The Asylum (10 page)

“He has no family, Miss Ferrars; he is a bachelor, like my uncle, and lives only for his work.”

At the mention of his uncle, a shadow crossed his face. Outside, the rain was still falling. He rose, added more coals to the fire, and made a show of consulting his watch.

“I am sorry, Miss Ferrars, but I have duties to attend to. Might I join you again for luncheon, in an hour or so?”

“I should like that very much.”

“Then I shall return as soon as I can.” He smiled, but his eyes were still troubled, and I feared I had driven him away.

He seemed, however, entirely recovered when he returned an hour later. “I have said quite enough about myself,” he insisted, “and I want to hear more about you, and your childhood at Niton.” My childhood seemed so commonplace and uneventful compared to his, but I sensed that our quiet domestic life was for him a vision of paradise. I told him about the mirror, and my fascination with Rosina, and its aftermath on the cliff, which led somehow to religion, and how Aunt Vida and Mr. Allardyce used to argue. My aunt was a declared agnostic, but I felt that they were essentially on the same side. Mr. Allardyce used to say that faith couldn’t be commanded; so long as you acted
as if
you believed, all would be well. They were both contemptuous of spiritualism: when I expressed curiosity about it, my aunt suggested with a perfectly straight face that we try a method of spelling out messages with a glass and a circle of cut-out letters, and the glass spelled out “Spiritualism is bunkum.”

Frederic laughed at this, but his face was shadowed.

“Rationally speaking,” he said, “I agree with your aunt, but in this house it is all too easy to believe that the dead live on amongst us. All those centuries of violent emotion, permeating the furniture, the hangings, the timbers, even the stones . . . The old house was always cold and damp, even in summer; the walls are so thick, and the windows so small, and there are strange pockets of icy air—you could be walking along a corridor and feel as if you had been plunged into freezing water . . .”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“Not seen, exactly, but I think I may have heard one.”

It had begun last April, he said, on a mild, sunlit afternoon. He had lately emerged from a bout of melancholia and decided to take a stroll in the grounds, with no particular destination in mind. His feet carried him to a long-abandoned stable, overgrown and collapsing, some thirty or forty yards beyond the old house, surrounded now by woodland. He was standing nearby, gazing idly at the ancient, uneven brickwork and enjoying the unaccustomed warmth of sunlight on his skin, when he heard a pickaxe striking upon stone. It sounded like someone chipping at a piece of masonry in an exploratory fashion, and it seemed to come from inside. He looked in through the doorway—the lintel had collapsed, leaving only a narrow, triangular opening—but there was nobody within. Then he heard the noise again—tap-tap, tap-tap—perfectly clear, with a distinct ringing echo to it—only this time it came from the outside, around the corner to the left of where he was standing. Again the sound ceased as he approached. He walked right around the building; the long grass had been trampled in places by something—badgers, perhaps—but there were no bootmarks, and again no one to be seen. He stood and waited for some time, but the sound was not repeated, and he assumed that it had been caused by some rusted piece of metal, a broken hinge or the like, expanding in the sunshine.

A week or so later, he was passing the stables when he heard the sound again, a little louder, coming from around the corner to his right this time. Once again it ceased just before he turned the corner; once again there was nobody to be seen. Then it started up again, from around the back of the ruin. He found himself imagining a man in a convict’s uniform and leg irons, tapping away with a pick. His mouth was suddenly dry; he had to force himself to circle the building, and then retreated with his heart beating rapidly.

Over the next few weeks, he was drawn back almost against his will. Sometimes he would stand for minutes at a stretch and hear nothing but the distant lowing of cattle. It seemed to him that whenever he was intent upon listening for the sound—always metal upon stone—it did not come, but as soon as his attention wandered, it would start up again. And though there was no consistent pattern from day to day, he felt that the sound was becoming stronger, the rhythm of the pick faster—though you could not call it a rhythm because it was always irregular. It frightened and fascinated him in equal measure; he had come to believe that the place was haunted by the sound of a murderer burying his victim.

