THE CHAMBER OF DOLLS

Langton stared at Bell with utter incredulity. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘There is no mistake? Perhaps it was the rain, for he was there for some hours.’

‘No rain could possibly produce the effects we have observed,’ said Bell, still not moving. ‘Let me repeat: the man died by drowning, he was immersed in water.’

Langton turned to our host who had got to his feet and was by the table. ‘I am afraid it is true,’ said Bulweather.

‘Well, you are saying he drowned.’ Langton paced towards the window. ‘Even though I cannot fathom it, at least it may have been an accident not a murder as we might have feared.’

And now Bell did raise his eyes from the fire, his face very solemn. ‘An accident?’ he said. ‘Usually accidents have causes. I am afraid that term is utterly irrelevant when at present we can deduce no way in which it could have occurred at all.’

The conversation continued as all of us tried to imagine how such a thing could happen. Was he sure there was no water near? But Bulweather who was, among other things, a keen local historian, produced a hydrographic map which proved the point. Even as the crow flies it was a mile and a half from the spot where the body lay through thick trees and over rough ground to the witch’s pool, which was the nearest standing water or river.

‘Is it possible,’ Langton asked, ‘the body was dragged?’

‘It took five men to carry him down here,’ said Bulweather. ‘How could it be dragged? Perhaps if it were slung over a horse.’

‘I considered that,’ said the Doctor, who had got up from the fire and was studying the map with enormous interest. ‘But even though the clearing itself was disrupted I believe a horse would leave distinctive marks well beyond it. We must look again but I could see none whatsoever.’

‘And no horse goes through these woods now,’ muttered Langton. ‘It is too dangerous.’

By now it was fully light and Langton left to make arrangements for the body to be moved and telegraph his superiors with these confounding developments. Bell admitted he was anxious to get back to the wood. But first, since Mrs Harvey was busy in the kitchen, he was persuaded to take breakfast and we were soon in the dining room consuming toast, eggs and some very welcome coffee.

The Doctor ate in silence, and Bulweather and I talked only sporadically. I complimented him on his housekeeper’s skills as a cook and he acknowledged he had been extremely fortunate to find her shortly after his wife died.

The remark seemed to trigger some memory of Bell’s, for I saw him look up. He thanked his host for the generous meal, putting down his knife and fork and pushing his plate to one side. Then he went on casually: ‘Dr Bulweather, I have been thinking again about that pipette you improvised with cases of childhood infection at the back of the throat. The one you used on the child on the night we mentioned before. Remarkable we both had the same idea for helping the patients, is it not?’

‘Ah yes, the pipette, it is a useful invention. I am glad to think I followed in your footsteps, Dr Bell.’ But I could see our host was a little surprised the Doctor would return to so trivial a matter at such a juncture.

‘I would like to inspect it again if you have no objection. I want to see if we use the same method.’

‘Why of course, I will get it,’ he replied, getting up hastily.

The Doctor did not look at me, though I certainly wondered why he was bothering to relive memories of old treatments at such a time. After a few moments, Bulweather was back with it.

‘Incidentally,’ said Bell to our host, ‘did you know you were observed out walking to your patient that night?’

Bulweather came over to Bell with the pipette, which gleamed in a way it had not before. ‘I did not know, sir. Who saw me?’

‘It is of no consequence,’ said Bell. ‘But which road were you taking?’

‘I was going towards Westleton Heath,’ he answered. Bell nodded and took the pipette, turning it over in his hand. ‘Ah yes,’ said Bell smiling, ‘it has been recently cleaned, has it not?’

‘Possibly,’ came the reply.

‘For I could not help noticing when I picked it up before that, though you had wiped some away, it still had a layer of dust. There was no way it could have been used for months, certainly it had not been used in the past few days.’

Bulweather stared at him. ‘Ah, yes, now you remind me, I did have another in my bag which I utilised that night. But it was old and I thew it away.’

