“I’m afraid she won’t even answer to her own name,” the doctor was saying. “She adheres with an almost desperate stubbornness to this false history she’s created for herself. Her family have been coping as best they can with her lies and abuse and episodes of self-harm, but when she absconded from their care, they realized that they could no longer ensure her safety, and applied to me for help.”
“Poor child!” his companion exclaimed. She was quite tall, for a woman—as tall as the doctor—with a long, yellowish face and a beaky nose. She wore an old-fashioned, wide-skirted black gown topped off by a white shawl collar. Her dark hair was streaked with gray. “You can see the refinement in her features, beneath all that grime and filth. . .”
“Self-applied, I fear. She refuses to wash, or to change her clothes—”
“Is she a danger to others?”
“In one of her fits, she may be. It is not out of malice, you understand. She has uncontrolled episodes. They are part of her madness.”
At that precise moment Birdie suddenly realized what was happening. They were talking about her! They were calling her mad! But as she opened her mouth, a door swung shut in her face. It blocked her view of the street and everything in it: the stationary carriage with its muddy yellow wheels, the dim line of townhouses across the road, the glowing lamps, the patches of cobblestone, the woman in the black gown, the evil doctor beside her. All of it vanished behind the big, dark, heavy door, which closed with a slightly hollow thunk.
Birdie screamed again. Her head felt as if it were going to burst, because it was hanging upside down. And when she tried to lift it up, her neck ached horribly.
“Hush, now,” Mr. Doherty said, “or ye’ll be waking the others.”
“Let go!” Birdie implored. “You have to let me go!”
“I’ll do that presently.”
“Now! Please! Before the doctor comes!”
“Katie-Ann.” They halted. “Have ye the key to the restraint room?”
A girl’s voice answered from somewhere beyond Birdie’s line of sight. “No, of course not. You must ask Mrs. Ayres for that key.”
“But I just left her. She’s outside with Dr. Morton. She never gave me the key nor mentioned it.”
There was a sharp, impatient sigh. “The room must be standing open, then. You go in.”
As Mr. Doherty shifted position, a pattern of colored floor tiles spun before Birdie’s eyes. Then she spotted a blue skirt and white apron rustling past.
“Wait!” she wheezed. “Please, miss—you’ve got to help me! I’ve bin kidnapped! The doctor’s a murderer! Please, miss!”
But Katie-Ann ignored her. And Mr. Doherty said reproachfully, “A fine thing ’tis, telling such lies about Dr. Morton, who only wants to help ye.”
“No! Let go!”
“If ye weren’t out o’ yer senses, I’d call ye wicked, so I would.” Suddenly a strange, unearthly moan sounded somewhere in the distance. It rose to a shrill scream, then broke on a sob—making Mr. Doherty click his tongue. “There, now,” he said crossly. “Ye’ve gone and wakened the others with all yer noise and fussing.”
Birdie whimpered. She could hear two more voices joining the first in a kind of urgent, howling chorus. “Oh, please,” she croaked. “I ain’t mad. I don’t belong here, I don’t. . .”
“Mebbe not,” Mr. Doherty replied. “But I’m just the night porter, so it’s not for me to say.”
He began to move down a long hallway, past a massive flight of mahogany stairs. From her upended viewpoint, Birdie couldn’t see much—just floor tiles, skirting boards, and the claw-footed legs of occasional tables. Everything was very well lit, by paraffin or gas lamps that hung from the ceiling. Soon the tiles were replaced by flagstones, and the wallpaper by scuffed paint. Mr. Doherty then turned a couple of corners, plunging into the depths of what seemed to be an enormous house full of closed doors.
With her arms crossed against her chest, and her head dangling like a piece of fruit on a branch, Birdie was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. That was why she finally stopped yelling as the porter reached the end of a long corridor and carried her into a very strange room. In the dim light filtering through its small, high window, she saw that its walls were covered in canvas and stuffed with something like horsehair. Even the back of the door was padded.
A paillasse lay on the floor next to a chamber pot.
“There, now.” Mr. Doherty set Birdie down on the paillasse. “That’s a bit better, wouldn’t ye say?”
