For though Miss Picklewood’s advice was wise, she had no intention of following it.
BETHLEM ROYAL HOSPITAL—OR, as it was more commonly called, Bedlam—was a monolithic monument to charity. Newly built since the Great Fire, its long, low silhouette was all that was modern and grand. Almost as if the governors meant to put icing on the rot within.
Or advertise their wares, Maximus thought cynically as he slipped through the magnificent front gates just as the clock struck midnight. He wore his Ghost of St. Giles costume tonight, for though he had no doubt he could affect Lord Kilbourne’s release as the Duke of Wakefield, it would take time.
Time the madman evidently didn’t have.
Over his head, twin stone figures writhed on the arched gate, one representing Melancholia and the other Raving Madness. Before him was a vast, open courtyard, made monochrome in the moonlight. On holidays the courtyard and building within was flooded with sightseers—all of whom paid a tithe to see the amusements of deranged madmen and madwomen. Maximus had never been himself, but he’d sat listening distastefully often enough as some fashionable lady described the titillating horrors she’d seen with her bosom bows. Over one hundred poor souls were incarcerated here—which meant that if he were to find Kilbourne amongst them, he’d need a guide.
Maximus glided toward the massive front doors and found them, not surprisingly, locked. All the windows were barred to keep the patients safely inside, but there were several side doors for the delivery of food—and perhaps the inmates themselves. He selected one and tried the handle. It, too, was locked. So he tried the next obvious choice.
He knocked.
There was an interminable period of waiting before shuffling could be heard and the door swung open.
Inside, staring at him with wide eyes, was a guard.
Maximus immediately thrust his short sword against the guard’s throat. “Hush.”
The attendant’s mouth opened in an oval of surprise, but he didn’t make a sound. The man was dressed in breeches, waistcoat, and a very ragged coat, his head covered by a soft hat. He’d probably been asleep. No doubt Bedlam was not used to receiving visitors in the middle of the night.
“I wish to see Lord Kilbourne,” Maximus whispered. He was unlikely to ever meet this man again, but it never hurt to be cautious.
The attendant blinked. “ ’E’s in th’ Incurables ward.”
Maximus cocked his head. “Then take me to him.”
The man started to turn, but Maximus pressed the sword tip against his throat warningly. “And don’t go alerting any of your fellow guards, mind. You’ll be the first to fly this life should I find myself in a sword fight.”
The attendant swallowed with a small clicking sound and turned with exaggerated care to lead Maximus into Bedlam. He’d brought a lantern with him when he’d answered the door, and this gave a feeble light as they entered a long corridor.
To the left were tall, barred windows overlooking the courtyard. To the right, a row of doors led away into the darkness. A square window was cut into the upper part of each door and inset with crossed bars. Faint sounds came from the inhabitants of this place: rustling and sighs, moans, and an odd, eerie humming. Somewhere a voice was raised in argument, but no other voice answered back. The air was thick with a miasma of smells: urine and cooked cabbage, lye and tallow, wet stone and feces. Something about the corridor and the place gave Maximus a sense of déjà vu, but he could not remember why.
They were almost halfway down the corridor when footsteps echoed behind them. “Sully? Is that you?”
The attendant—apparently, Sully—stopped and turned, his eyes widening in alarm. Maximus ducked his face into his shoulder so the nose of his mask couldn’t be seen in profile and peered behind.
A figure was at the other end of the corridor, but surely he couldn’t tell at this distance who they were.
Maximus poked Sully with his sword under cover of his cloak. “Remember what I told you.”
“J… just me, Ridley,” Sully stuttered.
“Oo’s that you got with you?” Ridley asked suspiciously.
“My brother, George, come to have a bit of tipple with me,” Sully said nervously. “He’ll be no bother.”
“Keep walking,” Maximus whispered.
Ridley started down the corridor.
“I… I’ll just show George to my rooms,” Sully called in a high voice, and then they were around the corner and running up a central flight of stairs.
“Will he follow us?” Maximus demanded.
“I don’t know.” Sully sent him a nervous glance. “ ’E’s a suspicious one is that Ridley.”
Maximus glanced back when they reached the upper floor, but he couldn’t make out if anyone was trailing them in the darkness. He turned back to Sully. “Show me Kilbourne.”
“This way.”
To the left was a door. Beside it stood a stool and a key hanging on a hook.
“Leech’s turn for the night guard,” Sully muttered as he took the key and fit it into the lock on the door. “ ’E’s probably drunk in ’is bed, though.”
As Sully held high his lantern to open the door, Maximus could see the sign that hung over the lintel: Incurable.
Beyond lay a long corridor like the one below, save that here the cells opened on both sides. The rooms had no doors to either shield the occupants or protect the visitor. The inmates within lay upon straw like stabled animals, and the stink of their manure was enough to make Maximus’s eyes water. Here was a white-haired, bearded venerable, his nearly colorless eyes staring sightlessly into the light as they passed. There, a young woman, pretty, save for the savage lunge she made at them when they crossed her doorway. A chain rattled and she fell back, exactly like a bitch choked by a collar. The youth in the next stall laughed, high and hysterical, scrabbling at his own face as he did so.
Sully crossed himself and hurried to the last stall. He stopped and held his lantern high, illuminating a massive male body lying in the straw.
Maximus frowned, stepping closer. “Is he alive?”
Sully shrugged. “Was when we brought dinner ’round to the others. ’Course ’e didn’t eat it seein’ as ’ow ’e’s been asleep.”
Not so much asleep as insensible, Maximus thought grimly. He went to one knee beside the man in the filthy straw. Viscount Kilbourne looked nothing like his sister. Where she was slim he was huge—wide shoulders, massive hands, legs that sprawled across the cell. Whether he was a handsome man or not was impossible to tell: his face was swollen and caked with dried blood, both eyes blackened, his bottom lip split and grown to the size and color of a small plum. This close Maximus could hear an odd, whistling wheeze as the big man’s chest struggled to draw air into his lungs.