Seven Dials (32 page)

He raised his head to meet her eyes. “Mrs. Pitt, I have told you more than I want to, just in case you can help Martin Garvie, who is a good man seeking to help someone in far deeper pain than he can understand-and he may suffer for it… terribly.” There was a plea in his voice. “If you have the power to reach anyone who can get him freed, before it is too late… if… if that is where he is.”

“I will!” she said with more passion than belief. “At least now I know something, somewhere to begin. Thank you, Mr. Sandeman.” She hesitated. “I… I don’t suppose you know anything about Mr. Lovat’s death, do you?”

The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “No. If you ask me to guess, I should think it is exactly what it looks like-the Egyptian woman killed him, for whatever reason of her own. Perhaps it goes back to something between them in Alexandria. I thought at the time that he did her no injury, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I see. Thank you.”

This time he did not offer to walk with her as far as the street, and she left alone, determined to find Pitt as soon as possible and tell him where Martin Garvie was, and persuade him to get him freed, whatever it required to do it.

ALL AFTERNOON SHE BEGAN and half finished tasks in the house, stopping every time she heard a footfall, hoping it was Pitt returning, so she could tell him.

When he finally did come home, as usual he walked in his stocking feet down the passage to the kitchen, so she did not hear him until he spoke. She was so startled she dropped the potato she had in her hand, and spun around to face him still holding the peeling knife.

“I know what happened to Martin Garvie,” she said. “At least I think I do… and to Stephen Garrick. Thomas, we have to do something about it. Immediately!”

His expression darkened. “How do you know? Where have you been? Did you go back to Sandeman?”

She lifted her chin a little. If they were going to have a disagreement about it, or worse, it would have to wait. “Of course I did. He is the only one who knows anything about it.”

“Charlotte-” he began.

“He’s in Bedlam!” she interrupted.

It had the effect she had intended. His eyes widened and some of the color drained from his face. “Are you certain?” he said quietly.

“No,” she admitted. “But it fits all the facts that we have. Stephen Garrick suffered terrible nightmares, far worse than ordinary people’s, and they went on even when he was waking, delusions of blood and fire and screaming. He had uncontrollable fits of temper and weeping.” Her words fell over each other. “He drank too much to try to rid himself of whatever it is that tormented him, and he took opium. Martin Garvie knew all about it, because he was the only one who could help him. But he was losing control of the situation, and he went to Sandeman to ask his advice, but there was nothing Sandeman could do either. And it was shortly after that that Stephen Garrick, and Martin, left Torrington Square early in the morning, without proper luggage, yet did not leave London in any way that we can trace. And the carriage returned to Torrington Square within a few hours, so either they traveled on by public means or they did not go far.”

He stood still, turning over in his mind what she had said. She saw the gravity in his face. If he was going to criticize her for going back to Seven Dials, it was going to be long after this was dealt with.

“Can we get him out?” she said quietly. “Martin, at least, doesn’t belong there. I know he may have gone originally to help Garrick, but he wouldn’t have done it willingly without letting Tilda know. That proves there is something badly wrong.”

“Yes, it does,” he agreed, but she could see he was still deep in thought. “But we must be careful. Someone had the authority to place Garrick there. That can only have been his father.”

“For Stephen Garrick, yes, but he had no right to put Martin there!” she protested. “At least not morally. I suppose he’s a servant, so legally-”

“Yes… I know that,” he interrupted. “But we must be careful.”

“Get Mr. Narraway to do it!” she said urgently. “At least to be there. You need Stephen Garrick because he was in Alexandria with Lovat, and now that Yeats is dead as well…” She trailed off. A hideous thought was filling her mind and she could see it in his eyes also. “Do you think that’s why his father put him there?” she whispered. “To protect him? Is someone from Egypt after them all? Are his nightmares actually terror?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But it is possible…”

She heard the unhappiness in his voice. “You don’t want it to be her-do you?” she said gently.

“No… no, I don’t. But it looks more and more like it. I heard what happened in court today.” His face filled with distaste. “I don’t know if it is what Ryerson wants, but his defense is doing everything they can to blacken Lovat’s name. I suppose it is to cause reasonable doubt that there could be many others who wanted to kill him. I can’t see it doing much good. Ayesha Zakhari was at Eden Lodge. Surely anyone else who killed Lovat out of passion would hardly follow him around at three in the morning into someone else’s garden.”

