A Madness So Discreet (11 page)

“
W
e got our man. Or rather,
they
were competent enough to. And it was a woman, after all. So ignore my first statement.” Thornhollow sat on the arm of a chair in his office, staring moodily at the floor by his feet.

“You don't seem particularly happy about it,” Grace said, welcoming the freedom to speak after another day of feigned inability. Having Nell beside her made talking unnecessary and walking with Elizabeth usually consisted of companionable silence, both enjoyable in their own ways. But Grace's voice grew in power every day as she discovered the joys of speaking her mind, and she never missed an evening in Thornhollow's office to share her opinions.

“I'm not,” Thornhollow admitted. “How can I teach you anything without a more complex crime than a jealous wife?”

“Careful what you wish for,” Grace said, thinking of her words to Falsteed in her letter. “That opportunity means someone's death.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “But we didn't even get to use the blackboard.”

“What would you write on it if we had?” Grace asked, carefully handling him as if he were Alice in a fit of pique.

“Oh, the basics,” he said, lackadaisically rising from his seat, approaching the board, and drawing a neat line down the center of it. “I suppose we can have a lesson even if there is no object at the moment.” On the left-hand side of the board he wrote
Planned
;
on the other,
Impulsive
.

“A killer may be able to remove evidence from a crime scene, hide the murder weapon, clean up spilled blood, and take any number of steps necessary to cover their tracks. Yet even by doing this they are giving us clues as to who they are—or rather, who they were.”

“What do you mean by that? Who they
were
? Aren't we more interested in who they
are
?” Grace asked.

“We are, all of us, the sum total of our life experience, Grace. Everything that happened to you as a child, from the geography of your birthplace to the social status of your family, even the order of your birth, can be read in your actions today.” Thornhollow tossed the chalk from hand to hand as he warmed up to his topic.

“If I told you we had a victim who had been stabbed multiple times and there was little blood on the scene or under the body, what would you learn from that?”

Grace closed her eyes, picturing a faceless body in a dark street, cold hands lying still on the cobblestones that remained clean despite the fact there should be blood spreading. “The body was moved,” she said, opening her eyes.

“Very good,” Thornhollow said. “But what else?”

“I . . .” She pictured the scene again but could see no more.

“Let me rephrase the question—what does the fact that our fictitious body was moved tell you about the killer?”

Grace again imagined the clean street beneath the hand, so different from the bricks reddening with blood under the man whose wife had killed him. That killer had been in a rage, her passions driving her to murder, and the panic that followed her action chasing her from the scene, unable to hide anything about her identity as she fled.

“They knew they had to protect themselves,” Grace said slowly. “For someone to move a body indicates a clear head at the time of the crime.”

“Yes, because the crime itself had been . . .” He pointed at the board, eyebrows raised as he silently asked her to finish his sentence.

“Planned,” Grace said.

“And the very fact that it was planned speaks volumes of our killer,” Thornhollow continued. “Years of talking with killers has not only been for conversational purposes, I assure you—although in one or two cases it really was quite pleasant. In speaking with
other researchers like myself we've all discovered certain patterns that arise so consistently it is hard to explain away.”

The chalk flashed out words in a column on the left side of the board as he went on. “An organized killer is usually intelligent, has a skilled job, is socially competent—indeed, most of their acquaintances deny it could be them based on how
normal
they are.”

“Yet these are all things in their present,” Grace said. “What of your claim that the past has defined them?”

“It has. As I said, certain themes arise when experiences are compiled. And I can tell you with some certainty that a killer who plans and executes their crime with control of their emotions is an older sibling or only child whose father had a stable job throughout their childhood.”

“And how does that help you catch them?”

“In so many ways, Grace. The simple fact of identifying whether the crime was planned or impulsive informs us that we are looking for an intelligent person with a steady job—and by the way, since our fake killer dumped the body it also tells us he is probably familiar with that area. These seemingly small facts narrow the populace of an entire city down to a neighborhood.”

“And then you can use the assumption that they are an only child to narrow it down still further?”