‘That is most convenient,’ said Bell. ‘So you still maintain you saw this child?’

I have written that Bulweather was a big man. I am sure he was also strong and he towered over Bell now, looking almost menacing, his mouth taut in an expression of suppressed rage or perhaps pain. But then he controlled himself and returned to his seat. He placed his hands on the table. ‘Gentlemen, you may believe as much or as little as you like. I will say no more about it.’

Shortly after this, we left. It was hardly a pleasant way to leave a house where only hours earlier all three of us had been working as a team. But, given the man’s reticence and lies, it seemed clear to me that he must have some involvement, if not in Harding’s death, at least in the murky events that surrounded Jefford’s disappearance.

And so, fortified by the hospitality of a man we could not trust, we climbed the road leading south out of the town and finally plunged into the woods ahead.

I will admit as we made our way through the wet trees after a night without sleep, I felt low in energy and spirit. But Bell pushed in front of me with all the vitality of a man who is anxious to move ahead with his plans. Of course, I knew this quality of old, it reappeared whenever he had a chance to do the work he loved, no matter how desperate the circumstances. The Doctor was more likely to flag when nothing presented itself than in the field.

Once we had reached the spot where Harding’s body was found, he made a cursory examination of the clearing but concentrated most of his energy on the woods around it. Indeed, he embarked on a series of concentric circles that took him further and further away from the spot itself but no doubt gave him a good idea of the terrain by which it was approached.

It seemed foolish for me to trail after him so I stayed closer to the clearing itself, but because I knew that had already been well covered, I concentrated my attention on the woodland. It had been raining much of the night and I half hoped to see large puddles of water which might provide an answer to the riddle of Harding’s death. But there was nothing like that, the rain had merely soaked in and the wettest thing I could see was a slightly sodden ditch, but even here no water had collected.

Langton appeared after a time and we talked in a desultory fashion. When I explained that the Doctor was searching the wood, he shook his head. ‘Well if he is searching for water, he is wasting his time, he will find none.’

As if in answer to his words, the Doctor appeared and I saw that once again he was carrying a stick, though I still could not see why these pieces of wood were of any interest to him. ‘Tell me, Inspector Langton, how far is it from here to Sir Walter Monk’s farmhouse?’

‘Directly through the trees? More than a mile,’ replied Langton.

‘Then I would like you to obtain his permission to search it,’ said Bell.

‘But why?’ said Langton. ‘It would be just as hard to bring a drowned man from there as from the witch’s pool.’

However, Bell insisted and, within half an hour, we were standing in Sir Walter Monk’s hall, waiting for Langton to conclude his interview with Sir Walter. I could hear raised voices but ultimately Langton appeared, somewhat flushed.

‘You may proceed, gentlemen, and I hope you know what you are about.’

The Doctor expressed his thanks and almost at once we had embarked on an exploration of the house, starting upstairs as some astonished servants scurried out of our way.

It was, as I had anticipated, an extremely luxurious establishment. The bedrooms had rich embroidered hangings, thick carpets and tapestries, though I could take in few details because the Doctor’s inspection was anything but thorough. Indeed he positively raced from room to room. Coming to a small antichamber I was amazed to see that, despite its position in the middle of the country, the house had some of the most modern plumbing arrangements I had encountered, with hinged water closets and two fine bathtubs with piped water. Since a man could surely drown in this, I assumed it was what Bell wanted to see and called him through, but the Doctor showed not the slightest interest, turning away and moving on through the rooms.

We saw nine bedrooms, including what was obviously Sir Walter’s, and then made a whirlwind tour of the servant quarters before going downstairs. Bell showed little interest in the reception rooms and soon we were back in the hall where Langton was waiting.

‘Did you see what you required, Dr Bell?’ he asked.

‘I did,’ said Bell and we were soon admitted to the drawing room, where the desiccated figure of Sir Walter was wrapped in a dressing gown before the fire. He looked extremely irritated.

