Chapter 18
Friday, 28 September, 1888
Morning brought new, painful discoveries. As she examined her limbs in the wardrobe’s small mirror, Cynda found it hard to believe there weren’t more bruises. Her right arm, the one that had tangled with the horse’s hoof, was swollen half again in size and a brilliant blue and black. She wiggled her fingers; they moved fairly easily. The shoulder didn’t.
As long as it’s not broken, I’m fine, she coached herself. She knew what broken things felt like. This was just one big ouchie. In some karmic fashion, the bruise offset the one she’d given the doctor. All in all, her dance with the Shires had turned out better than she’d had a right to expect.
Dressing brought more than one oath to her lips. Buttoning the navy dress proved impossible. Admitting defeat, she took her semi-dressed self to the kitchen in search of one of the landladies.
You must be more careful, Miss Jacynda, Mildred warned, deftly buttoning.
It was just an accident, Cynda lied.
Shouldn’t you rest today? Annabelle asked, peeling apples at the table.
No, I’m fine. Just a little sore.
Mildred admired her handiwork. There, you look proper.
Don’t forget the doctor’s note, Annabelle cautioned.
Ah, yes, Mildred replied. She pulled an envelope from under the teapot and handed it over. Dr. Montrose asked me to give you this.
Thank you.
Cynda didn’t read the note until she was out the front door, clad in Annabelle’s spare cloak.
I was unable to tell you with the landladies present last evening––Keats is now aware of the particulars of Mr. Stone’s death, but nothing further. I shall be available at the clinic after three if you need further care or wish to speak about the ‘Accident’.
That was cold. No I’m sorry you nearly got trampled to death
or anything remotely resembling concern.
Why did you tell Keats? Shaking her head in irritation, she stuffed the note into a skirt pocket and went in search of a cabbie.
Her day was full enough without a rendezvous at the clinic.
Though Cynda’s shoulder ached with every bump, the hansom ride refreshed her soul. The further westward she traveled, the cleaner and wider the streets became. Even the air seemed less dense. The route took her past St. James Park and Buckingham Palace. The last time she’d seen the place it was merely Buckingham House, serving as a residence for George the Third, his wife, Charlotte, and their umpteen children.
Definitely an improvement, she murmured, marveling at the edifice. Missing was the memorial statue to Queen Victoria, so prominent in later decades. It’d be a few years before that came to fruition.
As they clip-clopped their way to fashionable Belgrave Square, Cynda marveled at the contrast between the upmarket West End and the dingy sadness of the East. Gaily dressed young women appeared on the streets as the morning wore on, like elegant silk flowers seduced outdoors by the sun. Dapper young men in crisp morning coats and top hats paid them court. One particular woman’s gown, a rich emerald green tipped with silver, caught Cynda’s eyes. She sighed with a combination of envy and frustration. Clothes were no longer elegant in her time, merely functional. Here they were sumptuous, moving canvases.
Despite the trip, the Medico-Psychological Association office gave her nothing to work with. The only Samuelson they knew of was British born and bred, a curmudgeon in his mid-eighties.
Ignoring the constant throbbing ache in her right shoulder, she pressed on. After a hearty lunch at a dining hall near the Law Courts in Holborn, she took a hansom across the Thames to Lambeth and one of the most infamous institutions in all of Britain.
Cynda heard the voices even before she entered the building.
Not the inmates’ otherworldly howls, or the bizarre cackles that bounced off the stone walls, but the infinitesimal whispers of those who were no longer here. Had they graced this structure with their madness before they departed, bequeathed it into the very stones?
Welcome to Bedlam, they said. You are no different than us.
Why are you free and we are not?
Cynda shivered from crown to toes. Something pressed against her mind, clawing as if it sensed her sanity and sought to possess it. She closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths to stem the unreasoned panic blooming inside her. The howls of the damned grew in response.
Miss? a voice inquired.
Cynda forced her eyes open. A male attendant stood in front of her, a quizzical expression on his whiskered face.
I need to see who’s in charge.
He beckoned and she followed meekly, though it took more courage than she thought she possessed. As they turned a corner, a woman tromped by in jerky movements, a human wind-up toy.
Minus a few teeth, the scowl on her face seemed to be etched into her genetic code. She hissed like an angry cobra, narrowing her eyes and craning her thin neck.
Go ’way. No place for you ’ere, she said in a thick Irish accent.
Go ’way, go ’way. You’ll take their food. Go ’way, go ’way!
With one last venomous look, she returned her eyes to the floor, thrusting her head to the right and then the left as she tromped away.
The attendant leaned close to explain. That’s Mad Sammy.
She feeds the mice her food. That’s why she doesn’t want us here.
Figures we’ll eat all the victuals and the mice’ll starve. She’s better’n some of ’em, I can tell ya.
A woman who values mice over men, Cynda mused.
