Seven Dials (33 page)

Pitt swung up beside him to try to keep him from escaping, or in his delirium injuring Garvie. “It’s all right, sir!” he said urgently. “You’re quite safe. No one’s going to harm you.” He might as well have been speaking in a foreign language.

Garvie was losing control. He was white-faced in the gaslight, and there was panic and helplessness in his eyes. If Narraway did not come soon they were going to have to leave without him.

The seconds ticked by.

“Go around the hospital and back!” Pitt shouted at the driver. “Now!”

The hansom lurched forward, throwing all three of them against the back of the seat. For a few moments Garrick was too surprised to react. Please God, Narraway would be there when they reached the front again. Pitt’s mind raced as to where on earth he could take Garrick if he were not? The only place he was certain of any kind of help at all, and secrecy, was his own home. And what could he and Charlotte do with a madman in delirium? For that matter, how much better was Garvie?

Narraway had spoken of the local police station, but Pitt believed that was almost certainly a bluff. And either way, Pitt had no authority he could prove to them. The very most they might do would be return them all to Bedlam and extricate Narraway, which would put them in an even worse position than that in which they had begun, because now the authorities in Bedlam would be warned.

He would have to go home, and leave Narraway to his own devices.

They were at the front of the hospital again. The footpath was deserted. Pitt’s heart sank, and he could feel his stomach tighten and his whole body go cold.

“Keppel Street!” he shouted at the driver. “Slowly! Don’t hurry.” He felt the lurch and swing as they turned onto Brook Street, then almost immediately afterwards into Kennington Road, and back down towards the Westminster Bridge.

It was a nightmare journey. The mist had thickened and a slower speed was forced upon them. They held up no one by slackening to a walk. Stephen Garrick slumped forward, alternately weeping and groaning like a man on the way to his own death-and whatever hell he believed lay beyond. Garvie attempted now and then to comfort him, but it was a wasted effort, and the despair in his voice betrayed that he knew it.

Pitt tried desperately to think what on earth he would do if Narraway did not show up soon, and ever worse images crowded his mind as to what had happened to him. Had he been arrested for abducting an inmate? Or simply imprisoned in Bedlam as if he too were mad? Had they locked him in one of their padded rooms? Or administered some powerful sedative so he might not even be conscious to protest his sanity?

They were over the river and heading north and east. Part of Pitt wished they would hurry, so he would be home in the warmth and light of familiar surroundings, and at least Charlotte could help him. Another part wanted to spin out the journey as long as possible, to give Narraway a chance to catch up with them and take charge.

They were in a busy thoroughfare. There was plenty of other traffic, sounds of horns in the swirling mist, harness clinking, light from other coach lamps, movement reflected in bright gleams off brass.

Garrick sat up suddenly and screamed as if in terror for his life. Pitt’s flesh froze. In a moment he was paralyzed, then he lunged sideways and grasped Garrick’s arm and threw him back in the seat. The hansom swayed wildly and slithered around on the wet cobbles, then shot forward at increased speed. Pitt could hear the cabbie shouting as they careered along the street, but within twenty yards the ride was steadier, and within a hundred they were back to a normal trot.

Pitt tried to control his racing heart and keep hold of Garrick, who was now gibbering nonsensically, in spite of everything Garvie could say or do.

Then they pulled up and the cabbie told them loudly and with a voice trembling with fear that they were at Keppel Street and should get out immediately.

There was no alternative but to obey. With difficulty, and stiff from having sat for so long with locked muscles, Pitt alighted. He almost fell onto the pavement, and then reached to help Garrick.

Garrick stumbled after him, collapsed onto the stones, then, without any warning at all, managed to get up onto his feet and started to run, a loose, shambling gait, but covering the wet pavement with startling speed.

Garvie stared at him in silent, beaten desperation.

Pitt lurched after him, but Garrick was at the end of the block and starting across the roadway before he floundered for a moment, arms flailing, and for no reason Pitt could see, fell face forward onto the cobbles.

