Beyond the Grave (21 page)

"May we have another look into the cells where the patients sleep?" I asked.

Fourner stopped mid-sentence and looked to Lincoln, as if asking why he was allowing me to speak. "Sir?"

"My wife has requested another tour of this floor, and I would appreciate your compliance."

"Yes, of course. Come this way." Fourner stepped lightly along the carpeted gallery to the first door. Lincoln entered and I followed. He must have had the same idea as me, because he strolled down the aisle between the beds and glanced at the faces of the men lying on them. Only half of the beds were occupied, none by Buchanan.

We looked in the next room and the next, and finally found him in the fourth. I sucked in a breath at the change in him. He lay on his side, staring at the unlit fireplace with the same vacant eyes as the mad patient after his injection. Lips that I'd only ever seen curled into a sneer, moved silently, uttering something I couldn't hear. A trickle of drool dampened the pillow and his fingers clutched the blanket as if it were an anchor. His fair hair was a greasy, knotty mess and every now and again a tremble wracked him.

I didn't like Buchanan. I'd found him to be cynical to the point of rudeness, as well as lazy. But seeing the handsome, strong man reduced to a pathetic, drooling idiot sickened me.

"Your cousin, I believe." Fourner regarded Buchanan with detached professionalism.

"Is that what you refer to as
calmer
?" I asked.

"As you can see, he's very amenable now. Our doctors work wonders with their new drugs. Would you like to meet one?"

"We've seen enough," Lincoln said.

Fourner's bristly brows lifted. "I do hope the incident upstairs didn't alarm you." He chuckled and rocked back on his heels. "But I did warn you that a lady's sensibilities are too delicate for such things, didn't I, Mrs. Buchanan?"

The pupils in Andrew's eyes contracted. His gaze drifted toward Fourner then to Lincoln and onto me. He stopped the silent muttering and instead grunted. He seemed to be attempting to speak, but was having trouble forming the words.

It was time to get away before the patient managed to say something that would throw doubt on our disguises. Lincoln must have had the same idea, because he took my hand and led me toward the door. Fourner trotted behind us.

At the second to last bed, I paused, halting Lincoln too. The man lying on his back beneath the covers was so thin that his cheeks and nose jutted prominently, while his eyes had all but disappeared into the sunken sockets. The ashen color of his skin and the rattle of each labored breath in his chest were sure signs that he was close to death.

"Why is no one tending to this man?" I asked. "Where are the nurses and doctors?"

"Mrs. Buchanan, this man is beyond Earthly remedies. He will die in the next twenty-four hours. We can't spare the staff to watch over a dying man. It's an inefficient allocation of their time."

"But someone should be with him at the last. To die alone…it's so sad."

"He's not alone. He has your husband's cousin, just a few beds away. And tonight, the other beds will be occupied. There, you see, not alone at all, if he happens to pass away in the next few hours."

He would, I felt certain. Death clung to the man like a shroud.

"Come now, Mrs. Buchanan. I see you are becoming overwrought. It happens quite often with the ladies, I'm afraid."

I closed my fist at my side. There was no one about. I could punch him in the jaw without any witnesses. Lincoln grabbed my fist and wrapped his hand around it. As he led me away, I quickly glanced at the medical chart hanging at the end of the bed.

Out in the entrance hall, the nurse at the desk handed Lincoln some papers that he perused.

"Just to be clear," he said, "I fill in these forms and sign them, then you perform your own tests to assess my ward's level of madness."

Fourner stroked his moustache. "That's it, yes."

"The signature must be mine alone, correct?"

"Only his closest relative or guardian has the authority to admit him."

"No one else?"

"No. Why?"

Lincoln didn't answer, so I said, "Just curious."

"If you get those back to me within forty-eight hours, I can hold that bed for you." At Lincoln's and my raised brows, he added, "The one in your cousin's room that will shortly become available. No longer than forty-eight hours, however. I can't hold it any longer. Our beds are in high demand, you know."

Feeling quite dazed by the entire experience, I dutifully followed my "husband" outside.

"Everything all right?" Seth asked from the coachman's seat of our carriage.

