There was music in the madhouse. It went on all night. Care of a woman humming – her voice echoing down the empty corridor – no doubt some lunatic locked in another cell. She had just the one tune. And as soon as she finished humming it, she would start again.
Her pitch was perfect, but as that first night stretched on in endless misery, and the tune was repeated again and again, I would gladly have smothered her with my apron.
There were other voices, crowding the silence. Shrieks of lunacy. Wretched sobbing. One fellow called for his mother every ten minutes. Another swore like a pirate and made violent threats.
I spent most of my time trying to lift the veil. Hoping to make the bleak madhouse fall away and Prospa House rise up. But without the Clock Diamond, all I managed to conjure up was a headache.
Being a girl of bright ideas, I then decided to call upon the Duchess of Trinity.
‘I’d like to box your ears for trying to use me again for a horrid revenge,’ I said aloud. ‘But the thing is I’m in rather a pickle, and I was wondering if you could drop in and offer some assistance.’
Nothing. Not even a ghostly cackle.
As the cell was small and wretched, I passed the time in a variety of ways. Sitting was a great favourite. Walking about as far as my chain would allow also figured prominently. Professor Ploomgate had not visited again. The hefty woman in the grimy black and white dress would come with a bowl of gruel. A ladle of water. I did not change my clothes, for I had no others. I did not wash. I did not see the sky. Such was my new life.
Three days passed like this.
Someone new brought the gruel on day four (Saturday, I think – though it was hard to keep track). A boy of about nine or ten. Dark hair. Brown skin. Large hazel eyes. Interesting ears. He came in silently, carrying two buckets, and served me a helping of slop.
As we were only fed twice a day, I ate it as if it were Mrs Dickens’ finest porridge. When I had scraped the very last dregs from the wooden bowl, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and handed it back to him.
Then the boy did something most extraordinary. He filled the bowl with another helping of gruel. As if that were not enough, he then pulled a piece of stale bread from his pocket and handed it to me!
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a few uncooked potatoes in there, would you?’ I said, biting into the bread and savouring its crusty goodness.
He looked at me strangely. As if eating raw potatoes required an explanation.
‘I’m a tiny bit dead,’ I said between mouthfuls, ‘and it’s had rather a strange effect on my appetite.’
‘Blimey,’ he replied, clearly impressed. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up tomorrow.’
‘Have you worked in this ghastly place long?’
‘Just started this week. Pay’s terrible, but there’s plenty to eat and I can sleep down in the cellar most nights.’
‘You sleep here?’
‘When I have to.’
‘What’s your name, dear?’
‘Jago,’ was his answer. ‘If you’re being official like, I’m Oliver Jago, but it’s a rotter of a name, so I chucked it.’
I used the last of the bread to mop up the gruel. ‘I knew an Oliver once. An orphan, of course, with hideous eating habits.’ I shoved the bread in my mouth and chewed it feverishly. ‘He was always asking for more. Which is frightfully bad form.’
A bell sounded from somewhere up above us, signalling the end of dinner.
Jago picked up the buckets. ‘See you tomorrow, I guess.’
‘Yes, dear, I’ll be waiting.’
The boy stopped and looked back at me.
‘You’re awful young. What you in for then?’
‘Revenge,’ was my answer.
He shrugged. ‘Good a reason as any.’
I began to look forward to Jago’s visits most eagerly. He took to calling me chatterbox. Can’t think why. And would always give me extra gruel and bread. Even the odd potato (lovely boy!). In the few minutes we had, Jago would tell me of life outside – where he had gone around London foraging for an extra penny or two. He never said anything about his family. I assumed because he didn’t have one.
Being a shy sort of girl, I was reluctant to speak about myself. But slowly I came out of my shell (not unlike a sea turtle) and told him a few snippets from my wondrous adventures. He seemed terribly impressed.
As he was taking his leave one evening, the humming lady’s endless melody rolled in like an afternoon breeze. A very annoying breeze.
‘I’m to feed her next,’ he said eagerly. ‘She’s right mad, she is.’
‘Doesn’t she know any other tune?’
‘Hums it for the baby,’ explained Jago. ‘“Sleep and Dream, my Sweet”, it’s called.’
I gasped. ‘Of course, it’s a lullaby.’
‘Matron says she’s been here for years.’
‘And she has a baby?’
‘Not here, she don’t.’
‘Jago, would you be a dear and ask Professor Ploomgate to stop by? I rather fear he has forgotten about me and I’m rather keen to get out of this beastly cell. You see, I’m not at all deranged.’
The boy thought on it a moment then said, ‘Sorry, chatterbox, they’d chuck me out on my ear if I made a racket about one of you lot.’
That next morning when Jago came with breakfast (more cold slop), he was called out into the corridor by an orderly barking instructions about cleaning the pots in the kitchen when he was done. I was sitting on the ground, scratching at the skin around the shackle on my right ankle. It was violently itchy. As was my hair. Fleas were a distinct possibility.
I heard the sound of footsteps. And voices. Perhaps Professor Ploomgate had come to see me! I was just getting to my feet when I saw the Professor and a young woman walk briskly by. They were deep in conversation and did not glance my way.