‘Well, Dr Bell,’ he said, ‘perhaps you would have the kindness to explain why on earth you are trampling through my home, frightening my livestock and the servants.’

I noticed the way his animals (of which incidentally we had seen nothing) were placed before his servants in importance.

‘Sir Walter,’ said Bell, ‘your visitors have departed, I see.’

‘I do not understand the connection.’

‘You had guests when we were last here. I wished to ascertain exactly who they were.’

Now Monk looked positively furious. ‘What possible business could it be of yours who is in this house?’

But the Doctor was not even faintly ruffled by his tone. Indeed, he stepped forward boldly until he was very close to Sir Walter, who did not like this at all and shrank back in his seat. It was clear no one ever behaved to him in this way.

‘You may or may not be aware,’ said Bell in a voice so quiet that he might have been in church, ‘that a man died not far from here yesterday. There are several questions regarding his death that have to be answered urgently and the authorities entrusted me to carry out his autopsy and provide answers. I cannot yet ascertain who is to blame but I have the most intense interest in everyone who is staying in this parish, not least its visitors, and most particularly visitors who conceal themselves from me as yours did. Any such person may have something to hide, and this gives me every right to ask such questions, therefore I say again who was staying here?’

This tone, which I knew well, for Bell often lowered his voice when at his angriest, had its effect. Sir Walter was pale as he turned to Inspector Langton. ‘I will talk to the Doctor but in private,’ he said. And we both retreated to the hall.

Bell emerged a few minutes later. His expression was unreadable and he merely thanked Inspector Langton for his help. ‘Sir Walter was most accommodating. Now I think I should return to town, the site will yield no more for the moment.’

Of course I was anxious to know what had transpired between the Doctor and Sir Walter but I had little chance to discover it on the way back. Bell and Langton walked ahead of me and I heard Bell ask him a question and receive an answer that appeared to take the form of some directions. Then he was silent.

His silence continued at the inn, where we ate a hasty meal. Eventually the landlord came through to inform us that Charlotte Jefford had emerged from her room that morning, apparently fully recovered from her ordeal. In fact, she had been invited out to lunch with Mrs Marner, with whom she had struck up an acquaintance. Brooks was, however, suitably sombre about events and went on, ‘We understand poor Harding died of a heart attack, what a sad business.’

Bell merely agreed how unfortunate the matter was and Brooks left us. I had rather supposed we might now get some rest but there was to be no such opportunity, for the Doctor informed me we had another visit to make. He had business in a place about two miles inland known as Westleton Heath.

Outside as we trudged out of the town, not turning up towards the forest or the pool but keeping going along the road in a westerly direction, I asked what business it was.

‘Oh, I wish,’ the Doctor said, ‘to visit an asylum.’

The weather was fairer, indeed it was now quite a pleasant evening, and the sun was beginning to set over the marshland that bordered the road as a little flock of redshank circled over our heads. But even so, I quailed at the prospect. My experience of asylums is intimately connected with my father, who entered one while I was at university and was still, at the time of which I write, an inmate.

I visited him all too rarely. It was hard enough to bear the condition to which he had been reduced, but there was also something utterly degrading about these monstrous castles of incarceration.

Naturally enough, therefore, my thoughts were gloomy as we walked past another great belt of forestland and eventually, after a mile and a half, turned up an isolated track. By this time it was dark and, before us, Bell pointed with his cane at a large grey hulk of a building with narrow leaded windows.

I knew at once this must be the place, for it was exactly as I had feared: a grim, gothic monstrosity in a godforsaken landscape, miles from the lights and amenities of any community. How I hated such institutions and wished they would all be swallowed up into the earth, their inmates allowed to roam free. My father’s condition, though cyclical, had certainly never been remotely improved by his confinement.