She realized as he said it that he was admitting a kind of defeat. He had not wanted Ryerson or Ayesha to be guilty. He had performed every contortion of reason to argue another solution, and had at last run out of the power to delude himself any further.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, putting out her hand to touch him. “But let us at least save Martin Garvie?”

“Yes… yes, of course. I’ll go and find Narraway now. Thank you for that.” He smiled bleakly, taking her hand and holding it with exquisite gentleness. “I’ll deal with the issue of your going back to Seven Dials later.” And he kissed her very softly before he turned to leave.

PITT LEFT KEPPEL STREET with his mind whirling. Bedlam! If Ferdinand Garrick had committed his son to an asylum whose very name was a byword for horror, then he must have had a powerful reason to do so. Was Stephen Garrick insane? There had been no mention of any kind of mental weakness in his military record; in fact, it had been excellent. He had shown courage and initiative, physical prowess and mental agility. He was perhaps the most promising of the four.

Pitt strode down towards the Tottenham Court Road and hailed a cab, climbing in and shouting Narraway’s address.

If Garrick was indeed mad now, what had driven him to it? Was it overuse of opium? Why had he taken to drinking excessively and smoking a substance that distorted the emotions and perceptions?

Or had he seen something in Egypt which had driven Yeats to the recklessness which had ended in his death, Sandeman into a kind of exile in Seven Dials, and Lovat to be the victim of murder? Had Ferdinand Garrick consigned his only son to Bedlam to protect his life?

From whom? Ayesha Zakhari? In God’s name-why?

That thought was still repellent to him, but he could no longer ignore it. The evidence had to be faced.

He reached the street where Narraway lived, alighted, paid the driver, and strode across the wet footpath in the mist. There was no echo to his footsteps; everything was muffled. On the step of Narraway’s house he pulled the lion-headed doorbell.

It was answered by a discreet, gray-haired manservant who recognized him immediately.

“Good evening, Mr. Pitt,” he said, stepping back to allow him in. He had no need to question what Pitt was there for, or if it were urgent. He saw the answer to both in Pitt’s face before he preceded him across the hall and knocked briefly on the door of the study before opening it.

“Mr. Pitt, to see you, sir,” he announced.

Narraway was sitting in an armchair with his stocking feet on a stool, and a plate of sandwiches on a small table at his elbow. A cut-glass goblet of red wine sat next to the plate.

“This had better be worth it,” he said with his mouth full.

The manservant retreated and closed the door behind him.

Pitt sat down in the other chair, after pulling it around a couple of feet to face Narraway.

Narraway sighed. “Pour yourself some claret.” He gestured towards the bottle on the sideboard. “Glasses in the cupboard.”

Pitt stood up again and obeyed, watching the dark liquid reflecting facets of silvery light as it filled the bowl. “Charlotte found Martin Garvie and Stephen Garrick,” he announced.

Narraway gasped and then coughed as his sandwich went down the wrong way. He jerked forward in his chair and reached for his wine.

Pitt smiled to himself. It was exactly what he had intended.

Narraway swallowed hard, cleared his throat and sat back. “Indeed?” he said, not quite as gratingly as he would have done had he not choked. “It seems you do not have your wife under control after all. Are you going to tell me where he is, or do I have to guess?”

Pitt turned around with the claret and came back to sit down before replying.

“Actually she went to see Sandeman again.” He made no comment on her lack of obedience to instructions. He crossed his legs comfortably and sipped. The claret was extraordinarily good, but he would have expected no less from Narraway. “She persuaded him to tell her the truth, or at least some of it. Garvie confided in Sandeman that Garrick was in a very bad way indeed with nightmares and delirium. Sandeman is almost certain that both he and Garvie have been taken to Bedlam.” He ignored the horror in Narraway’s face and continued. “Garvie perhaps unwillingly, since he apparently has had no opportunity to tell his family. It fits with all the facts we know. The question is, do Garrick’s nightmares stem from his use of opium, some madness inherent in or, far more seriously, from something that happened during his service in Egypt? And-”

“All right, Pitt!” Narraway said abruptly. “You don’t need to spell it out for me!” He rose to his feet in a single, smooth movement, the last of his sandwich still in his hand. “Yeats is dead, Lovat murdered, Sandeman has lost himself in Seven Dials, and now it seems Garrick is in a lunatic asylum with nightmares that have driven him mad.” He picked up his glass and drained the claret. “We had better go and fetch him. See if we can get any sense out of him.” He looked meaningfully at the glass in Pitt’s hand.

