IN PART BECAUSE DETECTIVE MURDOCH had declared the blow to the attendant was an accident, Peg was released from the restraining jacket and had been given only a mild chloral sedative. She had fallen into a restless sleep where images surfaced and sank and surfaced again. Shelby dabbing at her cut lip, glaring at her; Mr. Murdoch in his long coat, brown eyes troubled as he talked to her; Miss Bastedo, grave-faced, telling her that Augusta had come to visit, although Peg was certain she hadn’t actually seen her.
She could hear somebody moaning, oh, oh, but she couldn’t sort out what the sound was. The cry was sharp and Peg sat up in bed.
Emma Foster was also sitting up. She was clutching at her stomach and it was she who was moaning. Suddenly, she vomited on the coverlet.
“Oh, oh,” she groaned and another spasm gripped her. The vomitus was mixed with blood. She cried out and rolled onto her side, the violent momentum sending her crashing to the floor. Peg jumped out of bed and rushed over to her.
“Mrs. Foster! What is it?”
The old woman couldn’t answer but lay thrashing in spasms that shook her entire body. A rush of watery diarrhoea came from her bowels. The smell coming from her was vile. Peg looked around desperately for something to use, and as she did so, she saw the cake tin sitting on the bedside cupboard. It was black with red and white flowers painted on it. The last time she had seen it was in the kitchen of the Eakin house. The knowledge stabbed at her chest, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe. Hurriedly, she pried off the lid. Inside was a cream tart, one large piece missing. Panting now, she bent over the sick woman.
“Mrs. Foster, did you eat the tart?”
But she knew she had. One of the attendants must have put the tin in Peg’s cupboard and Emma had stolen it in order to help herself to some of the delicacy.
Both Miss Anderson and Mrs. Mallory were sitting up.
“One of you, bang on the door for Reid.”
Miss Anderson started to sing “We Will Gather by the River” and Mrs. Mallory pulled the quilt over her head, whimpering.
Peg got up and ran to the door. “Mrs. Reid! Help!” She heard footsteps outside the door, saw the attendant’s alarmed face in the window, and the key was turned in the lock and the door flung open.
“What on earth …?”
She saw Mrs. Foster’s plight and rushed over to her. The floor was slippery with vomit and blood and she gasped as she trod in it.
“She’s been poisoned,” cried Peg. “She ate some of the tart. Look!”
Reid waved her hand. “Never mind that now. Go and fetch Miss Corley as fast as you can. She’s in the sitting room.”
“It was meant for me.”
“Nonsense. Please do as I ask, Mrs. Eakin.”
Suddenly, Peg felt as if her mind were functioning on its own with no connection to her body. The fragile sense of security that had been growing while she was tucked away in the asylum shattered like glass. She was safe nowhere. She had to escape.
She ran from the bedroom. Outside in the corridor, the wooden warning flag in the ceiling dropped down. Reid must have pressed the electric button in the room to signify there was trouble. Peg knew an attendant would be coming soon. The only place to go was the dining room directly across from her. She tried the door and it was unlocked. Quickly she slipped inside and leaned against the door, listening. The blood was pounding in her ears, making it difficult to hear anything else. She tried to will herself to be calm. She didn’t have a lot of time before Reid realised she hadn’t done as she was told.
Even through the closed door she could hear Mrs. Foster’s cries.
The dim room was unlit but she could see sufficiently to make her way over to the dumb waiter, which was in the far corner. She slid open the doors and pulled hard on the rope that brought up the lift. It was light and came up easily. For a moment, as she gazed into the small cupboardlike space, her resolve almost failed. Now! Do it! She climbed in, hoping desperately it would hold her weight. There was barely enough room but she curled up tightly, and except for a slight shaking, it held. She pulled the doors closed. As soon as she did, she was in pitch darkness. A wave of fear grabbed her but she forced herself to concentrate on the task. She caught hold of one of the ropes and began to pull hard, hand over hand. With a creak, the lift began to descend. There was another access on the second floor but she pulled steadily past it, her arms aching in the cramped space. Just one more floor to go. At last, with a bump, she reached the kitchen level. There was no handle on this side of the doors and she scrabbled at the wood, trying to open them, breaking her fingernails. She was sweating, fighting back panic. She couldn’t get out. Could she breathe? Was there enough air? There was a sharp pain in her back from being bent over but there was no room to move around. Finally, the doors yielded sufficiently for her to make a space wide enough to get her fingers through. Then she wriggled her hand in and she could push the doors back.
