Chapter 32

LOOKING FOR MOLLY

October 4, 1897

The Mercer Reformatory, like all prisons, had a forbidding look about it. Leonard Babington lifted the knocker on the front door and banged to make his presence known. A small panel at shoulder height slid open. “State your business,” a voice demanded.

“Babington of the Evening Telegram,” Leonard answered. “Inquiring about Molly Leppard. I want to know if she is at this institution.”

The door opened to allow Leonard entry. The guard escorted him to an office where a man sat behind a stack of ledgers. “Do we have a Molly Leppard, Jocko,” the guard asked. “Newspaperman here wants to know.”

“If we’ve got her, she’s in here,” the man named Jocko said, referring to the ledgers. He bent over a large journal and ran his finger down lines of black script. He flipped over several pages before stopping. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “Molly Leppard, six months for arson, assigned to kitchen work. I remember her. We have to keep these wretched women busy. Of all wretched women, the idle are the most wretched. We teach them the importance of labour. One of the great means of their reformation.”

Leonard had to laugh at the man’s oafish arrogance. He’d never known anyone who had worked harder than Molly Leppard. Raising thirteen kids on a stone farm takes a lot more effort than sitting in some dismal room writing entries in a ledger. “Can I see her?” he asked.

“Not visiting hours,” the man named Jocko answered. “But it doesn’t make any difference – she’s not here. Transferred to the Asylum for the Insane, 28^th of August. Go over to 999 Queen Street. Doubt they’ll let you in today.”

Molly in the Insane Asylum? Leonard found this hard to believe. He’d always thought her a little strange, but insane? Should he still try to see her? Rather than visit the Asylum now, he decided to go home and think about what he should do. At the office the next day, he sent a copy boy to the Telegram’s morgue to collect clippings on the Insane Asylum. There were stories about the rehabilitation of its inmates and flattering accounts of the work of its doctors. One article invited the public to enjoy the grounds and wander through the Asylum to see “the favourable consequences of treatment as it is effected on the inmates.” There were several articles quoting the Superintendent, Dr. Daniel Clark. Leonard decided to telephone him. A device that should be used more often in gathering news, he thought as he put in his call. He was connected at once. Dr. Clark agreed to see Leonard at four o’clock the next afternoon.

The stone walls loomed large around the Asylum when Leonard stood in front of it in the afternoon sunshine. A dome set atop the highest tower in Toronto rose over the middle of the building. Wings four storeys high, windows barred, extended left and right for several hundred feet. The only door was at the foot of a stone stairway that descended to the basement, creating a dismal and forbidding entrance even on a day as bright as this.

How frightening these surroundings must be for new arrivals, Leonard thought. He hesitated at the top of the stairway. He was curious to see Molly. And if a visit could lead to him finding out more about how Rosannah had died, it would be worthwhile, no natter how uninviting this place. He had pictured in his head so many times how Rosannah’s last hours might have unfolded. How was she given the strychnine that killed her? In some food, or in a drink? Mixed in with her tobacco, perhaps? And who had brought the poison into the Leppard house that night? Someone the Leppards must have known. Not a stranger assuredly. Thinking through all the possibilities, for the thousandth or the ten thousandth time, made him dizzy.

Leonard rang the bell at the bottom of the stairs. An attendant ushered him inside. Everything about the building was grey. The concrete floors and walls were soiled and dingy with the accumulation of years of grime. The white gowns worn by male and female staff alike provided a sharp contrast. Leonard saw Dr. Clark emerge from his office leading an elderly man by the hand. “Lie down when you’re taken back to your ward,” he told the man. “Someone will be along soon with your tot of rum.” He sent him off with an affectionate pat on his shoulder.

Seeing Leonard, Dr. Clark whirled suddenly. A brief flash of pink traveled up his cheek. He seemed embarrassed at what Leonard had just witnessed.

“Pay him no mind,” Dr. Clark said. “Many of our patients respond favourably to a tittle of alcohol once or twice a day. Better than giving them opium. Helps them to relax and eases their minds. But you don’t have to print that, do you?”

“I’ve come only to inquire of an inmate,” Leonard said.

“Patient, you mean,” Dr. Clark interjected. “All our guests are patients.”

“Of course,” Leonard acknowledged. He was seeking a middle-aged woman named Molly Leppard. He knew her family back in Vandeleur and they were concerned for her welfare. Would it be possible to visit her?

