The Insanity of Murder (18 page)

That night over dinner, Florence and Eva were toasted as the heroes of the day.

‘And she was fully conscious in the car when you and Beamish took her to the hospital? Did she remember anything of her experience?’ Eva asked.

Florence pulled herself back from melancholic thoughts of Emily Davison ‘I don’t think so.’

‘So she didn’t say anything about falling in?’

‘No,’ Florence replied. ‘She just complained about Beamish’s driving, said he drove like an old woman.’

Eva laughed. ‘Typical.’

Florence smiled, but found herself only half-heartedly sharing in the jubilation of her ward. Of course she was thrilled that Mary was expected to survive, but her happiness had been overshadowed by the news of Emily’s death and she found it a challenge to keep up a happy pretence.

‘Listen to this everyone,’ Eva said as she glanced down at the smuggled newspaper resting on her lap. ‘It’s an account of the horserace and Emily’s accident — Florence stole it from the hospital.’

She read to the table as if reading from a boy’s adventure novel, complete with dramatic pauses and increased tempo as she neared the end. Florence found it painful to hear and regretted stealing the paper for her friend. Eva got to the part where an eyewitness reported to the paper:

I could not see whether any other horses touched her, for the whole thing happened so quickly, and I was so horrified at seeing her pitched violently down by the horse and tumbled across the ground …

Bet-Bet let out a peal of inappropriate laughter. Little flat-faced Aggie dropped her jaw, revealing a row of small uneven teeth, and burst into tears. Eva shoved the paper at Florence and climbed to her feet. She put her arm around the girl who buried her face in her breast and started to wail like a banshee.

‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have read from the paper,’ Eva said. ‘I’m sorry to upset you, Aggie, dear.’

‘Sit down please, Mrs Blackburn,’ Beamish said, striding over to Florence’s table. ‘I’ll take care of Aggie.’

Florence dropped the paper on the floor and pushed it under the table with her foot.

When Eva didn’t respond, Beamish repeated his command. Eva remained where she was, a muscle working in her jaw as her back teeth clenched and unclenched. Another attendant joined Beamish. Eva did not seem the least bit intimidated and stood her ground. The thought that she would have made a marvellous suffragette filtered through Florence’s distress as she witnessed the unfolding scene.

‘She doesn’t need
your
attention, Mr Beamish,’ Eva said with the sharpness of an implied accusation.

A chill travelled up Florence’s spine. Did this mean what she thought it meant? Realisation dawned. Suddenly, Florence found herself viewing Beamish through different eyes. He no longer looked like the handsome hero of the day, but a sinister figure with a stare the colour of an Alpine lake.

So Eva knew his secret. No wonder there was little love lost between them.

Fogarty must have heard the altercation. He wandered down the dining room from his position at a top table where he had been eating his meal with other staff members. He bowed to the ladies on Florence’s table, twitched a smile Florence’s way, and then spoke under his breath to Beamish in a tone he must have thought could not be heard.

‘Mrs Blackburn giving you trouble again, Mr Beamish?’

‘Yes, Doctor. She’s making the usual accusations — not suitable for our new lady’s ears, in my opinion.’

The ‘new lady’s’ ears were straining to pick up what was being said, all the while hoping she was giving the impression of being preoccupied with the cleaning of her pudding plate.

Beamish retrieved the newspaper from under the table. He rolled it up and beat it against his open palm, then pointed to Florence with it.

He looked angry. ‘You obviously picked this up from the hospital waiting room. This is why we don’t allow newspapers in the home, Miss McCleland.’

Florence flushed and dropped her head. Bloody man, he had no right to talk to her like that, like she was a naughty schoolgirl. It was hard to believe that a day that had started off with such a blissful row on the lake could end like this. She no longer felt rested and relaxed; her old anxieties seemed to have returned with all the power of the horse that had trampled poor Emily to death.

Aggie stopped crying, but Eva remained where she was.

Fogarty reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small notebook, flicking through the pages as if looking through a list of names.

‘Ah, here we are, Beamish.’ He jabbed at the page. ‘She’s menstruating. No wonder she’s acting up, that can be a problem with her. Put her in isolation until her menses cease and her mental integrity returns.’

Eva accepted her fate with a quiet dignity. ‘Look after them, Florence, will you?’ She gestured to the strange assortment of women around the table as Beamish took hold of her arm. ‘Make sure Beamish stays away from Aggie, and don’t, whatever you do, let them put old Mary in a straitjacket.’

