Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [18]
‘Just Doctor, please,’ said Smith. ‘I was glad to, though I’m not sure what you think I can do.’
Chiltern touched his elbow and led him back into the hail. ‘You’ve studied hypnotism,’ he explained as they walked. ‘I have not, myself, and finding a hypnotist with any sort of medical background is quite difficult in this country. It’s still thought of as mesmerism and stage shows. To be frank,’ he sighed, ‘we are not as receptive in England as we might be to new ideas from the Continent. Even the strangest theory may contain a kernel of something true.’
Dr Smith nodded. Chiltern found his request to be addressed only by his title eccentric, but he didn’t mind complying. His profession had made him extremely tolerant of oddities, even fond of them. He half-suspected that his companion might not even have a medical degree, might simply be one of those brilliant dilettantes who on the Continent styled themselves as ‘Professor’, but he didn’t mind. The man had clearly had a good effect on Miss Jane the night before, and if his hypnotism helped her, who cared whether he had learned it in a carnival?
They walked together down the wide, sunny hall. None of the large windows was barred, though, looking out of one, the Doctor spied a turreted wing of grey stone where the windows were encased in iron grills. A few patients stood aimlessly about the corridor. One scholarly looking man was patting his head over and over and over. The Doctor remembered the eighteenth century, when patients had been put on exhibit. Fortunately, tastes in entertainment had changed.
Chiltern stopped beside a nicely dressed, middle-aged woman who was sitting on the floor, arms clasped around her knees, rocking back and forth.
‘Good morning, Mrs Paracle.’
She neither answered nor looked at him. He bent down to her, hands on knees, and said gently, ‘Would you be more comfortable in your room? It has a bed, and a soft rug.’ After a moment, still not looking at him, she slowly nodded. He helped her to her feet, gesturing to a nurse who came and led her away. Chiltern watched them go. ‘She hasn’t spoken in years. There’s really nothing I can do for her. But the rocking seems to comfort her, so we encourage it.’
They came out of the main hall into a narrower corridor, with simple whitewashed walls and high, deep-set windows: an older part of the house. The Doctor guessed they were heading to the stone wing he’d glimpsed earlier. ‘Is Miss Jane violent?’
‘Oh no. Unfortunately, the only bed available was in the ward for the more disturbed patients.’
‘Have you many of those?’
Chiltern’s face clouded. ‘Enough.’
They were walking on flagstones, now, and the ceiling was lower. The doors on either side of the passage were new and solid-looking, painted a glossy black and inset with small windows. From behind one of these, the occupant, hearing their footsteps, cried, ‘I’m as sane as you are! Saner!’ Chiltern ignored this and proceeded to the next door, on which he knocked. ‘It’s Dr Chiltern.’
‘Come in,’ a voice said faintly.
The room inside was simply furnished: an iron bed, an armchair, and a table with a porcelain basin and pitcher on it and a commode cabinet beneath. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed but bulged out unevenly over the stone foundation they covered, a disquieting effect that made the Doctor think of horror stories in which people were walled up alive. Miss Jane sat slumped on the bed, wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was loose, falling thickly past her shoulders. She looked at them bleakly.
‘You remember Dr Smith from last night,’ said Chiltern. She nodded. ‘How are you feeling? The nurse tells me your night was quiet and that you had some breakfast.’
Her eyes shifted away, and she pulled the shawl tighter. ‘I’m crazy, aren’t I?’ she said in her flat, American voice. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘You don’t appear crazy to me,’ said Chiltern calmly, ‘only upset.’
‘I have blackouts.’
‘That’s not proof of