“That might be arranged,” Dr. Clark said. Leonard thought the Superintendent sounded a little defensive, perhaps worried about having let it be known patients were given alcohol.

“Mrs. Leppard came to us suffering manic depression,” Dr. Clark added. “She experiences delusions and threatens violence to herself and those around her. Just yesterday, she claimed Napoleon was her uncle and she raved about a pit with buried gold and explosives. Poor woman, we’re doing our best to help her.”

Fanning his arms as if to brush off some unwanted presence, Dr. Clark declared that no matter how unruly a patient might become, no physicial force was ever used at the Asylum.

“You’ll find none of the physically corrective forms of confinement here. No crib-beds, restraining waistcoats, or tethering to chairs. We emphasize moral enlightenment and firm guidance. We prefer fresh air, generous diet, and cleanliness to drugs.”

Leonard listened carefully. He barely noticed the arrival of a burly man in a white gown. He stood a few feet from Leonard, glowering as he waited to speak.

“You buzzed for me, Dr. Clark?”

“Ah, yes, Wainwright. This is Mr. Babington. He’s here to see Molly Leppard. Take him to her, please. But for no more than half an hour.”

Wainwright escorted Leonard to a ward at the far end of the Asylum basement. The occasional bare electric light bulb cast a dim light on this dark corridor. Not long ago, Leonard thought, candles would have been used down here.

A female attendant guarded a door at the end of the corridor. She was of medium height but thick, with an expression suggesting she had no time for levity.

“Bring out Mrs. Leppard,” Wainwright told her. “She has a visitor.”

Wainwright motioned Leonard to a bench. He sat down and waited. There was no conversation. In a few minutes, the door opened and the attendant emerged, followed by a woman clad in a grey nightgown. She had torn slippers on her feet. Leonard stared. It took him a moment to recognize the woman he had known as Molly Leppard. Her hair fell in knotted strands to her shoulders and her wrinkled face bore evidence of strain and worry. Nonetheless, she carried herself with a certain dignity. At the age of sixry-one, she still bore the bones of a good-looking woman.

The attendant sat Molly beside him. They looked at each other.

“Do you remember me?” Leonard asked.

Molly searched his face for a clue to his identity.

“Now I do,” she said. She spoke in a soft, throaty voice. “You’re Leonard, Leonard Babington. I wouldn’t forget you.” She looked around quickly. “Too bad you have to see me like this.” She let out a nervous laugh.

Molly told Leonard she would be going home soon. “My sentence is just about up.”

She must think she’s still in the prison, Leonard thought. The attendant offered to take Molly and Leonard to the verandah where they could enjoy the view and the fresh air. The day had warmed and he saw women sitting about in light dresses. The men had the sleeves of their shirts rolled up. Leonard soon realized the veranda was not just a place for dormitory patients to take fresh air. It also served as a ward for the tubercular sick, who ate and slept here. Molly was given a chair near a screened door. As they talked, a tall, red-haired girl approached. Leonard judged she was in her mid-twenties. She had brown eyes and a clear, unblemished face and he wondered if she was a nurse. Then he realized she wore the same grey nightdress as Molly.

“Who is your friend, Molly?” the girl asked. “I think I’d like to meet him.”

The attendant interjected. “You shouldn’t be trying to flirt with the visitors,” she said.

“Gosh, that’s just Kathleen’s way,” Molly said.

Leonard learned a lot about the red-haired girl: that her name was Kathleen Fitzgerald and that she had been committed on the complaint of her stepfather. “They told me I was bad but I could never see why,” Kathleen said. Leonard found her easy to talk with. She answered his questions in a forthright way and expressed a keen curiosity about newspapers and their doings.

To Leonard, Kathleen seemed quite normal. Still, he thought, there must be a good reason for her being in the Asylum. She was attractive, yes, he had to admit that. She seemed bright enough, too. But he had learned from Rosannah that the mood of a high-spirited girl could shift in a flash from exuberance to despondency. Be careful with this one, he told himself. He said goodbye to Molly and promised to come back on Saturday. That night, he wrote to James Leppard to tell him of Molly’s confinement. He suggested James visit her but as far as Leonard could learn, he never did.

All that week, Leonard fretted as he tried to concentrate on his work. One day, he went with Owen Staples to the Queen’s Hotel after the five o’clock edition had been put to bed. He went over everything he could remember about finding Molly Leppard and of his encounter with a girl called Kathleen.

“You have to go back,” Owen said. “You’ll never rest until you find out what happened to Rosannah. You’re still in love.”

