Spider Light(75)
‘Indeed yes. And so often a young man is the cause of it.’
George wished it was as simple as that but did not say so. ‘We thought–one of your private rooms. Just a few weeks. But proper medical supervision–sympathetic treatment–perhaps mild sedation…’ Dammit, what were the right expressions! He should have asked Sullivan. ‘And then after a little time she can return to her family,’ he said.
‘That may be possible, although I should have to see the young lady for myself.’
George had anticipated this. He said, ‘She’s in the large bedroom on the right of the landing upstairs.’
‘A private room, you said?’ asked Freda, back in the drawing room some little time later.
‘Yes.’ With the idea of establishing friendly relations, George suggested a glass of sherry might accompany their discussion. This was well received. Freda did not, it appeared, normally drink sherry–or any other alcoholic beverage–at this time of day, because of setting a good example to her nurses. But perhaps just this once.
‘My word, what very nice sherry. Cheer-ho. Well now, Mr Lincoln, I can arrange a room for the young lady, although there will be a charge, you understand.’
‘I had assumed that. I–the family–we are quite prepared to pay.’
Freda merely nodded, as if this was no more than she had expected. She looked towards the desk in the window, where Louisa used to write her letters. George had hoped Maud might one day do the same, but she never had.
‘I see you no longer have the photograph of your daughter on the secretaire,’ said Freda, and George instantly felt as if something had smacked him across the eyes.
But he said, very firmly, ‘Mrs Prout, my daughter is away visiting relatives at the moment.’
‘You’ll pardon me, Mr Lincoln, but your daughter is the young lady I have just seen in the bedroom upstairs.’
The small mean eyes met his. A flat denial, thought George. That’s what I must do. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Matron.’
‘Oh no,’ said Freda. ‘Your wife showed us all the photograph the first time I was here. I remember it very clearly–a silver frame it was, and I thought at the time what a very pretty girl. You have put the photograph away since then.’ She studied George for a moment, and then said, ‘You mentioned a stay of a few weeks in Latchkill, Mr Lincoln. But matters are not always quite so straightforward. Latchkill is not an hotel for people to book in and out as the whim takes them. Or,’ she added, ‘as it takes their families. We have to comply with the requirements of the Lunacy Act.’
George, who had not expected this, asked for clarification.
‘For a patient to be admitted, a justice must first make an order for lunacy, which must be signed by two separate doctors–neither of whom must be related to the patient or have any financial interest in him or her.’ A pause. ‘However, something might be arranged.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Doctors–and the commissioners of the Lunacy Board–are sometimes open to persuasion, Mr Lincoln.’
‘Oh, I see.’ George thought he did see, and he did not much like it. It sounded a bit too glib. But another part of his mind felt grateful that there might be a way round the bewildering legal requirements. It can be done, he thought. I can put Maud into Latchkill, and once people have forgotten what happened to Thomasina and Simon, Maud can come home to Toft House, and life can go on just as before.
‘But,’ said Freda, ‘I find it strange that you should wish to commit your only daughter to an asylum, Mr Lincoln. Especially when you must surely have enough money to care for her at home.’ Again there was the appraising look round the room. ‘Is it because you are ashamed? Or is there some other reason?’
There was a rather unpleasant silence, but at length George said, ‘Before she died, Maud’s mother was very disturbed. Maud is showing unmistakable signs of the same–disturbance. I want to keep it private.’ This came out firmly and clearly.
‘I daresay it’s her delusions you want to keep private,’ said Freda. ‘Quite remarkable some of them. You had administered something to her, I think–laudanum most probably–but she was sufficiently awake to talk while I was with her.’
George felt as if something had a stranglehold on his throat, but he said, cautiously, ‘Maud has a very dark imagination at times.’
‘Indeed? Well, people whose minds are flawed exhibit the most extraordinary behaviour. You wouldn’t believe the things some of my patients say. Confessions of all kinds of crimes. Even murder.’ The little eyes were unreadable. ‘For most of the time we keep an open mind, of course. And no one at Latchkill will hear if Miss–should we call her Miss Smith?–very well, no one will hear if Miss Smith talks about people being buried alive inside your mill. A curious coincidence, isn’t it, that poor Miss Forrester and her cousin have been found shut in the underground room there. I heard some of my nurses talking about it before I left Latchkill. Quite a stir it’s caused.’
George was not clear if the Prout woman thought Maud had killed Thomasina and Simon, or whether she thought Maud knew who had done it, or if she thought George himself was the killer. Whichever it was, he felt a sick panic in his vitals.
Freda was saying, ‘But you know, Mr Lincoln–or may I be a little forward and call you George? You know, George, I’m sure we can some to some arrangement. And–oh yes, perhaps just a small drop more sherry. Thank you so much.’