Inside this place, no doubt, I would find the dark hallways, the misery, perhaps even chains and padded cells, certainly bullying orderlies. The prospect was so uninviting I was on the point of asking Bell to enter the institution alone and report on anything he found that was useful. For my part, I doubted it would be much.

But my thoughts were interrupted by the Doctor. ‘I believe you may find this of interest to you,’ he said. No doubt he was thinking of my father, and at the time the observation struck me as tactless beyond belief. I had already derived quite enough ‘interest’ from visiting such places to last me a lifetime. But there was now no question of offering some excuse. His remark made me determined to proceed.

And so we walked up to the great door, which opened before we had any chance to make ourselves known. I expected some fierce orderly to question our business but instead here was a smiling, suited man, wearing spectacles and carrying a book.

‘Ah,’ he said, in a cultured voice, ‘I saw you gentlemen from the window. Dr Bell? Dr Doyle? I am Roger Cornelius. I received your telegram and you are welcome. I am delighted for you to see what you will.’

He led us into a carpeted hallway which was about as far removed from what I expected as it could be. It was well furnished and snugly warm. Two nurses went past smiling politely, both women rather than the male orderlies I generally expected in such places.

We moved on past a number of rooms, which I could see through the doorways were comfortable. One contained of all things a harp and a prettily ornamented table. A woman was sitting there in a shawl, sketching.

‘These are very pleasant quarters for your staff,’ I said. ‘Are the inmates upstairs?’

Cornelius smiled. ‘Why, you have already seen two of them. Several have their own sitting rooms.’

I was astonished. ‘But there are no locks?’

‘Oh, we rarely if ever need them,’ he said, leading us up a flight of stairs and into a book-lined room. ‘You see I am a follower of the precepts of the late Dr James Connolly. And also more recently Henry Maudsley. We believe in the moral system of non-restraint, rather than coercion and cruelty.’

‘It is remarkable,’ I said, glad now I had persevered in entering this place and silently apologising to Bell for misjudging him. Of course I had heard something of the approach and had occasionally encountered enlightened doctors who talked of the subject, but I had never dreamt it could achieve this kind of transformation. ‘You have no locked doors at all?’ I said in wonder.

‘We have them but as I say we rarely need them,’ said Dr Cornelius, whose manner was a little pedantic but not unpleasant. ‘As you know, most of our asylums are in the grip of the idea that insanity is the end product of an incurable degenerative disease carried in the victim’s inherited biology and therefore can never be cured. Fortunately, some of us disagree. We are not always successful but we are always humane and believe above all else in the dignity of the patient. Now here is an inspirational book. I recommend it.’ And he handed me a copy of Body and Mind by Henry Maudsley.

Bell had been taking in his surroundings and was looking with enormous interest at other books and papers, especially drawings and architectural designs that the asylum keeper appeared to have made himself. Cornelius seemed pleased.

‘Yes, Dr Bell, I am also an admirer of John Connolly’s The Construction and Government of Lunatic Asylums, though we do not follow Bentham’s idea of the all-seeing eye here or the panopticon. It would take a considerable sum to refurbish the place in that way but it might well be worth while, as I often say to those who are disposed to help us.’

‘Ah now,’ said Bell, ‘that is precisely what I wished to ask you, what of the funding?’

‘Yes indeed, Dr Bell, that is the question. Our patients are not coerced, they are not forced here, but we have to charge a good sum to keep the place up. This does not mean, however, all of those we treat are rich. Fortunately, there are still philanthropists in this world and some have donated considerable sums. Even from as far away as London.’

‘And talking of the wealthy, can I ask,’ said Bell, watching him closely, ‘if you ever encountered Oliver Jefford?’

‘Never,’ said Dr Cornelius. ‘He had nothing to do with us and I am not sure I regret the loss. No doubt if he had come here, he would have done so in the spirit of the eighteenth-century gentlemen who used to visit Bedlam for their own amusement.’