Leonard became a weekly visitor to the Asylum that fall and winter. In good weather, he bicycled there. Bicycling was all the rage in Toronto, encouraged by the Ministerial Association in its fight to keep streetcars in their barns on Sundays. His paper had opposed Sunday streetcars, but in a referendum the citizens had voted by a margin of a few hundred to let them run on the Sabbath. On Sundays, he sometimes joined Owen and hundreds of others cyclists to ride out to High Park.

Leonard told himself that if he saw Molly often enough he would find out everything she remembered about how Rosannah had met her death. He was less willing to admit it was Kathleen who had become the lure that led him to the Asylum with such regularity.

On one visit, Leonard found Molly at dinner in the first floor dining room. She jumped up when she saw him. “You’ve come back,” she said. Leonard looked around for Kathleen. The room contained a half dozen tables, all filled by patients. He could see the remnants of their meal – crumbs of crackers and leftover corned beef and sauerkraut – scattered on the table and the floor. He was disappointed there was no sign of the girl.

“I’ve been feeling better this week,” Molly said. “But they won’t tell me why I’m here. Anyway, they gave me tobacco and I had a good smoke. Would you like some?” Leonard declined. They spoke of how Molly’s husband James, all alone now except for Billy, would be getting on. This seemed like a good time to discuss what had happened to Rosannah.

“I still miss Rosannah,” Leonard told her. “How much do you remember of the night she died? I wonder if we’ll ever know what took her life?”

Molly turned her head away and then snapped back. Leonard could see pain on her face.

“Rosannah? Rosannah was going to Hell. I pray she’s been spared.”

Suddenly, Molly burst into tears. The attendant rushed over. “You’ve upset her,” she said. “You’ll have to leave now.” She led Molly away.

The next time Leonard went to the Asylum he decided to look first for Kathleen. By now, the attendants were familiar with him and paid him little attention. He found Kathleen in the west veranda. There was no one nearby and she seemed to be moving about freely. Kathleen smiled and waved when she saw him. “I’m on an hour’s inside parole,” she said. “I can go wherever I wish as long as I’m back in the ward by two o’clock. But they won’t let me outside. Come sit with me.”

Kathleen pointed to two chairs by a window. Leonard told her of his last visit with Molly. He was sorry he’d asked a question that had upset her.

“Molly gets upset easily,” Kathleen said. “She’s my friend, but I worry that she’ll never get out of here. I hope I’ll have better luck.”

Kathleen peered at Leonard and smiled. She reminded him of Rosannah and for a minute it seemed as if he was back with her in Vandeleur.

“So, Mr. Babington, where did you get that name?”

“From my father, of course. Where else would I have gotten it?

“I mean, how did your family get it? Are you descended from Babington the Catholic? The one who plotted to assassinate Queen Elizabeth?”

Leonard was surprised Kathleen would know of this episode from British history. “Quite possibly,” he said. “I really don’t know. I’m not a Catholic.”

“Neither am I,” Kathleen answered. “My people were all Quakers, from Waterford, in Ireland. I was born in Toronto.”

Kathleen looked around the room as they talked. “I’m just keeping an eye out for old Meggity McLean,” she said. “She likes to keep watch on me but she’s wandered off again. I know a nicer place where we can talk. We might even be alone.”

Kathleen led Leonard to a small storeroom. Wooden crates held spare blankets and mattress ticking. “This is a good place to talk,” she whispered. “No one ever comes here. Do you have any tobacco?”

Leonard told her he never used the stuff and he didn’t think she should, either.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” he told her. “You seem perfectly normal to me.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Kathleen said. “They think they’re making me better but I’m no different than the day I got here.”

“What did they say was wrong with you?”

“It’s what my stepfather said. He told them I was running wild. Said I had committed acts of the most immoral kind. He signed a paper saying I had no control over my sexual desires.”

Leonard blushed on hearing this. “Why ever would he do such a thing?” Leonard wasn’t used to discussing sexual matters with young women. But there would be no more talk of such things that day. Instead, Kathleen told Leonard of an incident that had happened in the ward that morning. An old woman had come up to her and waved a finger under her nose. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she’d shouted. “You and your gang of murderers. You’ve killed my husband. You’ll never get to heaven!”

“People like her are here for life,” Kathleen said. “They have all kinds of delusions. That woman’s incurable.”