That’s it for a fact, the man said, beckoning her forward.
Don’t the sounds bother you?
He gave her a peculiar look and then shook his head. They used to. I don’t hear them no more.
Oh, God.
Dr. Samuelson? the resident officer asked, looking up from the stack of paperwork on his desk. Yes, he was here.
When? she asked, leaning forward in anticipation.
And just who are you in relation to him? He removed his glasses and laid them carefully aside.
Cynda readied the lie. His niece. There is an illness in the family, and we must find him as quickly as possible.
Oh, I see. Well, it’s been well over a month since I’ve last seen him.
Cynda’s hope dwindled. Do you have any idea where I can reach him?
He was staying somewhere near Fenchurch Street Station. I don’t know precisely where.
Did he mention any other asylums that he intended to visit?
Quite a few actually, but I cannot remember them at this point. Not speaking ill of your uncle, but he is a rather odd fellow, to be honest.
Yes, he is, Cynda agreed. Anything to keep the man talking.
If time is of the essence, I would suggest you send telegraphic inquiries to those institutions closest at hand. It would save travel time and expense. You might consider placing a personal notice in the paper.
Why not? I shall do as you suggest, she said. Thank you, sir.
Doctor, he said. Good day, miss. He bent over his paperwork, the minutiae of the mad, mumbling something under his breath about interruptions.
The walls continued to talk to her even as the hackney pulled away.
What would it be like if you could never leave?
Bane of a good copper, Keats muttered under his breath, setting one page of his report aside and starting on the next.
Fisher was a stickler about paperwork and had, on occasion, required Keats to rewrite a report if it didn’t meet his exacting standards.
The work would have been finished earlier if his mind weren’t playing leapfrog with him. He’d start thinking about how close Jacynda had come to harm, then he’d wonder what else Alastair had been hiding from him during their argument. His mind had waged war with him all night, demanding he take the matter of Mr. Stone’s death to his superiors.
But that could backfire. Though he still did not believe either Jacynda or the doctor to be capable of murder, would Alastair’s earlier brush with the law condemn him anyway? Would they be charged and convicted based on Keats’ testimony that they sought to hide the true cause of death?
He’d been to hangings; he knew what they were like. The thought of the rope entwined around Jacynda’s delicate neck…
The pen shuddered, and he had to cross out a word. Irritated, he crumpled the paper. With some effort, he tugged his mind back to the job, beginning the botched sentence anew.
The telltale sound of inspector Ramsey’s heavy footfalls echoed in the hallway. Keats’ fellow cops tidied their coats and earnestly hunched over their paperwork to avoid scrutiny. They need not have bothered; once Ramsey spied him, Keats would be his target.
Ramsey halted near the desk. He cleared his throat to attract attention.
Well, well, is that Sergeant Keats? This is a surprise. Don’t see much of you around here. Too busy playing detective, I hear.
Keats looked up from his report. Good afternoon, Inspector.
Mind you, my lads don’t see you on the street, either. They see the other coppers, but not you. That tells me something. You know what that is?
That your lads couldn’t find their bums with both hands? No, sir, he answered politely.
That tells me you’re running a game on us. I bet you’re warming some tart’s bed while drawing your pay. Ramsey pointed a sausage-shaped finger at him. One of these days, I’ll catch you at it. Fisher might think the sun rises in your arse, but I know better.
There was no need to argue with the fellow––he wasn’t known for his brains. As you say, sir. Keats selected another piece of paper and continued his report.
So, what are you working on? Ramsey asked, glowering.
Keats looked up again and faked a smile. Then the devil got the best of him. Not doing much, sir. Just running my game, as you put it.
The man’s fist rapped hard on the desk. Someday, I’ll catch you and I’ll have you by the nads. You got that?
I believe so, sir. Someday, you intend to handle my bollocks.
Ramsey reddened, the fist flexing. Keats continued with his paperwork, as if nothing were amiss.
The inspector muttered an oath under his breath as he marched out of the room. Whispers erupted amongst the other cops. Keats kept his head down, eyes fixed on the report. He wondered how long it would take before the details of the conversation reached Fisher’s ears. He could hear his superior now––Really, Sergeant, must you aggravate the man at every opportunity?
Yes, twice over.
Keats blotted the ink on the last line of the report, tidied up the desk and toted the paperwork to the proper people. One day, he’d go too far with Ramsey and pay heavily for his insolence.
Fortunately, it did not appear to be today.
His mind elsewhere, Keats hopped into a crowded omnibus, scrunching up next to a parcel-laden woman.
Jacynda had stirred up a memory. He knew of only one way to exorcize it.
The woman in the dark brown dress glowered from the doorway. By now, Cynda was used to the look. This was her seventh boarding house near Fenchurch Station, and so far she’d struck out at every one.
The landlady had her hands on her hips, the universal why are you wasting my time? gesture.
