CHAPTER 24

The cab we hired at the Abbots Langley station after we arrived this morning carries Barrett and me past cottages and fields, toward the village of Leavesden. Snow is falling; the scene is tranquil. Fifteen miles northwest of London, the air is cleaner, the snow white instead of gray, and we’ve escaped the fog. Traffic consists of a few farm wagons. Barrett and I smile at each other, sharing a sense of adventure. This is the first time we’ve been this far from the city together.

“Are you cold?” Barrett asks.

Bundled in my wool coat, hat, frock, flannel petticoats, and fur-lined gloves and boots, I’m warm enough, but I say, “A little.”

He puts his arm around me. The driver can’t see us, and there’s nobody else nearby to look askance at us.

The Imbeciles Asylum comes into view—many buildings, a village unto itself, enclosed by an iron fence. I glimpse the cylindrical tanks of a gasworks, and suddenly I flash back to that early morning in Stepney. I see the fiery glow in the sky, smell the gas; I’m in Ernie Leach’s house, finding him dead in his bed. The memory is as immediate and terrible as if I’m experiencing the actual event, as if the injury to my head has torn the veil between the past and the present. I force myself to sit still and calm until the vision fades minutes later.

The cab stops, and we unload my photography equipment. Barrett asks the driver to wait for us. We enter the gate and walk through the falling snow, along a semicircular driveway. Pine trees exude a green, fresh, pungent scent. Ahead looms a massive three-story brick building like a castle, with a turret above the main entrance and ivy covering the walls. Rows of plainer brick buildings on both sides extend toward the back of the compound. The tinkle of laughter brightens the cold air as some dozen people run onto the snow-covered lawn beside the driveway. They chase one another, throwing snowballs. At first I think they’re children, but they’re men. One of them, stout with small, shifty eyes, approaches me, uttering gibberish.

I halt, unnerved. Another man, dressed in a dark blue overcoat with brass buttons and a matching cap, who looks to be an attendant, calls, “Don’t worry, ma’am—he’s harmless. All of ’em here are. The dangerous ones are in Bedlam.”

Here, far from London, the inmates might be safe from harm or ridicule, but it seems to me that they’re quarantined as if they have a contagious disease.

“Are you here to visit an inmate?” the attendant asks.

When Barrett and I say yes, he tells us to go inside the administration building and points to the castle. Entering, we find a hall where a porter directs us to a waiting room furnished like a parlor. The only people about are a female attendant in a gray frock and white apron and cap and a man sweeping the floor. The attendant asks us who we’ve come to see, beckons the man, and says, “Robert will take you to the ward.”

Robert leaves his broom and dustpan and scuttles up to us. Perhaps forty years old, small and wiry as a boy, with bright blue eyes and close-cropped yellow hair, he wears a corduroy jacket and trousers and wool neckerchief. As he leads us down a long corridor, he talks in a rapid monotone without looking at us. “The Imbeciles Asylum opened in eighteen seventy. It cost eighty-five thousand pounds to build. There are one thousand five hundred sixty inmates—that’s eight hundred sixty females, seven hundred males.”

With his penchant for numbers and details, he reminds me of Ernie Leach. I suppose I’ll be seeing shades of the assistant hangman from now on. He has joined Polly Nichols, Liz Stride, Annie Chapman, Kate Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly—Jack the Ripper’s victims—in the ranks of the people I didn’t know well when they were alive but whose deaths will haunt me forever.

As Robert rattles off statistics about how much food is consumed daily at the asylum, I notice similarly dressed men lugging coal scuttles and realize that they and Robert are inmates. I suppose they benefit from working for their keep rather than sitting idle. They may be harmless, but they remind me of odd folks I see on the streets, whose behavior is unpredictable and disturbing. In a passage that connects with the wards, Robert opens a door, and a female attendant greets Barrett and me. As she leads us into the ward, Robert calls after us, “Two thousand pieces of laundry are washed every day.”

The large room has walls painted a cheerful light green, a high ceiling, and tall windows. It’s cold despite the fire in the hearth, populated with women of all ages clad in drab woolen dresses, shawls, and white bonnets. Some of the women sit in chairs near the fire or at long tables decorated with vases of artificial flowers, some reading books or playing cards or checkers. Everyone seems well behaved, everything clean and neat. But for the inmates who yelp like animals, those who wander about with blank looks on their faces, and the middle-aged women playing with dolls, this could be a charitable community club. Attendants rove, keeping order. The attendant with us asks Barrett who we are. He gives her our names, explaining that he’s a police constable from London and I’m his friend.

“If you were reporters, I would ask you to leave,” she says. “We’ve tried to shield Jane from the publicity about her mother. The poor girl has enough troubles.”

