Poor Tom Is Cold (31 page)

She paused. “One of the reasons Mrs. Eakin was committed to the asylum was because she was convinced somebody was trying to poison her and she had not eaten in days.”

“Who is it that Mrs. Eakin thinks is trying to kill her?”

Miss Bastedo frowned. “That is the terrible thing about illusional insanity, Mr. Murdoch. The poor lunatic fears and suspects everybody. She said at first her entire family was involved, then she suspected the doctor and even perhaps the staff here, although that suspicion seems to have disappeared.”

“I suppose it is not entirely impossible – that somebody is trying to poison her, I mean.”

Miss Bastedo smiled at him. “That is a detective
talking, Mr. Murdoch, not a physician. Many of our inmates sound quite convincing because they are sincere in their own beliefs. However, Mrs. Eakin’s family has shown great concern for her well-being. It is a rather unusual situation, as perhaps you know. She is a good deal younger than Mr. Eakin, and his own children are her age or even older. I would think there might be some tension brought about by this inequality. Her only son by her first marriage died suddenly and it was after this that she began to show the first signs of instability.”

So far, what the matron was saying concurred with what he’d heard from Mrs. Curran. “I understand the boy died from peritonitis.”

“That is the case. Dr. Ferrier was in attendance. The poor boy’s appendix burst and nothing could be done.”

“I was told by her husband that she could also be suffering from what he called erotomania.”

She glanced at him sharply. “Did he now?”

“What is that exactly?”

“The patient will approach men in a lascivious and seductive manner, or express an inordinate sexual appetite often manifesting in self-abuse.”

She spoke as if she were quoting from a medical textbook. It was quite different from Eakin’s, “She will lift her tail to any man.”

“We understand there was some inappropriate behaviour toward a family member, but she has not shown any evidence of that here. There is a possibility of
surgery,” she continued. “Her doctor is recommending a hysterectomy but Dr. Clark likes to proceed conservatively. We will keep her under observation for at least a week or so longer.”

“Not speaking as a detective, Miss Bastedo, but simply as a man, is such an operation effective?”

She wasn’t happy about the question but she was an honest woman. “Some doctors believe so, others do not.”

“And you?”

“On a conservative estimate from witnessing several female patients who have been so treated, I would say it is too early to tell. Dr. Clark himself is a great believer in fresh air, regular exercise, and a calm setting.”

Murdoch was about to ask her about the efficacy of that particular treatment, but she consulted the large gold watch that hung from her belt. “I have to do my rounds shortly. You can interview her in this office. There is always an attendant within call. Please try not to overly excite the patient, Mr. Murdoch. She is just settling here.” She sighed. “I should tell you that we received a telegram this morning from the senior member of the family. Apparently, Mrs. Eakin’s husband has suffered a severe stroke. The doctor does not think he will recover. We have not told her yet. The daughter is planning to come in later today and we will tell her then. So, please, Mr. Murdoch, don’t upset her. I suggest you make no comment if she does bring up any of her delusions.”

Murdoch wondered what he should do or say if she displayed signs of erotomania, but he didn’t quite know how to ask the matron about this.

She stood up and looked through the window. “Ha, here they are.”

He turned and could see one of the attendants leading in a patient. Small and thin, her hair in a long braid, Mrs. Eakin could have been taken for a child.

“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Murdoch,” said the matron and she went out to meet them. She had a short conversation with the attendant that he couldn’t hear. He realised the glass windows of the office were a double glaze, giving some measure of privacy. Mrs. Eakin was looking toward him the entire time. There was something about her expression he couldn’t quite identify. An eagerness perhaps, again reminding him of a child. The matron brought her into the office. He got to his feet.

“Mrs. Eakin, this is Detective Murdoch. He is conducting a police investigation and he would like to ask you some questions. You don’t need to be alarmed in any way. It is simply a matter of routine. Miss Shelby is outside if you need her. Sit here.” She pulled forward a second cane chair. “I will return in one half an hour.”

She smiled at Peg, patted her arm, and bustled off. Both Murdoch and the young woman remained standing until, hesitantly, she sat down in the chair the matron had indicated. Murdoch resumed his seat facing her.

