Artful: A Novel (17 page)

The Artful nodded because frankly he couldn’t think of anything else to say or do. If this little boy could walk into the fire, then shame alone would keep Dodger moving. “Fine then. Let’s go rescue a princess.”

“Let’s,” agreed Bram.

They headed for the doors. The closer they drew, the more clearly they could hear the cries echoing from within. Even with Bram’s example, it was everything Dodger could do to keep moving, but he kept his feet going with an inward determination. Drina needed them, and Dodger was determined not to let her down, even though the distant screaming—drawing closer by the moment—was extremely disturbing.

They reached the large front doors, and there was a guard standing there with bushy eyebrows and a nose that was thick and veined with the results of a lifetime imbibing more drink than was healthy. He scowled down at them and immediately said, “You boys best be moving along. This place ain’t for the likes of you.”

“I don’t think it’s for you t’judge,” said Dodger. He held up the crown. “We have the means to pay right enough.”

“Most of the day’s gone,” said the guard. “Come back next Tuesday when you can stay longer.”

“We know what we want.” The Artful was more insistent in thrusting the crown forward. “We wants t’go in now.”

The guard’s face twisted in an annoyed sneer. “Get out of here, the both of ye.”

Bram stepped forward. “Can we speak to your superior, please?”

“Me what?”

“Your boss. We wish to tell him that he has an employee who thinks he gets to judge who’s allowed to come and go in Bedlam.”

Bram had spoken with complete calm. It was as if the guard weren’t even really there, and he was already speaking directly to the guard’s superior.

Drina does that, too,
Dodger couldn’t help but think.
If I could talk like that, there’d be nothing I couldn’t steal.
The thought made him perk up a bit.

The guard was clearly struggling between his impulse to send the boys on their way and a vague apprehension that somehow this young boy might actually be able to make life difficult for him.

Finally, with an annoyed grunt, he stuck out a hand. The
Artful
promptly placed the crown in it and then the guard gestured with a thumb behind him. “Go on in before I change me mind.”

“Right then,” said Dodger, and he and Bram quickly entered the halls of Bedlam.

The very first thing that hit them was the smell. The stench of waste wafted through the air, so much so that Dodger actually staggered and clapped his hand over his nose. Bram was even more profoundly affected, retching audibly and doing everything he could not to actually throw up. For some reason, the fact that Bram wasn’t, in fact, unaffected by everything made Dodger feel better.

In a low voice, Dodger muttered, “I feel like I walked into a corpse.”

“Well, well! What have we here!”

The voice was loud and booming and disproportionately in a good mood, considering their surroundings. The Artful and Bram turned toward the origin that happened to be, quite
clearly
, a gentleman of some sort. He was wearing a gray suit and had a long, bristling beard. “Are you lads tourists?” he inquired as if he were greeting them outside of the palace.

“Aye, we are, sir,” Dodger said immediately. He removed his hat and held it in what he fancied was an appropriate manner for a young gentleman inside a posh establishment. “We thought we’d take a look around. Who might you be?”

“Doctor Huddleston,” said the bearded man. He bowed
slightly
, which, for some reason, made Dodger feel good. “Would you like me to show you lads around?”

The answer, of course, was,
Not really
. The boys were on a rescue mission, and Dodger very much suspected that having the doctor along would impede their efforts. But there didn’t seem to be any way around it. A brusque refusal or any manner of brush-off might engender suspicion, and that was not what they needed right then. So Dodger said the only thing he could: “Ab-so-loot-ly.”

Doctor Huddleston smiled and gestured for them to follow. They did so, falling into step behind him. The Artful whistled as he walked, doing his best to seem as casual as he could. Bram, feeling under no compulsion to feign being at ease, looked
steadily
left and right as they walked.

“We don’t get a lot of lads your age in here,” said Huddleston conversationally. “What spurs your interest?”

