"I thought that's what she said."
"Stupid girl! She said she'd told you she wanted to continue our discussions some time, but she didn't say when."
"Oh! I must have got it wrong." Eliza opens her blue eyes wide, the picture of innocence.
Weeks frowns. I can tell she's suspicious. Her eyes rake the room, checking if all is as it should be. Then her gaze comes back to me.
I look down, hold my breath.
The next moment, someone cries out, "No!" and I look up to see Weeks wresting a baby garment from Mrs. Thorpe. "Give me that! It's time you stopped this nonsense. There is no baby, you understand? No baby!"
Mrs. Thorpe starts wailing, a thin sad sound, and it sets off some of the others. With a tut of exasperation, Weeks stuffs the offending garment into the cupboard.
Behind her back, I send Eliza a grateful smile and she winks. I'm glad she's not in trouble. She's the only person I'll be sorry to leave. I wish I could say goodbye, but of course, that's impossible.
Tomorrow Beatrice and I will be safe. Tomorrow we won't be here.
I'm poised, waiting for my moment.
For the past few nights I've watched the night attendant and her routine hasn't varied. Now, the instant she's gone from the room with the clothes, I spit the chloral into my chamber pot. I look round. My roommates are huddled in their beds, twitching and sighing. No one's watching.
Quietly I go over to the table. I uncork the chloral bottle and pour some into the beer. The necks of the bottles chink together and I freeze. A quick glance over my shoulder reassures me—no one's looking my way, so I pour a little more, my hand trembling, and a few drops splash on to the table. It's hard to judge the dose. It must be enough to make the attendant sleep, but not too much. I don't want to kill her.
I push back both corks, mop up the spillage with my night gown and scurry back to bed.
I shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep, but I listen out for the attendant's movements: her footsteps in the hallway growing louder, the swish of her skirts past my bed, her heavy breathing. When I hear the creak as she settles in the chair, I peer at her through my lashes, my heart beating faster. Will she smell the chloral?
I wait on tenterhooks, but, for once, she doesn't immediately take a drink.
Instead she rummages in her bag, and taking out a greasy package, proceeds to unwrap it. A savoury smell reaches my nostrils—some kind of meat pie perhaps.
She tucks into this, while turning the pages of what looks like an illustrated newspaper. She seems to be looking at the pictures mainly although every now and then she pauses to read, running her finger across the page and mouthing the words to herself. Come on, come on, drink! I silently entreat her. At last she reaches for the bottle and downs a big draught, her attention still on the newspaper. I breathe again.
I don't know how long I'll have to wait—a regular dose would take effect within the hour, but this isn't a regular dose. Peering out from my bedclothes, I keep watching.
Tonight of all nights she seems unusually alert. She starts to play patience, drinks, belches, scratches, lays out the cards again.
What if the dose was too small?
Hours seem to pass, but perhaps it's my agitated state that makes it seem so long. I think of Beatrice, awake and waiting for me, wondering where I am, thinking I've let her down. Once, my own eyelids close and I jerk awake, alarmed. I mustn't fall asleep. That would ruin everything.
Just when I'm about to give up, the attendant's head drops and the cards slip from her hand on to the floor. I wait until her breathing deepens, and then I wait some more. I have to be sure the chloral has taken effect, that she won't wake up.
At last I think it might be safe to move. I slide out of bed, trying not make a sound. Holding my breath I tiptoe to her and reach towards her belt. The keys aren't there!
I feel paralysed. I could cry with frustration. Then I pull myself together. Think! She must have the keys somewhere—she needs them to get into the gallery. I look in her basket—a purse and another bottle of beer, that's all. No keys.
I scan the table, and then I spot them, half-hidden by the newspaper. It would be so easy to take them, but her arm is lying across the page. Gingerly I stretch out my hand, catch hold of the end of one of the keys and pull. Surely she'll feel the disturbance under her arm ... There's resistance and then the keys come sliding towards me, and with the slightest clink, I have them in my hand! I feel so gleeful I could laugh. I can't believe how easy it was. It's a good omen, I'm sure.