Chapter 19
Saturday, 29 September, 1888
Fate was a cruel mistress. The telegram read: Samuelson in residence, Colney Hatch Asylum. Cynda’s jubilation faded the moment Alastair insisted they take the Underground Railway from Aldgate Station to King’s Cross.
It is really quite safe, he cajoled as they wended their way through the throng toward the train platform. To Cynda, it seemed as if they were miles under the street level. Despite the cool weather, it was stifling hot inside the tunnel. The crush of bodies made it worse.
First time? he asked.
Yes. That wasn’t quite true: she’d been here before. In 2057, it held Grav-Rail trains—quiet, clean and boring transportation.
’88’s Underground was anything but.
Can’t we take a hansom? she asked for at least the third time.
No need. Much faster this way. Once we reach King’s Cross, we’ll change to the Northern Line; then it’s only twenty-one minutes to Colney Hatch, Alastair said with an air of pride. The Underground is one of the marvels of our time, like the new bridge near the Tower. You should experience it while you’re in London.
Cynda eyed him. This isn’t a marvel to me, Alastair. This is penance.
Oh…still, it’s quite a bracing excursion. Certainly not as bad as traveling from… He gave an offhand gesture to indicate the future.
Cynda glowered. You’re one of those technology-worshippers, aren’t you?
Certainly! Who isn’t? Alastair asked, surprised.
Technological advances such as this will allow our society to grow, he said, attempting to gesture expansively but not having the space to do so. If society flourishes, the less fortunate will benefit.
Right, she muttered. You sound like a politician.
I see you’re going to criticize everything I say, he replied, sounding hurt.
No, I’m just…
Afraid? he shot back.
No. The doctor raised an eyebrow. She sighed. Yes.
Well, it won’t last too long, Alastair said, returning to a reassuring tone.
Long enough to kill me, she grumbled.
A blast of noise welled out of the tunnel, followed by the massive bulk of a steam engine. Chaos ensued the moment it halted at the platform.
Alastair gripped her left elbow tightly. Stay with me, he shouted over the din, his face alight with joy.
Even if she’d wanted to turn and run for it, there was no chance, not with the tide of people pushing her forward and Alastair’s steering grip. Someone bumped into her right arm and she winced from the pain. They made it onto a carriage and took their seats with mere seconds to spare. The doctor beamed like an enthusiastic child.
A bit dicey there for a moment, but we made it! he crowed.
Shouts and bells rang out, doors slammed. With a horrendous lurch, the train heaved forward. Cynda was on her feet in a flash.
Alastair caught her and forced her down on the seat.
It’ll be fine, he shouted near her ear.
You lie, she shouted back and then jammed her eyes shut, squeezing his hand as hard as she could.
Darkness enveloped the car as they sped along the rails, the stench of sulfur and pipe smoke invading her lungs until she was sure each breath was the last. As they roared through the tunnel, Alastair leaned close to her ear and recounted the wonders of the Metropolitan Line, just like a tour guide. She focused on his words, desperate to shut out all the ominous sounds.
The line opened in 1863, and is quite safe and efficient, he said. It moves thousands of people a day. They even created special vents to ferry the steam and smoke to the surface to keep the tunnels free of the fumes.
Not working, Cynda said into Alastair’s handkerchief, currently positioned over her mouth. She rose at each station, only to be gently tugged back onto the seat.
Just a few more. We’re almost there, he said. This is quite an adventure.
Cynda stared at him, astonished at his boyish zeal. She never would have believed anything could undermine his emotional armor.
The train pulled into a station. This time, he was the one doing the tugging. This is it. She couldn’t fathom how he knew. They pressed their way toward the door and out onto the platform. In what only seemed a second later, the train chugged away leaving behind the stench of coal dust, oil lamps and overly warm bodies.
I have to have air, she whispered, her head swirling.
The exalted look on the doctor’s face vanished. This way out, he said, pointing.
The day was clear and autumn crisp. Cynda reveled in the slight breeze as she sat on a bench, sighing after each deep inhalation. Alastair hovered nearby, watching her closely.
Are you better now? he asked.
Yes, thank you.
You did very well, he said. Other than trying to abscond once or twice.
Tempting as it was to kick him in the shins, she resisted.
Certainly, hurtling through time was a lot more dangerous and unpredictable than riding in a steam train deep in London’s sooty cellar. Why did this frighten her so much?