She was watching his face anxiously and he had the impression that she was straining every sense to read his countenance. “I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Bastedo did say your name, but I did not quite register it.”

Her speech was quite rapid but the words were enunciated precisely, as if she were holding them tight in case they slipped away. Her accent was English.

“Murdoch. Acting Detective William Murdoch. I am pursuing a police inquiry and I hoped you might be able to help.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. How could he ask her bluntly if she were awake and crying out the night Wicken died? She was sitting very still, watching him. She did not seem insane to him or in the least irrational but she was expecting something. Keeping his voice low and even, he continued.

“The matter concerns one of our constables.”

Unexpectedly, her eyes lit up and she interrupted him. “Thank the Lord. He has spoken to you, then?”

“About what, ma’am?”

Murdoch had no idea why what he said was so distressing to her but the brightness on her face disappeared, replaced by something else, a look of such despair he wanted to reach over to her and make it go away. Her voice dropped so low he could hardly hear her.

“Why have you come to see me, Mr. Murdoch?”

There was no way around it. “Last week one of our officers, a Constable Wicken, was found dead in the vacant house on the corner of Gerrard and Parliament,
close to your house. The circumstances of his death are not completely clear. I thought you might help me with my inquiry.”

He thought she had been sitting still before but now she seemed to freeze.

“What do you mean, he was found dead?”

“He was shot. Apparently by his own hand.”

“When?”

“Monday night last.”

“Was this constable fair-haired?”

“Yes, with a full moustache. Constable, second-class, Oliver Wicken. He was on duty.”

She moaned and began to rock slightly back and forth in the chair. Suddenly, he had an image of a young cougar that a sailor had brought into the village when he was a boy. For five cents you could go into the hot, musty tent and view the animal. For a further penny, the sailor handed you a stick and you could poke her through the bars of the cage and “make her roar.” The expression in the eyes of Mrs. Eakin and the tormented animal were the same.

He glanced out of the window, wondering if he should send for the attendant.

“Can you tell me what is the matter, ma’am? Did you know the constable? Did you see him?”

She didn’t answer and he tried to find a way to reach through her fear. “What did you mean just now when you asked if he had spoken to me?”

“They must have killed him after he left. So he wouldn’t talk.” She was whispering as if she had no energy left to propel her voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Talk about what?”

Suddenly, she jumped up and rushed at him. She was so fierce he involuntarily put up his arm to shield himself, expecting a blow, but she stopped short and caught at the lapels of his coat.

“They murdered him …” Her voice was high pitched and tight in her throat but her grip was strong.

Murdoch forced himself not to back off. Her pupils were dilated; there was some froth at the corner of her mouth. “Who did? Who are you referring to?”

Before she could answer, the door to the office opened and the attendant swept in.

“Now, now, Mrs. Eakin, calm yourself, please. Leave the gentleman alone.”

She grabbed Peg by her wrists and snatched her away from Murdoch. Peg pulled back, trying to twist herself free.

“No, you’ve got to believe me …”

Shelby spun her around so she could pin Peg’s arms to her sides but, as she did so, Peg arched her back and her head jerked upward. She caught the attendant under the chin, causing her to bite through her lower lip.

Another attendant rushed in, sized up the situation at once, and ran over to a cupboard near the door. She took out a restraining jacket.

“No!” shrieked Peg. “I’ll be good. I swear. I won’t fight.” Miss Shelby ignored her and forced her arm into the sleeve of the jacket. Murdoch could only watch helplessly while the other attendant assisted, and within moments, Peg was fastened into the restraining jacket and the strings tied behind her back. She was crying now, tears she could not wipe away. “Please, please let me out. I’ll be good, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” said Miss Shelby grimly. Her white bib was spattered with blood from her bitten lip and Murdoch pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to her. He felt dreadfully responsible and wished he had never attempted the interview.

“Come now, Mrs. Eakin,” said the attendant and they began to lead her away. Peg looked at him beseechingly over her shoulder, just as she had that morning. “Help me,” she said.