Pitt was not going to leave a claret of that quality behind. It was a pity not to savor it, but there was no time. He drank it quickly and put the glass on Narraway’s table.

Narraway ate the rest of his sandwich as they reached the door and he took his coat from the stand.

Outside, he walked briskly to the end of the street and hailed a hansom, Pitt only a stride behind him. He gave the driver a one-word command: “Bedlam!”

The hansom lurched forward and Pitt was thrown against the back of his seat. He said nothing; he would find the answers to all his questions as to how they would accomplish their task when they reached Bedlam.

It was quite a long journey, and it was not until they were rattling over Westminster Bridge, the lamps along the Embankment reflecting patchily through the mist onto the river, that Narraway at last spoke.

“Agree with anything I say, and be prepared to move quickly if necessary,” he commanded. “Stay close by me; on no account allow us to be separated. Do not act arbitrarily, no matter what happens. And do not allow your emotions to distract you, however humane or commendable.”

“I have been to Bedlam before,” Pitt said dryly, refusing to permit the memory of it into his imagination.

Narraway glanced at him as they reached the end of the bridge and started climbing the rise on the other side, past the railway line running into Waterloo Station. At Christ’s Church, they swung right into Kennington Road, where the huge mass of the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital loomed against the night sky.

The hansom stopped, and Narraway gave the driver a sovereign and told him to wait. “There’ll be four more for you if you are here when I need you,” he said grimly. “And your licence canceled if you are not. Wait as long as you need to. I may be a short time, or I may be hours. If I have not come out by midnight, take this card and go to the nearest police station and fetch half a dozen uniformed constables.” He passed a card over to the man, who was sitting wide-eyed and by now seriously alarmed.

Narraway strode over the path and up the steps to the front entrance of the hospital, Pitt half a pace behind him. They were met immediately by an attendant who barred the way firmly and politely. Narraway informed him that he was on a government matter to do with the security of the nation, and he had a royal warrant to pursue his business wherever it took him. One of the inmates had information urgently needed, and he must speak with him without any delay whatsoever.

Pitt’s stomach sank as he realized just what a risk they were taking. He had accepted without question that Charlotte was right, and Garrick was here. If she was mistaken and he was in some other asylum, Spitalfields, or even a private institution, then Narraway was not going to forgive him for it. He was startled when he realized just how completely Narraway had trusted him, even more when he remembered that it was actually Charlotte’s word he was taking.

“Yes, sir. And who would that be?” the man asked.

“He came here in the early morning in the second week of September,” Narraway replied. “A young man who brought a servant with him. He could be suffering delirium, nightmares and the effects of opium. You cannot have had more than one like him that week.”

“You don’t know his name, sir?” The man scowled.

“Of course I know his name!” Narraway snapped. “I do not know by what name he was admitted here. Don’t pretend to be a fool. I have already informed you that I am on Her Majesty’s business of state. Do I need to spell out more for you?”

“No, no, sir, I…” The man did not know how to finish the sentence. He swiveled around and scuttled off across the hallway and then turned right, along the first wide corridor, Narraway on his heels.

Pitt’s mouth was dry and he was gulping air as he followed them through empty passages with blind walls and locked doors on either side. He heard muffled moaning, laughter rising higher and higher and ending in a shriek. He wanted to drive it from his head, but he could not.

Finally they arrived at the end of the wing and the attendant hesitated, fishing for the keys on his belt, glancing nervously at Narraway.

Narraway gave him an icy stare, and the man fumbled, poking the key blindly, stabbing at the hole until Pitt could sense Narraway on the edge of snatching it from him.

The key slid in and turned the lock at last. Pitt half expected to hear screaming and braced himself for the attempted escape of a lunatic. Instead the door swung wide open to show two straw mattresses on the floor, one occupied by a figure crouched over, head half buried in a gray blanket, hair wild, and what they could see of his face unshaven.

On the other mattress a man sat up slowly and blinked at them, his eyes full of fear and a kind of despair, as if he no longer even hoped for anything except more pain. But there was still reason in him, at least at the moment.

