Human Traces (11 page)

in life; but how it entered the mind was impossible to describe. Thomas stood up and stretched. When he had committed himself to this life, he had been thrilled by the possibilities it offered: the chance to solve intractable problems, to bring relief to those afflicted and enlightenment to all mankind. The zeal remained it had increased but to it had been added, by his fuller understanding of where the science stood, a sense of urgency. If he and Jacques, and others like them, did not find solutions quickly, there was a chance that their work would be overwhelmed not only by the number of incurable patients but by the growing doctrines of despair within their own world. Sonia's father arrived early, grumbling about the fare of the hansom cab he had taken from St. Pancras. Sonia kissed him warmly and took his travel-battered bag upstairs to the spare bedroom. In her absence, he looked about the scruffy hall, where a huge cobweb had been spun from the fanlight to the chandelier. "What happened to the maid?" he said. "Abigail? We had to let her go. Come up to the drawing room and have some tea. I've got in some of that fruit cake you said you liked from the baker in Mount Street." In the absence of Richard, who was at his office, they were able to talk freely of the Midwinter family and its fortunes. Sonia's mother was suffering from rheumatism and had had to give up hunting; Edgar was proving bullish and astute in the family business, to his father's evident delight. "Yes," he said, 'and little Lucy, what a treasure she is. Such a pretty little thing. And three grandchildren already' "Yes," said Sonia, looking down. "I'm sorry, my dear, I didn't mean to ' "No, no of course. Little Henry must be nine now, I suppose. How is he?" "Quite off his head," laughed Mr. Midwinter. "And the twins. A merry little pair." "Yes, I heard from Lucy that they are flourishing. She wrote to me a letter a few weeks ago. And Thomas, do you hear from him?" "Hmm," said Mr. Midwinter. "Occasionally we have a rushed line or two from that confounded asylum. What about you?" "Yes, I have had two or three letters. He works such terrible long hours, from six in the morning until midnight some days, I believe. He seems happy in a Thomas-like way' "I don't know what possessed him to be a mad-doctor. Your mother and I dined at the Manor the other day and I was sitting next to a very distinguished lady. She asked me about my children and I told her what you all did. She gave me a very clear impression that she did not consider medicine to be on the same level as the church, or even the law. She said that the surgeon who had operated on her husband had been not quite a gentleman." Sonia laughed. "Nonsense, Papa. Thomas will make a great success of his life. You will see." "Why is it that so many young medical men have to take unpaid work at the hospitals, then? What respectability is there in that?" "I think it is just while they make a name for themselves. I believe it is difficult to make a start in private practice without being known and without having some experience." "And is that what he intends to do? Private practice?" "I believe so," said Sonia. She made no mention of Thomas's intention of setting up with a penniless Frenchman in a foreign country. "But mad-doctors," said Mr. Midwinter. "Everyone knows they are the hopeless ones. I read an article in the paper the other day by one of the most famous mad-doctors, I forget his name, and he said that a fully qualified young man who chose to work as an alieni st must be either desperate for cash or so wealthy that he doesn't mind the awful pay. He more or less admitted that it was not a proper branch of medicine." "Well," said Sonia, "I think it is a fine and humane thing that he is doing. Now, let me take your teacup." "Thank you, my dear. In the mean time, tell me about Mr. Prendergast." "Oh," said Sonia airily, setting down the china cup with a rattle. "He is very well, thank you. As always, he is looking for new investors. And knowing your generosity, he ' "Tell me, what staff do you have here?" "Staff? A woman comes to clean the house. Sometimes." "You have no carriage? What about a dress allowance?" "I make do. Since I seldom go out, I have no need for new clothes." Mr. Midwinter looked at his daughter. He had always been a little uneasy with her, unsure what girls or women wanted, but she had been a dependable source of order and good humour at Torrington. There had been awkward moments, it was true, but Sonia had provided something in the house that no one else could muster: a kind of poise. When he looked in her eyes now, she could not meet his gaze, but smiled and looked down at her lap; he saw with a pang of sadness that some light had been extinguished in her. He thought how much he missed having her in his house. "Richard will be back presently," said Sonia. "I thought perhaps you should go to his office, but he said he preferred to meet here. I think I shall go