Today I’m glad I lost my job at the Daily World. “May I photograph her?”

“If she doesn’t mind.” The attendant leads us to a table where a small, slim young woman dressed in a dark blue frock, lighter blue shawl, and white bonnet sits alone. As we approach, I hear her whispering to herself.

“Jane, you have visitors,” the attendant says.

Jane, in her early twenties, is a young, disconcerting version of her mother, Amelia. She has the same black hair parted in the middle, the same slanted dark brows. But her skin is smooth and pale, her lips delicate and rosy, and she’s as lovely as a porcelain doll. She ignores us and keeps whispering.

“Good luck,” the attendant says, and departs.

Barrett and I look at each other in dismay while we set my photography equipment on the floor. If Jane is unable to communicate, then our investigation has met a dead end. Barrett moves closer to Jane and bends so that his face is level with hers.

“Hello?”

She goes silent and looks up. Her eyes are aquamarine blue, fringed with black lashes. She surveys us with suspicion. “Who are you?” Her voice is high, little-girlish.

“I’m Thomas. This is Sarah,” he says, as if he’s decided that first names would be friendlier. “May we sit with you?”

She sizes him up with the bold frankness of a child. When she nods. Barrett pulls out the empty chair to her right for me, then sits in the one to her left.

“Don’t sit on Friday Willie!” she shrieks.

Startled, Barrett bolts up from the chair. “Who’s Friday Willie?”

“My friend,” Jane says, as if it should be obvious.

An imaginary friend, I realize, to whom she’d been speaking when we arrived.

“I have lots of friends,” Jane says happily.

“That’s nice,” Barrett says as he seats himself in the chair beside the invisible Friday Willie’s. “Who are the others?”

“Well, there’s Powell and Green Boy. But they aren’t here.” Jane turns away from Barrett and speaks to Friday Willie.

I can’t understand the words, and they don’t sound like any foreign language I’ve heard; I wonder if she made them up. I can understand why the police decided that Jane Carlisle wasn’t involved in her mother’s crimes. In an attempt to regain her attention, I open my satchel and pull out the box of chocolates I brought.

“Jane, would you and your friend like some candy?”

She appears not to hear. When Barrett sets the open box in front of her, she pops a chocolate into her mouth and says while she chews, “Friday Willie doesn’t want any.”

“Why not, Jane?” Barrett says.

She gives him a condescending look. “Because he’s a cat. Cats don’t like sweets.”

After an interview of this sort, the police probably decided that her mother could have killed those babies right under her nose while she was living in her own world.

Jane’s lips are smeared with chocolate, and she wipes it off with the back of her hand. “Don’t call me Jane.”

“I’m sorry,” Barrett says, chagrined because we’ve treated her like the child she seems rather than the grown woman she is. “Miss Carlisle.”

Just as he got to know me better last night, I’m getting to know him better now, seeing a new side of him. He’s good at drawing people out—a talented policeman who deserves the promotion that he might have achieved if not for me.

“Green Boy and Powell are here now.” Jane plucks two chocolates from the box and sets them on the table by two empty chairs. “Why do you think I’m Jane Carlisle? I’m not.”

“Then who are you?” Barrett asks.

“I’m Maria Thirty-nine Kemp,” she says.

Barrett wrinkles his forehead, as baffled as I am. Seeing a gray-haired attendant who has an air of authority, I beckon to her and say, “We came to see Jane Carlisle, but this doesn’t seem to be her. Can you direct us to Jane?”

“That’s her all right. If she says otherwise, don’t listen. She’s always playing games.” The attendant hurries off to help an old lady who’s fallen.

Jane chats with her invisible companions. Barrett rolls his eyes at me to signal that he thinks we’re here on a fool’s errand, but he doesn’t give up. “Why is there the number thirty-nine in your name?” he asks Jane.

“I can’t tell you,” she says.

“Why not?” Barrett asks.

She puts her finger to her lips and smiles mischievously. “Shh, it’s a secret.”

Although frustrated, I feel sorry for her; she can never lead a normal life. For the first time, I pity Amelia Carlisle. There’s no justification for her crimes, but having a child like Jane must have been a woeful ordeal. Our inquiries have reached a dead end, but at least I can document the experience.

“Maria, may I take your photograph?” I say.

“Oh yes,” she says with delight. After I’ve set my camera on the tripod and filled the flash lamp with powder, she says, “My friends want to be in the picture.” She curves her arms around their imaginary presences and smiles while I take the photograph.

Barrett turns the conversation to Amelia Carlisle. “Let’s talk about your mother. Can you tell us about the last time you saw her?”

As I remove the exposed negative plate from my camera, I fear that the memory of visiting her mother in prison will upset Jane.