Gulping down a few lungfuls of air, Birdie waited for her head to clear. Then she tried to get up—but without the use of her hands, it was very difficult.
“Please,” she gasped, “please let me out o’ this thing!”
“That’s for Dr. Morton to decide.”
“No!” In a flash, Birdie realized that the more she ranted and raved, the madder she would look. So she tried to speak calmly—reasonably—even though she wanted to scream and shout and bite and kick. “Dr. Morton is lying. He wants to lock me up because he killed four boys. He put ’em in the way of a bogle. I’m a bogler’s girl, see, and the man I work for found a bogle in Dr. Morton’s house. . .” Seeing the expression on Mr. Doherty’s flushed face, she trailed off.
He didn’t believe her.
“It’s true!” she exclaimed, tears spurting from her eyes. “I swear it’s true! I’m Birdie McAdam! Ask anyone in Bethnal Green! Where is this place? Where am I?”
“Hackney,” the porter replied.
“Hackney?” Birdie’s heart leaped. “Then we ain’t far from where I live! Go and find Mr. Alfred Bunce—he’ll tell you! Ask Mr. Bunce!”
Mr. Doherty was standing by the door, looking nervous. At the sound of approaching footsteps, however, the anxious lines on his brow relaxed.
“Here’s Mrs. Ayres,” he announced. “She’ll know what to do.”
“I’m a-telling you what to do! Send word to Mr. Bunce!” Birdie cried. “I work for him! I live in his house! He’ll tell you I ain’t mad!” But the porter had vanished, yielding his place to the soft-voiced woman in the old-fashioned gown. She stood for a moment, framed in the narrow doorway, holding a bunch of keys.
“Now, Leticia,” she chided gently, “you know very well that you live with your mother and your aunt. It’s thanks to their generosity that you’re here at all—for London House isn’t a charitable institution.” As Birdie stared at her, open mouthed, she added, “Why not think about that for a while? Think about how worried they must be, and how much you owe them. And perhaps when I come back, you’ll have decided to be a good and grateful girl, rather than a foolish and ungovernable one.”
Then she retreated from the room, locking the door behind her.
25
The Singing Prisoner
Left alone in the dark, Birdie had to swallow the scream that was building inside her. She knew that if she howled and moaned like some of the other inmates, she would never be released. So she sat quietly on her paillasse, looking up at the window and thinking.
She was in Hackney. That was good news. She hadn’t been spirited away to Kensington, or Wandsworth, or even farther afield—into the country, for instance. She was in a private lunatic asylum called London House. That wasn’t such good news, especially since Dr. Morton seemed to be on the hospital’s staff. He had planned everything very cleverly. What better place to hide a hostage than in a madhouse? It was like a private prison, where the doctors were all-powerful. No matter what Birdie said, Dr. Morton would deny it—and everyone, but everyone, would believe him.
Birdie whimpered. The full horror of her situation was overwhelming. But then she told herself, as she always did, This ain’t no worse than a bogle. I face up to bogles, so I can face up to this. She took a deep breath. She thought about Alfred, who would certainly be looking for her. He’ll find me, she thought. He’ll check every hospital until he does. Meanwhile, it would be her job to get out of the locked room, into something that was
more accessible from the outside.
By the time Mrs. Ayres returned, with Katie-Ann at her heels, Birdie had decided to be as good and grateful as anyone could possibly wish.
“Now, Leticia,” said Mrs. Ayres, who was carrying a nightdress and a towel, “my name is Mrs. Ayres, and I want to give you a sponge bath and some clean clothes. Once you’ve washed, you may have your tea. But only if you behave like a sensible girl and don’t make a fuss—is that clear?”
Birdie nodded.
“Very well, then.” Having put down her armful of linen, Mrs. Ayres began to unbuckle Birdie’s camisole restraint. The relief of having her arms freed was so great that Birdie barely noticed that her clothes were also being removed. It was only after the numbness and tingling in her hands and wrists had stopped that Birdie saw Katie-Ann dip one of the towels into a basin of steaming water that had been placed on the floor nearby.
“Look at this pretty little face, all covered in dirt,” Mrs. Ayres remarked as she pushed the fine, gold hair out of Birdie’s eyes. “It seems a terrible shame, doesn’t it, Katie-Ann?”