I blew out a breath. "Take us far away from this place, Seth, and quickly."

Lincoln held the door open for me then followed me inside and sat opposite. He folded the forms and tucked them into his inside jacket pocket. "You thought it a good idea to get yourself admitted to Bedlam?" he snapped.

"You're bringing
that
up? After everything we learned in there?"

"Are you mad?"

I sighed. "That was the idea, yes. Once inside, I could have gone in search of Buchanan and helped him escape. Only I didn't know he'd be in that state. He probably can't even walk." I bit my lip. While my idea had merit, I'd grossly underestimated Buchanan's level of "calmness." There was no way I could have carried him out.

"You think I care what happens to Buchanan?" His waspish tone hadn't diminished in the least. "I don't care if he rots in there. His freedom is not worth risking your safety."

I swallowed my retorts. They made me sound ungrateful, in light of his concern. "It wasn't the most sensible idea, now that I know how that place works. Anyway, I have another plan for getting him out. You probably won't like it either."

"You are correct, I don't. You're not summoning that spirit when he passes on."

"Why not? I can manage the whole thing from outside. Neither of us will have to enter Bedlam at all."

He considered this for a moment then shook his head again. "He might not die for some time."

"He'll be gone in a few hours." I checked off points on my fingers. "I saw his name on his medical chart, so I can summon him. He'll know who Buchanan is, since he shares a room with him."

"We don't know that for sure."

"Once he's back in his body, he'll be strong enough to carry a man out to us, where we will be waiting in the carriage."

"He'll need to get through locked doors. Without keys, that will become noisy unless he was an expert lock picker before he entered Bedlam."

"If he hurries, the noise won't matter. He'll be gone before he's seen."

"No, Charlie."

"Why not?" I said crossly. "It's better than the alternative."

He arched a brow. "Which is?"

"That you enter and put yourself in danger." I crossed my arms and turned to look out the window. The color rose in my cheeks, but I didn't dip my head. Let him see. He already knew I cared for him anyway.

"You're worried," he said flatly.

"Of course I am! You saw that madman fly at us."

"Those tend to be locked away, it seems."

"And what about the orderlies? What if you're caught and they inject you with whatever was in that syringe? You'll fall asleep in seconds."

"Then you have my permission to do whatever it takes to rescue me."

I slumped back in the seat. "In that case, I will have to return with you tonight. Do not argue," I said when he opened his mouth. "I've decided. You need a…partner. One who's capable of raising that spirit if necessary."

He sighed. "I left myself open for that, didn't I? Charlie, I can manage alone. I always have."

"You don't need to anymore, Lincoln. You have Seth, Gus and me. We're all employed to work for you in the ministry, and it's about time you allowed us to help with more than just driving the coach or polishing the silver."

"So, you're not worried about me, you simply wish to be involved. Correct?"

I sighed. "Lincoln, you are the most capable man I know. While I've never seen you descend three flights down a drainpipe while carrying a fully grown man, I have no doubt you can manage it. However, if there is a chance that something can go wrong and a chance that I may be able to help, I'd rather be safe. So, yes, I am worried. I would hate myself for doing nothing when I could have helped, just as you would hate yourself for doing nothing if the roles were reversed. Does that answer your question?"

He stared at me for so long and with such a curious expression on his face that I wished I knew what he was thinking. But I couldn't read his thoughts the way he could read mine, so I simply came out and asked him.

"What is it? Why are you looking at me as if you're trying to see into my head?"

He quickly turned to look out the window. "Your answer was…adequate. Thank you for explaining your thoughts to me."

"I thought you could read them without an explanation."

"Not to that extent. Your emotions are as clear as crystal, but your actual thoughts are shrouded in shadows. I can't see them."

Thank God for that. At least I could retain some privacy.

W
hen we laid
out our plan, Seth and Gus insisted on both returning to Bedlam with us that night. They presented an excellent argument, involving the coach and number of horses, and after an initial refusal, Lincoln gave in. The fact that he gave in was quite an achievement. Seth and Gus congratulated themselves with pats on the back when Lincoln wasn't looking.