She had gambled on the fact that there would be nobody working in the kitchen at this hour, but she didn’t know for certain. However, the place was in darkness. Stiffly, she climbed out of the lift and immediately fell to the ground as her knees gave way. She knelt on the floor, listening. There were no sounds of racing footsteps, no voices calling an alarm. She stayed where she was, crouching like a dog. She had no idea where she would go even if she did manage to get out of here. She’d seen all too clearly the expression on the detective’s face. He had been kind but she knew he thought her mad. She should have been calm, talked reasonably, but the shock of what he said was too much. She had been waiting for Wicken to come and she was sure he was investigating her accusations as he had promised. She sank even lower to the floor. She couldn’t struggle any more. It was all too big for her. They were too powerful.
Probably only a minute had elapsed but she felt as if she had been lying here on the flagstones for a long time, her cheek pressed against the cold surface. If only she had some proof. Something more than the word of a deranged woman against that of a respectable family. Bitterness was like bile in her mouth. They were hypocrites all of them. Nathaniel, Frank the cheater, and especially Jarius Gibb. She sat upright. Jarius’s diary! Shortly after Charley died, desperate, she had started to prowl around the house whenever she had the opportunity, looking for evidence. She already knew of the existence of Jarius’s journal, because one evening she went to call him to dinner and accidentally interrupted him. He was writing in a ledger and he closed the book at once. “I do value my privacy, Stepmother.” Words said in a tone so biting, she had shrunk away. After that, she’d observed him and his habits. She knew how often he left late at night, how furtive he was. Not too long ago, she had decided to risk going back to his room. She’d found the key under his chair and unlocked the scribe’s lap desk. The ledger was his private diary and what she read there made her face burn with shame. He had recorded the events of her entry into the household and had not tempered his utter contempt for her or his dislike of her son.
She had the sense he wrote down everything that happened. Surely there would be something there that would help her, something revealing she could show to the detective who had come today.
She got to her feet, shivering. None of the ranges were lit, waiting for the early morning workers to rake them out and start them up. It was easier to see now, and frantic, she looked around for something she could use. She was barefoot and clad only in her nightgown. Thank God. Over by the door was a row of hooks for the kitchen workers to hang their coats and hats. There were two things, a pair of felt slippers and a rubber waterproof cloak. She thrust her cold feet into the slippers, which for that moment seemed as luxurious as anything she had ever worn. The waterproof was too long for her and dragged on the floor but she had to use it.
Hurry, hurry. She ran over to the window and pushed up the sash. There were no bars. Encumbered by the heavy waterproof, she climbed over the sill, dropping quickly to the ground, soft and muddy from the unrelenting rain. She almost lost one of the slippers in the dirt and she took them both off and stuffed them in the pockets of the waterproof. Barefoot, she ran toward the path that was just visible in front. She knew it must lead to the stables and the far end of the garden. Not too distant, there was a dark tree, leafless now but broad and thick-branched. She halted here, panting and gulping for air. From the shelter of the trunk she peeked toward the building. Lights were lit on the east wing where she’d come from, but so far, the rest of the institution was in darkness. They wouldn’t want to sound an alarm yet. They’d search the ward first. She might have at least an hour before they realised she had got out. She set off again. She had to be careful as she approached the stable, because she knew there would be one or two men sleeping there, but she got past without incident and then she was at the wall. There was a low iron railing along the top, making the entire height about eight feet. She stopped again, breathing hard. A ladder. There must be a ladder. She turned around and jogtrotted to the shed that was at the edge of the vegetable garden. Against the wall she could see a tarpaulin that was draped over some long object. Almost crying with the hope of it, she fumbled with the rope that was tying down the end. Her fingers were clumsy with cold but she finally undid the knots and was able to pull back the covering. There were three ladders underneath and she tugged at the one uppermost. It was heavy and difficult to move but her fear gave her strength and it finally slid free. She dragged it to the wall, hoisted it up, and climbed up. The top rung reached just below the iron railings that surmounted the wall. Here she hesitated, looking down the steep drop. But she had only one option. She held onto the railing, hoisted herself up, and swung one leg over so that she was balanced astride on the narrow toehold. For a moment, she swayed dangerously but she clung to the railing and began to lower herself until she was dangling. She let go and landed awkwardly on the muddy ground. She had to wait a moment to get her breath, then she got to her feet and put on the slippers. They were useless for protection against the wet but they would make her less conspicuous. Head bent into the pelting rain, she set off as fast as she could manage around the outside of the wall toward Queen Street.
The macadam pavement was black with rain and the streetcar tracks glistened in the flickering gas lamps. There was not a soul abroad. She pulled up the collar of the waterproof to hide the fact that her hair was unpinned and began to walk away from the asylum. She could not allow herself to think what would happen if her plan didn’t work – if Jarius was at home. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and her entire body was trembling. But she was out.