“Yes’m.”
“And whatever happened to this arm? We’ll have to change the dressing; it’s filthy. . .”
Birdie allowed herself to be scrubbed from head to toe. She allowed herself to be called “Leticia” without uttering a word of protest. She donned her new nightdress obediently and let Katie-Ann carry away her dirty clothes—though not without a pang of regret. When Katie-Ann returned, bringing a laden tea tray, Birdie drank every drop of the tea that was offered to her and stolidly ate four thick slices of bread and butter.
She didn’t mention bogles. She didn’t abuse Dr. Morton. She didn’t insist that her name was Birdie McAdam. But as Mrs. Ayres began to leave, having promised nothing more than a visit the next morning, Birdie could remain silent no longer.
“Mrs. Ayres?” she blurted out. “Could you pass a message to a friend o’ mine?”
The woman paused. “Not if you insist on speaking in that silly way,” she rejoined. Seeing Birdie blink, she added, “You know perfectly well that you can talk like a proper lady, Leticia. You were raised to it, after all. That common accent is another one of your wicked lies.”
“But it ain’t, ma’am, I swear!”
“Nonsense. Of course it is. And I cannot help you if you keep lying.”
Birdie was dumbfounded. How could she talk like a proper lady? She wouldn’t be able to, no matter how hard she tried.
Frantically she tried to think of something clever to say before Mrs. Ayres left the room. Katie-Ann had already vanished, along with the basin of dirty water. When Mrs. Ayres began to jingle her keys, Birdie jumped up from the paillasse and cried, “Please, ma’am, will you not speak to Mr. Bunce? Mr. Alfred Bunce of Bethnal Green—he’ll tell you who I am!”
“Forgive me, Leticia, but I know all about your wanderings,” Mrs. Ayres said reproachfully. “According to the doctor, you have made many low acquaintances in the most unsavory slums and rookeries. He insists that none of these wretched people should be allowed anywhere near you.”
“But—”
“If you object to this, you must apply to him personally. He’ll be doing his rounds tomorrow afternoon.” Mrs. Ayres began to shut the door, then stopped to give Birdie one more piece of advice. “And I would recommend that you address him in a proper way, instead of using that false and vulgar tongue. Otherwise, he will simply decide that you are still favoring fantasy over the truth and won’t listen to a word you say.”
Bang went the door. Clink went the key in the lock. As Mrs. Ayres retreated briskly down the corridor, carrying the tea tray, Birdie shouted after her, “He’s got the false tongue, not I! He’s a liar and a killer! He’s the one you should lock up!”
But Mrs. Ayres wasn’t listening. And after Birdie had kicked the padded door a couple of times, she lay down on her paillasse and wept.
Though she was angry with herself for crying, she found that she couldn’t stop. Her head was aching and her arm was sore and her stomach didn’t feel right—she had packed too much bread into it. She was also scared, though not as scared as she had been. Alone with Dr. Morton, she’d been very scared indeed. Now she felt a little braver, because none of the other asylum staff seemed to be wicked or cruel.
They’re just stupid, she decided. They’re stupid for not seeing how bad that man really is. And she realized that if they were stupid, she might get the better of them, Dr. Morton or no Dr. Morton.
She was still wondering how to escape when she fell asleep and dreamed that a bogle was trying to get into her room, through the door. No matter how loudly she called for help, no one answered. So she tried to climb out the window, but it was much too high. And then she realized that there was another bogle waiting for her in the garden, disguised as a rag-and-bone man. “Ol’ cloes! Ol’ cloes!” it was yelling.
Birdie woke with a start. For one confused moment she didn’t know where she was. But by now the sun had risen, and the room around her was full of light. It didn’t take her long to recognize the padded walls.
“Ol’ cloes! Ol’ cloes!” someone chanted. The noise was filtering through the window from the street outside. Birdie sat up suddenly. So there is a street outside, she thought. Listening hard, she found that she could recognize other noises: the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the distant puff and clatter of a train, a baby crying, a torrent of oaths. But it was the cry of the caffler that really caught her interest. “Ol’ cloes! Ol’ cloes!” he intoned as he pushed his barrow past London House. Birdie didn’t recognize his voice. She doubted very much that he was Elijah Froggett.
