A-Splendid-Ruin(55)

I heard moaning, someone singing “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”—just that one line, over and over again, and someone else shouting “Ha! Ha!” and a constant and rhythmic clank clank clank, metal hitting metal, murmured voices. We passed a great room where women wearing gray, shift-like gowns gathered on settees and chairs, another with long tables and benches, and then a line of closed doors. Nurses passed with only a cursory glance at me. The combined smells of urine, sweat, unwashed bodies, and carbolic soap stank so unpleasantly that I wanted to pinch shut my nose.

At one of the doors, the chestnut-haired woman paused and knocked. At the grunted answer from beyond, she ushered us into an office before a ruddy-faced man with light brown hair. He was in his shirtsleeves. His eyes were small; when he peered at me I had the impression of shortsightedness, proved correct when he took up his glasses and settled them on the bridge of a bulbous nose.

“Miss Kimble is it?” His brief smile raised my hopes that here was someone who might listen to me. “Welcome to Blessington.”

The man who’d brought me took a sheaf of folded papers from his suitcoat pocket. He handed them to the man at the desk. “I believe everything is in order, Dr. Madison.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Madison barely glanced at the papers before he set them aside and looked again at me. “Do you know who you are?”

“May Kimble,” I said without hesitation.

“Where are you from?”

“Originally from New York. But I’ve been in San Francisco for some months now, living with my relatives.” Now was my chance. Surely he would see by my answers that I was not the least insane.

“The Sullivans.”

I nodded. “I don’t belong here. I’ve been most grievously betrayed.”

“I’m told that you suffer from dementia, Miss Kimble, and that you pushed your aunt down the stairs.”

“I don’t know who told you that—”

“Your mother suffered from dementia as well, did she not? And your aunt?”

I struggled to answer carefully and calmly. “My aunt suffered from laudanum. My—”

“You came to San Francisco to serve as a companion to your cousin?”

“A companion?”

“Was that not your understanding?”

“I’ve never heard such a thing. I was to be one of the family, as my mother had just died. I did not know that I’d inherited a fortune from my father. That was kept from me. Deliberately. This is all a cruel plan to relieve me of my inheritance.”

He’d been listening politely, but now his eyes glazed. “Of course.” To the two who’d brought me, he said, “Thank you. You may leave her to me and to Mrs. Donaghan. Tell Mr. Sullivan that everything is as expected.”

The two left. The chestnut-haired woman closed the door behind them. I was glad they were gone. I said, “I don’t belong here. You must see that. I didn’t kill my aunt. They want my money. They’re lying about everything. Please, Doctor.”

He tapped the papers my captor had given him. “We’ll take good care of you here, Miss Kimble. You’ve been lucky that your uncle cares so greatly for you. Otherwise, you might be in police custody even now, and then . . . who can say what might happen to you?”

Anxiously, I said, “I had nothing to do with my aunt’s death. They’ve planned all this from the start. They want my money. Please. You must believe me.” That was sympathy in the doctor’s eyes, wasn’t it? It moved me to greater urgency. “If you allow me to speak to a lawyer, it will all be made clear.”

He smiled and rose. “Let’s not think of that just now, shall we? Now, we must focus on making you well.” He gestured to the woman waiting. “This is Blessington’s matron, Mrs. Donaghan. She will show you to your room.”

Mrs. Donaghan touched my arm. “Come along now, Miss Kimble.”

“Dr. Madison, please. You can’t think I belong here. My father was of New York society. My uncle knows—”

“Miss Kimble,” ordered the matron.

“Go with Mrs. Donaghan, Miss Kimble,” the doctor advised.

“No!” I pulled away from the matron. “No. I tell you, I don’t belong here! They’re lying about everything!”

Mrs. Donaghan exhaled heavily. “Miss Kimble, ’tis best if you come along nicely.”

I tried to calm myself. “I am not insane.”

“Of course you’re not,” said Mrs. Donaghan soothingly, and though I heard the condescension in it, and knew I was being placated, I was so desperate for someone to believe me that I grasped at her words. “But we’ll talk about that later, miss. You come along now.”

“I don’t want to go.” I knew I sounded like a child. I couldn’t help it.

“Must I call the attendants?” Dr. Madison asked.

Mrs. Donaghan looked at me. “Well, Miss Kimble? What will it be?”

I heard the steel in her voice, and I saw the determination in Dr. Madison’s expression, and there seemed to be no other choice. I was not helping my case. No doubt I looked as mad as my uncle had claimed. “I’ll go.”

Mrs. Donaghan became brightly cheerful again. “That’s the way. You’ll get along just fine, miss. I can tell. I can always tell.”