Dr. Walter Samuelson, Cynda repeated.
There was a fellow here by the name, the woman admitted.
Why do you want to know?
Yes! I’m his niece. A family member has taken ill.
The landlady eyed her. Well, then you’ve not heard, have you?
Heard what? If he ended up under a beer wagon…
He’s gone home.
Home? When?
About three weeks ago. Mind you, he was all too fond of those mad people. She paused and then frowned. I suppose you’ll be wanting his things.
Cynda heard the resentment. No doubt, the woman thought of selling them to augment her income. Yes.
Follow me, then.
Dr. Samuelson had left very little: a pair of dirty socks, a rumpled shirt and a book about psychiatric diseases clad in a worn leather cover. When the landlady wasn’t looking, Cynda checked the book’s copyright date—2017––and winced. Someone at TIC wasn’t doing their job. All tourists were to be vetted for anachronistic items before transfer. Luckily, the landlady wasn’t the curious type.
Cynda left the socks and shirt and retraced her way to the boarding house. It was nearing five. Her shoulder was so stiff she couldn’t move properly. A hot bath would help, along with liberal helpings of tea and scones.
She’d narrowed her quest to within a few weeks. If her flurry of telegrams didn’t pan out, then she’d make the rounds of the morgues. If worse came to worst, Walter Samuelson might be heading home in an urn just like Chris.
The fire crackled in the background and the kettle was just coming to a boil. Settled in his favorite chair, Keats held the book as if it were a rare gem. It was hardly that, but it exacted as much awe for him as any diamond or ruby. He’d selected the proper one from amongst its many companions––his mother had kept diaries since she was in her teens—and this particular volume was where Keats came into her life.
The binding was cracked, and bits of dried leather flaked onto his lap. He could have it repaired, but then someone else might read her tortured words. He couldn’t let that happen.
He smiled in remembrance of the woman who had loved him unconditionally. She had left him too soon, though now that he knew of her pain, he understood how death could bring such sweet respite.
There was no need for him to open the book: The words had been seared into his heart from the first time he’d read them.
I am with child.
At first I rejoiced, for it is a miracle. Then my joy burned away, like Icarus soaring too near the sun. If I had known what kind of man Hiram would become, I would not have succumbed to his flattery, his bold pronouncements of love, his licentious ways. I saw in him honor and grace, a man I could admire. Now the serpent rears its head.
When I told him of our child, he spurned me, laughing at my misfortune. He denies his responsibility to the life in my womb. I am ruined, and he does not care. God forgive me, I have had thoughts of ending this torment, of slaying myself. The child within me stays my hand.
If it is a girl, I pray she never fall victim to a man’s smooth tongue. If it is a boy, then I beg God that he becomes the antithesis of his father. If ever faced with such a moral obligation, I hope he would do the honorable thing, outshining the brute that so callously sired and then denied him.
In the end, it had taken Keats’ maternal grandfather to force the nuptials into reality, employing the lure of a sizeable monetary settlement, coupled with the threat of physical violence.
Because of the old man, Jonathon Davis Keats had been born legitimate. Until he read his mother’s diaries, he’d never understood the gulf that resided between his sainted dam and the cur she’d married.
Keats gently kissed the book. It smelled of old leather and his mother’s lilac perfume. Jacynda came to mind. What was it like to carry the child of a dead man, knowing he could not restore your honor from the grave?
Tucking the diary away, he rose and dusted off his suit. He knew what he must do. In all ways, he was resolute: He would be a better man than his father.
You’re sure someone pushed her into the street? Livingston asked.
It is the only explanation, sir. One moment she was admiring the horses; the next, she was underneath them, William reported.
And the body at the mortuary?
Suicide. A young man named Christopher Stone. Pulled from the Thames.
What relation is she to him?
I’m not sure on that, sir.
Livingston arched an eyebrow. Did Miss Lassiter take any harm during her misadventure?
An injury to her shoulder. It did nothing to slow her progress today. She has been inquiring after a man named Samuelson. He is an…alienist.
Is she seeking treatment?
I do not believe so. She was putting it about that she is his niece. She visited Bedlam this morning, and then boarding houses near Fenchurch Station.
Bedlam? Good God, Livingston remarked, deftly flicking some lint off his coat. Knots of theatergoers waltzed by, chattering amongst themselves. Why is this Samuelson so important?
Livingston pondered.
Perhaps he has something to do with Mr. Stone’s death.
Livingston gave his companion a look of respect. I think you might be right on that, William, especially in light of the attempt on Miss Lassiter’s life. He delivered a nod of approval at his subordinate. You have performed outstanding service. He extracted another sovereign and handed it to the man.
The fellow blinked. Thank you, sir. You’ve been extremely generous.
You’ve earned it. For the time being, continue to follow Miss Lassiter. If you need to contact me, leave a message at the Artifice Club. The steward will forward your message.