Florence acted as if she hadn’t heard, though inside, her mind whirled.
That’s all very well for you to say, Eva, but how on earth am I supposed to do that?

Florence lay awake in her bed, listening to the noises of the night, thinking about Emily, about how strong and vital she had been. It was hard to imagine her spirit so easily extinguished. But had her martyrdom really been a blow for the cause, or was it merely a horrible waste of life? She would have liked to be able to get hold of another paper to gauge the public’s opinion. She had a horrible feeling that, as with her own escapade at the Necropolis Station, Emily’s action might merely be viewed as a stunt gone wrong and gain the movement more enemies than friends.

Every now and then, hollow footsteps announced the night nurse or male attendant walking the passageway. They shone a lamp into each darkened bedroom they passed — suicide watch, Florence had been told. It was a wonder Mrs O’Brien and Mrs Hislop had ever managed to escape from this place.

She had taken Eva’s last words to heart, that she should ensure the safety of the ladies in her ward, and so she fought to keep herself awake. After a day such as this it was proving an almost impossible task and her mind screamed for the gentle release of oblivion.

She was drifting off when noises in the corridor jerked her awake: a raised male voice, a woman’s high-pitched scream. It sounded like little Aggie. Florence leapt from her bed and bounded towards Aggie’s room.

She flicked on Aggie’s bedroom light. The night nurse and Beamish looked up in guilty panic from the girl they’d pinned to the bed. They quickly stepped back. Aggie continued to scream, hiding herself beneath the bedclothes. The nurse put down the lamp she had been holding and extended placating hands to Florence.

‘It’s all right dear, calm down. Aggie is just refusing to take the tonic for her indigestion. She plays up like this every now and then,’ she said.

Florence turned to Beamish. He looked just like he had when he’d helped drag Eva away, his face contorted into … what? A gloating smirk? Whatever it was it was the same expression the Holloway Doctor had when he was about to ram the force-feeding tube up her nostril!

Something ferocious was released in Florence. She could not help herself. ‘How dare you touch her, you pig of a man!’ she shouted, spinning on her toes jujitsu-style and chopping him in the stomach with a stiffened hand.

Beamish fell to the floor moaning. The nurse jumped back from Florence, snatched a bell from her pocket and began to ring it furiously. Within seconds, two male attendants appeared as if from nowhere, charging to the nurse’s assistance. One helped Beamish off the floor while the other attempted to pin Florence’s arms behind her back. But she was too quick for him. She caught him by the arm and threw him with the same jujitsu move she’d used on the watchman. He landed on the bed on top of a sobbing Aggie.

More staff arrived. Florence fought them off as best as she could, screaming at the top of her lungs like the mad woman she was supposed to be. Despite her skill, the sheer number of the opposition and her extreme fatigue meant she was soon overwhelmed. They shoved her arms into a starched-linen garment with extra-long sleeves, crossed them and tied them behind her back.

She was in a straitjacket.

‘Get Doctor Fogarty,’ Beamish ordered one of the female nurses.

It took several of the staff to manoeuvre Florence into the corridor. She refused to stand, so they were forced to drag her away from Aggie’s room along the polished floor. Through the pandemonium she heard the word ‘treatment house’ mentioned.

‘No, I’m not supposed to have any treatments, ask my doctor!’ she screamed, conscious of her nightgown bunching up around her waist. One of the nurses pulled it down.

Fogarty appeared in his dressing gown and a crushed-velvet smoking hat. ‘What’s going on here, Beamish?’

‘We were trying to give Aggie her medicine when the new lady burst in and went psychotic.’

‘I won’t give you my consent, what you are doing is illegal!’

‘Let us decide what’s best for you, Miss McCleland,’ Fogarty tut-tutted. ‘Beamish, draw me up some chloral hydrate, there’s a good chap. I’ll let her doctor know tomorrow. This is a medical emergency; he’d sanction the sedative under these circumstances, I’m sure. The woman appears to be totally breaking down.’

Florence woke with a headache as ferocious as the one she’d had after the Holloway doctor had knocked her out. And her mouth felt like a vulture’s armpit — she’d learnt that particularly fruity expression from one of the coarser members of her division, never thinking she’d experience the sensation first hand.

She lay on a rubber mattress on the floor. Mercifully, she’d been released from her straitjacket. Now she understood why poor Mary was so averse to the restraint, the feeling of such total, utter helplessness was enough to tip anyone over the edge. Florence allowed herself a luxurious stretch, every muscle aching. Her fingertips brushed the nearest wall. Feeling fabric, she opened a bleary eye. All the room’s walls were padded and dimpled like a mattress. She must be in one of the treatment building’s padded cells.

