And though her voice was already roughening from overuse, she launched bravely into “The Three Ravens.”
“There were three ravens sat on a tree.
They were as black as they might be.
Then one of the ravens said to his mate,
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’
With a down derrie derrie down down. . .”
26
A Visit from the Doctor
Dr. Morton returned that afternoon, while Birdie was singing “The Death of Parcy Reed.”
She heard footsteps in the hallway. One set belonged to Mrs. Ayres, who jangled keys and rustled a lot of starched petticoat when she walked. The other set wasn’t muffled by layers of fabric; it was a man’s tread, firm and brisk, but not as heavy as Mr. Doherty’s.
Then, as Birdie fell silent, the sound of a muted conversation reached her ears.
“. . . been singing all day long,” Mrs. Ayres was saying. “I thought you would have no objection, though they tend to be rather low songs—”
“Exactly. That is exactly why I must forbid them. If she has to be gagged, Mrs. Ayres, I will not have her singing those songs.”
It was Dr. Morton speaking. Birdie’s heart skipped a beat, then began to pound like a hammer, in double-quick time.
“Have any of her rough friends appeared on the doorstep?” he asked, his voice growing louder with every step.
“Oh, no. I would have told you.”
“Well, be on your guard. They are people of the very worst type and would not think twice about breaking into this house. I believe they were befriending her for the purpose of extracting money from her relatives—a form of ransom, if you understand me.”
“How dreadful!”
“It is dreadful. You can sympathize with her family’s desire to place her in a secure location. Eventually they hope to find a suitable house in the country. But of course one has to be very cautious when it comes to rural asylums.”
The footsteps stopped outside Birdie’s door. Someone fumbled with the lock. Looking around wildly for a place to hide, Birdie saw only the chamber pot and the paillasse.
When the door swung open, she was squatting in a corner, scowling.
“Here is Dr. Morton, Leticia,” Mrs. Ayres announced. “I told him you have been very good, though he wants you to stop singing those nasty songs.”
“Hello, Letty.” Dr. Morton’s tone was calm and light, with just a touch of silkiness. He was looking very dapper in a three-piece suit; his mustache was curled, his hair was oiled, and he smelled faintly of lime and sandalwood. “How are you today?”
Birdie said nothing. She just glared at him, hoping that she hadn’t gone pale.
“Cat got your tongue?” he murmured with a glint in his eye. Then he turned to Mrs. Ayres. “Might I have a chair, please? I wish to talk to Miss Partridge and would prefer not to stand.”
“Yes, of course, Doctor! I’ll fetch one straightaway.”
But before Mrs. Ayres could withdraw, Birdie jumped to her feet and cried, “No, ma’am! Please don’t leave me with him; he’s a devil!”
Mrs. Ayres hesitated. “Now, Leticia—”
“It’s true! I swear! He’s killed four kids already and is like to kill me!”
“Nonsense. You mustn’t tell such monstrous lies.”
“I ain’t lying, ma’am!”
Mrs. Ayres clicked her tongue. “You sound like a street hawker when you talk that way,” she said. “Now, behave yourself, for I shall return directly. And I can promise that you will still be alive when I do!”
She marched off as the doctor stood watching Birdie, his gaze bleached of all color and emotion. There was something very chilling about it. But Birdie wanted to demonstrate that she wasn’t a bit scared, so she squared her shoulders and snarled, “You ain’t the only one as knows a bit o’ magic. Mr. Bunce can lay as many curses as there are ailments. He’s laid a curse on you by now. You’ll be feeling poorly afore the day’s over, I expect.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Dr. Morton’s mouth. Leaning against the doorjamb, he smoothly replied, “Let me tell you something, little girl. I could have killed you in the cemetery, along with your master, since there are any number of places to hide a corpse in a graveyard. But I didn’t. And the reason I didn’t is that I want to know how to catch bogles.”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder into the hallway. Birdie was about to fill the silence with a scathing remark when he raised his hand and said, “Let me finish, please. I didn’t simply ask how it’s done, because I knew that your master would lie to me. Sheer malice would have prompted him to do it, even if he hadn’t been eager to protect his secrets. That is why I have arranged to be with him on his next job. So I can witness the master at work, so to speak.”
“I already heard this,” Birdie countered. “Whyn’t you tell Mrs. Ayres, if you’re so damn proud o’ yerself? She’d be a good deal more interested than I am!”
