Property of a Lady (21 page)

Can I face that? Another two or three weeks at the Black Boar? More of those friendly little journeys along Blackberry Lane? There’ll nearly be wood anemones and primroses in the meadows by then.

After the builder went, I walked through the gardens. I might even start to put them into some order while they get on with the house. I looked for the apple tree Elvira talked about, but it’s not there. It’s possible to make out traces of what might once have been a small orchard, but it’s difficult to be sure of anything. It’s like stepping through a ghost world, where nothing is quite alive, but nothing is entirely dead. There’s the remains of a huge mallow though, and also a lilac bush, and I think with a little work the gardens could be made beautiful.

I believe I can stay here a little longer, after all. I’ve listened very hard, but there’s no hint of the faraway singing I heard last time. There’s certainly no hint of any intruders, either. I’m becoming more convinced than ever that my experience that afternoon really was a dream. And I do like it here, I really do.

So perhaps I shan’t pack up and leave.

Nell had stopped thinking she would pack up and leave Marston Lacy. This was nothing to do with having met Michael Flint, although it had to be admitted she had enjoyed his company. But it was important to remember that the two of them seemed to have fallen into a very bizarre situation, and that people thrown together in bizarre and unreal situations were apt to become very close, very quickly. There were astonishing tales of how people in hostage situations, or people trapped in lifts, became lovers. Not that Nell was intending to become anyone’s lover, and certainly not Dr Flint’s.

This absurd possibility having been put firmly in its place, she commenced the search for Brank Asylum, so as to have some information when Michael phoned. She started with the local phone book, looking for Brank Asylum in the business listings. Nothing. Fair enough, thought Nell, who had not really expected the place to be listed, and she turned to the classified section, for hospitals, clinics and health authorities. Again nothing. What else? Was it worth trying a Google search? She tried it anyway, and again drew a blank.

This almost certainly meant Brank Asylum had long since ceased to exist. It might also mean it never had existed at all – that Michael had found a false trail. But Nell thought he would be too accustomed to research not to tell fact from red herring. She spent half an hour polishing up the inlaid table, enjoying the scent of the beeswax polish. The table could stand in the smaller of the two bow windows, where people could see it from the street. She would try to pick up a really nice chess set to put on it. For the moment she placed a jar of sunflowers on it. It looked very good indeed. Nell tidied away the beeswax and polishing rags, and sat down to think about Brank Asylum again.

Presumably, it had been a very large, fairly important building, and large, important buildings in small rural areas do not, as a rule, vanish without leaving some imprint on their surroundings. Stories grow up about them – fragments of their histories become woven into the local folklore. If Brank had existed, its ghost – no, not that word! – its shadow-self should still lie on the air of Marston Lacy. Nell glanced at the clock, saw it was three o’clock and, remembering it was half-day closing, headed for the local library, which helpfully remained open until six each day.

There was a small section for Local History, and Nell opened one book after another, trying not to get sidetracked by the alluring photographs and fragments of information. Charect House was mentioned once or twice, but only briefly, and there did not seem to be any information Nell did not already know. The house had originally been known as Mallow House, it had been built by the prosperous Lee family of Shropshire, and it had not been used as a family residence since the death of William and Elizabeth Lee towards the end of the nineteenth century.

She finally found a reference to Brank Asylum in a small, rather insignificant-looking book at the very end of the shelf. It looked as if it had been printed locally and was intended purely for circulation in the surrounding area. But it had a number of photographs, and part of a chapter was devoted to Brank Asylum. Nell checked it out as a loan and drove out to collect Beth, who had apparently had a brilliant day at school and was more interested in having come second in the spelling test than in what she regarded as a sleepwalking experience.

They had supper, and Beth did her homework, which consisted of reading an allotted chapter of a Philip Pullman book and writing her own explanation of it.

Nell watched her for a few moments, seeing, with a pang, how much Beth’s tumble of hair resembled Brad’s. In the months after his death she had often believed she saw him standing by Beth, smiling down at her. She had known this was a projection of her own longing, but it had brought a faint comfort. Now, as she watched Beth, she realized the image was still there, but it had grown faint. It was as if Brad was only a light pencil sketch on the air. Am I losing you? she thought in panic. But I don’t want to lose you, not ever.

She closed her eyes, to dispel the image and the memories, and reached for the book. The only thing to do when the lonely grief struck was focus very determinedly on something else.

She had expected to find the book rather dry, but it turned out to be interesting. It was well written, and the author had included a number of photographs. He also appeared to have carried out considerable research: there were copious footnotes, with sources quoted. Nell thought these might turn out to be useful and reached for a notebook to write down any likely ones.

Brank House had, it seemed, been built in the mid nineteenth century, and had been for the ‘care and safe housing of the severely mentally afflicted’.

There were several photographs of the place – early sepia ones, and later black and white shots. It was a bleak, sprawling place, and whoever had taken the photographs had apparently done so at midnight or in the middle of a thunderstorm.

The asylum had been demolished at the end of 1966 to make way for a road-widening scheme – patients had mostly been transferred to the county’s psychiatric unit. Nell glanced at the date of the book’s publication: 1968.

By some means or other, the author had gained access to some of Brank’s records, and extracts were included, along with rather blurry images of the originals. The author particularly drew the reader’s attention to two of these documents, whose text was reproduced in full. The first account was of the youngest known patient. She had been admitted to Brank Asylum in the year 1888, and she had been eight years old.