It was a good deal more luxurious than a Holloway cell, though. Warm and clean, she even had her own flushing lavatory, but no table, chairs or window. A lightweight tin jug sat on the floor beside a shiny clean tin cup. Water, God, she needed water. Not yet trusting her legs, she slithered from the mattress across the floor and greedily drank down the jug’s contents without bothering to pour it into the cup. No water ever tasted sweeter — until it came up again a few seconds later in the lavatory bowl.

Shaking and cold from her upheaval, Florence dragged herself back to the rubber mattress that had been placed alongside a padded water pipe. Resting her head against the pipe she willed the pounding of her head to stop.
What had she done to deserve this,
she wondered, as memories of last night’s altercation slowly began to invade her consciousness. Had she really attacked the attendants like that? Yes, she had; she could see it all now, clear as day.

And had Beamish really been about to molest Aggie? About that, she was not so sure now — he had the female nurse with him, after all. If not for Eva’s warning, the thought might not have entered her head. What if this place was
really
making her insane? What if they didn’t let her out! Florence felt her panic grow. She must call someone, apologise, and assure Fogarty that she would never attack the staff again.

She looked around the cell for a means of communication, saw the viewing slot in the door and was about to stagger over and call someone, when an urgent tapping on the pipe made her stop still. Was this wishful thinking, a figment of her imagination? She dropped to her knees and put her ear next to the pipe. Sure enough, above the occasional digestive gurgle of water, she heard a distinctive metallic tap.

The suffragette Morse code.

That could only mean one thing: Eva was in the next cell.

‘Are you all right, Florence?’ Eva tapped.

At the junction of the pipe and the wall, Florence noticed a small section of exposed pipe missing its wadding. She grabbed her tin cup and tapped back on this. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And you?’

Eva replied in the affirmative. Despite the length of time between taps and the patience it took, Florence and Eva talked in a depth they had not managed yet in the main house. The minutes ticked by.

Florence explained how she had attacked the staff because she thought they were about to molest Aggie. Now ashamed of her violent reaction, she told Eva she feared that she might have jumped to the wrong conclusions. Eva consoled Florence, told her she was right to do what she did, that they always used the excuse of giving Aggie medicine when they wanted to molest her. Beamish could do no wrong in Fogarty’s eyes and always took his side. They had an agreement apparently — Fogarty turned a blind eye to Beamish’s transgressions, and vice versa.

As soon as she heard this, Florence felt better for it.

Eva told Florence that she was going to be let out that morning. She’d had some treatment last night and responded well. If Florence wanted to be let out soon, she should accept whatever treatment they had in store and they would not get too rough with her.

Florence wanted to know what the treatment entailed. It couldn’t be an operation; Eva wouldn’t be able to tap if she was still recovering from an operation, surely? She was about to ask what it was when Eva broke in, asking Florence if she wanted to know the secret that she and Mary were hiding. Florence tapped, yes, and put her head to the pipe, eager to listen to Eva’s reply.

The cell door burst open and in walked Beamish.

‘Listening to that woman will do you no good, Miss McCleland. Haven’t you got yourself in enough trouble as it is?’

Florence sat up straight and looked Beamish in the eye. ‘I know plenty of policemen, Mr Beamish. You won’t be getting away with the abuse of poor little Aggie for much longer.’

Beamish let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Is that right, miss? Come on now, it’s treatment time.’

Florence crossed her legs on the mattress and folded her arms, as she had done during countless suffragette demonstrations. ‘I am to have no treatments without my doctor’s permission.’

‘Doctor Fogarty has just been on the phone to Doctor Lamb. On account of your behaviour last night, he has sanctioned a remedy for your agitation.’

Florence’s panic began to grow. ‘I’m not agitated! My sister, I need to see my sister!’

Beamish turned to the door. ‘All right, chums, come on in and give me a hand.’

Two burly attendants strode into the room and pulled Florence to her feet.

While Florence was being dragged from her cell, the door to the cell next door opened and a serene-looking Eva was led out, about to be escorted back to the main house by a nurse.

‘Go with it, Florence, just relax and you won’t get hurt,’ Eva reiterated as she glided past.

‘That’s the most sense I’ve ever heard from that woman,’ Beamish muttered. ‘She’s right, Miss McCleland, just relax. We only want to help you.’

Florence took a deep breath and did her best to calm down, trying to follow Eva’s example. She insisted that they let go of her so she could walk on her own and promised not to give them any trouble. They stopped outside a bleak-looking room with a long table, a low hanging central ceiling light and a trough-like sink. It looked like an operating theatre with the addition of some strange-looking electrical contraptions.