Even more disturbing was the suspicion that he had somehow awakened the sound; that it was aware of him, playing upon his curiosity and leading him on. He imagined himself digging and exposing a shattered skull—but what would follow if he did? He brought old Trethewey, the head gardener, over to the stables, and kept him talking by the entrance for some time. But Trethewey knew of no ancient crime, and the sound did not come, and when Frederic said tentatively that he had heard some odd noises of late, Trethewey gave him a pitying look and all but tapped his forehead, as if to say, “Another mad Mordaunt.” The following day he tried again, asking one of the undergardeners to inspect the brickwork with him; again the sound did not come, and he felt that this man, too, was regarding him strangely. But the very next time he approached the stables alone, he was greeted by a fierce volley of sounds from within—hard, and menacing, and too fast, surely, for human hands wielding a pick—and he could not summon the courage to enter.

“And what happened after that?” I asked, when he did not immediately continue.

“I knew what I ought to do: confide in Dr. Straker and ask him to investigate. But I feared it might be a symptom of—something worse than melancholia, and if it turned out that I could hear the noise, but he could not . . . So I have simply avoided the place ever since, hoping that whatever I disturbed, whether it was in the stables, or in my head—or, as I sometimes suspect, in both, will stay quiet as long as I keep away.”

“It cannot be good for you,” I said, “living here, in the shadow of so much anguish. Do you not think you might be happier—and healthier—away from this place?” I remembered asking him this the day before, but I could not recall his reply.

He hesitated for a long time before he spoke, keeping his eyes fixed upon the flames.

“I think of it all the time, Miss Ferrars. But as I may have said yesterday, my uncle and I are the last of our line. Uncle Edmund has never married, because he believes that the only way to eradicate the dark strain in the Mordaunt blood is to let it die out. And he expects me to follow his example.”

He took a long, uneven breath, as if to say,
There; I have said it
.

“And—does Dr. Straker agree with your uncle?”

“Yes, he does. He says that hereditary madness cannot be cured, only bred out—as we do with defects in every other species.”

“But is it absolutely certain,” I said, “that if you were to marry a woman who was—perfectly well, your children would be afflicted?”

“No, it isn’t, and there’s the rub. They might—especially if they were girls; it comes out mostly on the male side—they might be quite untouched. But the dark strain would still be there, and it might reappear in the next generation, or the one after that, in all its old virulence.”

“But that is like saying that it would be better if
you
had never existed. I have only known you a day, Frederic, and
I
do not think the world would be better without you—”

He took another long, shuddering breath and rose from his chair, still not looking at me. I thought he was about to walk out of the room; instead, he walked over to the window and stood with his back to me and his shoulders shaking. I rose, stiffly after all the hours of sitting, went over, and stood beside him. Racked by harsh, choking sobs, his face wet with tears, he struggled to regain his self-control. I placed my hand on his cold fingers and stroked them gently. No one,
I thought, in his entire lonely existence, has ever said that they were glad he had been born. The uncle sounded like a cold fish; to Dr. Straker he was a useful part of the machinery of the asylum, and therefore to be encouraged and got out of bed in the mornings so that he could keep up the paperwork. But no one had ever told Frederic that they loved him.

Strangely, I had quite lost my self-consciousness. I was not, I realised, actually shocked at my boldness at calling him Frederic; nor did I repent of it; nor did I fear that he would think me immodest. Nor, strangest of all, did I think that I was falling in love with him. I did not think of myself at all: my heart had opened itself to him, whether I would or no. If I had a brother, I thought, a brother in terrible distress and anguish of mind, this is how I would feel.

Gradually his breathing steadied, and he turned to me with a wan smile.

“Thank you,” he said, “thank you. No one has ever—”

“No,” I said, still stroking his cold fingers. Our breath misted the glass. “Your uncle is wrong; I know he is, and I think you know it, too, in your heart. Yours is a loving spirit, and it should not die with you. Surely your melancholia would not return if you were away from here.”

