Seven Dials - Anne Perry [134]
Gently she lifted the mug and tilted it to reach his lips. She waited patiently until he swallowed, and then again.
After watching her for a moment, Gracie did the same for Martin, but he was far more able to help himself.
This went on for several minutes in silence before Narraway finally spoke. He could see that learning anything from Garrick could take all night, but Martin was already burning to respond.
“How did you get to the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital, Mr. Garvie?” he said abruptly. “Who put you there?”
Martin hesitated. His face was very white and there were dark smudges of privation and sleeplessness around his eyes. “Mr. Garrick’s ill, sir. I went to look after him. Couldn’t leave him on his own, sir.”
Narraway’s face did not change at all. “And why did you not have the kindness to tell your sister where you were going? She has been desperate with fear for you.”
Martin gasped, a sheen of sweat on his face. He half turned as if to look at Garrick, then changed his mind. He stared back at Narraway, misery in his eyes. “I didn’t know where I was going when they took me,” he said in little more than a whisper. “I thought it were just to the country, an’ I’d be able to write her. I never guessed it were . . . Bedlam.” He said the word as if it were a curse that hell itself might overhear and make real again.
Narraway sat down at last, pulling the chair around to face the table. Pitt remained standing, and silent.
“Was Mr. Garrick insane when you first went to work for him?” Narraway asked Martin.
Martin winced, perhaps at the thought that Garrick would hear them.
“No, sir,” he said indignantly.
Narraway smiled patiently, and Martin blushed, but he would not argue.
“What happened to him? I need to know, possibly to save his life.”
Martin did not protest, and that in itself did not go unnoticed. Charlotte saw something—doubt, caution—iron out of Narraway’s face. She glared at Pitt, and recognized understanding in him also.
Martin hesitated.
Pitt stepped forward. “I’ll take Mr. Garrick to where he can lie down for a while.”
“Stay with him!” Narraway ordered with a hard warning in his eyes.
Pitt did not bother to reply, but with considerable effort eased Garrick to his feet and, with Gracie’s assistance, guided him out of the door.
“What happened to him, Mr. Garvie?” Narraway repeated.
Martin shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. He always drank quite a bit, but it got worse as time passed, like something was boiling up inside him.”
“Worse in what way?”
“Terrible dreams.” Martin winced. “Lot of gentlemen who drink get bad dreams, but not like his—he’d lie in his bed with his eyes wide open, screaming about blood . . . and fire . . . catching at his throat like he was choking and couldn’t breathe.” Martin himself was trembling. “An’ I’d have to shake him and shout at him to waken him up . . . Then he’d cry like a baby . . . I never heard anything like it.” He stopped, his face white, his eyes imploring Narraway to let him be silent.
Charlotte sat by, hating it, knowing it had to be.
Narraway looked at her, hesitation in his face. She stared back with refusal in her eyes. She was not going to leave.
He accepted it and turned back to Martin Garvie.
“Do you know of any event that occasioned these dreams?”
“No, sir . . .”
Narraway saw the slight uncertainty. “But you know there was something.” That was a statement.
Martin’s voice was almost inaudible. “I think so, sir.”
“Did you know Lieutenant Lovat, who was murdered at Eden Lodge? Or Miss Zakhari?”
“I didn’t know the lady, sir, but I knew Mr. Garrick knew Mr. Lovat. When news came of his murder Mr. Garrick was the worst upset I’ve ever seen him. I . . . I think that’s when he went quite mad . . .” He was embarrassed, and ashamed of putting into words what they all knew, but to say so still seemed a disloyalty.
There was a flash of pity in Narraway’s face, but he conceded again almost as soon as it was there.
“Then I think