The Silk Thief (34 page)

Completely naked and with her hair tumbling down her back, Friday was sitting astride a reclining pale, trim and equally naked man.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said as Sarah stepped in and closed the door.

‘He’s back,’ Sarah said. ‘He did take her to Liverpool.’

Friday’s lip curled. ‘God, what an arsehole.’

‘I know. But James bought her assignment papers off him, for a shilling. And then he punched the shit out of him.’

‘James did? Bloody hell.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ the customer said.

Friday patted his chest. ‘Sorry, Ralph. Won’t be a minute.’

‘He’s on his way out to Liverpool now, to bring her back.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ Friday said.

‘Well, that’s it,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m off back to work.’

Ralph Kidd looked up at her with bright blue eyes and asked lazily, ‘Why don’t you stay and join us?’

Sarah glared at him. ‘You couldn’t afford me,’ she said, and opened the door and stalked out.

Ralph grunted. ‘Which one of your fascinating friends was that?’

‘None of your business.’

James rode all that afternoon and as far into the night as he could before he feared that both he and his horse might collapse with exhaustion. When he came to a tavern — particularly unwholesome, as it turned out, but choices were few on the road south-west — he overpaid for a stable for his mount and a flea-ridden mattress for himself. While scratching at large red welts all over his body the next morning, he reflected he might have done better to sleep in the hay with his horse. He declined the tavern keeper’s offer of an overpriced breakfast of ale, bread and a lump of cheese resembling an old piece of dried-out soap, and rode on until he found an establishment advertising better fare for a much lower fee. He rode for miles and miles, sometimes not seeing another soul, until he finally reached Liverpool at eleven o’clock in the morning.

He wondered if it might be quicker to take a boat back to Sydney along the Georges River, and if so, whether any vessel could accommodate his horse. Then again, any such journey would terminate at Botany Bay, the mouth of the Georges River, which would mean a further trip overland to Sydney Town, or by sea around to Port Jackson and Sydney Cove, which may in fact be too physically and mentally demanding for Harrie.

He rode in through the gates of the Liverpool lunatic asylum, and around to the rear of the building to find someone to take care of his horse. That achieved, he returned to the front door, knocked and was greeted by a porter in civilian clothing — a convict, he assumed. He was aware that almost all the staff at the asylum were unpaid bonded convicts with no training relevant to their positions, except for the superintendent, Thomas Plunkett, who had previously superintended the men’s convict barracks at Parramatta, and the doctor, Edwin Ashton, and one other official whose name he didn’t know.

As Harrie was a convict herself, the New South Wales government was obliged to pay for her care in the asylum — if she was staying, but she would not be staying. The government also paid the fees of free paupers. Any free settlers with means unfortunate enough to find themselves in the asylum paid seven shillings per day, or their guarantors did. The asylum had moved from Castle Hill north of Parramatta several years earlier, as the premises there had apparently been entirely unsuitable — decaying, overcrowded, and too far from Sydney for regular inspection. Of course, Liverpool was even more distant from Sydney, and James had been told that the old, abandoned courthouse was hardly in better condition than the farm buildings had been at Castle Hill.

While he waited for Dr Ashton, he inspected the ceiling of the foyer, which appeared to have been given a rudimentary sweep with a brush followed by a quick coat of white paint, entombing flies or some other insect in the emulsion. Someone in the building was shouting, and someone else was weeping rather manically. He knew that the treatment of the insane had improved markedly over the past forty years, particularly in the context of the asylum, thanks to the implementation of an enlightened theory of ethical and humane management. But the success of most public health treatment regimes depended on the money spent to support them, and the welfare of mental patients, in his admittedly limited experience, had never been at the top of any government’s priority list. He’d been to Bethlem at Southwark in London several times to visit a mentally deranged aunt of his deceased wife, Emily, and had been appalled at the conditions in which the poor woman had been living — and Bethlem was supposed then to have been operating according to a philosophy of moral treatment. He couldn’t see that this asylum would be any better, and had, in fact, heard that it most definitely wasn’t.

He stood as a man strode towards him. ‘Dr Downey? Good morning. I’m Dr Edwin Ashton. How do you do?’