Fogarty was standing in the middle of it, smiling at her, covered from neck to toe in a long white gown.

Once more, Florence began to scream.

‘It’s all right, Miss McCleland, no one’s going to operate on you, I promise,’ Beamish endeavoured to reassure Florence as both men struggled to restrain her. With the two of them attacking her at once it was impossible to perform her jujitsu moves. Finally Florence’s legs gave way, and she sank to the floor.

‘There there, my dear, sit quietly for a moment so I can explain. You don’t want to be put back in the straitjacket, do you?’ Fogarty asked in a tone of reason.

Florence shook her head, tried to control her tears, the panic churning inside her. ‘But I’m in an operating theatre,’ she said, looking around her.

Beamish continued to loom above her, ready to grab her if she made a bolt for it. ‘You are indeed in an operating theatre. But this one doubles as my electrotherapy room.’ Fogarty stepped aside and gestured towards a wooden box with a crank, and a cage-like contraption much larger than the box, with three sides constructed of wire mesh. It was plugged into a socket in the wall.

Florence knew little enough about electricity. Other than it could kill.

‘I refuse to consent to any of your treatments,’ she said to Fogarty through gritted teeth.

‘I’m afraid your behaviour last night made your consent, or lack of it, irrelevant.’

Her voice rose a pitch. ‘I’m sorry, then, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have behaved like I did and I will never do that again. Please!’ Unintentionally, she wrapped her arms around her torso and commenced rocking from side to side.

Beamish put his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, miss. All Doctor Fogarty is going to use on you is the Clerk’s machine. He uses it on Mrs Blackman all the time.’ He pointed to the wooden box. ‘The current is harmless, but strong enough to correct some of the electrical pathways in your brain that have gone wrong. You will feel much better for it, I promise.’ His tone was soothing and sincere.

‘What about that cage thing?’ Florence asked.

‘You will be sitting behind it for protection,’ said Fogarty.

‘You’re using the Faraday too, sir?’ Beamish queried.

Fogarty used his hand to flick the air, dismissing his concern. ‘Just a slight modification to increase safety — it’s perfectly above board, old chap.’

Fogarty moved over to a surgical trolley and drew something up into a glass syringe. ‘Help me give her this, Beamish. It’ll make her more compliant, and then you can leave us.’

Beamish hesitated.

‘Come on man, we haven’t all day!’

‘Whatever you say, Doctor.’ Beamish took hold of Florence’s arm and pushed back her sleeve. ‘Don’t fight it, Miss McCleland, it’ll only hurt more if you do,’ he said gently.

Florence bit hard on her lower lip. ‘Ow!’

‘I’m sorry, that’s the only pain you will feel.’ Fogarty handed the syringe to Beamish. I think you will find the rest of your treatment quite pleasant. Leave us, please, Mr Beamish.’

‘Doctor, are you sure?’

‘I said, leave us.’ His tone was harsh now.

Beamish looked at Florence and smiled reassuringly before closing the door behind him.

Fogarty and Florence were alone. Fogarty folded his arms, leant against the trolley and stared at her. At first she felt self-conscious, and looked around the room for a weapon or a means of escape. She tried to climb from the floor and then decided it was too much effort. She felt herself relax as the drug took effect. Suddenly, she didn’t really care what happened.

After several minutes Fogarty stretched down his hand and helped her to her feet. She wobbled and he used both his hands to steady her.

‘Now it’s very important, for the sake of your own safety that you listen very carefully to my instructions. Do you understand?’

Florence nodded. She felt wonderful, as if she had floated away from all of her worries. He guided her to a wooden stool on a rubber mat and sat her down in the middle of the three-sided mesh cage.

‘This mesh is made of copper wire, Florence. When the power is turned on the wire will be transmitting a huge electrical voltage. It is very important that you don’t touch it, do you understand?’

Florence nodded. ‘Don’t touch the cage.’

‘Good. The cage is your protection from the modifications I have made to the settings of the Clerk’s machine. The voltage is now much stronger than the usual therapeutic dose and will be amplified further by the cage. The greater magnetic field means that the atoms in your body will be completely rearranged and the toxins expelled. This will be the making of you, my dear Miss McCleland. You have so much potential, but some tiny part of your wiring has been misdirected. You are my perfect candidate. You will be the first of many to be cured of their mental ailments. You and I will be going down in medical history as the first
successful
pioneers of electrical therapy.’