Thornhollow clapped his hands together, producing a cloud of chalk dust. “Exactly. Much of what we do can be described as exactly
that—a narrowing of the possibilities.”

“Until we are down to one,” Grace said.

“Yes. And that process begins with deciding whether our killer is a planner or impulsive. The meticulous nature of the planner can be misleading. If you have a killer who, say, drains the blood from all their victims, or removes the left hand consistently, the untrained want to say they are insane. But the definition of insanity—an inability to use rational thought—immediately precludes that they must, in fact, be sane.”

“Not an easy thing for the average person to accept,” Grace said. “Most would want to believe that a fellow human being would have to be out of their mind to do such a thing.”

“But they're not. Far from it, in fact. Simply using the words
sane
and
insane
is a way for the population to draw a safe line through humanity, and then place themselves squarely on the side of the healthy.”

Grace's hands went to her temples, where her scars shined brightly. Thornhollow had taken the wrappings off a few days earlier, and the nakedness of her skin against the air had been a relief as well as a shock when she glanced in the mirror. The scars were a price she was willing to pay, but the evidence of the payment had set her back when she first saw them.

“They will fade,” Thornhollow had said quietly.

But she knew she would always carry them, and her fingers
traced the thin webbing of smooth skin on her temples that would forever mark her as one on the wrong side of that line.

“So are we really that different? The healthy and the ill?” Grace asked.

“I would argue there is no difference at all,” Thornhollow said. “To me the insane are simply people who have chosen not to participate in the world in the same manner as the majority, and there are days I wonder if they've got the right of it.”

“You make it sound as if hardly anyone is insane with a definition as narrow as that.”

“Quite the opposite; my definition is too broad. I think we're all quite mad. Some of us are just more discreet about it.”

“Surely there is such a thing as true insanity?”

“There is,” Thornhollow said reluctantly, “but I would argue those cases are much fewer than most suspect. These walls exist for a reason, but there is no cause for there to be so many rooms inside.”

“Nell doesn't belong here,” Grace said, almost to herself.

“Certainly not,” Thornhollow agreed. “There's nothing wrong with the girl mentally. Physically . . . well, perhaps she hasn't told you.”

“Elizabeth said she's a syphilitic.”

“That's correct.” The doctor nodded. “Which means she receives mercury baths on a regular basis, but that's something a physician could administer as easily as asylum staff. The true reason for
her being admitted here is that she is a young woman who takes an active interest in men and feels no shame in it. The world can't understand this behavior; therefore the girl must be insane.”

“And Elizabeth? She believes a string dangles from nowhere beside her ear and whispers things to her.”

“Highly unlikely. Janey told me that she sees little Lizzie hovering in doorways often. I think she's highly attuned to detail, much like yourself. She gleans information from people, then picks up some like any busybody. But in her mind she attributes it all to String.” Thornhollow shrugged. “Then again, I could be completely wrong. Who's to say String isn't real?”

“I can hardly agree with that,” Grace said. “I like her quite well, but there's clearly something wrong with—”

“With her brain?” Thornhollow interrupted. “What would you say, then, if I told you that I've dissected hundreds of brains—of both the sane and insane—and found no difference whatsoever in them?”

“None?”

“My brain, and yours, Elizabeth's, Heedson's, even our mutual friend Falsteed's would all look the same if we ever had the opportunity of comparing them. It's one of the reasons why I have no use whatsoever for phrenology.”

Grace stifled a yawn. “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to explain what phrenology is, Doctor.”

“No, no. Don't let me keep you up. I tend to go on once I've got my teeth in a subject, and sometimes I forget that my audience may not be as keen as I am on the matter of dissecting brains.”

Grace glanced at the clock. “Explain phrenology, and then I'll take myself to bed. I don't mind being kept up when it's the only time I am allowed to be myself.”

“Very well.” Thornhollow returned to the board and drew a caricature of a human head, dividing it into uneven sections with a few slashes of the chalk. “The idea behind phrenology is that the brain is divided into certain parts, each part with a specific purpose. Within these parts are smaller areas that control certain functions that determine your personality.” He made smaller crosshatch marks within the sections.