out and leave you to discuss the business. I have some small matters of my own to see to." The interview with Richard Prendergast did not go at all as Mr. Midwinter had foreseen. "Take a glass of sherry wine, will you?" said Richard in a way that sounded more like an order than an offer. "We shall have some claret with dinner." They were in the small morning room off the main hall on the ground floor. Richard had his foot on the low fender and an elbow on the mantelpiece; Mr. Midwinter stood opposite, watching him. "I expect Sonia has told you where we stand," said Richard. "No. She expects the men to do the business. She merely passed on your request to see me." "Yes, but not just business. Rather... The whole picture." "I don't know what you mean." "Well, let's... Let's do business. Business before... Business first, that's what I always say' "Very well. How much money do you want?" Richard outlined at length the difficulties he was facing, and ended by naming a sum that was almost twice what Mr. Midwinter had allowed. "What guarantees would I have of seeing this money again?" "Guarantees?" "I believe it is normal to secure a guarantee before making a loan." "Alas, there is little... material that I can offer. The house, as you know, is not mine. I have a handful of securities in a safe box at the bank but they are pledged already. I can certainly ask Jackman whether he would consider granting you some share in our company at a future date." "The guarantee cannot be attached to the speculation," said Mr. Midwinter. "That would defeat the purpose." "Indeed. I suppose I had rather hoped that you would take a more, how shall I put it, familial attitude to the matter. It is money after all that could go to securing the future of your daughter." They discussed the prospects of the business for a further twenty minutes. Mr. Midwinter had no doubt that from a commercial point of view it was a waste of money; he might as well have written out a cheque and thrown it on the meagre fire between them. He was disinclined to continue with this young man in any event; there was something self-important yet pathetic in his manner; he was, in a phrase popular in the Midwinter warehouse, full of chaff. He had seemed a reasonable match for his daughter at the time, but the fortunes of Chas Midwinter & Sons had since improved, and these days Sonia could have hoped for something better. There were the girl's own feelings to consider, however, and although he found it impossible to think that she might feel affection for this man, she did exhibit loyalty when she spoke about him. He sighed, and named a sum that was half of what Richard had asked for. "And in order to be what you call "familial"," he said, "I should allow the loan to run over a period of five years with no interest payable. At the end of that time you would repay it in full and it would be understood that you would make no further calls on me." Mr. Midwinter had expected his son-in-law to negotiate upwards or knowing him to take the matter personally and make a stand on his affronted dignity. To his surprise, Richard did neither, but stroked his chin and looked into the fire. "I wonder," he said at last, 'if we are seeing this problem in the correct light. I appreciate your offer. It is not unreasonable in the circumstances. The provision for interest, or lack of it, is decidedly generous. I am concerned, however, by what you may gain from the arrangement." "You are worried about my profit?" Mr. Midwinter was baffled. "Not merely," said Richard, 'in a strictly financial sense. I rather wondered whether in return for investing a larger sum you might not ask for more from me." Mr. Midwinter opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. Surely Prendergast could not be suggesting... He thought again; this was a moment for extreme caution. "You mean..." He opened his hands with an invitation to Richard to proceed. Richard coughed and drained his glass of Marsala, then paused, as though waiting for the wine to lend him eloquence. He licked his lips. "We always try in our business to look ahead, to think in periods of five years. Then where shall we be?" The debtors' prison in your case, thought Mr. Midwinter, but said nothing. "The circumstances in which I married your daughter have changed. As you know, she is infertile and in that respect has failed me as a wife. She is no longer young and ' "Sonia is not yet thirty years of age! She barely looks twenty. She has her life ahead of her." "Exactly," said Richard. "She may indeed have a life ahead of her. A different life from this one. Or she may not. I suppose that, embarrassing though it is, onerous though the choice may be, it rather depends on me." Mr. Midwinter looked at his son-in-law closely. "Are you suggesting ' "I am not suggesting anything. Nor am I trying to raise the figure I originally mentioned. Supposing, however, we were to view that sum as a loan more or less without strings." "A gift, you mean. Or to