“Ah—but there is something you don’t know, my dear.” The doctor leaned forward, lowering his gentle voice until it was little more than whisper. “You see, Mr. Bunce’s next job will be his last.”
Drawing his head back, he regarded Birdie with a satisfied but expectant look, as if waiting for her to erupt.
She gaped at him. “Wha—wha. . . ?” she bleated.
“And once I am rid of your master, then I shan’t need you anymore. Shall I?” Dr. Morton raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Perhaps I’ll tell Mrs. Ayres that I’m taking you to a well-regarded country asylum, where it won’t be my fault if the staff are negligent, the food insufficient, or the medical facilities inadequate—”
“You don’t scare me,” Birdie interrupted. She knew that he was goading her, though she couldn’t understand why. “You’ll never lay a finger on Mr. Bunce. He’s too smart and too strong. He’d make short work o’ you, for all he’s much older!”
“Oh, I’ve no intention of challenging him to a duel,” Dr. Morton replied, in the very mildest of tones. “We’d be sadly ill matched, for I daresay he favors fisticuffs, while my strengths lie more in swordplay. No, no. You see, when I return his equipment to him, there’ll be an extra drop of something in his brandy flask. Something with a bit of a kick to it.” He smiled suddenly. “If you get my meaning.”
Birdie gasped. But as she darted forward with a cry of outrage, the doctor stepped neatly into the hallway and shut the door in her face.
“No-o-o!” Birdie screeched. “You devil! You dog! Come back—you bloody bastard—I’ll kill YOU! I’ll KILL you!”
She kicked and pounded, yelling at the top of her voice. Then she heard Dr. Morton call for a key as he held the door shut.
“He’s going to kill Mr. Bunce!” she bellowed, her voice cracking on a sob. “Please, ma’am, we’ve got to stop him!” The clatter of footsteps and the jingle of keys galvanized her; she started to hammer on the padded canvas, hurting her injured arm. “Let me out! LET ME OUT! I must tell Alfred, PLE-E-EASE!”
“If you don’t stop this, Letty, I’ll have to prescribe a camisole restraint,” the doctor warned.
“Damn you to hell!”
“Leticia!” a shocked Mrs. Ayres exclaimed.
“He’s gammoning you! Can’t you see that? Are you blind?” shouted Birdie. She felt like punching someone. “He’s going to poison Alfred! He told me so!”
“I’m afraid I must have challenged her one too many times,” the doctor sadly informed Mrs. Ayres. “You can see what her family have to put up with.”
“I’ll do you down!” Birdie roared. “I’ll set a bogle on you!”
“Sometimes I fear that she’ll never be cured.” Dr. Morton was addressing Mrs. Ayres again. “It would be pointless to attempt anything now. I shall return tomorrow.”
“Aaagh!” Furious, Birdie threw her whole body against the door.
“Shall I dose her with laudanum?” asked Mrs. Ayres, sounding worried.
“No, no. We’ll let her tire hers
elf out, I think.” Dr. Morton raised his voice. “I’m leaving now, Letty! I shall see you again tomorrow afternoon!”
“Yer days are numbered, you dimmick!”
“Try to be a good girl for Mrs. Ayres. She has only your best interests at heart.”
To Mrs. Ayres the doctor said, “You see our problem. She can be quite amenable for a few hours and then—pff! Up she goes. It makes her difficult to treat.”
“You pile o’ pig guts!” Birdie bawled.
“Control yourself, Leticia, or you’ll have no supper today.”
It was Mrs. Ayres speaking. But before Birdie could answer, the click-clack of retreating footsteps made her pause.
Mrs. Ayres and the doctor were walking away.
“No! Wait! Come back!” Birdie shrieked. When no one responded, she kicked the door several times. Then she burst into tears and threw herself down onto the paillasse.
She wept herself dry, cursing and howling and drumming her feet on the floor.
She wanted to kill Dr. Morton. She wanted to kill Mrs. Ayres. She wanted to smash down the door and charge out into the street, waving Finn MacCool’s spear. At one point she jumped up defiantly and started to sing, but her voice was thick with sobs and hoarse from screaming. Even if a friend in the street did hear her, there was a very good chance that she wouldn’t be recognized.
