Chapter 1

 

“Describe how you are feeling, Miss Horton.”

Edith, almost imperceptibly, shook her head. She didn’t want to be rude, but she could not do what the kind doctor wanted. Was it the words she didn’t have or the energy? Then, the doctor rested a hand just for a few seconds on her arm, on the sleeve of the blue cardigan she knitted last winter.

She took a deep breath as though to inhale the smell of Dr. Uxbridge, a mix of pipe smoke and a strong-smelling soap. The smell was familiar. Archie used something similar in his surgery.

“We’ll get you well again, Miss Horton. Put yourself into our hands and we’ll get you right. I’ll see you again sometime in the next few days.” He nodded at the nurse. “Thank you, Sister Baker. You can take Miss Horton back to her room, now.”

Edith shuffled, the way other women in this place shuffled. It must be the tablets. Maybe she would ask Archie.

“Soon time for your medication, dear, and then you can have a nice rest. You said you were having a visitor tonight?”

Had she said that? She had no recollection. She cleared her throat; her voice was getting rusty from lack of use. She was only able to say a few words and, and they came out in little above a whisper.

“My friend…my friend, Julia.”

“And that nice brother of yours? The doctor? Is he coming?”

It seemed Archie was popular with the nurses.

“I don’t know.” Why wouldn’t the nurse go away? The tiredness was back again the sudden, compelling sleepiness that overtook her since her breakdown. That’s what people called it, her breakdown. She recalled very little about it, about what led to her being here. She remembered noise, Archie being angry with her, and the police had been there. Something bad happened, but she couldn’t remember—her head felt fuzzy.

Waking up had changed. Waking up had been normal, now it wasn’t. Now, it was like springing straight from unconsciousness, with no nice, dreamy, cosy bit in between sleep and life. Now, there was an emerging from somewhere dark, where strong hands were trying to keep you there.

And then there was the realization of where she was. It had always been referred to as St. Bride’s or by the country people as “th’ big house.” Now, for ever more, she would be Edith Horton, who had spent time in th’ big house.

Unless she went away. Left Ellbeck and went back to nursing again. But the war, all that life was over now, had been over a long time. Maybe she could even train properly as a hospital nurse.

Don’t be silly, she told herself. They would never have you now, not after this.

 

“Edie?”

She must have drifted off again, because something was dragging her unwillingly back into life. Except this time, there was another hand, one on her arm, tapping lightly. “Come on old girl, ain’t you goin’ to chew the fat with yer ole mucker.”

A smile crept over Edith’s face. “Julia,” she said.

They had done this after shifts at Tommy’s, lapsing into cockney to try to cheer themselves up.

Well, that and the cocktails and dancing.

She took Julia in and saw that her friend looked much as she usually did, golden-red hair, tied back, a floral dress and an old, drooping cardigan that made her look as if she would be more at home in the garden than by a hospital bedside.

“Your cardigan.” Edith pulled a face, though it was difficult because even her skin felt stiff.

“Oh, ducks, you must be getting better, if you’re criticising my clothes.” Without any warning at all, tears began to race each other down Edith’s face.

Julia looked so shocked. She rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief and came to put an arm around Edith. “Come on, old girl…what’s all this. Oh, don’t darling. Or, actually, yes, maybe that’s what you need, a good cry. Do you want me to fetch a nurse?”

She shook her head. “No nurse, please. They might see it as a backwards step. Keep me in here even longer. How long have I been here now, Julia?” At least the tears have stopped.

“You can’t remember? I suppose it’s not surprising. Two weeks, now. They sedated you heavily for the first five days or so.

Edith had the oddest feeling. It was as though she was hearing a story about a stranger.

Julia hesitated for a moment and looked into Edith’s face.

“Are you sure you want to hear all this? Isn’t it going to upset you?

“No, I need to hear it, please, Julia.”

“You were asleep more or less all the time. Archie visited. They let me and your wonderful Mrs. Braithwaite look in. But, I don’t think you were conscious of any of us.”

Julia, as if suddenly restless went to the window, looked out and turned back after a few seconds.

“Is Archie okay? I take it he has been in, in the last few days?”

Edith shook her head. “He’s not all right, no. Being suspected of murdering one of your patients for gain is never a good thing to happen to a doctor, is it?”

“But, it’s ludicrous, Edie. I don’t believe it for one minute. Lots of old ladies leave a bequest to a good doctor. There is no real evidence that she was murdered. What are they basing their suspicions on? Anonymous letters? Bound to be the workings of a disturbed mind. Even Giles says that. If a person had any proof of something like that, he or she would come out of the woodwork. It is nothing but troublemaking. You do know that, Edie, don’t you?”

Edith nodded her head and said a silent prayer that it was the case—the thing was with the way her mind had recently played tricks on her, she could not be sure of anything.