However, Jane seems unruffled. “I went to visit Mama at the black dungeon.” That must be her fanciful perception of Newgate. “A witch put a spell on her, and she was locked in a cage.”

Amelia must have played make-believe with Jane to shield her from harsh reality.

“What did you and your mama talk about?” Barrett says.

“She told me to be a good girl and do as I’m told so the people here will be nice to me.”

Perhaps Amelia had loved her daughter even though she’d killed other children.

“That’s good advice,” Barrett says. “What else did she say?”

“She said that she’s going to break the spell. Then she’ll come get me. She said it might take a long time, but I should be patient and wait.”

Barrett and I look at each other, disconcerted. Jane doesn’t know her mother is dead! “Do you know why, uh, the witch put a spell on your mama?” Barrett asks cautiously.

Jane answers with blithe nonchalance. “She was jealous because Mama and I are more beautiful than she is.”

Amelia must have borrowed a leaf from “Snow White.” It seems cruel to deceive Jane, but perhaps a lie was kinder than the truth about what Amelia did and what really became of her.

“When Mama comes, we’ll go away together,” Jane says.

“Go away where?” Barrett’s downcast expression says he’s given up hoping for any useful information. “Back to London?”

Jane compresses her lips and shakes her head, as emphatic as a child who’s been offered a spoonful of cod liver oil. “Not London. We don’t like London. That’s where the witches live. We’re going to Leeds.”

“Why Leeds?” Barrett glances at the clock on the wall. It’s ten thirty, and if we leave soon, we can catch the return train at twelve.

“Because that’s where our castle is. Mama was the queen, and I was the princess, and when we get there, we’ll rule over our kingdom again.” Jane flashes her mischievous smile again, puts her finger to her lips, and whispers, “Shh. It’s a secret.”

*   *   *

In London, Barrett and I part ways at the studio. He has to check on the men he sent chasing a false tip about my father, and I’m exhausted, my head pounding. I lie down for a nap, wake at five o’clock feeling better, and go to the hospital to visit Hugh and Mick.

In the ward, nurses are distributing dinner trays from wheeled carts. I find Mick devouring beef tea, custard, chicken stew, and rice pudding. Hugh lies propped on his side to eat. When he sees me, he smiles, but his eyes are sad, which I take to mean that Tristan hasn’t deigned to visit. I sit in the chair between their beds and tell my friends what’s happened since I last saw them, starting with my confrontation with Mrs. Fry.

“So it was Cross who put her up to the hoax,” Mick says as he licks his pudding dish. “The bastard!”

“Well, that’s one loose end tied up,” Hugh says. “Are you going to tell Sir Gerald?”

“Not yet.” I explain, “Mrs. Fry won’t confirm it. She doesn’t want her past to come out. It would be my word against Mr. Cross’s, and my stock with Sir Gerald is so low that he probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“Yeah,” Mick agrees reluctantly, “but I can’t wait for Cross to get his comeuppance.”

“First we’d better find out who killed Harry Warbrick and Ernie Leach and prove that Cross was wrong when he fingered the curio dealer,” Hugh says. “Then Sir Gerald will be likelier to believe you, Sarah.”

When I describe what happened at the Imbeciles Asylum, Mick says, “Jane Carlisle sounds like a real nut.”

I can’t disagree. “Even if she heard anything that relates to her mother’s execution or Harry Warbrick’s murder, it probably went over her head. But Barrett doesn’t think our visit to her was a waste of time.” I relate what Barrett said during our trip home. “There could be a clue in something she said.”

Mick snorts. “You mean, the evil witch who put a spell on her ma killed Harry Warbrick?”

“Scoff if you like,” Hugh says, “but our PC Barrett has a good head on his shoulders. If he says ‘clue,’ then I believe clue.”

I want to believe it too. As Mick starts to protest, Hugh says, “Bear with me for a minute. Suppose there’s a grain of truth in Jane’s fancies.”

It’s just what Barrett suggested, but I’m having a hard time making sense out of nonsense. “Friday Willie the invisible cat? Or the Queen and the Princess of Leeds?”

“Well, maybe not him, and I doubt that Amelia and Jane are royalty,” Hugh says, “but Leeds is a real place.”

“Amelia musta been playin’ games with Jane, and she needed the name of a city, so she pulled Leeds outta her behind,” Mick says.

“Not necessarily,” Hugh says. “What if they really did live in Leeds at one time?”

“The newspapers didn’t mention it,” I say.

Shh, it’s a secret.

“I wonder if there’s a reason Amelia didn’t tell anyone she was from Leeds,” Hugh says. “It might be worth a trip up there to find out why. I think there’s more to the story of Amelia Carlisle than we know.”