Eight years old, thought Nell. She looked up from the book, to where Beth, sane and safe and healthy, was frowning over her homework.

Brank House. Asylum for the Incurably Insane.

County of Shropshire

Patient’s record.

Name:
Elvira Lee.

Address:
Mallow House, Marston Lacy, Shropshire.

Date of Birth:
10th November 1881.

Date of admission: 3rd April 1889.

Next of kin:
No relatives believed living.

Religion:
Church of England.

Diagnosis:
Delusional and strongly hysterical.

Admitted under the Lunacy Act of 1840, certifying Elvira Lee (minor) as being of unsound mind and a proper person to be taken charge of and detained.

Signed by the under-named, who both hereby assert they are not related to the patient and have no financial interest in connection with her treatment and care under detention.

Signed:
Dr J Manville. Dr C Chaddock

Elvira, thought Nell, staring at the page. That must be what Michael meant when he said he had found her. She thought back to the hasty phone call. He had said Elvira was born in 1880 and had died in Brank Asylum in 1938. That meant she had lived almost her entire life inside the place. Fifty years. The pity of it – the thought of a girl of Beth’s age being locked away for her whole life – was so overwhelming that for several minutes the print on the page blurred. Nell frowned, put the book down, and got up to pour a glass of wine.

‘Can I have some orange juice?’ asked Beth hopefully, looking up from her homework.

Nell would have given Beth anything she wanted at that moment, purely for being here and for not being that poor child in 1889. She poured the orange juice, found the biscuits Beth liked, ruffled the soft chestnut hair, and went back to the book.

In April 1889, Charect House had still been known by its original name of Mallow. Nell scribbled the date down in case it might help in pinpointing the precise year the name changed, then returned to the book.

The author had included extracts from some case notes from Brank Asylum. Nell wondered by what means he had got hold of them, but from the look of the dates they were all sufficiently far back for patient confidentiality not to matter.

The first was headed ‘Chaplain’s Report’ and was dated 1905. She hardly dared hope Elvira’s name would be there.

But it was.

SEVENTEEN

CHAPLAIN’S REPORT: BRANK HOUSE ASYLUM

November 1905

T
he condition of the patient, Elvira Lee, is increasingly difficult since the visit of two distant members of her family earlier this year – a Mr Frederick Anstey and his daughter, Harriet.

Miss Lee’s intelligence has not deteriorated, but the terrors which have driven her for so many years have increased tenfold. She spends much of her time crouching in a corner of her room, her hands stretched tremblingly before her, as if to push away an encroaching enemy. At those times it is very difficult to reach her – even to make oneself heard.

However, a week ago some rags of her sanity appeared to have returned for a brief time, and I was able to talk with her for almost twenty minutes.

The outcome is that she is to allow me to perform a religious ceremony of healing. I am hopeful it may be a way of persuading this poor haunted soul that God’s love and God’s strength have banished the demons she undoubtedly believes lie in wait for her.

This morning I received permission from the Bishop to hold the ceremony and the doctors have given their consent, although stress it cannot effect a cure. At their request, I am making an official record of the event. The notes are to be appended to the patient’s medical history.

Nell paused to refill her wine glass. So Elvira Lee had been thought of as haunted. How much of that had been due to her being incarcerated in an asylum since the age of eight? She remembered again how Beth, and also Ellie Harper, had insisted it was ‘Elvira’ the man in their nightmares was trying to find. Ellie in particular had been terrified for Elvira. ‘He mustn’t get her,’ she had said. ‘Promise you won’t let him get her. She’s so frightened of him.’

Nell pushed this troubling memory away and looked across at Beth, who was still absorbed in her homework. Then she returned to the chaplain’s account of the ceremony performed on Elvira Lee more than a hundred years ago.

The ceremony began at three o’clock today, Sunday 16th November. It was not that of exorcism, for that takes much preparation and is rarely performed in these enlightened times.

Dr Manville and Dr Chaddock were both in attendance – partly in case Miss Lee should require their intervention, but more, I believe, from curiosity.

The attendants brought Elvira Lee to the chapel. She was calm, and there was not the sense of ‘otherness’ that is so marked when the madness seizes her. I took her hands and assured her she was in God’s house, and that no harm could come to her in this place of refuge and sanctuary.

I began a simple prayer asking for peace and serenity to surround this troubled soul. At first Miss Lee murmured suitable responses – she has regularly attended all church services, as have most of the patients, and despite her affliction is well acquainted with both the New and Old Testament.

I had begun to entertain hopes that the peace I sought for her was beginning to soak into her mind, when she suddenly snatched her hands from mine and began to speak. Her voice was slurred and harsh. It is foolish to say this – and this is intended as a factual account – but the words rasped through the small, hallowed chapel like raw nails scratching across silk.

‘You waste your time,’ she said. ‘You can never drive out the creature that seeks me.’

I reached for her hands again – they were hot and dry and the very bones seemed to push through the flesh and clutch me. She pulled away and backed clumsily into a corner of the chapel, crouching against the pew in a huddle, her hands over her head – I know that to be the classic gesture of someone seeking to defend him or herself from attack.

‘He comes to me most nights now,’ she said. ‘I hear him making his blind fumbling way along the dark passages. He knocks at every door until he finds me. Just as he did the night my mother died.’ She paused and half-raised her head in a listening attitude. ‘Hear him now,’ she said, and so forceful were her words that I swear before God I heard three sharp raps on the chapel door. The two doctors heard it as well, for they both started and looked sharply round.