The Crow Garden

by Alison Littlewood

Genres: Horror; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Haunted by his father's suicide, Nathaniel Kerner becomes a mad-doctor at Crakethorne Asylum. Nathaniel's only interesting case is Mrs Victoria Harleston: her husband accuses her of hysteria and delusions. Nathaniel is increasingly obsessed with Victoria, but when he has her mesmerised, there are unexpected results: Victoria starts hearing voices from beyond the grave. Increasingly besotted, Nathaniel finds himself caught up in a world of séances and stage mesmerism in his bid to find Victoria and save her.

Release date: October 5, 2017

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 292

Sample

Chapter One

Among lonely homesteads and mile upon mile of damp heath, all closed in by a desolate sky, it was easy to forget that Yorkshire had much to offer the mad. It was a strange time to begin a new life, this death of the summer – though not so strange, perhaps, as the way I had chosen to do it. The road had been long in reality as well as inwardly. Much of it was marked by noise and smoke and machine, the train rattling past all the chimneys and pattern-book houses of London and into the midst of scalped fields and drab hamlets which resembled each other so exactly I could not have pointed to them on a map. As I grew nearer my destination, however, the landscape took on a wilder, hillier aspect, speaking rather of tumultuous struggle than the sanctuary I expected to find.

But outward appearances often betray our expectations of what lies within, and my hopes lifted at the thought of what was before me. I was bound for Crakethorne Manor, an asylum for those troubled in mind, and I was to become its under-physician, the first step upon a longer road still: that of becoming an alienist or, in less enlightened language, a mad-doctor.

I found no pony and trap at the small and ill-equipped station, but after enquiring at a nearby house, one was sent for. After a rather impatient wait – for who could be content with any delay when their destination was within reach? – the trap arrived, and at its reins a rather surly fellow smelling faintly of drink, who uttered plosive expressions in tones that were scarcely to be deciphered. The pony did not lift its head and the trap was unsprung and creaked interminably, but we made tolerable progress, the silence all about us masked by the rumble of wheels on unpaved roads. I had seldom seen such empty lanes and quiet houses. It was well that the fellow knew the way, for it wound onward without a sign to welcome visitors or warn the unwary.

I shivered within my greatcoat, for the season – if nothing else, my mind added uncharitably – was more advanced this far to the north. Filthy rags of cloud gathered about the lower edges of the sky as the day faded towards evening, and I saw nothing but drystone walls and grey-looking sheep and crows, which sent up their rancorous calls from the fields.

‘Means crow.’ The driver did not turn in his seat. He had made little effort in the way of conversation thus far, barely responding to my questions, but he switched the pony’s back with his whip as if to underline his remarkable statement.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Crake,’ he said in hoarse tones, and for a moment I thought him imitating the birds’ cries. I wondered if he was as mad as the people I was going to live among, and then I realised.

‘Crakethorne Manor,’ I echoed. So that was what the name meant: crow thorn. It was rather dismal, and as if to sink everything further, I began to see more and more of them, rising into the air before settling again, like charred scraps thrown upward by a fire.

The driver gestured towards a forlorn-looking hill and I surmised we were nearing my destination. I could as yet see nothing. This was not in itself surprising, and I decided to take it as promising. A good sweep of drive could not only help shield the eyes of passers-by from the unfortunates within, but save the afflicted from bold and unfeeling stares; and it was not forlorn. I had hopes that, tucked away in this unprepossessing corner of the land, was a beacon of beneficent progress.

‘Plenty goes in,’ the driver said. ‘Not so many comes out.’ He waved his arm, his movements as dour as his demeanour, and indicated a stone gate, one of its pillars leaning perilously inward. He steered the pony wide to more easily pass between them. We turned about an ancient oak tree that spread its limbs as if to prevent us, and the asylum came into view.

Grey stone was unleavened by lightness or decoration. It was a large, stolid creation, built for permanence rather than enjoyment. I stepped down to see it more clearly through the large rusty gate that barred our progress.

The aspect was no less forbidding than anything I had thus far seen. The whole edifice looked damp and cold. A severely slanting roof of stained slate appeared designed to withstand gales or snow. The many windows reflected back the sky rather than admitting views of what lay within, presenting a blank appearance rather than otherwise. Iron bars were positioned over them – the manor could never have been intended for an asylum, since the panes were too large to prevent anyone climbing through – which must have been dispiriting to those both within and without. The impression was not brightened by flowers or neat walks; only a few morose shrubs clung to their beds about the periphery.