be precise, a payment." "It is probably not necessary to be precise about the term we use. In return, you would have your daughter back. As you say, she is still a young woman, and she has admirers." "What would Sonia think of such an arrangement?" Richard sucked in the air over his lower teeth. "I think she might resist at first. But I imagine that she would find it difficult ultimately to prevail against the will of her father." "And of her husband?" "Indeed." "I should require written assurances that you would never ' "I took the liberty of having my lawyer draw up some heads of agreement, which I think you will find answer all your anxieties. I have a copy of it in my pocket. Perhaps you would care to peruse it in your room and let me know your decision after dinner." Richard handed over the paper and took out a watch from his waistcoat. "We dine in half an hour." As Richard left the room, Mr. Midwinter found his mouth opening and closing. He had never felt so thoroughly outwitted in a business conversation; yet the resentment he felt was more than equalled by his pleasure at what seemed to him the advantageous terms of the deal that had been offered. As he took a cigar from the box on the table and walked over to look out of the window on to the traffic going down to Grosvenor Square, he wondered why, with skills like these, Richard Prendergast had not made more of his business. Three weeks later, at nine o'clock on a dry, cold evening, Thomas went quietly down the uncovered stone staircase and into Faverill's vestibule at the foot of the West Tower. He was certain that this was the time that McLeish took supper in the kitchen, usually with Tyson and Miss Whitman, so the wards would be watched only by junior attendants, slumbering in their cubicles or staring ahead into the turbulent darkness. With the largest key on the ring, he unlocked the main doors into the corridor, then closed them gently behind him. He carried a candle, whose flame he protected with his hand against the foetid draughts. It took him ten minutes of slow tunnelling, locking and unlocking, until eventually he arrived at the door of Daisy's ward. He swallowed and licked his lips. This was an act of madness, and he hoped that Jacques would never discover it; suppose he were struck off the medical register as a result? I don't care, he thought: I will practice in Bohemia with fake papers; I will continue my researches somehow; and what is the sane, the healthy life that we are trying to restore to the afflicted if it has no room for laughter and beer? He turned the key gently in the lock. Daisy was waiting in the shadows near the door, as they had agreed, while Thomas went to find Maud Illsley, the attendant, and distract her attention. She was sitting at the dining table, doing some needlework by candlelight; Thomas knew her to be timid, kind and unimaginative. She had worked in service until a year ago and saw her new duties as little more than tidying up and counting heads. She seemed surprised to see Thomas. "Just making sure everything is all right," he said. "Yes, thank you, Doctor." "Good, I like to look in occasionally. I pick a ward at random, just to have a sense of how the patients are resting. They seem very quiet tonight. Well done, Maud. I shall lock the door as I go." Outside, Daisy was leaning into the darkness of the low corridor; she grabbed at Thomas's arm as he emerged and he noticed that she was trembling. "Are you all right?" She put her arms round him and squeezed. He saw then that she was not trembling, but laughing. "Come on. Follow close behind me. If anyone comes, though, remember what we said." "We're not together." "Yes, but I'll find an excuse for your being out. "That was the plan, though he had in fact not yet been able to think of any reason for a patient to be out of the locked ward at night. When they reached the end of the corridor, Thomas went ahead into the lit hallway and looked about before gesturing to Daisy to emerge. She ran out past him into the night while he locked the door back into the corridor. She took his arm again as they walked up through the grounds towards the laundry and the farm. "Are you good at climbing, Daisy? Are you acrobatic?" "I should say so. That's how I used to make my living, remember? Doing cartwheels and that." "Good. Because we're going out over the brewery gate. I can't use the main gate because Patterson's on duty and he might recognise you. I thought of passing you off as my sister but I haven't had a visitor signed in, so I can't." Thomas had reconnoitred the means of escape and had concluded that the high walls were impassable except at this spot. Although the asylum was almost self-sufficient, there were sometimes heavy goods from outside, such as bricks or sacks full of hops, that were delivered through a pair of bolted wooden doors let into the perimeter wall next to the brewery. There was an iron manger for the dray horse attached to the brickwork, which Thomas believed