Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“ M r Wright from Bow Street says he has not been home in days,” Darcy said as they approached the address of Mr Seymour. “The runners have seen neither hide nor hair of the man at home or the hospital.”
“Let us hope he is out of town, for if we have to turn this place upside down to find something on Lady Catherine, it may take some time,” Wickham said as they ascended the stairs.
Darcy failed to take Wickham’s meaning, for his eyes widened when he saw his companion manoeuvre two metal sticks into the lock on the front door of Mr Seymour’s small townhouse.
“What are you doing?”
“I am gaining us access to the doctor’s files,” explained Wickham as his fingers deftly worked the tines. A satisfying click brought a great grin to Wickham’s face, and the door swung open before them.
Wickham pulled Darcy inside before he could voice his misgivings and shut the door behind them, plunging them into darkness.
“Our first order of business should be to find a candle so we can see what it is we are looking at,” Darcy suggested, his unease growing with the depth of the blackness.
The two wandered through what must have been the main parlour and came upon a writing desk in the far corner, on which sat a candle on a wide, tin base. The base sounded hollow, for something inside it shook when Wickham grabbed it.
“Very good, but how are we to light it? There has not been a fire in this hearth in some time, I suspect.”
“Have you never used a tinderbox, Darcy?”
Darcy did not deign to answer.
“Watch and learn, my pampered friend. Watch and learn.”
While the darkness made what Wickham was doing almost impossible to watch, Darcy could make out that he had unlatched the top of the candle-holder from its bottom and was even now rifling through the small contents. A grunt of victory emerged from his companion, and the next thing Darcy knew, there was a loud rapping sound and sparks were flying at Wickham’s fingertips.
The room lit up as the wick was set aflame. The two men grinned at one another in celebration of this small victory. Before they could find other candles to light, however, they heard what could only be described as a groan from somewhere in the house.
They looked at one another. Darcy was unsure if they had actually heard anything at all. The sound of another groan, mournful and pained, came from right above them.
“You did not tell me this place was haunted!” Wickham said, seeming genuinely terrified.
“I am not the one who decided to break in and disturb the ghosts!”
“You cannot subdue spirits with fisticuffs.” Wickham appeared ready to flee.
“There are no such things as haunted houses, old man,” Darcy claimed, though he was beginning to have his doubts.
The moans began again, and Darcy was able to hear, “Is someone there?”
The two men shot one another a glance before running towards the sound. Someone was in this house and apparently in some kind of trouble. The sound of their footsteps must have encouraged the afflicted one, for the calls grew more desperate as they grew closer. When they finally reached the door from whence the wails came, they flung it open, only to find the bedchamber empty.
“Perhaps there are spirits at work,” Wickham offered from behind Darcy’s shoulder
“Is anyone here?” Darcy called, ignoring his old friend.
“Here!” came a man’s hoarse cry from the back of the room, behind the imposing bed.
Rounding the bedposts, Darcy was met with a pair of eyes so full of relief and hope, it pierced him that they had broken in with the intention of stealing from this poor soul. For the man was lying prone on a lumpy jute rug, the scratchy mat the only thing keeping the bitter cold of the hardwood away from the bare skin of his face. He had at least a five-day beard, his face was sunken and green even in the candlelight, and the smell told him that he had lost the contents of his stomach more than once.
“You are ill! What may I do for you? May I lift you into the bed, sir?” Darcy sputtered, completely taken aback at the picture before him. The man, whom he assumed to be Mr Seymour, gave him a weak nod.
Without a thought to what kind of foulness he was encountering, Darcy knelt before him and lifted him back onto the mattress.
“Water,” the man rasped. Wickham’s eyes darted around the room in search of an ewer and, upon finding one, brought it to them directly. There was a small crystal brandy glass on the bed stand; he filled it and lifted it to the physician’s lips, seeming to know that he was too sick or too weak to hold the cup himself.
Darcy watched as Wickham slipped his hand behind the man’s head, tilting it back so the life-giving liquid might travel more easily down his throat. He was so gentle with him, speaking in low tones words of encouragement, assuring him that he would be all right, telling him how well he was doing as he swallowed one tiny glass after another. It was mesmerising; there was a tenderness in Wickham’s ministrations Darcy had never imagined could exist in him.