But such was only my first view. I had not yet seen all. No doubt its true nature could only be truly appreciated upon closer acquaintance. From where I stood, however, its surrounds were as disheartening as the manor itself. The structure was set into a hill of rough heath, dotted with hawthorns all grown aslant in the prevailing wind. Lower down, stands of damp trees failed to quite conceal the mouldering fence that divided the inhabitants from the outer world. I thought fleetingly of some of the fine modern examples of asylum design. Here, no dramatic elevation provided a soothing view; it did not appear to be amenable to division for male and female occupation; its grounds were not extensive enough to provide varied and calming perambulations for its occupants.

But that did not mean that wonders could not be wrought within. I should not focus on externals, but the realm of the mind; and I was here, and this was to be my home. My future was laid before me, and I could have no conception of what that might hold.

I told myself that at least the grey stone was not darkened with coal smuts from the innumerable fires of London; that its large chimney stacks spoke of comfortable warmth, and whilst its grounds were not extensive, at least it was thoroughly encircled by verdure. Pictured in sunlight, on a better day and at a better hour than this, the manor might even be considered a rather grand abode.

As if to emphasise the thought of home, a distant drift of sound reached my ears: a pianoforte was being played, albeit discordantly. I was just wondering if my mother was at that moment similarly playing, when a loud voice cut into my reverie with, ‘’elp you?’

I turned to see a rough-looking fellow standing by the gate, a large bunch of keys jutting from his fist. Behind him, almost masked by a clump of trees and cast into shadow, was a small lodge. Here was the porter, then, though a slovenly one. The neck protruding from his yellowed kerchief was ill-shaven, the lines creasing his visage too prominent, as if ingrained with dirt. His mud-coloured eyes, sunk deep into their sockets, glared.

I reminded myself that I would be his superior and forced myself to meet his savage look, though in a moment I was distracted by something nudging the pocket of my greatcoat.

I looked down to see a large brown dog peering back at me, its rheumy eyes doleful. It did not wag its tail or show any other sign of being aware of my presence; now it was at my side, it seemed content to simply stand there.

‘’elp you?’ the porter said again, without a ‘sir’ or any other form of common politeness. I told him that I was Doctor Nathaniel Kerner and here to see Doctor Chettle and he glared more intensely before nodding and selecting a key from his ring. Labori­ously and wordlessly, he unlocked the gate, and I was about to regain my place in the trap when I recalled that in the coming days, I might have need for regular dealings with the fellow.

‘What’s its name?’ I asked, bending to pat the beast’s head, thinking this the best way to ingratiate myself with its master. I had to resist the urge to wipe my oily fingers on my pocket kerchief. The thing smelled musky too and I stepped away, but it appeared that the creature was not indifferent to a little kindness and insisted on following, once more besmirching my coat with its nose.

‘Brown,’ said the porter, in a tone that said it was obvious; and perhaps it was.

‘Brown,’ I repeated, unable to keep the dismay from my tone, and left them to whatever it was that occupied them in the absence of visitors.

My driver flicked his whip, stirring the pony into motion. As we passed through the iron gates, it began, fitfully, to rain.

Chapter Two

The north, despite its bluff inhabitants, austere weather and desolate landscapes, has indeed rather favoured the mad. The Quakers’ Retreat at York is one of the finest institutions of our age, having provided a model of treatment for more than fifty years. With its scheme of moral management, they treat lunatics as rational creatures, housing them as if in a domestic environment and bestowing kindness and dignity upon them. It was a pity that London’s benighted Bedlam had not followed their example. Indeed, I told myself I should not miss the city at all; if I did so, it would surely be only because my calling had taken me so far from my mother’s side. My father had died some years before and so I had left her quite alone.

The advertisements for Crakethorne Asylum were promising. They told of good accommodation, curative water gardens and healing springs, clean air and roses – probably the reason for the ‘thorne’ in its name. Its principal, Doctor Algernon Chettle, had his degree from Scotland, which must mean Edinburgh, an esteemed and practical institution, rather than one of the less reputable places. The situation, close to the border between the North and West Ridings, would have all the advantages that a healthful situation and fresh clean air could provide.

I had often pondered the methods of the York Retreat, although until I arrived at Crakethorne I had never wondered what the place looked like. Might it be anything like this? The very same rain may be falling on it at this very moment. By the time we rattled and creaked our way to the entrance, the sky was fully dark with the downpour and I heard nothing but raindrops pummelling every leaf and stone and pane of glass. I could barely make out the sound of the knocker against the door and so was relieved at the responding clang of substantial locks within.