‘Dr Cornelius,’ said Bell after he had made sure Cornelius had encountered no strangers recently, ‘we have no wish to keep you from your work. Tell me, would you have any objection if we went around a little to see this on our own?’

‘Not at all. Mr Edmunds is our night manager and he knows you are coming so address any questions to him. You will find his office at the end of the main corridor.’

My admiration for Westleton House, as it was called, only increased as we saw more of it and I understood now why Bell thought I might find it interesting. Not that I mean to give the impression the place was without suffering. A patient with a nervous disorder is still ill and some of those here were distracted or unhappy and under special supervision, but there was a level of comfort which was in total contrast to anything I had seen before, while the staff seemed kind and efficient.

My assumption was that Bell had come here to see if any of the patients might possibly resemble the crazed man seen by Balneil and Miss Jefford. If so, as we moved from room to room in the company of Mr Edmunds, an elderly man with white whiskers, he seemed destined for disappointment. None of the inmates resembled that vision of torment in any way. Indeed those that were here seemed almost to be selected for their lack of any truly disturbing symptoms. Perhaps, I thought, Dr Cornelius was right in believing that the majority of lunatics needed no compulsion, but I found myself wondering how such a place would have coped with the few who did.

Bell certainly showed no disappointment, not even when he asked if any inmates had gone missing in the last few weeks and was answered with an emphatic negative. In general, his conversation was admiring and affable and it was only when we were almost done with our inspection that he turned to Edmunds and I sensed something in his manner. ‘Mr Edmunds,’ he said, ‘do you recall the night when Jefford disappeared? It was a Friday, first of December, the night Dr Bulweather was here.’

‘Why yes, sir,’ said the elderly man, nodding. ‘I remember. Dr Bulweather always likes to …’

And then Edmunds stopped, realising what he had said. He looked worried and stammered a little. ‘But it is not right I should … he does not like people to know.’

‘You must not fear,’ said Bell. ‘I am involved in an investigation and any matters that do not relate to the crime will be kept quite confidential.’

The old man nodded. ‘I see. Well then you must come and see her. She is one of the few you have not seen. In fact, we tend not to display her to visitors.’

And he led us away from the kitchen and down another corridor. A nurse came past smiling at us and then Edmunds showed us into a small comfortable room where a pretty fair-haired woman sat on a chair beside a cot, upon which were dozens and dozens of dolls. All had pretty white faces and dresses. It would have been a little girl’s dream.

Indeed, the woman seemed almost doll-like herself. She was, I judged, about thirty years old, in her arms was yet another doll and she was humming softly as she cradled it back and forth. She looked at us and stopped for a moment but barely seemed to take much notice and then started her humming again. Her mind, I could see, was gone, her expression quite vacant.

‘Hello, Claire,’ said Edmunds and turned to us. ‘That is Claire.’

‘His wife?’ I said, for there was certainly a strong resemblance to the picture in Bulweather’s house

Edmunds shook his head. ‘Oh no, his wife is dead. No this is Claire Warren, his wife’s poor sister. He has given a great deal of money to ensure she is properly looked after, though it seems Dr Cornelius feels there is no prospect of her getting better.’

‘What is the story?’ said Bell quietly, and I could see he was moved by what we saw here.

Edmunds spoke in a low voice. ‘It seems she was in Southwold and a man from London got her in the family way so she fled to the city. For some time she lost touch with her family after she fell on hard times. Dr Bulweather’s wife suffered a great deal of sadness, for they had been close and I am told her last wish was that he would find her sister and help her. This took time and when he found her it was discovered she was living as a common prostitute and that she had had another child taken for adoption. A man had used her badly and there is even talk she fell under a horse and her head was trampled. But when she came here she was as you see now, though never a harsh word for anyone. Always calm and, we hope, happy. But not really with us, as you see. He has done all he can for her.’

‘And why,’ said a voice from behind, ‘did you have to know?’ Both Bell and I turned. Bulweather was standing in the doorway, his face pale with anger.