“What is your name?” Narraway said, immediately stepping half in front of the attendant and preventing him from moving forward. He was addressing the sitting man. His voice was firm, but there was no harshness in it, only a tone that demanded answer.

“Martin Garvie,” the man replied huskily. His eyes pleaded for belief, and the fear in him cut Pitt like a knife.

Narraway took a long, slow breath. When he spoke again his voice shook a little in spite of the masklike control in his face. “And I presume that is your master, Stephen Garrick?” He gestured towards the wretched creature still huddled on the other mattress.

Garvie nodded warily. “Please don’t hurt him,” he begged. “He doesn’t mean any harm, sir. He can’t help his manner. He’s ill. Please…”

“I have no intention of harming him,” Narraway said, then gulped as if he could barely catch his breath. “I’ve come to take you somewhere better than this… safer.”

“You can’t do that, sir!” the attendant protested. “It’s more than my job’s worth to let you-”

Narraway swung around on him, his eyes blazing. “It’s more than your neck is worth to stand in my way!” he threatened. “I can wait for the police, if you insist, but I can promise you that you will regret it if you force me to go that way. Don’t stand there like an idiot or they’ll lock you up in here too!”

Perhaps it was the last suggestion, but the man dissolved in terror. “No, sir! I swear, I’m an honest citizen! I-”

“Good,” Narraway cut him off. He turned to Pitt. “Lift that fellow up and assist him out.” He indicated Garrick, who had not moved, as if the entire intrusion had barely penetrated his consciousness.

Pitt remembered the stricture to obey absolutely, and walked over to the recumbent man. “Let me help you to your feet, sir,” he said gently, trying to sound like a servant, a familiar and unthreatening figure. “You need to stand up,” he encouraged, sliding his hands under the man’s shoulders and easing up what was almost deadweight. “Come on, sir,” he repeated, straining his back to lift.

The man moaned as if in intense pain, and Pitt stopped abruptly.

The next moment Garvie was beside him, bending over. “He’s here to help you, sir!” he said urgently. “He’s taking us to a better place. Come on, now! You’ve got to help! We’re going to be safe.”

Garrick gave a choking cry, and then his body arched and he flung his arms up, covering his face as if to defend himself. Pitt was caught by surprise and lost his balance, lurching backwards into Garvie. He could feel Narraway’s impatience smoldering in the air.

“Come on, Mr. Stephen!” Garvie said sharply. “We’ve got to get out of here. Quickly, sir!”

That seemed to have the desired effect. Whimpering with fear, Garrick rose unsteadily to his feet, lurching one way, then the other, but with Garvie and Pitt supporting him, he stumbled through the door, past Narraway and the attendant, and started off down the passage.

Pitt looked backwards once, to make sure Narraway was following them, and saw him write something on a card and give it to the attendant, then a moment later he heard his rapid footsteps behind him.

Half carrying, half dragging Garrick, who gave them only minimal assistance, Pitt and Garvie made their way back towards the entrance. More than once Pitt hesitated, uncertain whether the turn was left or right, and heard Narraway’s voice directing him with a peremptory hiss. Pitt’s ears were straining for every sound, and once when he heard a door close he whirled around and almost sent Garrick flying.

Narraway snarled at him, and increased his pace. Pitt grasped Garrick again, and they turned the last corner into the entrance hall. He saw two attendants standing there, and would have stopped instantly, but Garrick was oblivious to them and kept shambling on, and Garvie had no choice but to go with him or let him fall.

Pitt recovered his step and caught up with them.

The attendants jerked to attention. “Ey! Where you goin’, then?” one of them called out.

“Go on!” Narraway growled behind Pitt, then turned to face the men.

Pitt grasped Garrick more firmly and, holding him hard, half pushed him at a greater pace out of the door, down the steps, and smartly right towards the waiting hansom. Please heaven Narraway managed to extricate himself from the men and get away too, because Pitt had no idea where he was to take them.

They reached the cab and Garrick stopped abruptly, his body shaking, his hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. Garvie put his arms around him gently, but with considerable strength, and with Pitt’s assistance, they lifted him into the hansom. The driver sat facing forward, ignoring everything as though his life depended on seeing and hearing nothing.

Pitt swiveled around to see if Narraway was coming yet.

Inside the cab, Garrick began to thrash around, wailing and sobbing with terror.