something under his breath that I decided not to hear. We made our way onto the platform. This was not the first time I had travelled by train, but as we approached the great, steaming beast I felt my heart flutter. That such a huge engine could reach such great speeds with only the aid of fire and water reminded me of the power of the natural world. There was much about this new century that I loved, but man's desire to master the elements unnerved me. The train snorted steam as we approached our carriage. I could not suppress a fantasy that it was somehow aware. Rory handed me up the steps past the enormous iron wheels that would propel us forward across what during my father's youth would have been unimaginable distances to cross in a day and we would traverse in a few short hours. I snuggled down into my seat, under a blanket Rory had provided, closed my eyes and, with what I felt was more than a little cowardice, banished my surroundings from my thoughts. There was an enormous hiss, the carriage jolted and we were on our way.

Beatrice Wilton was still shouting at me in my dreams when we reached our journey's end. Rory had to shake me awake I was so tired.

*You should see a doctor,' he said. *I think you're still having effects from your concussion.'

*I'd be fine if Beatrice would shut up,' I snapped.

*I think I should find us transport,' said Rory looking up and down the emptying platform. *It's only a couple of miles, so I was going to suggest we walked, but you don't look at all well.'

The train station was small with only two platforms, but it was respectable with a high gla.s.s-panelled ceiling. There was a first-cla.s.s ladies' waiting room and the green benches were freshly painted. *How large is the town? Could we not find a trolleybus or something?'

*Let's look,' said Rory.

We walked out of the station. I cannot easily explain the sense of freedom I felt standing there. I had no luggage. I was miles from my family. I was distant from my employer. All I had was Rory's companions.h.i.+p and a sense of being on an adventure. I would not have minded if I had had to walk five miles.

Fortunately, I did not have to test this resolve. The train station opened out into a busy town centre complete with trolleybus stands. It was most efficiently set up to convey the steam train pa.s.sengers quickly into the heart of the town. *I did not realise Stapleford was so near to this metropolis,' I said as we boarded our trolleybus.

*Did you think the Staplefords would build themselves a new property in the middle of nowhere? The house is less than 50 years old.'

*I suppose not. It's just that when you're there, there seems to be nothing around but fields.'

*That's the idea,' said Rory.

The trolleybus moved off with comforting smoothness and took us towards the hospital district. In a short while we were walking up the drive of the hospital. It was a large grey building with small windows and gabled ends. Inside the corridors gleamed and the wooden doors that led from ward to ward shone with polish. The place smelled of carbolic soap and other more pungent chemicals. We had hardly entered the building before a woman in a starched uniform bore down on us.

*Visiting hours are not for another 75 minutes,' she said in a commanding voice.

*I'm sorry,' said Rory. *We've travelled from London to see a patient. It's an urgent matter.'

*I don't care where you are from, hospital rules apply.'

*Excuse me, matron,' I said, *but I believe the patient we are visiting may be under different rules. Her name is Mrs Wilson.'

*Are you with the police?'

*Not exactly,' I said, *but we are helping with enquiries.'

*Hmm,' said the matron. *It will be up to the police sergeant. Follow me, please.'

She set off at a smart pace, her shoes clacking loudly on the polished floor. Rory and I followed her down a series of corridors until we reached a door with a very bored-looking police officer sitting on a chair outside.

*Visitors for Mrs Wilson,' said the matron tersely. Then she turned on her heel and left us with the startled sergeant.

*I'm Euphemia St John and this is Rory McLeod, we work at Stapleford Hall. We've come down from London to see Mrs Wilson. It's very important.'

The sergeant began to shake his head. *She's not said a word. Not even to identify her attacker.'

*Has she lost the power of speech?' I asked.

*Doctors don't reckon so,' said the sergeant. *But she's silent as the grave.'

*Ask her if she wants to see us,' urged Rory. *Tell her we know about Sophy.'

*This could make all the difference,' I said.

*And if she does want to see us,' said Rory, *you could away and get yourself a cup of coffee. You look like you've been here all night.'

*And when you come back we could have broken your case. The inspector would be pleased, wouldn't he?'

The sergeant looked from one of us to the other. *I must be mad. Wait here.' The policeman disappeared into the room.

*That was clever,' I said.

Rory smiled wryly. The sergeant returned quickly. *She'll see you. She went right pale when I mentioned this Sophy. You'll have to make a full report after you've seen her. And not too long or that ruddy matron will have my guts for garters.'

Mrs Wilson's room was one of those strange hospital chambers that are smallish and square, but with very high ceilings. The walls were painted a colour lost somewhere between a dull grey and green. The simple ironwork bed seemed very small in the centre of the room. Mrs Wilson lay among the sheets, her face almost as pale as the bleached cotton. She had always been thin, but her arms now clearly showed the outline of the bones that lay beneath. Purple bruises flowered on her forearms and a thick yellow bandage was wrapped around her head. Her dark eyes sparked with hostility. Her lips were faint lines and when she spoke her voice was low and rough.