* * *

The lack of privacy was the worst thing of all. She had been brought up to be modest. Over time, this became as much a part of her as her limbs or her heart. She hated the closeness of other bodies…the smells, the sounds and more than anything, the sights. All the other women seemed pale and she now had that same unhealthy look about her, milk-white.

Saturday mornings, the women lined up with a towel, each. There were two baths in each of the big bathrooms and there, supervised in case they took it into their heads to do “anything silly,” they washed in a bath containing about six inches of water. She did think it wouldn’t have hurt to put a screen up between the two naked women, but it probably didn’t even occur to the warders.

* * *

Archie Horton knew Chief Inspector Greene was looking at his hands, had seen him glance at them gripping his chair. He consciously relaxed his body, in the way he sometimes recommended to his more tense patients.

“You seem nervous, Dr. Horton. Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell us? You know the real cause of Mrs. Butler’s death will probably soon be revealed anyway, especially if we find what we are looking for when her body is exhumed.”

“And you are doing that on the basis of what? Some anonymous letters? I am a qualified doctor, as you know. Have been for some considerable time. I’ve come across this phenomenon before. Some pathetic person, with a grievance against the world. Do you really have the power to do something as…as disturbing as this on the basis of an anonymous letter?”

“More than one, Dr. Horton. These letters have been circulating around Ellbeck and the surrounding dales. In itself, granted, it doesn’t amount to evidence—especially as I say, these letters have been sent to several people that we know of—some of what’s in them is scurrilous nonsense, some does seem to have some basis in truth. None of the letters that have come to light allude to anything as serious as the letter we had about Mrs. Butler.”

Archie shook his head.

“I give up arguing with you, Inspector. If you have grounds to arrest me, go ahead. Otherwise, you must realise that I’m a busy man.”

“That’s not what I hear doctor. Rumour has it that your surgery is quiet, with patients rushing off to Doctor Maybury.”

Archie swore softly, “Is that surprising? With you and your sergeant calling here at depressingly regular intervals,” he nodded in the direction of Sergeant Brown, who had cultivated a deadpan expression and was testing it out now. That and his virtually monosyllabic utterances.

“Right, Dr. Horton. We’ll get out of your way. We’ll no doubt see you again soon.” He raised an eyebrow, dark and bushy. “Unless, that is, you have anything you’d like to confide in us?”

Archie did not answer. He stood up, desperate to be rid of the two policemen.

“I’m sorry to hear about your sister,” said the inspector. “What is it? A complete breakdown, that’s what I hear, poor woman.”

“My sister is recovering, Inspector. Like many others, she suffered loss in the war. She also saw things no one should ever see in her Voluntary Aid Detachment work, both in France and back here in the hospital, St. Thomas. No doubt it plays on her mind, puts her under strain

The inspector adopted a perplexed look. “The war has been over, what twelve, thirteen years now Doctor? Rather strange, isn’t it, your poor sister’s breakdown, after all this time? Bit of a coincidence what with all this business with the letters.”

A rage such as he had not experienced in years gripped Archie and he took one step towards the inspector’s smirking face, His fist closed, involuntarily. Everything stood still, as if they were all part of a tableau. Then there was a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Braithwaite entered and asked if anyone wanted any more tea.

She’d brought some normality back into the situation, with the simple domesticity of her apron-clad figure and her query.

The policemen refused further refreshment and left, with barely another word.

“Thank you, Mrs. Braithwaite, and I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced, yet again.” There was so much more he would have liked to say, things he would like to have asked her. She did spend a considerable time with Edith. But, where did one start? And he didn’t want to put the poor woman under pressure. From what Edith had said and others hinted, Archie gathered not all was roses around the door at home with her ex-serviceman husband.

She quietly stacked the plates and cups. “Doctor Horton. It’s my half-day off tomorrow. Would it be in order for me to drop in to see Miss Horton? She wasn’t really herself the last time I visited. I think they had sedated her.”

“Please, do, Mrs. Braithwaite. It’s very good of you.”

She bowed her head slightly.

He wanted her to stay. As soon as she left the house, he would hit the single malt. He wanted to stay away from it as long as possible.

* * *

Mrs. Arbuthnot reached a hand into the pocket of her apron and touched the letter—that evil letter. It had come in yesterday’s post and she’d honestly thought she would have a heart attack as she read the words. She had put a nip of brandy in her cup of tea to steady her.

She couldn’t become ill because if she did, what was going to happen to Arthur? He was barely hanging on as it was. He had never got over the loss of the two boys in the war. How could he? How could she? But they must keep up appearances, and they still had Helena. Dorothea’s hand curled once more around the letter in her pocket. Helena.

* * *

I’ve done something wrong.

Edith sat with a detective novel in her lap. She would read it soon, and maybe find some solace in its pages. Maybe that was the problem? Maybe she sought solace in the wrong things, buried things instead of facing them.

That’s what some of these psychiatrists were beginning to argue now. At least some of them were realizing with those poor souls who had suffered shell shock, that stiffening the sinews and carrying on didn’t do the trick. She and Archie had spoken about it. He was interested in that sort of thing—in the mind.