“Oh, we’re int’rested in everything that happens everywhere in the city,” said Dodger as if being curious about the confines of an asylum were the most natural thing in the world.

“How much do you know about the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem?”

“Pardon?”

“Here,” said Huddleston, looking a bit confused.

“About Bedlam? A little.”

Huddleston stopped and made a face of irritation. “I have to say, Mister . . .”

“Dawkins.”

“Mister Dawkins, I do not especially appreciate the nickname ‘Bedlam.’ It has garnered many negative connotations, and I find St. Mary to be a far more appropriate and, frankly, less disparaging term.”

“Very well,” said Dodger, bowing slightly. “I know very little about St. Mary’s.”

“Well,” said the doctor, and he rubbed his hands together as if about to dig into a particularly attractive dessert. “It has a most intriguing history.”

He proceeded to tell it, and we will not bore you with it because there are many places you could go to read about it if it is of any true interest to you. We will save time by simply saying that Bethlem had a long and frankly somewhat depressing history and had moved several times before finally setting up shop in its current location.

The Artful and Bram had no choice but to listen or at least pretend to listen. It was not an easy endeavor, though, because there was much to steal their attention: namely, the patients.

They passed a series of closed doors, but there were decent sized windows in each of them so that it was easily possible to observe the people within. What they saw was extremely distressing. People were in there—presumably patients, but they were not patients in any sense in which the boys were experienced with the word. There was nothing done to be making them better, to help them recover their senses.

Some were wandering free. They would move about the room, or perhaps simply sit in one place and stare off into space, their eyes far too disinterested in the world around them to react. A couple of them made eye contact with Dodger but seemed to be looking right through him. It was as if there were someone residing in their heads who was actively endeavoring to keep them from interacting with the world around them.

Those were the ones who were free. Far more disturbing were those who were anything but free. They were chained up, manacled in place. Some were at least able to move around, with their chain allowing them a few feet of latitude in any direction. Others were being kept right where they were. They struggled against their restraints; they screamed at the top of their lungs. The Artful was sure that he would never be able to cleanse those agonized screams from his mind. It was as if they cut right into the base of his brain.

Doctor Huddleston noticed the reaction on Dodger’s face. Bram was once again his impassive self, but Dodger was having difficulty hiding his revulsion. “Are you all right, lad?” the doctor asked.

Realizing that he was leaving himself open to possibly
being
ushered out, Artful waved it off as if it were nothing. “I’m fine.
I’m all
right. I was just wondering about, you know . . . the
necessities
.”

“Necessities?”

“How you decide who to chain up and who not to.”

“Ah.” Huddleston appeared to warm to the topic. “That is based entirely on interviews with each of the patients. If we are convinced that they will be harmless to themselves and others, then of course they are permitted to walk about unimpeded. If, on the other hand, they seem as if they are going to present a hazard, then naturally we have to take additional steps.”

“Yes, yes, of course. That makes sense.”

They continued to move past room after room. It quickly became depressingly monotonous. That did not distract, however, from Dodger’s determination to study the face of everyone he was watching.

Men were kept in rooms with men, and women with
women
. Dodger assumed that there was no mingling of the genders for obvious reasons. He did his best to maintain full interest no matter which sex was occupying the room, yet nevertheless, he could not help but pay far closer attention to any room with females. He hadn’t worked out exactly what they would do when they spotted Drina, but he wasn’t all that concerned. He had outsmarted all manner of individuals in his life, and he was certain that Doctor Huddleston would prove no exception.

“Now this fellow,” said Huddleston, “is a would-be murderer. At least, he says so. We’ve no evidence of anyone that he’s actually killed, but naturally we’re disinclined to take any chances.”

Dodger looked through the window. The resident within was wearing only slacks and no shirt, and he was barefoot. The wall was spotted with the remains of food that he had
apparently
thrown against it in fits of rage. Chunks of his hair had been ripped out, presumably by the man himself. He glowered from beneath furrowed eyebrows at the boys. He shook the chains briefly and noisily.