The girl had shiny brown hair worn up. A dazzling white dress. And a matching feather hat. And she looked remarkably like Estelle Dumbleby. But that was quite impossible. What would she be doing here? Then a thrilling thought burst into my mind – she had noticed I was missing and was on the hunt for me!
I ran at speed towards the corridor. ‘Estelle, it’s me, your dear friend!’
Three things happened quickly. First, the chain reached its end, the shackle digging into my ankle and stopping me cold. Second, the orderly charged into the small cell and put his calloused hand over my mouth. Third, Jago slammed the door shut.
After that, all I heard was the madwoman humming.
Matilda came on the thirteenth day.
I suspect she was there to gloat with Lady Elizabeth’s blessing. I could not imagine her dropping by without it. Matilda had on a yellow muslin dress. Her black hair flared with splashes of scarlet in the candlelight. She told the orderly to leave and shut the door.
‘Well, Pocket, how do you like your new home?’ She did not get too close. ‘Grandmother hopes you are settling in nicely.’
I patted down my hair as if it were not a greasy tangle. ‘It’s really rather wonderful,’ I said brightly. ‘Haven’t had this much time to myself since I spent that summer by the Hudson River in a locked box. And the food is remarkable.’
‘You are miserable, admit it.’
‘Stuff and nonsense. Look around, dear, I have this gloriously creepy cell, a constant stream of lunatics bellowing about their troubles, there’s at least three ghosts wandering about the place dragging ball and chains – and that is not even the best part.’
My smile was mischievous. As if I had a delicious secret.
Matilda was frowning. She didn’t want to ask. Not for anything. But how could she not?
‘What is the best part?’ she demanded to know.
I cupped my ear for effect. And sure enough, amongst the shrieks and hollering, you could hear her pretty tune.
‘It’s just some lunatic humming,’ said Matilda, folding her arms.
‘But don’t you see? This is the perfect place to write my great gothic novel – there is inspiration in the very mould on the walls, the rats at my feet, and the slop in my bowl.’
‘Nice try, Pocket,’ said Matilda with a sneer, ‘but you haven’t any paper.’
‘I’m writing it in my head, dear. All the best novelists do these days.’
‘Sounds utterly mental – you deserve to be locked up.’ She paused. She seemed to be trying to find the right words. ‘Listen, Pocket, I’m not saying I believe a word of what you said the other day, but I want you to tell me about Rebecca. Tell me everything from the beginning and do not stop until you were thrown into the carriage in Hyde Park.’
‘All right.’
And that is just what I did. Leaving no detail out. When I was done, Matilda looked past me to the dank wall. Then down at the floor. Then the flea-ridden bed.
‘Why should I believe you?’ she asked at last.
It was an excellent point. I only had one answer.
‘Because you know that a girl simply doesn’t shrivel up and die when she puts on a necklace. The Clock Diamond can do wondrous and wicked things. But unless I get it back from the beastly pair of nincompoops who have it, I won’t be able to reach Rebecca and bring her home.’
‘Grandmother wants you to rot in this place.’
‘And what do you want, dear?’
She frowned as if the idea had never occurred to her before. Then the malice returned to her pretty blue eyes. ‘Nice try, Pocket.’
I missed the sky terribly. Sometimes it was all that I could think about. My cell had no windows and the only way I could tell whether it was day or night was by the delivery of breakfast and dinner. So I would imagine it – a full moon and a scattering of stars. Or a sunrise over London, dappling the streets in ginger.
Sleep eluded me. So I lay there in the dark. The humming lady had gone mercifully quiet. I scratched at my arms to soothe the itching flea bites. Wondered about Matilda’s visit. Wishing I’d said something more.
The bolt of my cell door suddenly slid back. It was quieter than usual. Slower too. I jumped to my feet. Clenched my fists as I prepared to do battle. Who was coming upon me in the dead of night?
Soft light bled into the room as the door opened. Followed by a short figure – the light pushed around him, but I could not see his face. He carried something in his arms.
‘I’ve pummelled bigger men than you, shorty,’ I declared, ‘so be warned!’
The figure closed the door, casting the cell into darkness again. I heard the rustle of clothes. Then the strike of a match. The flame found a candle held in his hand and its glow leapt all over his face.
I stepped forward. ‘What are you doing here? Dinner was over hours ago.’
Jago was holding a dark cape. But he seemed slightly lost for words.
‘Oh, you delightful street urchin,’ I said, taking the cape and fixing it around my neck, ‘you have brought me this to warm myself against the cold night.’ I yawned. ‘What time is it?’
‘After eight.’
‘It’s been such a horrid day and I expect I’ve been rather short with you since you helped that brute silence me.’
‘I’m right sorry about that,’ he said bashfully. ‘It’s the job, that’s all. If I didn’t help they might get to thinking I was doing special favours for you and such. Now listen –’
‘Perfectly understandable. As I told you when that buffoon took his hand away from my mouth, I thought perhaps I saw a dear friend of mine. But that couldn’t be –’
‘Won’t you hush for a second, chatterbox? We haven’t much time.’
‘Time for what?’ I said rather sullenly.
‘I’m fixing to get you out of this place.’
I gasped with shock and delight. ‘When? Tonight?’
Jago crouched down, pulled out a set of keys, and proceeded to unlock the shackle at my ankle. With that I was freed. He stood up and held out his grimy hand. And I took it.