Page 54 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘I did. Clearly the child will make a wonderful pickpocket, because she slipped it back in my pocket without me knowing. Have you checked to make sure you have still have our pieces?’

Only several hundred times. ‘Yes. Still there.’

‘Hmph.’ He returned to spinning the smoothed amber between his fingers, the flower contained within was like a tiny carriage wheel going round and round.

‘Well, this does not seem such a horrid place outside at least,’ Silas said.

‘Hmph.’

They walked for nearly ten minutes before the eves of the main buildings peeked over the oak trees lining a right-hand curve in the road up ahead. They were led further down to where a circular drive wound around a statue of a maiden pouring a flute of water from her shoulder. The entrance to the Fulbourn loomed over her. A bright green door marked the entrance.

The facade of the asylum was impressive: a three-storey central building flanked by double-storey wings, with elaborate stone latticework trimming the eves. The sandstone was shot through with red brick, and squared turrets marked each corner of the main building’s roof. It was impressive. But something of the place had Silas on edge.

A nurse and a frail woman stepped out of a doorway on the left wing, the patient’s sobs audible from where they stood some distance away.

Silas wanted to take the prince’s hand, perhaps give him a reassuring kiss, but it was ill-advised considering how many windows looked down on them, and how many shapes moved back and forth behind those panes. More noises pushed from the Fulbourn to join the trickling fountain and the crying, unhappy woman. Strange sounds mingled with the murmur of voices. Some akin to the bark of a distant dog, the others higher, more frantic, closer to the squeal of a piglet.

‘Are you ready?’ Silas knew his own answer to that.

‘No.’ Pitch shook his head and marched as well as his limp allowed up the short flight of worn steps to the front door. He pushed at the painted green wood. Silas right behind him.

They stepped into a tidy, dark-lacquered hallway. A navy-blue runner covered the length of the hallway, where portraits of stiff-looking gentlemen lined the walls in precise rows. Between each of the paintings were closed doors with gleaming gold plaques nailed to their middles.

‘Are these the doctors’ rooms?’ Silas stepped on a floorboard that protested his weight with a screech.

‘Seems so.’ Pitch moved on, peering at each of the plaques as he went.

Silas spied a vacated desk at the far end of the corridor: a secretary, or receptionist perhaps. A steaming cup of tea sat near a sturdy telephone of black wood and silver trim and not for the first time did Silas wonder if another phone call to Holly Lodge might be in order. He leaned in to make the suggestion to Pitch.

‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

They both swung round at the same time, bumping into one another. A prim lady had stepped out of a side room, carrying a plate stacked with shortbreads. She wore a smart dress suit of grey with white collar and cuffs, a gold-link chain about her neck, hanging to her waist. She had the type of face that immediately put one at ease, the type that seemed to rarely be without a smile. She peered over her spectacles to look at them.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ she prompted, with both Silas and Pitch failing to have answered her first question.

But now Pitch found his tongue. ‘No, no, I’m afraid we do not.’ He poured on his congenial charm. ‘We’ve come quite a ways. I hope it won’t be too much of a bother to see one of your patients?’

‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’ She smiled at him, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘Do you have a doctor’s name?’

‘Dr Severs? I think that’s right.’

Eyelashes batted.

And Silas hid his smile.

‘We do have a doctor by that name. He’s only been with us a few months, and he is already a favourite of many of the patients. I can see if he is available to speak with you. What patient are you hoping to see?’

Pitch’s inhale was evident before he spoke. ‘Edward Charters. Mrs Charters told us he was here, and we simply had to come and see him.’

The woman showed no sign of recognising the name; likely the lieutenant was just one of hundreds of troubled admissions in a place this large. Which drew Silas to another consideration. The bandalore was quiet. His senses unfazed. For such a place, he would have thought for sure there might be a lost soul or two about.Hiskind of lost soul, not the poor troubled wretches installed here.

‘Very well.’ She nodded. ‘Could I have your names please?’

‘Thaddeus Yates and Arthur Knight.’ A good thing Pitch seemed to have kept track of their names.

‘Would you wait for me here a moment please?’

‘Of course.’ Pitch stood aside, tilting as she passed. She tossed him a coy smile, patting at her perfectly coiffed caramel-brown locks.