“You have all types here, eh?” said Dodger.

“Oh yes. All the best and worst that humanity has to offer reside herein. Well, this is as far as we go.”

They had halted in front of a large set of double doors. The Artful tilted his head in that direction. “What about there? What’s through there?”

“Ah. That’s the east wing. That’s closed to the public, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

Huddleston looked saddened. “I’m afraid that there are some individuals who are simply too ill to be subjected to public view. We keep them secluded and sedated so that they present no threats to anyone, including themselves.”

“That’s prob’ly very wise,” said Dodger, “but
we’d
still like to have a look-see, if you don’t mind.”

“Unfortunately, that simply isn’t possible. But you’ve seen two floors of the hospital. Certainly, you must feel satisfied with what I have shown you.”

Before Dodger could say anything, Bram spoke up. “I have a question. You said that that fellow in there believes himself to be a murderer.”

“Aye, he does.”

“Do you have other patients who likewise believe themselves to be something they’re not?”

“Oh, my, yes. We have one fellow, for instance, who thinks—”

Bram did not bother to let him finish. “What about vampyres? Are there any who are convinced that they are vampyres?”

Huddleston seemed surprised by the question. “You mean fictional creatures of the night?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, yes.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Doctor Huddleston, “but for all I know, perhaps someone does indeed believe that he or she is a monster.”

“Would you keep any of those in the east wing?”

“Young man,” said Doctor Huddleston, and his patience was clearly beginning to fade. “You are asking some very odd
questions
.”

“It’s an odd world,” said Bram. “We need to go to the east wing,” he said, more to Dodger than the doctor.

Huddleston looked from Bram to Dodger. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, his voice firm.

“We need you to make it possible.”

“And why would that be?” He smiled thinly.

To Dodger’s utter shock, Bram said, “Because we need to know where you are hiding the princess.”

Huddleston’s gaze flickered, and then something in his voice changed. It was as if he suddenly perceived the boys as some manner of enemy.

“Right. That’s it,” he said.

He brought his hands up to either side of his mouth, and it was quite clear that he was about to call for help. It was at that point that Dodger realized they were out of time. So he did the only thing he could think to do.

He swung his cane around as fast and as hard as he could manage.

It struck Doctor Huddleston on the side of his head, sending him to his knees. “What . . . what?” he managed to say. The Artful gave him no opportunity to say anything else. He struck again, this time on the back of the head, and Doctor Huddleston went down without another word.

Quickly, Dodger went through the insensate doctor’s pockets and came up with exactly what he was looking for: a couple of large keys hanging on a ring. “Skeleton keys,” said Dodger with satisfaction. “These should give us the run of the place.”

“For as long as we don’t get noticed.”

Choosing one of the larger keys, Dodger struck it right, first crack out of the box: He opened the lock to the door that led into the cell of the nameless killer. Seeing the door open wide, the man stood exactly where he’d been, waiting with curiosity to see what would happen next.

It required the strength of both Dodger and Bram to drag Huddleston’s unconscious body into the cell. Upon seeing the doctor lying there, helpless, the killer wasted no time and lunged for him. The chain, however, did its job, snapping tight so that the killer was brought up short by a couple of feet. He pulled at the chain furiously, shaking it with all of his might, but for all the effort he put into the endeavor, he was unable to snap the chain that was restraining him. He let out a deafening roar, and it was all that Dodger could do to ignore him. It was becoming easier for him, although he was loath to admit it.

“Here now, lads,” whispered the killer. His fingers were twitching desperately as he tried to get the doctor within range. “We haven’t met, but I feel good about asking you boys for a little
favor
.”

“We can’t free you.”

“Of course not. Heavens no. Just bring him a little closer, would you? I’d be ever so grateful and couldn’t wait to show you my gratitude.”

“And how would you do that?” the Artful asked.

“Why, by killing you quickly ’stead of slowly.”