A picture appeared in his mind of this particular Wickham sitting beside a deathbed, comforting the departing soul as he read him his last rites. It shocked Darcy how natural the image felt in this moment.
Wickham was right; Darcy knew him not a whit.
“Can you speak, sir?” Wickham asked quietly. “Can you tell us where we can send for a surgeon?”
“Martin. Three doors down,” Seymour answered simply, casting his gaze to the left.
Wickham set the man’s head back on the pillow, nodded to Darcy, then made his way out of the room. It seemed he understood Darcy’s need to stay, to find out what he came here for.
“Mr Seymour,” Darcy began, “you are a hard man to pin down. We have been looking for you for nigh on a week.”
“I have been here,” he croaked. “I was taken ill so suddenly, I could not even pen a note to the asylum.”
“I am so sorry you have been here alone. If I had suspected such, I should have broken in days ago. Why are there no servants to attend you?”
“Don’t have any; don’t trust them,” he answered, flying into a coughing fit for a moment before clearing his throat. When he spoke again, it was as if he had gained new energy. “In my profession, you learn the workings of the human mind. I would rather not take the risk.”
“I can understand that,” Darcy responded.
“So, you broke into my home? I assume it was not to save my life,” Seymour said.
“No, though I am glad for that. I am here to enquire about a relative. She is a patient of yours, I believe. I need to ascertain whether she is a danger to others, and I would like to know what brought her into your care in the first place.”
“It is not exactly ethical,” Seymour began in just above a whisper, “to speak about patients to strangers. Besides, I treat so many lunatics and depressives, I doubt I shall remember your relative.”
“This is a special case, I believe. Her name is Miss Anne de Bourgh.”
Mr Seymour’s brows rose in recognition before becoming stormy. “A special case, indeed. A more poisonous flower you’ll never see.”
“How did you come to be her physician?”
“Her mother brought her to me back in the nineties, worried that she was going to hurt herself. I saw immediately that the girl was more likely to hurt others around her. Even at twelve years old, she had already a habit of trapping small animals and killing them for the thrill of it. During our interviews, she spoke of attacking small children as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. And,” the doctor paused, as if trying to compose his thought into words, “I believe she has perpetrated more violence than either she or her mother are willing to admit to. A truly frightening child.”
Darcy’s mind jolted at the man’s claims; could his sickly, wan cousin really have such horrific tendencies? To kill just for the thrill of it? Darcy could not reconcile the thin, pallid creature he had known for so long with the murderous villain Mr Seymour was describing. He needed to know more. Darcy gave him another glass of water and waited for the man to swallow his fill before continuing his interrogation.
“And you have been treating her all these years? Do you remember, sir, when she became so ill?”
“Ill she has been all her life, I think. Though only mentally, not bodily. Bodily, she has always been strong. She only appears ill to others, I believe, because she is heavily medicated.”
“Medicated? How do you mean?”
“A careful blend of laudanum and other tranquillisers, administered daily, to keep her too weak to act on her violent instincts,” Seymour explained. “I, of course, would rather have had her admitted to Bedlam, or at least St Luke’s. Lady Catherine was afraid of a scandal if it should become known that her daughter was housed at a lunatic asylum.”
Darcy took this all in, comparing the physician’s words with what he had heard of Anne from Elizabeth’s letters.
“In your opinion, what might cause her health to improve? For her to be once again up and about, lucid and robust?”
“That would only happen if she stopped taking her medication. Believe me, however, no amount of strength or health for Miss de Bourgh would be worth taking her off of her tranquillisers. She is a young lady without conscience, who preys on the weak and delights in their pain.”
“And if she did refrain from taking them? What do you believe would happen?”
Just at that moment, Wickham appeared with the surgeon from down the street. The balding man rushed to the side of Seymour’s bed, feeling his forehead, pulling up on each eyelid, and asking rapid-fire questions about the man’s condition over the past several days. Darcy stood back, frustrated but understanding that such an ill patient needed to be tended to. The surgeon began rifling through his medical bag, and Darcy took the opportunity his brief silence afforded.
“What would happen, sir, if Anne de Bourgh ceased taking her medications?” he cried in desperation.
“Then England,” Seymour coughed, “would have a highly motivated, cold-blooded killer on its hands.”