By the time Katie-Ann appeared with her supper, Birdie was lying on her paillasse, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Now, Miss Leticia,” said Katie-Ann, “Mr. Doherty is here, on the mistress’s orders, and if you don’t eat up like a good girl, we’re to put you in a restraint and feed you ourselves. So you’d best tuck in.”
“I ain’t hungry,” Birdie growled, rolling over to face the wall.
“Ah, now, ye can take a bite o’ stewed pear,” Mr. Doherty wheedled. “There’s sugar in it.”
“If you don’t eat, they’ll stick a tube down yer throat and pump you full of beef broth,” Katie-Ann warned Birdie, who winced. Force-feeding didn’t sound like a pleasant experience. So she sat up and began to eat her supper while Katie-Ann and Mr. Doherty stood waiting for her to finish.
“Dr. Morton is going to kill Mr. Bunce,” Birdie told them between mouthfuls. She tried to keep her tone even. “Will you warn Mr. Bunce o’ that? Will you tell him the doctor’s planning to poison his brandy flask?”
The maid and the porter exchanged glances.
“Mr. Bunce lives in Bethnal Green,” Birdie went on. “Off Club Row. Ask anyone living there—they’ll tell you where to find ’im.” When no one replied, she added, more urgently, “He cannot read a letter! He needs to be told!”
“Eat up, now,” Mr. Doherty mumbled. Katie-Ann said nothing.
“If he dies, then you’ll be to blame!” Birdie cried. “I hope you can live with yerselves, knowing as how you killed a man through not lifting one finger!”
“Lass,” Mr. Doherty murmured, “I’ve a morning off each sennight, and that not for another five days. When am I to spare the time for a trip to Bethnal Green?”
Birdie gazed pleadingly at Katie-Ann, who had crouched down to stack the tea tray. But Katie-Ann refused to look up.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Ayres you’ve bin good as gold,” she said. “Mebbe that’ll count for summat, though I cannot promise it will. If you’re to get out o’ this ward, you must be civil to the doctors.”
Then she rose to her feet and left, taking Mr. Doherty and the camisole restraint with her.
No one else came to Birdie’s room that evening. She was forced to sleep in her blue serge dress because she couldn’t undo all the buttons down its back. Troubled by these buttons, which dug into her spine—and by the terrifying images that infested her dreams—she passed a long and restless night, punctuated by fits of teary-eyed sleeplessness.
It wasn’t until long after sunrise that Mrs. Ayres appeared again. She burst into the room, rousing Birdie from a fitful doze, and announced that she had a visitor.
“It’s your aunt,” Mrs. Ayres revealed. “Quickly, now! You don’t want to keep her waiting. . . Letty? Leticia! It’s your aunt Hortense!”
27
An Invitation to Breakfast
Birdie couldnt understand it. She didnt have an aunt.
“Wha—who?” she muttered sitting up groggily.
“Your aunt is here, Leticia! Wake up!” Mrs. Ayres flicked off her blankets. “Come along!”
“What aunt?” said Birdie.
“Mrs. Snodgrass, of course. She brought you these clothes, which you’re to put on at once.” Mrs. Ayres dumped an armful of lace and ruffles onto Birdie’s paillasse. “Dear me, didn’t Katie-Ann help you to undress last night? I must have a word with that girl. . .”
Birdie didnt say anything more. Shock and confusion had rendered her speechless she allowed herself to be pushed about like a little rag doll as Mrs. Ayres replaced the borrowed outfit of blue serge with a dress of pearl-gray silk—which had pink trimmings and embroidered insets and a beaded sash and was altogether the most beautiful dress that Birdie had ever seen. It came with white silk stockings gray kid boots and a pink hair ribbon.
The boots were a fraction too large but everything else fitted perfectly.
“Your hair needs washing,” said Mrs. Ayres as she hurriedly tidied Birdies wayward curls. “Have you eaten breakfast? No? What has that girl been doing? Katie-Ann! Where are you? Come along Leticia. Don’t dawdle.”
Clasping Birdie’s arm, she hurried into the hallway—where she nearly collided with Katie-Ann. “There you are!” Mrs. Ayres exclaimed. “Take away those clothes I left on the floor. Not the nightgown—the others.”
“Yes’m.”
“Does Mrs. Snodgrass want any tea?”