Pitt flung himself on top of him. Garrick whimpered like a wounded animal, but he had no strength or will to fight. Pitt hauled him up, more than a little roughly, and straightened himself, only to see a man a couple of yards away from him. He was about to try some desperate explanation when with drenching relief he recognized the neat, slender silhouette against the light-it was Narraway. For an instant Pitt was too choked with emotion to speak. He stood still, gulping air, his body shaking, his hands clinging onto Garrick-clammy with sweat.

“Good,” Narraway said succinctly. “Since we are in Keppel Street, perhaps it would be more convenient to go inside and talk. I daresay Mrs. Pitt would make us a cup of tea? Garvie, at least, looks as if he could do with it.”

Pitt did not even attempt to reply, but followed Narraway’s elegant figure back along the footpath to the door, where Garvie was waiting for them, and led the way inside.

Charlotte and Gracie were stunned with surprise for the first moment, then pity replaced horror.

“Yer starvin’ cold!” Gracie said furiously. “Wotever ’appened to yer?” She looked from Garrick to Martin Garvie, and back again. “I got blankets in the airin’ cupboard. You sit there!” And whisking around, she disappeared out of the door.

Pitt eased Garrick onto one of the chairs and Martin found another for himself, sitting down hard, as if his legs had given way.

Charlotte pushed the kettle onto the hob to come to the boil, ordering Pitt to stoke up the fire. They all ignored Narraway entirely.

Gracie returned with her arms full of blankets and, after only an instant’s hesitation, proceeded to wrap one around Garrick’s shuddering body, then she turned to Martin with the other.

“I’ll tell Tilda yer all right,” she said dubiously. “Leastways, yer not actual ’urt, like.”

Suddenly Garvie’s eyes filled with tears. He started to speak, and changed his mind.

“S’ all right!” Gracie said quickly. “I’ll tell ’er. She’ll be that glad! It’s all ’cos of ’er we found yer.” She included herself because although she assumed Narraway had no idea of her part in the search, and she was happy to leave it so, she had been the one to prompt Tellman into discovering as much as he had. She regarded Narraway discreetly, and with the same wariness one does a nameless insect which might prove to be poisonous-very interesting, but best to know precisely where it is, and stay as far away as possible.

It amused him, and Charlotte, busy making the tea, saw the flicker of it in his eyes, and was pleased to realize that he had a respect for Gracie’s spirit that she would not have expected of him. She also caught his eyes on her, and absurdly, found something in them that made her self-conscious. She looked quickly back to her task, and poured out six mugs of steaming tea, sugar stirred in. One was only half full. She picked it up, tested it to see that there was sufficient milk in it that it was cool enough to sip, then went over to Garrick where he sat staring vacantly into space.

Gently she lifted the mug and tilted it to reach his lips. She waited patiently until he swallowed, and then again.

After watching her for a moment, Gracie did the same for Martin, but he was far more able to help himself.

This went on for several minutes in silence before Narraway finally spoke. He could see that learning anything from Garrick could take all night, but Martin was already burning to respond.

“How did you get to the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital, Mr. Garvie?” he said abruptly. “Who put you there?”

Martin hesitated. His face was very white and there were dark smudges of privation and sleeplessness around his eyes. “Mr. Garrick’s ill, sir. I went to look after him. Couldn’t leave him on his own, sir.”

Narraway’s face did not change at all. “And why did you not have the kindness to tell your sister where you were going? She has been desperate with fear for you.”

Martin gasped, a sheen of sweat on his face. He half turned as if to look at Garrick, then changed his mind. He stared back at Narraway, misery in his eyes. “I didn’t know where I was going when they took me,” he said in little more than a whisper. “I thought it were just to the country, an’ I’d be able to write her. I never guessed it were… Bedlam.” He said the word as if it were a curse that hell itself might overhear and make real again.

Narraway sat down at last, pulling the chair around to face the table. Pitt remained standing, and silent.

“Was Mr. Garrick insane when you first went to work for him?” Narraway asked Martin.

Martin winced, perhaps at the thought that Garrick would hear them.

“No, sir,” he said indignantly.

Narraway smiled patiently, and Martin blushed, but he would not argue.

“What happened to him? I need to know, possibly to save his life.”