“Why didn’t you go in for it, then Archie?” she’d asked him once.

He’d tapped his pipe and shook his head. “Not for me, Edith. Too much thinking, done enough of that. Let me get on with the arthritis and the sprained ankles. I’ll leave the trick cycling to the other chaps.

* * *

The local mental hospital had been the nice term for it when she had been a child. The less kind one had been the loony bin. Her parents had sometimes referred to it in an almost whisper. It was a secret place, full of darkness, enough to inspire fear and maybe, fascination. She and her friend, Alice, had been obsessed with the place for a time, when they were thirteen. They had frightened each other about what it would be like if they ran into an escaped lunatic, on the country lanes.

“He would likely be wearing a strait jacket,” said Alice.

“What’s that?” she’d asked.

But, Alice just shrugged. “I don’t know, something with locks on I suppose, and maybe it holds their arms in place. I bet that’s it, I bet it holds their arms out in front of them, so they can’t do anything, like strangling a person, or summat.”

“Well, we need to look out for a man with staring eyes and his arms held straight out in front of him then?”

“At least you’d see him coming,” Alice said. It had all seemed very funny, then, and it had seemed brave and daring to joke about it.

* * *

“So how is Edith?” Giles asked, handing Julia a cigarette. Bea was in bed, and the two boys back now in their own world of boarding school, games, masters, and boyish intrigues.

“You know…” she began.

He tutted. “No, I do not know,” he snapped, impatiently. “That’s why I asked.”

And that’s what has changed. It was something Julia couldn’t have put into words to anyone else, even if she’d wanted to. It was the something that had changed between them, the ability to tune into each other, tune into the little cues.

Now, she had to watch every word she said, or he would pick up on them—use them as weapons. Why are you so angry with me, Giles? She asked it silently. She didn’t want to start a row and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“Edith was a bit better, I thought. Not so sedated, still far from well, poor darling.”

“Yes, well, funny notions they get, these single women…of a certain age…missed opportunities, that sort of thing.”

Julia stared at him, furious, but unable to express it. When had he become so horribly smug and spiteful?

* * *

Edith walked in the spreading gardens of the hospital. Of course, a nurse wasn’t far away. They didn’t quite trust her, yet. They could. She wasn’t going to do away with herself, and she wasn’t going to run off. Where would she go?

They called these places asylums, which meant places of safety. There was a wooden bench, pink paint peeling a little, in the shade of an oak tree, near a walled garden. She could see the canes and smell an earthy mix of soil and growing onions.

Edith sat, hands on her lap. She had a meeting later with Dr. Uxbridge. She must try to get the better of her nerves. It was rude to sit in silence while the poor man struggled to help.

She fought the feelings of guilt plaguing her more and more. Why had she given way, like this when others had suffered more? Look at Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot in the village. Rumour had it he drank. But what about Dorothea? You met her in the village. She was always well turned out, smiling and interested in what you were doing. Whereas she, Edith, without chick or child to worry about, let alone to lose, had given way like this.

One particular incident haunted her now as it had haunted her down the years, coming into her mind, intruding, every time she felt low. She had visited Alastair’s mother, soon…too soon, after the killed in action, news. Alastair’s mother, bowed in grief, had been so pleased to have her there, insisted on showing her things, including the unbearable copy of the list of belongings found on Alastair’s body. One metal watch, one notebook, letter, photos, one postcard, one prayer book. Sometime later, she had seen the words of Siegfried Sasson’s…

“They leave their trenches, going over the top

While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists”

Edith remembered the hot helplessness of the paper in her hand and Alastair’s mother in her sitting room. She tried to be still now, but could not. She walked back into the asylum for her meeting with Dr. Uxbridge.

* * *

She knew now about strait jackets, horrible white things that strapped your arms—not straight out, but close to your body so you were trussed up and helpless like a wild animal. One way or another, they would subdue you. She also knew the padded cell, where there was nothing to distract you from the horror inside of you. Where the only sort of merciful release was exhaustion.

Eventually, the screams and the wails stopped, and with tiredness and medicine, you slept. Not a refreshing, nice sleep, but a half-dead, heavy unconsciousness hard to drag yourself out of. That was all in the past. She had left the darkest of the dark days behind. She’d thawed out of her frozen state and reformed, more malleable. She didn’t know whether that was because it made life a lot easier, or whether it was because of a new doctor, Doctor Webster who had come to this place some years ago now.

Many of the other doctors and nurses didn’t like him. He wanted to change things, and though they did a grim job, one most people would run a mile from, in some ways, they had it cosy, too. There was the odd bit of trouble, but everyone knew who was in charge and that kept things nice and regular and safe.

This Dr. Webster began to question the cold baths and the sleeping treatment and a lot of other things too. Most worryingly, he began to listen to what the patients or at least to those still capable of holding any sort of a conversation said.