“No, ma’am, but—”
“I can’t stop. Tell me later.” Pushing past Katie-Ann, Mrs. Ayres hustled Birdie toward the front of the building, where there were no padded rooms or long, empty hallways covered in scarred paint. Now that she was on her own two feet, and it wasn’t the middle of the night, Birdie could see much more of London House—which was richly endowed with fine plasterwork and polished joinery. Glimpsing her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror, she saw a pale, shocked face and staring eyes.
Then Mrs. Ayres yanked her through an open door, into a big room lined with velvet curtains, plush carpet, and damask wallpaper. Near the extravagant marble fireplace, which had tinsel in its grate sat an old lady wearing a vague, sweet smile. She wore a black gown and a white cap, and she wasn’t Mrs. Snodgrass.
She was Mrs. Heppinstall.
“Hello, dear,” she said to Birdie. “How nice you look.”
“Hello. . .” Aunt Birdie mumbled. She flicked a glance at Mrs. Ayres, her heart beating wildly.
“I hope you’ve not been misbehaving,” Mrs. Heppinstall continued. “Have you been saying your prayers?”
Birdie nodded. The old ladys tranquil tone amazed her. Could this really be a brazen rescue attempt or was there something going on that Birdie didn’t understand? Mrs. Heppinstall seemed so calm.
“Leticia looks rather pale, Mrs. Ayres. Has she been eating enough meat?”
“Well—she has been with us for only two nightsn Mrs. Snodgrass—”
“What about eggs? Did you give her an egg for breakfast this morning?”
Mrs. Ayres hesitated in a way that filled Birdie with a ferocious sense of satisfaction. “She hasn’t eaten breakfast,” Mrs. Ayres had to admit.
Mrs. Heppinstall clicked her tongue. “Dear me. Then I suppose I must feed her myself.”
“Oh but—”
“Come, Leticia.” Rising awkwardly, with the aid of a wooden stick, Mrs. Heppinstall extended a hand toward Birdie. “I’ll take you to the Holborn Restaurant, so that you may have a nice chop.”
“But Leticia’s treatment has barely begun Mrs. Snodgrass! I don’t know what Dr. Morton will say about a trip to a chophouse.”
“My niece may be intractable, Mrs. Ayres but that does not mean sh
e ought to be starved,” was Mrs. Heppinstall’s mild rejoinder. “I’m sure I don’t know what her mother will say if you drive the roses from the poor girl’s cheeks. This child has a very delicate constitution.” She smiled at Birdie, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “If we go to the Holborn, dear, you will be a good girl, will you not?”
Birdie nodded vigorously, taking the old lady’s proffered arm.
“Uh—Mrs. Snodgrass?” Mrs. Ayres scurried after them both, across the threshold and into the entrance hall.
“When can we expect Leticia back?”
“Oh, when she becomes fractious, I daresay,” Mrs. Heppinstall replied. She had paused to let a flustered Katie-Ann open the front door for her. But to Birdie’s intense frustration, the old lady didn’t head straight out into the fresh air and sunshine. Instead, she turned back to Mrs. Ayres and said, “Incidentally, the Holborn is not a chophouse. It is a restaurant, and perfectly respectable. I often eat there.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Ayres smiled bravely, but Birdie could tell that she was anxious. While Mrs. Heppinstall made her way down the front steps, Mrs. Ayres stood in the doorway, staring after her. Birdie didn’t like that stare. It had a suspicious edge to it. So she remained utterly silent as she helped Mrs. Heppinstall into the carriage that was waiting in the street.
Luckily, it was a private carriage—not a hired one—
and that must have reassured Mrs. Ayres. As soon as Mrs. Heppinstall had disappeared into it, Mrs. Ayres promptly turned around and let the big, blank, gray façade of London House swallow her up. Even so, Birdie didn’t say a word until she had shut the carriage door behind her.
Then she rounded on Miss Eames, who was skulking beside Mrs. Heppinstall, and squeaked, “How did you do that? How did you know?”
Miss Eames opened her mouth. But before she could answer, the carriage gave a lurch and began to move. Mrs. Heppinstall immediately grabbed Birdie, who had nearly fallen across her lap. “Can you squeeze in, my dear?” the old lady inquired. “I’m afraid it’s rather cramped. Mr. Fotherington was most kind to lend us his brougham, but it’s not a very roomy vehicle.”