James shook his hand. ‘James Downey. I’m here concerning a patient admitted the day before yesterday, a Miss Harriet Clarke?’

‘Yes. Property of …’ Dr Ashton consulted a sheet of paper. ‘A Mr George Barrett. He brought her in.’

‘Actually, no. She’s assigned to me now.’

Dr Ashton’s scruffy eyebrows went up. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is.’

‘Do you have the papers with you? One must apply a certain level of rigor to these things.’

‘Yes. One must.’ James handed over Harrie’s assignment papers. It was obvious that Edwin Ashton was bursting to ask why he’d taken on responsibility for a mentally ill convict girl, but was far too polite.

‘Well, that all seems to be in order.’ Dr Ashton returned the documents. ‘Thank you.’

‘I take it you’ve made a diagnosis regarding Miss Clarke’s condition?’

‘Saw her yesterday.’

‘And what conclusions have you drawn?’

‘Unfortunately, Mr Barrett provided little information regarding the patient. In fact, he was rather keen to leave the premises as quickly as possible. But I gather there was quite an unpleasant scene at the time. I had, therefore, to make the diagnosis without much of a history. I take it you know Miss Clarke?’

‘I do.’

‘How long has she been unwell?’

‘I’d say probably up to a year,’ James said. ‘Initially not as unwell as she is now, of course. I believe the illness has progressed exponentially over a matter of five or six months.’

Though Harrie must be in a dreadful state for Barrett to have dumped her here, he thought. Sarah had filled him in on the events concerning the death of Harrie’s mother, and Janie and Rosie Braine, and the transfer of Charlotte to the orphanage. Any one of those would have upset Harrie dreadfully, but all together, no wonder she’d lost her mind.

‘Are you familiar with nervous disorders and maladies of the mind, Dr Downey?’

‘Not intimately. It isn’t my field. I’m a general physician, although I was a naval surgeon.’

‘But you have some knowledge?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you aware of any tragedies that may have befallen Miss Clarke?’

God, James thought, where do I start? ‘She has lately suffered several bereavements, including that of her mother. Also, a small child she adores has recently been sent to the Female Orphan School, and she is constantly worried about her younger siblings left alone in London.’

‘And was she perfectly healthy before the onset of the disorder? She didn’t suffer any accidents involving the head? Illnesses?’

James thought back to the way Harrie had once been — capable, calm, loyal, cheerful, and soft and rounded like a little robin — and almost burst into tears. ‘No, no accidents, no illnesses. She was a normal happy young woman. Well, as happy as possible, given she’d recently been transported.’

‘So no evidence of organic cause. Good. Thank you. The history complements my diagnosis admirably.’

‘Which is?’

‘At first I assumed hysteria, which is, as I’m sure you know, the nervous disorder to which females are most prone. However, after examination I decided on severe melancholia, likely to be the result of prolonged exposure to calamitous or mournful circumstances, interspersed with episodes of periodical but acute mania. Though I was also considering, possibly, romantic disappointment as a cause for the melancholia. Has she been disappointed in love?’

‘Er, I wouldn’t know.’

‘You should read Dr Alexander Morison’s
Outlines of Lectures on Mental Diseases
. Consultant at Bethlem, talks about hysteria, melancholia and romantic disappointment. Very informative. Miss Clarke hears voices, did you know that?’

‘Multiple voices? Not just one?’ James was thinking of Harrie’s belief that she could talk to Rachel’s ‘ghost’.

‘Well, it’s difficult to get much out of her at the moment, as she’s barely communicative —’

‘Is she not talking at all?’ Oh, bloody hell, James thought. Why had he not insisted on seeing her? How could he have let her down so badly?

‘The odd word, perhaps. But from observation I gather she hears endless chattering in her head. Sometimes, however, it appears to be just one person. On occasion she says the name Rachel out loud, as if in conversation.’

So she hadn’t gone away. ‘And your prognosis?’

‘On admittance she lapsed into an episode of really rather violent mania and had to be fitted with a restraint.’

‘Good God, a straitjacket?’ James was horrified.

‘Only until she settled, which she did after a liberal measure of laudanum. She spent the night comfortably, though she refused food this morning.’

‘Your prognosis, man,’ James said more tersely than he’d meant to. ‘Will she recover or not?’

