‘Doctors–and the commissioners of the Lunacy Board–are sometimes open to persuasion, Mr Lincoln.’
‘Oh, I see.’ George thought he did see, and he did not much like it. It sounded a bit too glib. But another part of his mind felt grateful that there might be a way round the bewildering legal requirements. It can be done, he thought. I can put Maud into Latchkill, and once people have forgotten what happened to Thomasina and Simon, Maud can come home to Toft House, and life can go on just as before.
‘But,’ said Freda, ‘I find it strange that you should wish to commit your only daughter to an asylum, Mr Lincoln. Especially when you must surely have enough money to care for her at home.’ Again there was the appraising look round the room. ‘Is it because you are ashamed? Or is there some other reason?’
There was a rather unpleasant silence, but at length George said, ‘Before she died, Maud’s mother was very disturbed. Maud is showing unmistakable signs of the same–disturbance. I want to keep it private.’ This came out firmly and clearly.
‘I daresay it’s her delusions you want to keep private,’ said Freda. ‘Quite remarkable some of them. You had administered something to her, I think–laudanum most probably–but she was sufficiently awake to talk while I was with her.’
George felt as if something had a stranglehold on his throat, but he said, cautiously, ‘Maud has a very dark imagination at times.’
‘Indeed? Well, people whose minds are flawed exhibit the most extraordinary behaviour. You wouldn’t believe the things some of my patients say. Confessions of all kinds of crimes. Even murder.’ The little eyes were unreadable. ‘For most of the time we keep an open mind, of course. And no one at Latchkill will hear if Miss–should we call her Miss Smith?–very well, no one will hear if Miss Smith talks about people being buried alive inside your mill. A curious coincidence, isn’t it, that poor Miss Forrester and her cousin have been found shut in the underground room there. I heard some of my nurses talking about it before I left Latchkill. Quite a stir it’s caused.’
George was not clear if the Prout woman thought Maud had killed Thomasina and Simon, or whether she thought Maud knew who had done it, or if she thought George himself was the killer. Whichever it was, he felt a sick panic in his vitals.
Freda was saying, ‘But you know, Mr Lincoln–or may I be a little forward and call you George? You know, George, I’m sure we can some to some arrangement. And–oh yes, perhaps just a small drop more sherry. Thank you so much.’
‘Arrangement?’ said George.
‘I’m afraid it would mean extra work for my staff. And that would mean higher payments. Just to keep things in order. Not that there will be anything quesh–questesh–Pardon, questionable anywhere.’
A genteel blackmail, that was what this amounted to. George supposed he ought to have seen it coming. Was he prepared to submit to it? He remembered Maud’s happiness–possibly even her life–was at stake, and thought he was. And, said an unpleasant little voice inside his mind, your own happiness? Isn’t that at stake, as well? Isn’t your pleasant comfortable life at Toft House at stake, as well? Toft House and the Rosen money, that you worked so hard to get? He said, ‘I’m sure we can find an amicable agreement, Mrs Prout.’
‘Freda, please. After all, we are friends. And–oh no, I really mustn’t have any more sherry, my word, you’ll be getting me tiddly. Well, perhaps just half a glass.’
‘You do understand,’ said George, refilling her glass and wishing he could stir in poison, ‘you do understand, Freda, that everything I’m doing is entirely for Maud’s sake.’
‘Oh quite. Cheer-ho again, George.’