At last, his eyes tangled with hers.
‘Mrs Bainbridge, I do not believe that you killed them. I never did. And while I cannot believe all aspects of your story either, I do believe your love for Mr Livingstone. You would not hurt him. It seems to me the fire was an accident, as so many fires are. It consumed the lives of two, and it nearly consumed you, until Providence helped you escape. But you must comprehend, my belief is immaterial. A jury will look at this and see a woman whose father died in suspicious circumstances, whose husband died within a quarter of their marriage, to her considerable advantage. Two servants killed in mysterious accidents. Then, the very day a telegram is despatched to an asylum to say you are unmanageable and in need of restraint . . . You see how it looks.’
Murderess. The name did not match the Elsie in the story, but she had the face for it now: the pink, shining flesh; cropped hair; eyes that looked like they had been screwed into the sockets. A monster, gifted to the crowds. How they would gobble her up, write about her, delight in little affected shrieks as she shambled to and from the dock.
‘I have very few options, Mrs Bainbridge. I must make my report, and soon.’ His fingers twitched. They would write the next words, the words that decided her fate. She regarded them, wary. Could such slim, tapered fingers hold her life safe?
‘As far as I can see, there are only two ways for me to keep you from gaol. The first is that you submit to my theory. Accept you are a disturbed individual, damaged by a pair of cruel and unfeeling parents. You allow me to say that Sarah is a separate part of your subconscious, that you may have killed but you cannot accept what you have done, so you have invented these phantoms, these companions, to take the guilt for you. The verdict will undoubtedly be guilty, but at least we have a chance of pleading criminal insanity. That means Broadmoor rather than Newgate.’
Let everyone believe she murdered Jolyon? Have her name go down on the record as the destroyer of his life? She shook her head, vehement.
‘You must dwell upon it, Mrs Bainbridge. Promise me you will. It may not be the whole truth but . . . It is our best hope.’
The pencil slipped in her sweating hand. Other option?
His mouth twisted. ‘Well, there is one, but I fear it is not likely.’
Yes.
‘My dear Mrs Bainbridge, your only other option is to pray that Sarah Bainbridge walks through that door, ready to swear to your innocence.’
She dreamt of Sarah that night. Lavender dress, grey cape, swishing in the rain. Branches writhed above her head, reaching out to her with a mute appeal. Her boots scuttled around the puddles that bubbled on the ground.
The landscape stretched ahead of her; ditches, black hillocks and the unruly mass of hedgerows. Behind lay the village of Fayford in shades of silver and grey, a daguerreotype of the place Elsie had known. There was no light.
Sarah stumbled. Mud clagged the hem of her skirt. Her ankles were soaked and her gown was wet, sticking to her legs. She looked utterly lost, utterly alone. Drowning.
A creak; long and low, like a moan of pain in the dark. Two heavy beats – thump, thump. Then the creak again.
Elsie’s eyelids flickered. Was the sound from her dream? Or was it in the room? She could still see Sarah, cowed by the silver needles raining down upon her, but she could not smell damp turf, or the metallic tang of rain; a sweeter, heavier scent filled her nose. Roses.
She jerked awake. Instinctively, she twitched her arms. They were pinioned at her sides, weighed down by the tucked sheets. She tried to look around but saw only black.
The floorboards whined. Elsie heard it up and down her spine. Little pats, like the footfalls of an animal.
Jasper?
But no; Jasper was not here. She was not at The Bridge. She released her breath, relieved by that one fact: she was not there.
Bang, bang. She jumped. Someone at the door.
She would not answer it, she thought wildly, they could not make her. She tried to hide beneath the covers but they were tight, so tight. The knock came again.
Who could it be? Nurses, attendants, doctors – none of them knocked for admission.
The floorboards by her feet moaned. The sound was coming from within the room.
Fear squeezed her throat. She could not call out, she could not scream; she could only scuffle her legs at the end of the bed as the creak came closer and closer. Still the sheets refused to give way and it was hot; scorching like a breath from hell.
She felt sick. She wanted to cry. Made strong by desperation, she wrenched her arms loose from the sheets and groped under her pillow. Please be there, please be there. But no, that was the past. They did not let her keep matches in here.
Something touched her foot.
It burnt like a brand. Red-hot arrows pierced her skin, travelling up her veins. They sliced through Elsie’s blocked throat and released her scream.
Footsteps pounded outside. Voices, real people, coming to help. She kept her eyes shut and screamed louder. They could not come fast enough.
She heard them jangling the chain, shooting bolts from their cradles. Why did it take so long?
Another brand on her leg. Up to the shin, now.
Bang. The door hit the wall. Gas lamps were on in the corridor; their light bounced into the room.
It was only a glimpse, caught in the snapping shadows, but Elsie saw it: Sarah. Wooden, painted.
She screamed again.
‘Watch yourselves.’ The low voice of an attendant.
Something hissed, then a gash of light tore across her vision. She shut her eyes, blinded. It was the lamp in her room – they had turned it on. Slowly, slowly she managed to open her scrunched eyes. Sarah was gone. In her place stood two burly attendants and a man wearing paper cuffs.
‘Now!’
They pounced, seizing the tender flesh of her wrists. Two more attendants took her ankles. The bedsheets fell away easily now, no longer taut and suffocating.
She kicked and thrashed, but their hold did not give. They were insensible to her blows, deaf to her screams. She tried to bite. An acrid, dry taste filled her mouth as they stuffed it with a rag. Gagging, she tried to spit it out, but something covered her face, edging past her eyes; something coarse and stiff and reeking of terror.
Pressure squeezed around her ribs. Her clawing hands were plunged into sleeves without end. For a moment she was a ghoulish figure with long, dragging arms and no hands. Then the sleeves were crossed over her chest and secured tight behind her back. A corpse: she was tied in the position of a corpse.
The man with paper cuffs gave her a horrible grin. His teeth were rotten. ‘Better fetch the doctor. Tell him it’s a bleedin’ miracle. The murderess can speak.’
She tried. The words were all there, queued up in her throat, clamouring for release: run; Sarah; companions; coming. But her dry, swollen tongue refused to move.
She made a wheezing sound and that was all. A pathetic echo of the companions’ hiss.