The stench was just as bad as it had been before, but at least the rainwater was no longer flowing down the walls, which was some sort of progress, Hawkwood supposed, as he followed Attendant Leech up the main stairs. After the frantic activity that had greeted his last visit, the atmosphere in the building seemed strangely subdued. But the lull was temporary. As they reached the landing, a long-drawn-out scream broke the spell. As if it had been a signal, it was answered by a dozen more. Hawkwood was reminded of the wolf packs that roamed the Spanish mountains. The first time he had heard their howling, the hairs had risen up on the back of his neck. He felt the familiar prickle beneath his hairline and the memory came flooding back. Leech saw his reaction and grimaced. “The Devil’s chorus, we call it. Pretty, ain’t it?”
The room was as he remembered it. The musty smell had not dissipated and there were still traces of moisture high along the covings and beneath the windowsills. The only difference was that a fire had been lit in the grate, as much to keep back the encroaching damp as to provide warmth and comfort, Hawkwood suspected. Apothecary Locke was at his desk. He looked just as apprehensive as he had the first time.
“Thank you, Mr Leech. I’ll ring if I need you.”
The attendant hesitated and then left the room.
Locke spread his hands. “So much paperwork. There are times when I swear I will drown under its weight.” The apothecary stared morosely through his spectacles at the sea of forms before him then stood up. “A terrible business. The
Locke took off his spectacles and reached for the handkerchief in his sleeve. “So, Officer Hawkwood, what can I do for you?” The apothecary smiled nervously.
Hawkwood wondered how much of that nervousness was due to the apothecary’s discomfort with the governors’ new confidentiality directive. Leech’s manner hadn’t seemed any different, but as a keeper in a madhouse he was probably used to being ordered around, even if he didn’t like it. But then, Leech didn’t look like the sort of man who had too many scruples, especially when his job was at stake. The apothecary, though, was different. Hawkwood sensed a streak of integrity in Locke and, if that observation held true, the apothecary’s unhappiness at having to conform to the governors’ desire for secrecy was understandable.
“You assume correctly, Doctor. I want to see the admission documents relating to Colonel Hyde’s commitment to the hospital.”
Locke nodded. “Your visit is most timely, for I recently retrieved them from Dr Monro’s archive. I thought they would be useful for my summation. I’ve not yet read them, though I could tell they have not emerged unscathed from their hibernation. As you will have observed, we are not immune to the vicissitudes of Mother Nature. Over the years flooding has been a persistent enemy and the accumulative damage has been considerable. Fortunately, with regard to the colonel’s records, not all has been lost. If you’ll allow me a moment, I’ll see if I can locate them. I put them down here somewhere.”
Without waiting for a reply, the apothecary began to rifle through his papers.
Finally, he held up a thin collection of yellowing documents secured in a black ribbon. “Yes, here we are. As you will see, the elements have left their mark. The damage may not be too severe, however.” The apothecary glared at the tell-tale stains running down the walls. “I shall be glad when we move to our new premises. The conditions here are becoming quite intolerable.”
Clearing a space on the desk, Locke untied the ribbon.
Hawkwood moved closer and looked over the apothecary’s shoulder. Locke’s collar was quite frayed, he noticed, and there were strands of hair and white flecks of dandruff on both it and the back of his jacket.
Carefully, the apothecary laid the ribbon to one side and began to flatten out the papers.
The documents had indeed been severely affected by the rain and damp. Dark water stains framed the top edges and extended in ugly brown blotches for two or three inches across the upper half of each page. Separating the first sheet, the apothecary tutted as his fingertips traced the unsightly marks.
“This is the Admittance Document. There are the particulars: patient’s name, age, period of distraction, and so forth. As you can see, and as you may recall from our last discourse, Colonel Hyde was admitted to the hospital on the grounds of melancholy.”
Ignoring the rain damage and the smudges to the ink, Hawkwood ran his eye down the page. At the top of the document, in faint print and just discernible beneath the water stains, he could make out the words:
The rest of the form was as Locke had described; a concise summary of the patient’s personal circumstances. The period of distraction, Hawkwood noted, had been given as four months. Which didn’t seem very long. Other than that, for all the rest of the densely worded text, there was precious little information on the state of the patient’s mind, other than the one-word diagnosis. Interestingly, there was no space for the date of the admission, but in the margin, someone had written in an untidy hand:
His gaze moved down the page. His eye caught the word
“What’s this?”
“The bond? It is purely a note of surety. The signatories agree to cover the cost of the patient’s clothing, the cost of their removal if discharged, or their burial when dead. It’s a set amount, as you see: one hundred pounds. I have the colonel’s here.”
Locke produced another page from the sheets on the desk and muttered with annoyance. Of all the pages, the bond looked to have suffered the most discoloration. The ink had run and the top quarter of the page was completely illegible. Grimacing, Locke smoothed the page out as best he could with the palm of his hand. The rest of the document was readable, but only just.
Hawkwood’s eyes moved to the two signatures on the bottom right-hand side of the page.
The first signature was illegible. Had the top half of the document not been ruined, it would have been possible to read the official scribe’s notation, with the names clearly rendered, but water damage had made that impossible. In any case, it was not the name of the first signatory that had drawn Locke’s attention. It was the second, more legible signature over which his finger hovered.
Hawkwood read the name again. “
Locke nodded. A little cautiously, Hawkwood thought.
“You’re sure?”
“I doubt there’s another,” Locke murmured.
While there were many men whose names commanded instant respect, the number whose reputation bordered on the supernatural based solely on their profession could be counted on the fingers of one hand. If the Army had Wellington and the Royal Navy had Nelson, the world of medicine had Eden Carslow.
“They say he makes over fifteen thousand a year from private practice alone,” Locke said. There was a note of awe in his voice. “And that his lectures to students command audiences of four hundred or more.”
“Which makes you wonder why he’s bothering to stand as security on a ?100 bond for a patient in a madhouse,” Hawkwood murmured.
Locke was silent. At first Hawkwood presumed it was because the apothecary was still overwhelmed by the proximity of greatness. But it turned out it was because he was preoccupied with another of the pages. “There’s more,” Locke said quietly, passing over the page. “Look.”
It was a letter, written in an elegant hand:
“Hawkwood read the words, his mind turning. Finally, he pushed himself away from the desk and took a deep breath. Someone had to say it.
“All right, Doctor, I’ve two questions for you. The first is: why would a man of Eden Carslow’s standing put up
