A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(14)

Which immediately caused Nan to doubt the first assertion in the letter—that the patient herself had demanded she be sent here. Still . . . it was possible. A dutiful, obedient daughter, fearing she was going mad, might ask her parents to put her safely where she could live in comfort and spare her loved ones much distress.

The place was certainly well staffed; they were met at the front door by someone in a dark blue uniform who first summoned a boy to take the cabman to a stable at the back then led them in himself. There they found themselves in a sort of waiting room, furnished with stiff wooden chairs, papered with a pattern of pale green vines on pale blue, “enlivened” by three indifferent pastoral landscape paintings.

“We’re expected,” John told the uniformed attendant. “Doctor John Watson.”

The other nodded briskly. “Indeed you are, sir. Let me show you directly to the doctor’s office.”

So . . . we are wanted badly enough not to be made to wait.

He led them through a double door to a set of stairs and up to the next story. There was an office directly off the landing, one with windows that gave a commanding view of the front of the building and the drive leading to it. The walls were lined with filled bookshelves, and the centerpiece of the room was a huge mahogany desk.

The man sitting behind the desk in front of those windows rose at their entrance. He was a little older than John Watson, wore the same sort of suit, though cut of much finer cloth, and it was obvious that he was used to moving in very exalted social circles. His abundant dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and his beard and “muttonchop” sideburns were immaculate, probably having seen the attention of a professional barber or valet that morning.

“Doctor Watson!” he boomed. “Thank you for coming so promptly!” He held out his hand, and Watson shook it, as he glanced at the three women with Watson.

Watson took the hint. “Doctor Huntley, this is my wife, Mary, who acts as my assistant, and Miss Sarah Lyon-White and Miss Nancy Killian, who have a great deal of practical experience in the psychic sciences. Sherlock Holmes has relied on them in several cases.”

“Several” cases is stretching the truth, Nan thought with amusement, but it’s probably better to exaggerate in this situation.

“Splendid!” Dr. Huntley said, looking not at all dismayed. He glanced from Nan to Sarah and back again. “I don’t suppose it is too much to ask if one of you can hear and speak in thoughts?”

Well . . . that’s interesting. Whatever he thought before, he seems to have become a firm believer in psychism because of this experience.

“I can,” Nan said promptly. “The scientific term is telepathy. Doctor Watson read us your notes, and I believe I might be able to break your patient out of her hysterical state.” She waited to see what his reaction would be.

There was no doubt that the doctor looked relieved. “Then let me conduct you to her immediately,” he replied. “If it will help, her given name is Amelia.”

“It will,” Nan said, noting with cynicism that her surname was not offered—very much in keeping with her impression that this was a place where surnames were eliminated or obfuscated with the ever-useful “Smith.”

“Please, come with me,” Huntley told them, and led them from his office, past another double door, and down a long corridor with doors lining it. Nan could not tell if the doors were locked, and truth to tell, she was not willing to open herself enough to get a sense of what might lie on the other side of those doors. Later, perhaps, but not now. And for the same reason, she had not opened herself enough to try to read Dr. Huntley’s mind. To do so without touching him would be to leave herself open to everyone else in this place. And in her experience, when people lost their sanity, their thoughts often gained in strength.

But the corridor was well lit, carpeted, and not unlike the corridor of an expensive hotel. This outermost layer, at least, was pleasant enough.

They turned a corner, and it became clear that the building was laid out either in an enormous U shape or a square. Their goal was a door halfway along this second corridor, and Nan’s question about whether or not the doors were locked was answered when Huntley removed a ring of keys from his coat and used one of them in the door.

The room beyond could have been the bedroom of any great country home, except for certain details. The walls were papered in a darker version of the green-vines-on-blue pattern of the waiting room. There were heavy green curtains at the window. The furnishings were bolted to the floor, through the dark green carpet. There were no ornaments, such as vases. There were no mirrors, and no pictures; nothing anyone could use to hurt herself or others. There were some books on a table by the window, and a comfortable, green upholstered chair beside it.

And huddled in the farthest corner of the bed was the patient, Amelia.

She was still dressed in a nightgown; her eyes were dark-ringed, as if she had not slept in days, her hair disheveled, and she sat with her back to the wall, knees pressed against her chest, bedclothes wrapped around her, arms wrapped around her legs. She stared through them from her corner as if she didn’t see them at all.

Nan glanced at Sarah, who shook her head. So whatever was tormenting this young woman, it wasn’t spirits. Resolutely, before Huntley could say anything, she marched to the bed, sat down on the edge of it, and fearlessly put one hand on Amelia’s arm. No matter how much strength hysteria lent to this girl, Nan very much doubted that Amelia would be able to discommode her, much less hurt her, at least physically.