At last the door opened upon a female in a dark blue dress and an apron with feathered straps. I stepped inside, my bags were deposited within and I paid the driver, who retreated into the rain as if with relief. The door closed upon the sight of him with an effect as if my ears had been stuffed full of cotton.

The hall was empty of furnishings, although the floor was enlivened with encaustic tiles of cream, brown and black, their geometric arrangement a trifle marred by footprints. No mahogany sideboard gleamed; no grandfather clock warmly ticked away the hours. There were three doorways. Those to my left and right were barred not by doors but iron gates, each secured with a large padlock; the other lay ahead of me, opposite a stairway. I could smell wet hair, boiled dinners and, faintly, chloride of lime.

The girl informed me, in an uncouth accent, that she would show me ‘up t’ stairs’.

I left my luggage where it stood and followed her to the first floor, from thence to the second, and, interminably, the third. Here must be the staff quarters, I surmised, for no locks were set upon the doors. She approached one and knocked, and without waiting for an answer or saying a word, left me standing in the passage.

I had spent much time considering what sort of person my new proprietor, guide and mentor would be: I had built him highly in my estimation and so was surprised, when the door opened, to find him shorter than I. It was difficult at first to make out his features, for they were much obscured by a prodigious beard, ample whiskers about his jaw and a moustache that was a triumph of preening and wax. His white cravat was rather loose about his neck. His eyes, though, were bright – bright and sharp.

‘Welcome, sir!’ was his hearty greeting, ringing out loudly in the empty space, and he ushered me into the room. It turned out to be a study with another doorway set into the back of it. A small desk, devoid of papers, fronted a wall lined with pigeonholes, similarly empty. A tall bookcase held some familiar-looking journals and books; I glimpsed Human Physiology by Elliotson, The Physiognomy of Mental Diseases by Sir Alexander Morison and, promisingly, Pargeter’s Observations on Maniacal Disorders. That and a faint whiff of formaldehyde suggested a more practical and active aspect to his work and I admired the means by which it had all been rendered so neat.

Doctor Chettle vigorously shook my hand. ‘I am delighted you could come, good fellow,’ he said, moving around the desk. ‘Delighted! I am in much need of assistance. My pursuits, my studies – all have suffered. The demands of the mad are a trial, sir – a trial and a tribulation. But you appear to be a good man, with a good eye . . .’

He peered at me as if he could make out the contents of my skull, until I shifted my feet. He grinned broadly enough to reveal white and slightly crooked teeth. ‘I can always tell, you know. All in good time! But I have the perfect patients on which to begin. Allow me to introduce you.’

I made towards the door, but he vanished behind his desk and reappeared bearing a pile of case notes.

‘Adam Sykes,’ he said, touching the uppermost. ‘A pretty fair imbecile. Defective from birth. Food and lodging more imperative than reports, since he is incurable, obviously. Walter Eastcott – epileptic. Hopeless, hopeless. His family likes to lodge him as far from home as is practicable. Jacob Thew – ah, the farmhand! A good worker, prognosis grave . . . Samuel Brewer – well, you’ll meet him. Hmm, Della Martin. Prognosis: doubtful. Nellie Briggs is a maid, but we get a fee from her parish. You will find domestics a class very prone to madness; little to be done there, little to be done . . . You will take their charge. Lovely examples of lunacy all.’ As if he had finished, he pulled from his pocket a large set of keys, which he added to the pile and pushed it across the desk towards me.

I knew not how to reply. I had expected some explanation of the terms of my employment and the demands of my duties. But perhaps I was expected to know? I felt suddenly rather green. I was straight out of Oxford and this was my first position.

‘Do not worry,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts, ‘I shall be here to answer any questions that arise. There are thirty-nine inmates in all. Nothing too perturbing, no danger to health or life – yours, I mean! You need to set a guard upon your soul, of course.’

I did not think I had betrayed my reaction, but he smiled and waved a hand as if to ward away any care. ‘Just think of it,’ he said. ‘All physicians face the risk of succumbing to the diseases they battle. Cholera, diphtheria, consumption – all the bodily terrors. Few suspect the dangers faced by specialists in the cerebral sciences. But there are inherent menaces in spending your days surrounded by brain-sickness, and the censure of Society is all the greater for those susceptible to its curse. If I would say one thing at the outset, it is guard your mind – or you may discover one day it is entirely lost, and you may not find it again!’

Once again he laughed, then fell to staring blankly at the surface of his desk.

‘Have I a room, sir?’

‘A room?’ He seemed perplexed by the notion. ‘Ah – of course! I dare say Matron will have set something aside for you. Ask her, would you, dear fellow? And – wait!’ He stooped again, emerging with another casebook and a few sheets of closely written paper. ‘I was not certain of giving you this one. But you look a capable sort – you may as well take it. Peruse it with care. A challenge, no less.’