Even so, she jumped to her feet—and was about to scream for help when suddenly she had second thoughts. Screaming might not be a clever thing to do. Screaming might confirm that she was a lunatic. The people on the street would certainly think her one. Birdie didn’t want to be strapped up again. She didn’t want to be gagged or restrained.
She stood for a moment, biting her thumb. How was she going to attract attention while making absolutely sure that she didn’t upset Mrs. Ayres? Pondering this, she heard a hawker’s cry floating high and pure above the muffled clamor of the street. “Ripe strawberries ripe! Sixpence a pottle, fine strawberries ripe!” And in a flash, she had her answer.
All she had to do was sing.
She had neighbors who worked in Hackney. She’d met people who lived there. She and Alfred had killed bogles all over Hackney—in a coal hole, a crypt, a wine cellar, and a disused pottery kiln (not to mention an old workhouse well). Perhaps if Birdie kept singing, some passerby would recognize her voice.
So she sang “The Unquiet Grave” from start to finish. Then she followed it up with “The Three Butchers,” “The Barkshire Tragedy,” and “Robin Hood’s Death.” She had just started warbling “Down Among the Dead Men” when Mrs. Ayres appeared, carrying a bundle of clean clothes.
Katie-Ann was with her.
“Here is your breakfast, Leticia,” Mrs. Ayres announced as Katie-Ann set down a tea tray and picked up Birdie’s chamber pot. Seeing Katie-Ann clearly for the first time in broad daylight, Birdie realized that she was very beautiful, with luxuriant chestnut hair and luminous skin.
Mrs. Ayres looked rather puffy around the eyes, perhaps because she hadn’t slept well. She didn’t appear to have changed her clothes. Birdie wondered if she’d been to bed at all.
“You’ve a pretty voice, Leticia, but Dr. Morton won’t be pleased to hear that you have been singing such nasty songs,” Mrs. Ayres continued. “You must try harder if you’re to be let out.” Laying down her bundle, she added, “Your family hasn’t sent us your clothes yet, so you must borrow these for a time. They will suffice, I’m sure. And if you eat all your porridge, Dr. Morton will be very pleased, and may consider placing you in a room upstairs, where you will have a proper bed and a nice view of London Fields.”
“London Fields?” Birdie echoed. “Are we near the park, then?”
&n
bsp; “Leticia.” Mrs. Ayres looked down her long nose at Birdie. “What did I tell you about that silly, vulgar accent? Unless you abandon it, the doctor will not let you read or sew.”
Birdie wanted to say that she couldn’t read, but she knew it would be foolish. So she sat mutely as Mrs. Ayres shook her head, gave a disappointed sigh, and withdrew. Katie-Ann didn’t leave, though; she stood waiting while Birdie choked down her breakfast. Perhaps she was afraid that Birdie might smear the walls with porridge or try to fashion a knife from the tin plate.
When the plate was clean and the teacup empty, Katie-Ann helped Birdie to get dressed—for the borrowed gown had buttons all down its back, and the borrowed petticoat needed adjusting.
“It’s all a mite too big,” Katie-Ann remarked after surveying her handiwork with her head cocked, “but never mind. Yer own clothes’ll be arriving soon.”
“No, they will not,” Birdie retorted. Standing there, almost lost in a mass of stiff, blue serge, she looked Katie-Ann straight in the eye. “Them clothes you took last night is all I got in the world.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Katie-Ann glanced away, a delicate flush staining her cheeks. “I’ll take this,” she said, stacking the tea tray, “but you should keep the nightdress.”
“You know it’s true,” Birdie insisted, for she had seen something in Katie-Ann’s face: a startled flicker. A fleeting concern. “You know I ain’t quality.”
“It’s none o’ my business,” Katie-Ann replied.
“But—”
“I’m a maid, not a nurse. I do what I’m told, and so should you,” said Katie-Ann. Then she picked up the tea tray and departed, though not without locking the door behind her.
Birdie sighed. She felt as if she’d taken aim and missed by an inch. Nevertheless, she sensed that she might have a future ally in Katie-Ann. So she turned back to the window with a much lighter heart.