Martin did not protest, and that in itself did not go unnoticed. Charlotte saw something-doubt, caution-iron out of Narraway’s face. She glared at Pitt, and recognized understanding in him also.

Martin hesitated.

Pitt stepped forward. “I’ll take Mr. Garrick to where he can lie down for a while.”

“Stay with him!” Narraway ordered with a hard warning in his eyes.

Pitt did not bother to reply, but with considerable effort eased Garrick to his feet and, with Gracie’s assistance, guided him out of the door.

“What happened to him, Mr. Garvie?” Narraway repeated.

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. He always drank quite a bit, but it got worse as time passed, like something was boiling up inside him.”

“Worse in what way?”

“Terrible dreams.” Martin winced. “Lot of gentlemen who drink get bad dreams, but not like his-he’d lie in his bed with his eyes wide open, screaming about blood… and fire… catching at his throat like he was choking and couldn’t breathe.” Martin himself was trembling. “An’ I’d have to shake him and shout at him to waken him up… Then he’d cry like a baby… I never heard anything like it.” He stopped, his face white, his eyes imploring Narraway to let him be silent.

Charlotte sat by, hating it, knowing it had to be.

Narraway looked at her, hesitation in his face. She stared back with refusal in her eyes. She was not going to leave.

He accepted it and turned back to Martin Garvie.

“Do you know of any event that occasioned these dreams?”

“No, sir…”

Narraway saw the slight uncertainty. “But you know there was something.” That was a statement.

Martin’s voice was almost inaudible. “I think so, sir.”

“Did you know Lieutenant Lovat, who was murdered at Eden Lodge? Or Miss Zakhari?”

“I didn’t know the lady, sir, but I knew Mr. Garrick knew Mr. Lovat. When news came of his murder Mr. Garrick was the worst upset I’ve ever seen him. I… I think that’s when he went quite mad…” He was embarrassed, and ashamed of putting into words what they all knew, but to say so still seemed a disloyalty.

There was a flash of pity in Narraway’s face, but he conceded again almost as soon as it was there.

“Then I think it is time we spoke to Mr. Garrick and found out exactly what it is that tortures his mind-”

“No, sir!” Martin started to his feet. “Please… he’s…”

The look in Narraway’s eyes stopped him.

Charlotte took Martin’s arm gently. “We have to know,” she said. “Someone’s life depends on it. You can help us.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” Narraway cut across her. “But it will be distressing, and we shall not need you to endure it.”

Charlotte looked back at him without moving, a faint, polite smile on her lips. “Your consideration for my feelings does you credit.” She was only barely sarcastic. “But since it was I who heard the original story, it will hold no more surprises for me than for you. I shall remain.”

Surprisingly, he did not argue. Together with Martin, they went through to the parlor, where Pitt and Gracie were sitting and Stephen Garrick lay half conscious on the sofa.

It took them all night to draw from the wreck of a man the terrible story. Sometimes they would prop him up and he spoke almost coherently, whole sentences at a time. At others he lay curled over like a child in the womb-silent, shivering, withdrawn into himself and beyond even Martin’s reach.

It was Charlotte who took him in her arms when he wept and cradled him while the sobs racked his body.

Pitt watched her with a fierce pride, remembering the stiff, protected young woman she had been when he first fell in love with her. Now her compassion made her more beautiful than he could have dreamed she would ever be.

It seemed that the four young men had been friends almost from their initial meeting. They had much in common, both in background and interests, and had spent most of their free time together.

The tragedy was born when they learned that a shrine beside the river, sacred to Christians, was also sacred to Muslims, men who in their view denied Christ.

One night, influenced with drink, they decided to desecrate it in such a fashion that no Muslim would ever again use it. Whipped up in a frenzy of religious indignation, they stole a pig, an animal unclean to Muslims, and slaughtered it in the very heart of the shrine, scattering its blood around to make the place obscene forever after.

At this point Garrick became so hysterical even Narraway’s endless patience could draw nothing further from him which made any sense. He sat slumped forward, leaning a little against Charlotte, who was beside him on the sofa. Only his open eyes, staring vacantly at some hideous sight within his own brain, indicated that he was alive.

She could remember the screams torn from him long after she had hoped to forget them.