"Why not just speak to Harcourt?" Cook asked, over dinner in the kitchen as we discussed the plan in more detail. "Tell him you know what he done, then make him get his brother out."

"Tomorrow," Lincoln said. "Once we have Buchanan and we have had a chance to question him."

We waited until midnight before driving back across the city to St. George's Fields. It was a much faster journey, not only because there was less traffic, but also because we had four horses instead of two. Seth rode postilion on the front left horse while Gus sat in the coachman's seat. Apparently the arrangement allowed for greater control, and that, in turn, allowed for faster speeds. A smaller carriage was out of the question if we needed to smuggle an immobile Buchanan out.

We closed the shutters on the coach lamps once we reached Bedlam's fence. The glow from two streetlights near the gate struggled to penetrate the darkness, and another two lamps near the hospital entrance were mere pinpricks in a black canvas. The hulking expanse of the hospital itself swallowed the horizon.

Lincoln slipped out of the carriage and into the shadows hugging the fence. There was no need for discussion. We'd already gone over the scenarios together, along with Seth and Gus. I watched as he scrambled up and over the fence, easily avoiding the spear finials, and dropped silently on the other side. The coach hid him from the street, but there was nobody about at this late hour anyway.

I soon lost him in the darkness. Seth appeared at the window, and I lowered it to speak to him.

"How long should we give him?" he whispered.

"He only just left!"

"I know, but we didn't discuss a time."

"Do you have a time piece?"

"No."

"Nor do I, and if we did, we wouldn't be able to see it in the dark. That's why we didn't discuss times."

He sighed and leaned against the door. "We'll give him thirty minutes."

We waited. Seth tried to make frosty breath rings in the cold air, while I peered into the darkness, seeking out any movement. There was none. Gus hummed a quiet tune until Seth told him to shut up.

"How long do you think it's been?" I asked, after what felt like an age.

"Hours," Seth grumbled. "I should have gone with him."

Gus snorted. "You'd have stabbed yourself on the fence spikes before you even got in."

"Hardly. My arse isn't as lardy as yours."

"Go on then. Try it."

"Stop it, both of you," I hissed.

We waited until I was sure thirty minutes had passed. "Something must have gone wrong. I'm going to summon the spirit and ask him to take a look."

"That wise, Charlie?" came Gus's voice from the driver's seat.

"It'll just be a peek, and he'll be in spirit form. No one will see him."

"Capital idea," Seth said. "Do it."

Gus grumbled something that I took as agreement, despite the tone. "I summon the spirit of Gerald Mason McIlroy," I said, calling up the name written on the dying patient's medical chart. Come to me, Gerald Mason McIlroy. I need your help."

The final words were hardly out of my mouth when the ghostly mist whooshed past Seth and came in through the open window. It stopped in the corner of the cabin and coalesced into the shape of the man I'd seen lying in the bed earlier, only without the gauntness of death.

"Blimey!" He laughed. "That was a lark." He glanced down at his misty form, then swirled around and around, like a dog chasing its tail, as if trying to see himself from different angles. He laughed again, but it was more of a wild cackle.

I braced myself as his gaze settled on me. While Andrew Buchanan wasn't mad, most other patients in Bedlam probably were. This could be an interesting discussion.

"Good evening." My voice startled Seth more than the spirit. "My name is Charlotte Holloway, and I summoned you here."

"Is that so?" McIlroy scooted along the seat, until he was directly opposite me, and leaned forward. He reached out to touch my face but his misty fingers sank into my skin. "Blimey!"

"I'm alive and you're dead," I said matter-of-factly. "Do you understand, Mr. McIlroy?"

"Perfectly. It's rather a shock, you know, being dead. I've been sent to a place known as the Waiting Area. Do you know what we do there, Miss Holloway? We wait." He leaned his chin on his hand and grinned. "Where do you think they send the mad ones? Heaven, Hell, or somewhere else?"

"Mr. McIlroy, I have an important task for you. A friend of mine has entered Bedlam—"

"Tell him to get out of there!" he gasped. "If there is a hell, it will look like the cold bath room, I'm sure of it." His mist shimmered and he pulled a face.