On his next visit, Leonard went straight to Molly’s bedside. His reward was a frustrating hour spent trying to coax her into conversation. He had never seen Molly so dispirited and depressed. She shut up every time he tried to get her to talk about Rosannah. Relieved to be away from her, he looked forward to Kathleen’s usual cheerfulness. She smiled when she saw him and led him to the storeroom where they’d spent his last visit. Her lighthearted mood fell away when Leonard asked to know more about why she was in the Asylum.

“It’s a long story Leonard, and not a pretty one. Let’s not talk about it right now. Would you like to kiss me?”

Leonard had wanted to kiss Kathleen since he’d first set eyes on her. He leaned toward her and brushed his lips against her forehead. She raised her face and gave him a small smile before she closed her eyes. He kissed her on the mouth and pressed himself against her. Kathleen made no effort to move away and he put his palms on her breasts and began to caress her. With one knee, he gently nudged her legs apart. She unfastened his pants and took him in her hands. In a moment, he was inside her. She moaned and clung to him. It was over quickly. After, they talked about the unfairness of Kathleen’s detention. Leonard thought he had never been with a girl as exciting and willing as Kathleen. It was unfair for her to be locked away with a lot of crazy people. There’s nothing wrong with her, I’m sure of it, he told himself. He had to admit he’d heard only her side of the story. He pushed aside the thought he might have taken advantage of a sick woman.

That night, Leonard dreamt of Kathleen and Rosannah, but he was unable to separate the two visions that haunted his sleep. He awoke troubled, disturbed by the apparition of a woman dead a dozen years. Rosannah was the reminder of a promise not yet fulfilled, a failure that crowned all the other failures of his life.

Leonard was careful to seek out both Molly and Kathleen on his later visits. One time, he went with Molly to the Asylum chapel. It was in a garret under the great dome of the tower. “The different faiths take turns,” the attendant said. “The Catholic Mass is at eleven o’clock.”

Leonard had expected something resembling an ordinary church. Instead, they entered an oval room with a deep pit that held four rows of seats. He thought it no more cheerful than the foulest ward. A Catholic priest was readying his vestments. He stood in a pulpit built high into the wall, well out of reach of the half dozen patients who sat below. A faint light filtered through windows near the top of the dome.

Molly went to the bottom row, knelt and made the Sign of the Cross, and waited for the start of the mass. Leonard thought how strange we Christians are to celebrate the Cross, the symbol of Christ’s agony. If Jesus had been hanged like Cook Teets, would nooses of silver and gold adorn women’s necks? Would a rope dangle from each church steeple? He stood with the attendant as the priest droned on in Latin. Molly was as religious as ever, he realized. That’s the only thing she has to hold on to.

As spring approached and Leonard continued to visit the Asylum, he found himself becoming more entranced with Kathleen. Their trysts took up most of his visits. He marvelled that they hadn’t been found out. He wondered if the attendants knew what they were doing. It was information that could be used against Kathleen, an excuse to keep her confined. One time, as they clung together on the packing cases, Leonard asked Kathleen to tell him more of the events that had brought her to this place.

“It was my stepfather’s fault, the rotten bastard. Any time a girl gets into difficulty with her family, she can be put away. All that’s needed is a complaint from the family, signed by two doctors. If they think you’re immoral, they say you’re mentally deficient.”

Kathleen told Leonard that her stepfather “had his way with me” ever since she was fifteen. When he found her kissing a delivery boy, he ordered her out of the house. Kathleen took work as a servant to a doctor’s wife. When Kathleen rebuked the doctor for his sexual advances, he made his wife dismiss her. She stole the family’s silver but was arrested when she tried to pawn it. She was given six months in the Industrial Refuge for Girls.

“My stepfather came for me. I wouldn’t go home so he complained to the police. He had me charged with sexual promiscuity. They said I showed all the symptoms of erotomania. What bunk! I’ve been here nearly two years. They put me in a straitjacket and spoon-fed me. Then they put me in a bath for hours at a time. First hot water, then cold. They were going to fix me so I could never have children. The matron said a woman’s mental problems start in her womb. But Dr. Clark wouldn’t allow them to operate.”

It amazed Leonard that Kathleen could unfold a story of such rejection and despair and yet still smile and laugh, like a girl without a care in the world. He told her about Rosannah and what had happened to her. He confessed she’d had a child by him. It seemed to Leonard that Kathleen’s life had been as difficult as Rosannah’s, if on a different path. Talking about Rosannah still troubled him, and he wondered if he would ever be free of remorse. He looked at Kathleen and for a moment, he thought he saw redemption in her eyes.