Your mother is here to see you,” the attendant said. He peered through the bars on the door while he inserted a key into the lock. “Expect she wants to see how you’re getting along.”
The patient’s spirits soared. Mother had come to see him. Perhaps she’d had a change of heart and decided to believe his side of the story. With luck he could convince her to free him from this prison they called a hospital.
Until recently he had always been able to convince her that he was not guilty of all the small incidents for which he had been blamed over the years. There had always been sound explanations. It was a fact that small pets frequently suffered fatal accidents and the servants could be so very careless when it came to lighting fires. And Mother did so want to believe him.
But in the wake of the discovery of the bodies of the three brides, persuading Mother that he’d had nothing to do with the killings had become increasingly difficult. The episode with Amity Doncaster had proved disastrous. Mother had finally concluded that he was, indeed, the killer.
He had to find a way to make her believe that he’d had nothing to do with the attack on Doncaster. It was so obvious that the wounds he had suffered had been inflicted by an enraged whore who had assaulted him with a knife when he refused to pay for her services.
Mother had come to see him. Surely that was a clear indication that she wanted to be convinced that he had recovered from his latest case of shattered nerves.
Thankfully he had also recovered from the knife wounds the bitch had inflicted.
“How nice of Mother to come all this way to visit me,” he said.
He put down the photographs of the hospital gardens that he had been arranging and rose from the table. He moved stiffly. His wounds had healed but he still ached in places. Each twinge was a reminder of unfinished business. He smiled at the attendant. “I trust you told her that I was at home and happy to receive callers, Mr. Douglas?”
The attendant chuckled. “Yes, indeed, sir.” He swung the heavy door wide.
The roaring relief crashing through the patient threatened to overwhelm him but he knew he could not afford to appear euphoric. Displays of strong emotions of any sort were discouraged by Dr. Renwick and the hospital staff. The goal of therapy was a calm, well-ordered mind.
The patient winced as he pulled on his coat. Every time he felt the aches and twinges he knew a flash of rage. But he managed to maintain an air of composure in front of the attendant.
During the course of his earlier stay at Cresswell Manor, he had discovered that the trick to gaining privileges such as permission to photograph the flowers in the Manor’s gardens was to affect a serene, polite, attentive demeanor. There were so many times when he yearned to vent his fury, but for the most part he was able to fight the urges.
True, there had been that incident with one of the maids shortly after his arrival, but the promise of a bribe had kept her silent. In any event, it was not as if he had hurt her, at least not nearly as much as she deserved. He had merely struck her hard enough to send her to the floor. Really, what had she expected him to do after the way she had treated him? She was just a servant who had gotten above herself. She had dared to try to give him orders. The silly woman had actually had the gall to tell him not to touch her. She had even threatened to report him to Jones, the ruthless man in charge of the hospital staff.
He should have done more than strike the stupid maid, the patient told himself. He should have taken a knife to her as she deserved. He was quite certain she was no virgin. But he knew he could not start cutting up the women on the staff, so he kept his needs in check. In any event, the maid was not worthy of his attentions. Just a bloody servant.
Bloody. Yes, indeed, a little bloodletting was exactly what the maid deserved—and what he needed to regain his sense of control.
But he did not have to concern himself with the maid any longer because Mother was here.
“She’s waiting in the gardens,” the attendant said. “I’ll escort you. Dr. Renwick says you don’t need the leg shackles because you’ve been responding well to therapy.”
“Thank you,” the patient said. He was careful to keep his tone humble. “I have been feeling much better since I started the treatments again.”
The good doctor’s therapy was very modern. It consisted of daily doses of his special nerve tonic based on quinine and nightly injections of opiates in various formulations. All patients followed a vegetarian diet devoid of any spices that might excite the nervous system. There was an emphasis on a strict routine that consisted of therapeutic baths, exercise and evenings spent listening to Dr. Renwick play the piano. Renwick was convinced that music had the ability to soothe agitated nerves.
For the most part, the regimen, with the exception of the doctor’s piano playing, was tolerable, if decidedly boring. Fortunately, Renwick believed that the arts, such as photography, were also good for the nerves. The patient had been allowed to take photographs of the hospital gardens and develop his own pictures in a darkroom provided by Renwick.
Nevertheless, the pressure to act like a sane man who had been wrongfully locked away in an institution was taking its toll. He could not stop thinking about the bride who had escaped. Thoughts of Amity Doncaster obsessed him, night and day. He had to convince Mother that he was innocent—that it was safe to take him back to London with her.
The attendant unlocked the doors at the end of the corridor and escorted the patient down the staircase and into the grand hall of the old mansion. Together they walked past the hospital offices, the doctor’s personal laboratory where he concocted his medications and the kitchens.
They went outside into the sunlit gardens. Towering hedges and cascading ivy concealed the high walls and the iron gates that surrounded the hospital. A woman was seated on a stone bench in the charming gazebo at the center of the gardens. She had her back to him but he could see that she wore a wide-brimmed bonnet and a stylish gown. Mother always prided herself on being in the first stare of fashion.
He could convince her to take him back to London, the patient thought. Confidence swelled inside him. Mother did not believe him as readily as she had when he was younger, but he knew that she still desperately wanted—needed—to believe in him.
Smiling, the patient went forward eagerly.
“Mother,” he said. “It was good of you to come to see me. I have missed you so much.”
Twenty
One look at Penny’s face was all it took to tell Benedict that he was in serious trouble.
“My sister is dressing,” Penny said. “She will come downstairs in a moment. I wish to have a few words with you before she arrives.”
