After Alice Fell(54)

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s necessary, sometimes.” Miss Clough’s starched apron scrapes against her skirts as she passes me, stops at the metal, leans her ear to it. She glances back at me. “I don’t believe in it, not as much as the doctors use it.”

She blows out a breath before listening again at the door. “Bring in a harridan and she’ll leave a saint. At least temporarily. Sometimes for good. I’ve seen it work, bring some ease.”

“My sister?”

“Yes.” She pushes open the door and waves me to follow. “Sometimes.”

“Beatrice Beecham?”

She chucks her head and clicks her tongue. “Yes.”

Her apron saws and shifts, echoing in the narrow hall as we sprint to a stairwell at the far end. She lifts her skirts with one hand, the fingers of her other running along the twisted iron banister. We climb two flights. She stops only long enough at the next floor’s landing to peer over the railing before proceeding up the next flight of stairs. At the top, the only light comes from a bare pipe and a single blue-white flame.

“There’s only two ways in here. Up these stairs or through from the main landing. And only one way to the roof.” I follow her gesture. “One flight up.”

My heart thuds and then jitters and knocks.

Miss Clough fingers the keys on her waist, frowns, and stares at each. She opens her mouth, then closes it and gives a shake of her head. “I was surprised she was transferred here. It doesn’t happen often. Most never leave this floor.”

She makes quick work of lighting an oil lamp stored in an inset on the wall. She takes it up by the handle. Her eyes flick back and forth as she stares at me. Then with a shrug, she turns away to slide a key to the lock. Three keys to three locks.

Miss Clough looks at me over her shoulder, puts her finger to her lips, then pushes the door open.

Here there are no benches. No long window at the end of the way. No women sewing. Closed doors, each with a narrow hatch to deliver food or a glance. Paper cards slipped in brass holders just below the hatch’s shelf.

Caroline Merritt 3768

Dorothea Ott 3624

Elizabeth Atkins 4669

Another name. Another number. They are behind the doors. They listen. There’s a tapping sound to my right. A chatter of teeth and whimper from the left. We pass two rooms, empty but for green glazed walls and single cots. The window is painted white. There is no ceiling lamp nor bedside table. The meager hall light casts most of the room in shadow.

Miss Clough touches my elbow. She tips her head toward another open door and holds the lamp up.

“Her room?” I whisper.

She nods and keeps the lantern high. Her hand shakes. The flame quivers and flares.

I am afraid of her. Miss Clough with her starched skirt holds the lantern to the last doorway they will pass through.

If I take a step under the lintel, will the door slam on me too? I laugh, try to dislodge the thought, but my mouth fills with bile.

She seems to know. Waits with that shuddering lamp. And perhaps out of kindness—or clever in the way one lures a cat—she walks in first.

This is Alice’s final room. A floor of oak and walls that stink of bleach and new paint. A metal cot, leather straps neatly buckled across the striped mattress. A pillow bare of covering, discolored along the bottom edge from drool and saliva. The detritus of fevers and deep dreams. The pipe for the gaslight, now idle, caged in a tight weave of iron. An iron plate over the lock on the door. Impossible to pick.

“You see?” She touches the plate, then arcs her lamp, and the glaze of umber light catches on the armrests of the room’s singular chair. Here, too, are leather straps. And here, too, are footrests and bindings. And at head level, a box swung open now on its hinges. A round hole for the neck. A cabinet lock and bolt at the temple. Just like the drawing.

I stumble back. “What is this?”

“It reduces the mania.”

“She’s afraid of the dark.” I round on her. “This is what you do?” My voice is pebbles and spit. I grab for her, but she flinches away. Her mouth opens and shuts like a fish.

She waves her hand to quiet me. Because I’m moaning, loud and low, and she wants it to stop. I press my palms flat to my face, push hard against my cheekbones. My knees buckle. “How could you do this? The dark—”

“I gave her a lamp.” She stands beside me, setting the lamp to the small side table, so it lights the cot’s frame. White paint scratched down to the rust and metal. “I care for these women. I listen to these women.”

“But she’s still dead.”

“Yes, she is.”

“So you didn’t listen to her.”

“She was much troubled. She said—”

“She never spoke.”

“But she did. In her way.”

“No. Not since . . .” My stomach twists as I look at the woman. “I don’t believe you.”

“She sang sometimes. Nothing that made any sense—but it was sweet. And it was how she signaled to Kitty.”

“I don’t understand.”

“To say it was safe. They were close. Sometimes it was a warning.”

“Where are the complaints she made? About her treatment? About the other woman?” I dig my fingers into my palm. “There are records.”