Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [68]
116
‘It seems to me that Dr Bartholomew’s been a bit distracted recently,’ she said – her voice echoing in her head, as if she were listening to someone in another room. ‘I think I know why.’ Within her, the game player, the actor, made her pause before delivering the coup de grâce. ‘It’s her husband, Joe.
He’s having an affair with one of the nurses.’
117
Twelve
A Million Manias
(Torment)
Extract from the Diary of Dr Thomas Christie Friday 25th December 1903 (continued)
I believe it was Mr Craig who brought me news of the murder – though, at that moment in time, I had no idea who the perpetrator might be. I hardly need say that this revelation shocked me to the core. I was fearfully saddened by the death, and disturbed that my manifold reforms seemed to count for naught.
I met Fern and Torby in the chapel beneath Mausolus. It seemed now a grotesque morgue, containing as it did two gurneys, one holding aloft the body of Mr Sands, the other the murdered form of Jones. I could scarce believe the injuries the woman had received; to call it butchery would do a disservice to the folk who work in the field. This was worse than barbarism, worse than anything one might find in nature. While the good things in life do not lead me to any specific belief in God, this awful, staved-in face inclined me to give more credence to the Devil.
Fern appeared stony-faced and resolute (I must say again that I did not consider his manner unusual at the time); Torby seemed delicate and wavering, as if all he held true was now dangling by a thread. But, to give the fellow credit, he stood at my side as I examined the injuries to Jones, and made not a sound until my examination was complete.
‘A most frenzied attack,’ I said, though this was obvious to all and sundry.
‘If it is any consolation, she will have died at the first blow, I am sure.’
‘What shall we do?’ Torby asked. ‘We must call the police.’
I laid a restraining hand upon his arm. ‘No,’ I said as gently as possible.
‘Not yet. What would be served by rousing the officers of the law on a day such as this? We know that the murderer is within these walls. There is every chance that we might be able to establish the truth in a way that the local constabulary never could.’
‘But the patients. . . ’
119
‘I am thinking of the patients, and no one else,’ I explained. ‘If knowledge of this death becomes commonplace. . . If word reaches the trustees and we are closed for ever. . . Do you think these wretches will end up at a yet more enlightened institution?’
Torby shook his head.
‘Neither do I. We must ourselves oversee all contact between the patients.’
(To my shame, and for all my grave suspicions of the fellow, it never occurred to me to suspect Mr Fern of such a cowardly act. I felt that this act spoke of extreme lunacy, and that Fern, for all his faults, would stop short of murder.)
‘Let me seek the Reverend Macksey,’ said Torby. ‘He told Mr Fern he would come to perform the last rites over Mr Haward. Let me tell him this latest news. He would, I am sure, like to pray through the rooms of Mausolus. I know you do not acknowledge the power of prayer,’ he said, before I could indeed articulate my concerns, ‘but have you not noticed the atmosphere of this place? Almost every patient is crying out continually. They are cutting themselves with whatever flints they can find on the floor of their cells. Most of the staff have deserted us, like rats off a sinking ship!’
‘I suppose it can do no harm,’ I said. ‘Perhaps prayer can improve the outlook of those of us who remain. Go then, Mr Torby! Return with the good reverend, and perchance his presence – or that of his God – will see us safely through this darkness.’
Mr Torby and I left the chapel; Fern remained behind, the gaslight giving his haunted features the appearance of wax. Had my senses been more keen I may have