*What do you want?'

There was one chair in the room, a simple wooden affair. Rory pulled it up to the bed for me and stood behind. *We need to talk to you about what's happening,' I said.

*Why? What's it to you?'

I thought of appealing to her sense of justice, of telling her of Beatrice's death, of our suspicions of patricide and corruption, but I sensed that all would mean little to her. *You had a child, didn't you?'

Mrs Wilson turned her face away from me.

*She was born at six months,' I continued. *She was the illegitimate son of the late Lord Stapleford.'

Still she said nothing, but I saw her shoulders shake. There was nothing for it but to open up the wound at once.

*You were told she died at birth,' I said levelly, *but she didn't.'

Mrs Wilson turned to face me. Her face was a mask of rage. *You lie!'

I shook my head. *I wish I did. I think he meant to be kind. The doctor, Dr Simpson, didn't think she would live, but she did. She was never a quite right.'

*Deformed?' said Mrs Wilson with horror.

*No. Simple. Trusting. Affectionate.'

*The people who looked after her as a child spoke of her very highly,' broke in Rory.

*Where was this?' The rage in her voice was gone and instead her voice was that of a confused old woman.

*In a children's inst.i.tution in the country. It's a lovely place.'

*You've been there?'

I nodded.

*Is she there now?' Hope was written clearly across her face.

I shook my head.

*Of course, she'd be grown now,' whispered Mrs Wilson to herself. *Where did they send her?'

*I'm so sorry,' I said quietly.

*So she is dead.'

*Yes.'

*Are you enjoying tormenting me?' Her eyes moved to Rory. *I could believe that of her, but you? There's nothing between us.'

*We need your help,' said Rory.

*We don't believe she died any more naturally than her father,' I said.

*You mean she was murdered?' gasped Mrs Wilson. *When?'

*We don't know, but we think quite recently,' said Rory.

*She was alive. All this time.' Mrs Wilson's eyes focused into the distance. *Is that what he meant? That he didn't know about her?'

*Who didn't know?' Rory asked.

Mrs Wilson reached forward and clutched my hand in a vice-like grip. *Do you think it was her at the seance?'

*I think it was Beatrice Wilton pus.h.i.+ng the gla.s.s,' I said.

*No. No. It must have been her. You believe, don't you?' She appealed to Rory.

*I don't know, but perhaps,' said Rory. *My grandmother had the sight and stranger things.'

*We think Richard Stapleford is involved,' I cut in. *We think he killed or had his half-sister killed for the same reason he murdered his father. For his inheritance.'

*But she had no claim on the family,' said Mrs Wilson. *When I was pregnant Lord Stapleford told me she would be provided for a and you say that he did that. That he saw she was looked after?'

*Yes,' I said gently. *She had the best care.'

*Was it expensive? Was that it? Could he no longer pay the bills? I can't believe that. He was always a mean boy, but ...' Her voice trailed off.

*He may have been afraid of the scandal now he is in parliament,' I said.

*What did you mean he didn't know?' asked Rory. *Did you mean that before the seance he didn't know about her at all? That his father never told him?'

Mrs Wilson screwed up her eyes and took several deep breaths. Then she opened them and raised her head with obvious effort. Her voice when she spoke was firm and clear. *You don't know what happened, do you? You're sticking your oars in stirring up muck and seeing what floats to the surface. If you had anything on Richard Stapleford you'd have taken it to the police by now. Or you'd have blackmailed him yourself. You've got a lot of ideas, but no proof. Well, I have proof. I have proof of lots of things. Why do you think the last Lord Stapleford kept me on? I know more about that family than anyone. I've kept my notes down the years. Bided my time. You want it? You want all I've got?' Spittle clung to her lips. She was raving like a madwoman, so I made the only answer I could.

*Yes,' I said.

*You can have it. You can have it all if you find out what happened to my Sophy. I don't want stories. I want facts. If Richard Stapleford killed her then he must hang for it.'

Chapter Eleven.

Confessing the Truth to Bertram

Mrs Wilson refused to say another word to us. No plea could elicit a determination of whether she had recognised her attacker. Her lost child was now all her concern. She had set out her terms for aiding us and we were forced to accept them.

Rory and I spoke little on the return journey to London. We were both tired and we had to rush for our train. As I sat in the carriage feeling the jolt of wheels against the track and listening to the sound of the chuffing engine the enormity of what we had done began to strike home. We had stolen our employer's vehicle, though it was now returned, and we had taken a day's absence without leave. And what did we have to show for it? The attack on Mrs Wilson was very real, but everything else was surmise and conjecture. I knew from bitter experience how Mr Bertram reacted to such. I stole a look at Rory's profile. His face was grimly set.