It was thus that I found myself the presiding physician over Mrs Victoria Adelina Harleston. I did not hesitate to peruse her documents; indeed, I balanced them upon the rest as I stood in the hall with not an idea as to where I should go next.

Notice of Patient Transfer

31st August 1856

Mrs Victoria Adelina Harleston

Admitted: 8th August 1856

Transferred from Hope Spa and Asylum, Royal Tunbridge Wells, by consent of the Commissioners in Lunacy.

Enclosed: a copy of the Order and Medical Certificates upon which Mrs Harleston was admitted into Hope.

Physician’s Certificate

Date: 7th August 1856

Name: Mrs Victoria (Vita) Adelina Harleston

Sex and age: Female. 22.

Condition of life and occupation: Married.

Religious persuasion: Church of England. No excess of zeal, religious mania &c.

Place of abode: Milford Lodge, near St Albans, Hertfordshire.

Relatives similarly affected: A gentleman only distantly related was known to suffer from dementia. No other insanity in the family line has been discovered.

Duration of current attack and supposed cause (if known): Patient presented with hysteria, characterised by breathlessness and distress, accompanied by mental derangement. Prone to headaches and a preference for solitude. Has expressed a marked disinclination to live in accordance with her duties as a wife. A natural interest in household affairs is entirely lacking.

Mrs Harleston was discovered on the 5th day of August, wandering and, in her husband’s words, ‘in leave of her senses’. She had been visiting a shopping arcade when she left his side, apparently in some confusion. Seemingly forgetting her position in life she boarded an omnibus bound for Shoreditch. Upon questioning, she could not tell of her purpose in doing so.

The ’bus was forced to set her down, after something of a struggle. Mrs Harleston had concealed herself within a secluded compartment and worked herself into a fit. The other passengers were alerted to her condition by a series of piercing shrieks, which startled them to the extent that they called the omnibus to a halt. Upon opening the compartment, the conductor was subjected to wild blows from its occupant. When she calmed sufficiently to speak, Mrs Harleston insisted she had not been alone in the compartment, despite it being of a style designed for a single modest lady to travel out of the sight of other passengers. On no account would it have admitted a second.

It was allowed that, although her malady was of sudden onset, she had in preceding months shown a tendency towards unmanageable fits of crying and temper, without sufficient reason. I witnessed the former myself upon interviewing the lady. Her husband testified to the latter.

There is no known supposed cause for her insanity.

Previous attacks, if any, and age of the patient (if known): Mrs Harleston admitted that, as a girl, she was prone to absent states, which she called ‘trances’. She was at the difficult stage of life, at the age of 13 or 14. Furthermore, she was subject to vivid dreams, and confessed to hearing voices in the head: a certain sign of lunacy. It is a pity that no further treatment was then sought, since her current difficulty might have been alleviated.

Behaviours and aggravations: The patient does not have intemperate habits. She is not dangerous to others and is not subject to epilepsy. She was briefly subject to angry outbursts in the years before leaving her father’s home to be married, and for a time was given laudanum for its sedative properties.

Parish or union to which the lunatic is chargeable: Not applicable. Bills to be referred to her husband.

Facts observed by: Dr A. E. Mountney.

Appended note: Mr Harleston is most assiduous about the lady’s treatment, being particularly anxious that she be restored to him in a state of perfect health, and relieved of her strange notions, as rapidly as may be managed. He is more than usually insistent about her restoration and remains keen to be appraised of every form of treatment offered, lending a greater sense of urgency and complexity to this interesting case.

Chapter Three

What a dull case! Having been led to expect a curiosity, I could not help feeling a pang of disappointment to find it was no more than hysteria. Still, I perused the certificate at length, along with the lunacy order signed by the husband and the requisite second certificate, which was plainer, but offered no more information than the first. The second certificate was probably more correct – I suspected the first of much hearsay, for all the necessity for direct observation had been specifically ruled upon by the Lunacy Amendment Act of a few years ago. But the observing physicians must be of the first respectability, and could by law have no connection to either asylum, so could have had no interest in seeing Mrs Harleston incarcerated, unless it were entirely necessary.

Hysteria is often thought of as the domain of indolent and cosseted ladies spoiled by lack of air and useful occupation, who derive the fullest value from all the attention their strained nerves may provide. My tutor sometimes said the condition was most suited to those with no particular inclination to be cured. But I reminded myself that although illness could provide its own diversions, it was no small thing to be incarcerated; the stain of it must follow her always.