“So, for example, in a particularly brave person the part of the brain that handles courage would be overdeveloped. That section would be larger than others, pressing against the skull and reshaping it to create a subtle bump there. The theory is that a person trained in phrenology—as I am—would be able to feel the bumps and ridges of a person's skull and intimate from them what their characteristics are.”

“That's utterly ridiculous,” Grace said. “I'd sooner ask Elizabeth's string.”

“And get a more accurate reading,” Thornhollow agreed.

“Yet you are trained in this pseudoscience. Why?”

“Because there are those who swear by it. I've gained access to a few killers for some stolen moments of questions by offering my services as a phrenologist to law enforcement. Although the vast majority of the people whose skulls I'm brought in to read are thoroughly innocent and utterly terrified of being proved otherwise.”

“And what do you do then?”

“Gather information from them, once they're calm enough to provide it. Analyze the facts, starting with the first and largest step—the one I've taught you tonight. As with our made-up killer who planned his crime and dumped the body somewhere familiar to him, I use the crime to paint a portrait of the killer. When faced with an accused innocent, the best possible defense is to find the guilty.” Thornhollow wheeled back to the board, pointing at the series of words he'd written. “That one who . . . I spelled
sibling
wrong.”

Grace smothered a smile with her hand.

“It's all very well for you,” Thornhollow said irritably as he wiped the offending word away with his sleeve. “You don't have to be concerned about your intellect slipping.”

“I very much doubt yours is slipping,” Grace said as he flung himself into a wing chair. “You are simply overtired, as am I.”

Thornhollow tented his hands over his eyes. “That I am. I can't serve my new patients if I don't know anything about them, but their histories make for long and occasionally disturbing reading. What about yourself? How are you finding your new residence?”

Grace thought for a moment, aware that she could never verbalize the feeling of safety that enveloped her as she slept, the ease of companionship she found even among those who could only stare blankly. “I am content,” she said.

“Ah, contentment,” Thornhollow said. “A wholly underrated feeling.” His suddenly blank gaze was drawn back to the floor. “Go to bed, Grace. I'll wake you if there's a murder.”

T
here was no murder. Not that night, or any of the following. Days stretched into weeks, the fine webbing of skin that knit itself into scar tissue on Grace's temples softening into a smoothness that her fingers sought out for comfort or while in thought. As a child she had sucked her thumb, and the habit had been hard to break. Her mother had scolded her about ruining the shape of her mouth, but the threats of the future had been nothing against the terror of the present, and young Grace had found solace in the action while harsh words crept down the hallway from her parents' room.

In truth, she could easily resort to sucking her thumb again, Grace thought while helping Nell in the garden. No one in the asylum would care at all, shape of her mouth be damned. But touching
the smooth flesh of her scars brought its own kind of comfort, and the movement itself became an involuntary action when she was deep in thought. The doctor had noticed during their weekly lessons and hadn't discouraged it.

“The movement may help you recover information,” he'd said, the third time her hands had gone to her temples the night before.

“What?” Grace jerked her hands down, distracted. The chalkboard had been cloudy with words: new theories vied for space against old ones, with Thornhollow's opinions sprinkled liberally between them.

“Touching your scars,” he explained. “If you perform an action while learning something, re-creating the action may help you recall it later.”

Her fingers went to them again as she worked beside Nell, heedless of the dirt on her hands. Visually she could recall scenes in intricate detail, but to catalog theories and counterarguments as to their usefulness was a different animal altogether, and she wanted to tame it.

“Sometimes I can't keep me 'ands off meself, either, though I'm not usually 'avin' a go at me own 'ead,” Nell said, playfully bumping hips with Grace.

Grace pushed back gently, winning a smile from the Irish girl. “You've gone an' muddied up that nice skin of yours,” Nell chided, licking her own thumb and rubbing Grace's face clean. “Don't want
a pretty lass like ye lookin' like a field hand when your doctor comes around.”

Grace grimaced at Nell and shook her head, yanking at a weed with more force than necessary.