‘Oh, I think so. In time, though possibly quite some considerable time. Patients with reactive nervous disorders, as opposed to organic, often do recover. We have a very comprehensive and moral treatment plan here. We follow, more or less, the regime of Philippe Pinel. Have you read his book,
Treatise on Insanity
? Most enlightening. We provide nourishing food and good, sound laudanum-assisted sleep at night, we insist our patients partake in chores, crafts and daily walks — those who are capable, of course — and we take considerable care to separate our less acute patients from our idiots, syphilitics and those with criminal tendencies.’

‘Are you saying, then, that what Miss Clarke needs is good food, plenty of sleep, rest and something to occupy her?’

‘Essentially, yes.’

‘I can provide that,’ James said. ‘Please arrange for her release. I’ll be taking Miss Clarke home today. Now, in fact.’

‘Oh. Well. Do you not even want to see her first? You might be inclined to change your mind.’

‘I won’t,’ James replied quickly, suddenly alarmed that for some reason he might be prevented from taking Harrie home. That wouldn’t be the case, of course — Dr Ashton worked for the New South Wales government, which surely would rather not pay for Harrie’s care — but still, the idea filled him with a panicky terror. Ashton seemed competent enough, but he’d put Harrie in a damned straitjacket!

‘That’s entirely your prerogative, of course, as her master,’ Dr Ashton said. ‘Mr Plunkett, the superintendent, will have to sign her release papers, but I’m willing to transfer her medical care to you.’

‘Excellent.’ James felt himself relax. ‘Thank you. Now, if you’d kindly show me to, er, wherever she is.’

He followed the doctor along a gloomy, smelly corridor, past several closed doors from behind which came thumps and muffled wails, and up a staircase to the next floor and through a set of locked doors. His nostrils were immediately assaulted by the stink of urine, and worse. So much for Dr Ashton’s insistence that his patients received moral treatment, fresh air, calming rest and restorative distraction. The light was a little better up here, though the large windows at each end of the corridor had been reinforced with bars. At one, a woman stood as still as stone, staring down at the property next door, her hands stiff by her sides, the tendons in her neck rigid. Farther along, an elderly man shuffled the length of the corridor muttering to himself, his head down, one arm out, his hand touching the wall as though he were afraid he might fall. When James drew level with him, he saw he wasn’t old at all, just stooped and prematurely completely grey.

James and Dr Ashton passed an open area, a sort of parlour in which several sofas and armchairs were arranged around a fireplace. James looked in and regretted it, seeing only blank and lost faces. In a chair a young woman sat and rocked what he feared must be an imaginary infant, while a man knelt on the floor, knocking his head persistently against the wall. Dr Ashton broke away to attend to him, helping him to his feet and sitting him on a sofa.

James swallowed. Christ, he couldn’t leave Harrie in a place like this. He wondered where the warders were.

‘This way,’ the doctor said.

They came to a room, the door of which was ajar. The small window was barred and the furniture consisted of a single iron bedstead, a small chest of drawers, and a wooden chair. Harrie was lying on the bed, dressed, apparently dozing.

‘Was she given laudanum this morning?’ James asked.

‘No.’

James moved closer. Harrie’s face was pasty white, her lips dry and flaking, and there was a sore in the corner of her mouth. Her hair had lost all its lustre and she was so thin that the bird-like bones of her hands, tucked under her chin like a child’s, were visible through the skin.

‘Harrie?’ he said gently.

Nothing for a long while, then her eyelids flickered and opened. ‘James?’ Her voice sounded like the wind in dry grass.

‘It’s all right now, my dearest. I’ve come to take you home.’

As Harrie gazed at him, a tear welled from one eye and trickled slowly across her nose.

Sarah lay in Adam’s arms, having just finished telling him about James’s rescue of Harrie from the asylum the previous day. Now, she had a question for him she was almost too afraid to ask, and was dreading his answer. But she couldn’t put it off any longer.

‘Adam?’

‘Mmm?’

‘You know how Charlotte’s been sent to the orphanage at Parramatta?’ He was aware, of course, that she and Friday had visited her the day they’d discovered that poor Janie and Rosie had died. She’d come home extremely upset and had talked of little else.