But such thoughts were unworthy. I had come here with a desire to do my utmost to ease the suffering of those afflicted with madness in all and any of its protean forms – and I knew what it was to lose someone to the clutches of despair; I knew what it was to be robbed of a voice. And the mad had all too often been abandoned to such – to empty rooms furnished only with straw, chained to the walls, their every utterance made the subject of mockery and laughter. I must never allow myself to judge; not before I had listened, touched – treated the person before me rather than any preconceptions formed against them. I steeled myself anew to meet the Powers of Unreason with all the capabilities and inventiveness at my disposal and all that effort could attain.

Such a determination did not assist me at the present moment, however. I had been entrusted with the keys to the asylum, but I had been left to wander its corridors alone, not knowing whither or whence I should go.

Upon returning to the entrance, I was fortunate to meet with the same servant as before, who offered to show me to my rooms and brought a lamp, since it was growing steadily darker. It transpired that my new abode was only a few doors from Doctor Chettle’s study and consisted of a bedchamber with an adjacent sitting room, the furniture plain and chipped but tolerably clean. I brought up my bags myself and it was only when I had recovered from my exertion that I felt how cold it was.

I went to the window, which overlooked the sloping ground in front of the manor. The wind had risen. I dimly made out the massy crowns of trees shifting below and I could hear the gale too, buffeting and bullying its way around the hillside.

I passed a rather disturbed night listening to its moans, watching the curtains stirring about my bed in some draught and devoutly wishing for a fire in the grate.

Chapter Four

The morrow came at last, a bright if watery-looking day, and I went down to the entrance hall to begin my new life in earnest. It remained empty and silent, however, and I looked around it with nothing especially to seize the eye, until I became sensible that I was not alone after all. Between the iron gates that divided the realm of the mad from the sane and rational world, a small face peered.

I could not help but stare. It was a small boy of no more than nine or ten, with rather pale features and brutally cropped hair. I had not at first noticed him because he was low to the floor, crouching on hands and knees, his face resting against the cold bars.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

His nose twitched as if sniffing, and his haunches wobbled in an odd side-to-side movement. Then he opened his lips and let out such a mournful whine as never came from a human throat.

‘Peter Ambrose,’ came a voice behind me and I whirled to see a straight-backed, straight-faced woman, perhaps in her fifth decade, in a snowy matron’s cap and apron. ‘Thinks he’s a dog.’

‘He thinks – ah, and him only a child!’

‘He’s nine. Old enough to shame his family and that’s what matters.’ She opened her mouth little as she spoke, as if she begrudged letting even her words go free. She had not smiled; her face did not seem formed for it. Her eyes were hard, with a cast of knowing intelligence.

‘He came here all alone at seven,’ she went on. ‘None ’ud play with him. He can’t speak. Never has said a word, that’s why he’s here. But he liked watching the porter’s old dog from the windows – he took to it like nothing else.’

‘So he thinks he is become a dog.’ The thought struck me at once that here might be one of the evils of having such a creature about the premises. Perhaps I should speak to Doctor Chettle about it. I did not suppose the surly porter would appreciate such interference, but it was the patients I must think of.

‘Aye, that, or he wants to be a dog.’ Matron nodded, as if to indicate her uncertainty as to whether the child wasn’t right in his wishes after all.

There was much I wanted to ask, but courtesy intervened and instead I introduced myself and shook her hand and said I was happy to make her acquaintance. She gave out that she was Mrs Langhurst, but that I could call her Matron, along with everybody else.

Then she said, ‘You’ll need to know your way about, then. I don’t suppose he’s showed you.’ She rolled her eyes upwards, in the direction of Doctor Chettle’s study, and I confirmed her surmise.

I nodded towards the boy – or rather, the space where he had been, for he had vanished as noiselessly as he had appeared. ‘That, I suppose, is the male patients’ section.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s the women’s.’

‘But the boy—’

‘Is just a boy, and there’s none in the men’s who’ll take notice of him,’ she said. ‘So we take him in ours, where he might find a little womanly comfort.’

Her expression warmed as she spoke and as she took her keys from her belt and led me onwards, I reflected that she was perhaps possessed of more kindness than had been apparent at first perusal. She did not return my smile, however. Perhaps I was becoming familiar with the place already, for I found I had not expected her to.

Matron showed me the first-floor treatment room and receiving room and an administrative office piled with ledgers and records; also the dispensary, where a surgeon-apothecary, Mr Percival, came twice a week to oversee the giving of medicines.

‘Do many of the patients take physic?’ I asked.

She answered stiffly that this was not a . . .