“Dinna worry yerself about it,” Nell said, shaking off the wordless chiding. “Anybody that's been around the two of ye fer more than five minutes knows there's nothing between yer bodies. It's yer own minds that ye each find so fascinatin', odd as that is.”

Even though there was truth to what the other girl said, Grace still wore a frown as she worked next to Nell, the early autumn weather bringing a sheen of sweat to her forehead. It was true that she and the doctor had learned each other's minds thoroughly, each complementing the other's weaknesses with their own strengths. But their efforts were for nothing if she never got the chance to apply everything she'd learned. Grace dug her boot heel into the ground against a stubborn weed as she told herself yet again that her wish for relief from boredom through the death of a stranger was the most selfish of sins.

Yet it was there, and she couldn't deny it. She itched to put herself to use on something more complicated than punching bread dough with Elizabeth or harvesting alongside Nell.

“There now, ye've gone and yanked up me leeks, ye mad thing.” Nell salvaged the vegetable from the pile of refuse mounting behind them, but her touch was gentle as she pushed Grace's shoulder. “No
'arm done. We'll stick 'im back in the ground and no one the wiser.”

Nell replanted the leek, but the smile slipped from her face when she straightened up, and her hands went to her back. Grace had seen her friend struggle before in small moments when she thought no one would notice, as the disease that had brought her to the asylum began to ravage her joints. The two girls sat beside the vegetable plot to rest, gazing out over the lake and the group of patients dotting the shore, watched over by two nurses.

Nell jerked her chin in their direction. “Janey says second Tuesdays is always the worst of the lot. That's when they make sure the outer wings get their proper exercise.” The Irish girl shook her head, her usual good humor abandoning her. “You and me, we's lucky to be as good off as we are. Up 'ere I mean,” she added, tapping her own forehead. “Janey says those outer wings . . . it ain't worth the pay, some days.”

Elizabeth and Nell had explained to Grace that the asylum staff mostly lived within the walls where they worked. All of the employees roomed near the center of the building, with the quietest and most calm patients living in the wings nearest them. As the bricks stretched, so too did the tenants' tenuous hold on sanity, with the most violent and deranged patients farther from the offices.

But even they were treated with respect, Grace knew. She'd seen them on their outings, the staff doing their best to keep the wanderers from walking into the lake, the indignant from arguing
among themselves, and the truly violent from harming anyone. One screamer had dug a trench under a bush and had to be removed by a team of male attendants, still clutching at the roots as he was dragged away. His echoing laments had traveled uphill to Grace's room, reminding her of the spider girl in Boston.

Sheer chance had landed that poor creature into Heedson's hands and the darkness of the cellar. Here, she might've had the chance to recover her voice and share her name. Here she might have even found what little bit of peace was possible for one so far gone. Instead, fate had put her into the darkness, and Thornhollow's hand had made the arrangement permanent.

Thoughts of the black cellar in Boston drove Grace's hand to her pocket to run her finger reassuringly over the edge of the envelope secreted there. The letter had come for her that morning, delivered by Janey at breakfast in the women's ward while Elizabeth and Nell were arguing over whether String slept while Elizabeth did, or stayed awake all night. Grace had glanced at the handwriting quickly, even though she knew it could have only come from one person. Irregular letters, spelled out as if unsure as to their proper form, made her heart swell with affection as she imagined Reed struggling over their making, his brow furrowed in concentration as he addressed it to “Grace, in the care of Dr. Thornhollow.”

Nell rested her head on Grace's shoulder, her dark hair fanning into Grace's lap. Grace stroked it absently, the silky smoothness of
it as comforting as her scars. “Ah, it's a blessing to have someone play with yer hair,” Nell said, her eyelids suddenly heavy. “It brings something like a calmness.”

Grace wanted to ask her friend how badly she hurt, but the weight of her own lie kept her silent. She offered the only comfort she could, with her hands. Nell's fingers twined with her own to quiet them, their dirt-stained fingers still within each other.

