“Be that as it may, I'd like you to put it on record that I'm scrupulous in my duties, that the hospital offers its patients a very high standard of care, and that such interruptions are potentially damaging.”
“I shall be sure to do so.”
Somewhat mollified, Monroe smiled, grimaced, jerked his head down to the right, and said: “ Ugh! You'll find fewer patients in this part of the establishment. However, I should warn you that those unfortunates who reside in these wards are the most seriously disturbed and can be exceedingly violent, so please refrain from making eye contact with them. It's also the reason why we don't have a communal hall here, just individual rooms.”
He led his visitors into a filthy cell-lined corridor, where the section's head nurse greeted them with a bob. Monroe's two assistants moved along the passage, sliding open viewing hatches. Burton, Burke, and Hare walked from door to door, peering through into the bare square cubicles, trying hard to ignore the abominations that blasted their eyes and assaulted their ears from within.
This went on for corridor after corridor, each one presenting them with more nurses, more cells, more degradation, and more horrors.
Burton walked with his arms folded tightly across his chest, clamping his hands against his ribs to hide the fact that they were shaking.
They came to corridor nine on floor four.
Doctor Monroe introduced another nurse to Burton: “This is Sister Camberwick. She oversees this section. Sister, these gentlemen are from the Department. Inspectors Cribbins, Faithfull, and- ugh! -Skylark.”
Sister Camberwick bobbed and said, “Good afternoon, sirs. I think you'll find everything to your satisfaction.”
The examination of corridor nine followed the same pattern as those before until, at its end, Burton turned to Monroe and said, “Doctor, I'm aware that we're imposing upon your time. May I suggest that we hasten matters?”
“Certainly. That would be most welcome. How so?”
“In addition to completing this tour of inspection, we need to conduct private interviews with selected members of your staff-”
“That wasn't required last time!” Monroe objected. “I can assure you that working conditions here are absolutely- ugh! -”
Burton held up a hand to stop him. “Quite so! Quite so! It's nothing more than a formality, I assure you, but one that must be observed in order to complete the paperwork and leave you in peace.”
Bismillah! Peace! Here? In this Jahannam!
Monroe ran his tongue across his lips, shrugged, and gave a curt nod. “Oh, very well, very well. Whatever you say. How should we proceed?”
“I suggest you continue the inspection with Mr. Faithfull and Mr. Skylark. In the meantime, I'll remain here to interview Sister Camberwick and her nurses. It should be enough to fulfill the terms of the inspection. Once done, a sister can escort me to your office. My colleagues and I will then take our leave and, I assure you, we'll draft a most favourable report. I think it fair to predict that you'll not be bothered by us again.”
The doctor heaved a sigh, gave a smile, and suffered a facial spasm.
A few minutes later, Burton was seated in a small office, alone with Sister Camberwick. The door was closed, muffling the screams and curses from the cells.
“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Cribbins?”
“No thank you, Sister. Please sit and relax. This is merely a routine procedure, there's nothing to be nervous about.”
“I'm not nervous,” she said. She sat down and adjusted her bonnet. “After working in an asylum, one ceases to feel nerves.”
“I should think that's a great advantage.”
“It is.”
“When did you start here?”
“At the beginning of the year. Early February.”
She glanced into his eyes then looked down at her skirts and straightened them.
“And before that?”
She blinked rapidly. “I served in the Crimea, and, when the war was over, in workhouses.”
“The Crimea. You must have seen great suffering.”
He moved his chair closer to hers and in a low, melodious, and rhythmic tone, recited: “Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.”
Sister Camberwick's lower lip trembled.
“‘Santa Filomena’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” Burton murmured. “Look at me, Sister.”
She looked. Her eyes slid away, returned, held.
Burton began to rock back and forth very slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“It is fine work you have done.”
She leaned forward to better hear him.
“And it is fine work you continue to do.”
She seemed transfixed by the deep, soothing quality of his voice, and, unaware that she was doing it, she began to sway, keeping in time with his own movement.
“For the purposes of this interview,” he said, in almost a whisper, “it is important that you relax. This exercise will help. I want you to breathe with me. Feel the air entering your right lung. In. Out. Now breathe into your left. In. Out. Slowly, slowly.”
Gently and patiently he guided her through a Sufi meditation technique, watching as her attention centred on him to the exclusion of all else. He softly issued instructions, taking her from a cycle of two breaths to a cycle of four, subduing her mind through the complexity of the exercise until she was entirely under his control.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Patricia Camberwick,” she answered.
“And behind that? The other name? The one that you've been forbidden to use?”
“Florence Nightingale.”
“Tell me about the circumstances that led to your presence here, Miss Nightingale.”
“I-I can't-I can't remember.”
“I know. The memory has been blocked. What occurred to you happened while you were enslaved by a mesmeric influence. Can you feel that blockage, like a wall in your mind?”
“Yes.”
“It is only a wall because you've been made to think so. The truth is, it's a door. Just walk through it,
