The Bedlam Detective

EIGHTEEN

Miss Bancroft,” sir Owain said. “Never was there a fairer sight on a bicycle.”

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

“I barely did, you’ve so much changed. Quite the young city woman, now. Are you visiting your mother?”

“I am. But I want to talk to you about Grace Eccles.”

“Ah.”

They were in one of the house’s galleries, long and vaulted and painted in a deep red. Sir Owain had been cataloguing when she arrived. The gallery contained his collections of seashells and geological specimens, stuffed birds under glass, and sculpture of a morbid character.

Sir Owain was much changed from the man she remembered. He’d always been a figure of consequence in the area. A vigorous presence, he now seemed diminished. She was moved by his air of vulnerability.

She said, “Grace is my oldest friend.”

“Then perhaps,” Dr. Sibley said, “you might have some influence with her?”

Even without Grace’s forewarning, it would have taken Evangeline less than two minutes to form a dislike of Dr. Ernest Hubert Sibley.

She said, “To help you persuade her out of her home, do you mean? Quite the opposite. I’m here to ask you to leave her alone.”

“Now, Evangeline,” Sir Owain broke in. “Nobody wants to force her to anything.”

“However,” Dr. Sibley said firmly. Sir Owain fell silent.

Dr. Sibley went on, “You may know that I’m responsible for ensuring that Sir Owain manages his affairs with visible competence. I can tell you there really is no question over Sir Owain’s health. There are doubters, but they have their own motives. It’s essential not to provide them with the means to do him damage. You do understand?”

She didn’t understand. She said, “How does that concern Grace?”

“Grace Eccles is living on land that was granted to her father. The lease expired when her father died.”

“She inherited.”

“She imagines that.”

“Is it a matter of money? You must know she has none. I’ve seen how she lives. She can barely keep herself.”

“It’s not a matter of money. It’s a matter of good administration.”

“Pardon me,” Evangeline said. “But that sounds heartless.”

“It’s not heartless,” the doctor said, unhappy with the turn that this had taken; he seemed to be a man more used to giving instruction than to being met with argument. “It’s business. And an estate must be seen to be run in a businesslike manner.”

“God forbid that we should value human decency over bookkeeping.”

Sir Owain, who’d grown visibly uncomfortable, said to Evangeline, “But what would you have us do?”

“Just let her be,” Evangeline said, and she gestured to include the gallery and all its works and the great labyrinth of the house beyond it. “You have all this, and she has so little. Why would you deprive her of it?”

Dr. Sibley said, “I take it we needn’t look for help from you, then.”

“To see my best friend rendered destitute? No. And if your main concern is to keep your employer from looking bad, victimizing a tenant seems hardly the way to do it.”

That shut him up, for a moment.

Sir Owain said, “Evangeline-you said it yourself. She is destitute. I had fears for her life last winter.”

“With no home and no land for her horses, how would you expect her to live at all? Will you give her a job? Can you imagine Grace in service?”

“The parish would support her,” Dr. Sibley said. “And Sir Owain has long been a great supporter of the parish.”

“Then why not live and let live, and cut out the parish altogether?”

The doctor opened his mouth, found himself lost for a reply, and closed it again.

Then he tried a different tack. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed that a friend would help a friend. Especially two people who have been through so much.” And he put a meaningful emphasis on that final phrase, as if he expected her to understand what he meant by it.

“Grace and I have not met in years,” she said.

He persisted. “But some experiences can leave a permanent mark. Do you not find? Sometimes help is required to move forward. If you wish, I can offer you a consultation.”

She felt herself flush. She said, “You may be Sir Owain’s doctor, but you are not mine. So this is inappropriate.”

His face didn’t move. But his eyes went cold, as if she’d slapped it.

He made an as you wish gesture and withdrew from the discussion. He seated himself on a padded gallery bench and looked pointedly away, as Sir Owain inquired after her mother’s health and attempted to rescue the occasion to some degree.

And when that was done, and Sir Owain escorted her toward the entrance hall, the doctor took his time before rising to follow.

When he believed they were out of the doctor’s earshot, Sir Owain lowered his voice and said, “Forgive me for all this. My life is no longer my own.”

She glanced back, to be certain they were not overheard.

She said, “What’s brought you to this position?”

“Sheer necessity,” Sir Owain said. “The Lord Chancellor will have my land and all my patents, and I a room with a lock on the door, if I am judged unfit. The Visitor’s man came. He suspects me of many things, none of which I’m guilty of. But those children who died. They haunt me now.”

“Why?”

“What if I could have prevented their suffering by speaking out when I had the chance? Instead of falling silent in my own best interests.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I saw such things on my travels. Secret creatures that I fear may have followed me home. Capable of incalculable harm. But when I published my account …”

He said no more, because Dr. Sibley had caught up with them. They’d reached the steps outside the building.

“It’s getting late, Evangeline,” Sir Owain said. “Perhaps you should wait, under the circumstances. I can have Thomas drive you back, when he returns.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I won’t stop for anyone.”

“Or anything,” Sir Owain suggested pointedly.

Dr. Sibley offered to steady her bicycle as she climbed astride it.

As Sir Owain returned to the top of the steps, the doctor said to her in a low voice, “I do what I can. But perhaps now you can begin to understand.”

She’d barely covered the first hundred yards before she was forced to concede, with some disquiet, that Sir Owain had been right about the hour. This had been an unplanned addition to her day, and she’d stayed out too long. The light had already faded to the point where the track was blending into the moor and the moor was blending into the sky.

There was an electric lamp on the front of the bicycle’s basket. She stood up on the pedals so that she could reach over the handlebars to switch it on. It made no difference so she switched it off again, to save what remained of the battery until it might be more effective.

She wondered about the possibility of stopping on the way back and asking to spend the night with Grace in her cottage. Grace surely wouldn’t say no. But given these recent events, what would her mother think if she didn’t return? The worst, for sure.

Better to press on, and beat the fall of night. Evangeline tried to think more of her mother’s worry, in order to dwell less on her own. She’d no fear of breezy open daytime spaces. The moors after dark would be another matter.

How far was it? Two miles? Three? Half an hour’s ride, perhaps, if she kept up a steady speed and didn’t coast. She’d surely have some level of visibility for half an hour. She might end the ride in deepening gloom, but by then there would be the town to aim for. She’d be like the fishing boats, making toward the harbor lights at the end of the day.

When she passed Grace’s cottage, she didn’t slow. Then realized that she hadn’t even seen the turnoff until it had gone by. Looking down from the track she was able to make out the cottage roof by the gray smoke rising into the deeper gray of the sky, but no light escaped its shuttered windows.

By day the house’s isolation had seemed romantic, almost poetic. But at night, simply unwise. A late visitor might cause a panic; she imagined being Grace, inside her home and hearing a sudden banging at the door. How brave Grace must be, to live so far out here alone, where no cry would be heard, and with no help at hand. If she was not brave, then she was foolish. Or perhaps simply desperate-as Grace herself had pointed out, her choices were limited.

Evangeline rose in the saddle as her wheels jolted over a rock. She dropped back hard, but did not slow. It was easy to imagine that something was behind her, breathing on her back, its presence growing as she pedaled. She might have a rational mind, but no one has a rational soul. Whatever dogged her, it did not go away, but kept a distance as if biding its time.