“Don't let wee Lizzie know 'ow bad I'm gettin',” she said, lifting her head so that Grace could see the seriousness in her usually sparkling eyes. “That one likes nothin' more than ter worry.”

Grace held a finger next to her own ear and cocked an eyebrow.

“What's that, then? Ye're thinkin' String might know? I tol' 'er that if I ever 'eard about String sayin' a word about me I'd sneak inta 'er room one night with the shears. I may not be able ter see it, but I know where 'er ears are, sure enough.”

Grace laughed aloud, the song ringing out in the cool evening air and taking both girls by surprise. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes staring wide at Nell.

“Seems like yer noisemaker isn't entirely broken, then, is it?”

Mortified, Grace could only shake her head from side to side.

“One day soon enough I'll 'ear yer voice,” Nell said, rising wearily to her feet. “Until tha' day I'd not mind listenin' to that laugh every now and then.” She held out a hand to Grace, and they crossed the lawn together, following the groups of patients and
scattered nurses toward the asylum.

“Did ye know there's an alligator in the front fountain?” Nell said, the usual playfulness back in her voice.

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Aye, but there is,” Nell insisted, her eyes large with pretend innocence. “One of the nurses went for a visit to some of 'is family down in Florida, brought back the wee beastie. I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time, but 'avin' an alligator in your own 'ome was a bit taxin' in reality. So he brought it 'ere, and it lives in the fountain.”

Some of the patients walking near them caught Nell's words and shied away from the marble fountain as they neared it, one or two moaning and leaning against their nurses, who shot Nell dark looks.

“Oh, the toils of a prophetess in 'er 'omeland,” Nell said when she noticed. “But what better place for such a beastie than 'ere, I ask you?”

They were about to pass the fountain in question, and even though Grace knew better than to believe her fanciful friend's tale, she found herself pulling her skirts away from the rim as they passed.

“Oh, Grace! Grace! It's got me!” Nell's hand was suddenly pulled from her own and there was a gigantic splash, followed by a cascade of cold water that drenched Grace's dress. She gasped as more spray followed, covering her skin with goose bumps. Nell's flailing wasn't the least bit alarming, as she was smiling merrily while she did it, gleefully sending waves of water in Grace's direction.

“I tol' ya there was a beastie in 'ere,” she yelled, throwing herself backward and bringing Janey to the edge of the fountain.

“Going on about the gator again, is she?” Janey asked Grace, arms crossed in front of her. Grace nodded, fighting the smile that wanted to spread across her face. “I haven't the heart to tell her it died years before she came here.”

“But there was one, once?” Dr. Thornhollow arrived just in time to catch a glimpse of Nell's face as she came up for air and mimed being pulled under again.

“Sure enough, sir,” Janey said. “Just because the insane tell the tales doesn't make them false.”

“Excellent point,” he said before beckoning to Nell when she surfaced again. “You'll be hours drying out. The soaking won't do your bones any good tonight.”

Nell jerked her skirts unnecessarily high as she climbed out of the fountain, exhibiting an expanse of pale leg. “I've got an idea about what would do me bones good, if I can pry ye away from yer books for an hour.”

“Nell,” Janey said, taking her by the arm as she cleared the edge of the fountain. “That's no way to be speaking to the young doctor.”

“There are a myriad of reasons why that won't be happening, Nell, all of them quite good,” Thornhollow said. “And while I have to credit your showmanship, I still say that you'll regret your swim once the cold penetrates.”

“Aye, well,” Nell said, slinging a wet sheet of black hair out of her face, “I live in an insane asylum. May as well jump in the fountain, I say.”

“And yet another lesson for you, Grace,” the doctor said, guiding her by the elbow away from the asylum doors and down the path to a waiting carriage. “By our standards a person who flings themselves in a fountain isn't sane, yet Nell says she's already deemed insane, so what more damage can be done by giving in to the temptation?”

“Therefore using reason and proving herself to be, in fact, sane,” Grace said.

“Very good.”

“I haven't eaten yet,” Grace reminded him, knowing well enough what the carriage meant for their evening.

“Not a concern. You won't be hungry soon.”