Augusta Curran seated herself in the reception room of the asylum. There was another woman visitor in the next room who was talking to an elderly inmate. Augusta tried not to look at them, although she glimpsed some affectionate exchange. Another woman, who was wearing the institutional uniform, was down on her knees by the door, scrubbing the floor. There was a sharp smell of carbolic in the air. Augusta hoped she wouldn’t meet up with anybody she knew. She had hired a cab to bring her to the asylum, but she’d got
him to let her off two blocks away so he wouldn’t know her true destination. As a result, her cloak was wet and the hem of her skirts was muddy from dragging through puddles on the way. She sat, chilled and miserable, clutching her basket on her lap, staring ahead. She thought it was most unfair that she was the one sent to deliver the bad news, but Frank flatly refused and Jarius claimed the sight of him or Peter might inflame Peg’s already unstable mind. “Do your duty, Aggie. There’s a good girl. And why don’t you make her one of those lemon cream tarts she likes? It might make the visit go a little easier.”

Jarius had sent Cullie off on some silly errand, which meant Augusta had to do the baking herself, and although he kept her company and tried to soothe her with sweet words and compliments, she resented it.

She had been waiting about ten minutes when the door to the reception room opened and a woman in the severe blue dress of a nurse came in. She was dark-complexioned, strong-featured, and had an indisputable air of authority.

“Mrs. Curran, I’m Miss Bastedo, the matron.”

“How do you do?”

The matron sat down in the chair next to her. “I regret to say that Mrs. Eakin has had a bad spell. She is still quite unsettled and we think it better if she doesn’t have visitors at the moment.”

“What sort of bad spell?”

“A police detective came to interview her. Unfortunately, I had no idea it would upset her as much as it did. She became quite hysterical and she has had to be restrained.”

“I knew he shouldn’t have come. He insisted. He doesn’t realise how unstable she really is.”

“I am of the opinion that any mention of death completely unnerves her,” said Miss Bastedo. “It brings back her memories of the sad demise of her son. We must be very careful what we say to her and only discuss the most cheerful topics until she is much stronger. It will be wise not to mention the illness of Mr. Eakin at this point.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Perhaps you could come back in two or three days? We have every confidence she will be quite improved by then.”

“Yes, yes, I will.” Augusta was eager to make a good impression on the matron, as she had an uneasy feeling Miss Bastedo did not approve of her. She took a cake tin out of the basket.

“I brought her a lemon tart.”

“You can leave it with me. I will make sure she gets it.”

Augusta thanked her and took her leave. She was only too glad not to come face to face with Peg. The woman terrified her.

I
N PART BECAUSE
D
ETECTIVE
M
URDOCH
had declared the blow to the attendant was an accident, Peg was released from the restraining jacket and had been given only a mild chloral sedative. She had fallen into a restless sleep where images surfaced and sank and surfaced again. Shelby dabbing at her cut lip, glaring at her; Mr. Murdoch in his long coat, brown eyes troubled as he talked to her; Miss Bastedo, grave-faced, telling her that Augusta had come to visit, although Peg was certain she hadn’t actually seen her.

She could hear somebody moaning,
oh, oh
, but she couldn’t sort out what the sound was. The cry was sharp and Peg sat up in bed.

Emma Foster was also sitting up. She was clutching at her stomach and it was she who was moaning. Suddenly, she vomited on the coverlet.

“Oh, oh,” she groaned and another spasm gripped
her. The vomitus was mixed with blood. She cried out and rolled onto her side, the violent momentum sending her crashing to the floor. Peg jumped out of bed and rushed over to her.

“Mrs. Foster! What is it?”

The old woman couldn’t answer but lay thrashing in spasms that shook her entire body. A rush of watery diarrhoea came from her bowels. The smell coming from her was vile. Peg looked around desperately for something to use, and as she did so, she saw the cake tin sitting on the bedside cupboard. It was black with red and white flowers painted on it. The last time she had seen it was in the kitchen of the Eakin house. The knowledge stabbed at her chest, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe. Hurriedly, she pried off the lid. Inside was a cream tart, one large piece missing. Panting now, she bent over the sick woman.