You’re right. She rose, dusting bits of who-knows-what off her skirt. Probably coal cinders. How do we get to the asylum?
I’ll inquire which train we should take, Alastair offered and headed toward a railway employee.
Once he was out of earshot, she grumbled, Bracing excursion, my ass.
Colney Hatch Asylum resembled a ducal estate rather than a mental institution. The Italianate building soared above landscaped grounds, belying the horrors within. Cynda and Alastair traded looks.
Not like Bedlam, she said. Her companion nodded.
The hackney driver called down, You want me to wait?
Most definitely. Alastair pulled a few extra coins out of his pocket and pressed them into the man’s hand.
The jarvey touched his hat in respect and then shot an uneasy glance at the edifice in front of them. God help them.
I am sure He does, Alastair replied.
Cynda dropped the telegram on the desk. No, no, there is some misunderstanding.
The medical superintendent gave her a disgruntled look and shifted his attention toward Alastair. Before she was cut out of the conversation altogether, she tried again. We need to speak to Dr.
Walter Samuelson, not one of your patients. You sent me a telegram saying he was here.
On the contrary, I did not realize you were making an inquiry regarding an actual physician, the man replied in clipped tones.
We have an inmate here by the name of Samuelson who claims to be a doctor, but in no wise is he genuine.
When did he arrive? Cynda demanded.
The superintendent consulted a large book. On the seventh of this month.
The timing was right if Samuelson’s landlady was accurate.
I wish to see him. If it were the missing shrink, the time interface would tell her. The superintendent gave Alastair a disgruntled look and stood in a huff.
Come then, I will show you this man, and put an end to the matter. Then you can go about your business.
They hiked along the longest corridor Cynda had ever seen.
Individual cells lined one side, each housing some poor unfortunate. Unlike Bedlam, this building didn’t attempt to shoehorn itself into her brain. This felt more like a hospital, not an island full of the insane.
As the super unlocked a door, Alastair bent closer to her and whispered, Patience is a virtue.
She gave him a withering look.
The man inside the cell was perfectly composed. He sat on his bed, a piece of wood on his lap upon which he scribbled notes. An inkwell perched precariously on the nearly flat mattress, a mound of foolscap nearby.
Samuelson? the superintendent called.
Humpff? the fellow asked. His appearance was disheveled, but there was no hint of madness in his eyes.
Cynda reached under the cloak, extracting the pocket watch from her bodice. The interface was silent; this wasn’t the right man. Her hope exploded into tiny slivers.
Tucking away the watch, she stepped forward, selecting one of the pieces of paper. It was full of bizarre markings.
As you see, the superintendent said in a lowered voice, he is quite content to slave away on his notes, as he calls them. They make no sense at all; just mindless drivel. Random letters and symbols, no doubt some language of his own making. We hope to reorient him to rationality and then release him when he is deemed cured.
She turned and gave a wan smile, tossing the paper back on the pile. He isn’t the fellow I’m looking for.
As I knew, the super said with barely concealed smugness.
Cynda took one last look at the inmate on the bed. The fellow delivered a distracted smile and went back to his writings, pausing every now and then to gnaw on the top of the pen between sentences.
The door creaked shut, leaving the lunatic to his work.
Engaging the lock, the superintendent added, As long as we keep him supplied in paper and ink, he is docile. I wish the same could be said for some of the others.
The moment they climbed aboard the hansom, the jarvey set the horse off at a trot, keen to be away from the place.
I’m sorry it wasn’t the right fellow, Alastair said.
Cynda rubbed her face with her hands. Her best lead had turned out to be a dead end. Back to square one. Maybe one of the other telegrams or the note in the paper would pay off. If not, she would be returning to ’057 empty-handed and unemployed.
She leaned toward Alastair. What time is it?
He retrieved his pocket watch and studied it. Half past four.
Why?
Let’s get some supper before we go back to London.
Are you sure that’s wise? A full stomach might not be your best friend while riding the train.
She gave him a dazzling smile. Train? Heaven forbid. We’re going to return to London in style.
He arched an eyebrow. In a carriage, I suppose?
Indeed, Dr. Montrose, in a carriage. I’ll even pay for it.
It will take infinitely longer, he hedged.
Yes, it will, she said, nodding happily. It appears I have plenty of time.