“And when you are back in London,” he said, gazing at me as if memorising every detail of my appearance, “will you want to see me again?” The implication was unmistakable.

“Until I know what has happened to me, I cannot think beyond the present. But I know that I want to be your friend, and to see you again, and yes, I will write to you as soon as I am back in London. And now I think you should go, before Bella returns and—leaps to conclusions.”

“But you will wait for Dr. Straker, I trust?” he said, mopping his face with his handkerchief, “rather than taking the first train back?”

“Yes,” I said, suppressing another small, cold pang of unease. He had given me his word, and he was, after all, the heir: what was there to fear?

“Then I shall certainly join you for breakfast, and perhaps if the weather is fine, we might take a turn in the grounds.”

He left reluctantly, walking more or less backward until he bumped into the door-frame. Outside, the rain was still falling steadily, and the light was fading.

I lay awake for a long time that night, and when at last I did sleep, it was only to be wakened an instant later, as it seemed, by light footsteps in the passage outside my door. For a wild moment I wondered if it might be Frederic, also wakeful; then I thought it must be Bella; but would Bella not have come in? I went to the door and peeped out. Oil lamps flickered along the empty corridor; all the doors I could make out were closed. Where, I wondered, did Bella sleep? In one of the rooms nearby? I thought of the ghost in the old stable, and heard Frederic saying, “A house as old as this is never entirely still, even in the dead of night.” Chill air stirred around my ankles; I retreated hastily to bed, and lay awake for some time, listening uneasily. But the footsteps did not return.

The next time I woke, it was full daylight. I got out of bed at once, with a feeling of having overslept. Perhaps Frederic was already pacing up and down the sitting room, not wanting Bella to disturb me in case I was still asleep. Rather than wait for her, I got dressed on my own and hastened along the corridor. But the room was empty, and the fire had not been lit; perhaps it was earlier than I thought. I tugged at the bell-rope and went over to the window. The rain had ceased, but the garden below still dripped with moisture, and the paths were saturated.

I stood there for a while, watching the clouds bulge and crumple like grotesque faces floating just above the treetops. Surely Bella had never taken as long as this? I rang again and waited several minutes more, but still she did not come.

Perhaps the bell was not working. I went out into the dim, empty corridor. In the wall to my left, the direction from which Bella and Frederic had always appeared, were two more doors. I tried them as I went along; both were locked. The passage ended at another, heavier door; it, too, was locked.

If you choose to leave, no one will hinder you.

Of course, the door might be locked for my own protection; this was, after all, a lunatic asylum.

I went back along the passage, giving the bell-rope another tug as I passed the sitting room. The wall now on my left was blank except for an opening about halfway along, the entrance to a much shorter passage, ending at another locked door. Apart from a bathroom near the room in which I slept, every door was locked, including the door at the far end, which led, I assumed, to the closed wards in the newest part of the building.

The oil lamp near my room was still burning. Except for the dim shaft of light falling from the open door of the sitting room, the only source of illumination was a pane of opaque glass—a skylight of some kind?—in the ceiling halfway along. I remembered the footsteps in the night.

You are safe here, on my word of honour.

I retraced my steps, trying not to run, to the door at the other end, and rattled and tugged at the handle, then beat upon the oak in a panic, bruising my knuckles until the pain forced me to stop.

As the echoes died away, a floorboard creaked behind me. The hair on the back of my neck bristled.

“Can I ’elp you, miss? You can’t go through there, you know.”

I spun round. In the light from the sitting-room door, a woman was standing—not Bella, but a heavily built woman twice her age, with forearms like hams and a flat, porcine face, in which small eyes glittered.

“Who are you? Where is Bella?”

“Hodges is the name, miss.” A London accent, I thought, with an insinuating edge that seemed to imply,
I know all about you
. She wore a starched uniform like Bella’s, but hers was dark blue. As she approached, I caught a whiff of rank breath.

“Where is Bella?” I repeated.

“Bella’s got other duties. I’ll be looking after you today.”

“Then would you kindly fetch Mr. Mordaunt? He will be joining me for breakfast.”