“I have the—” Annie stepped out onto the street and nearly dropped her pot. I reached out and hooked her into my arm.
“Thank you, Annie.”
“Do you know where your husband is this fine May morning, Mistress Roydon?”
“He is out on business.” Matthew had made sure I ate my breakfast, kissed me, and left the house with Pierre. Jack had been inconsolable when Matthew told him he must stay behind with Harriot. I felt a flicker of unease. It wasn’t like Matthew to refuse Jack a trip into town.
“No,” Hubbard said softly, “he is in Bedlam with his sister and Christopher Marlowe.”
Bedlam was an oubliette in all but name—a place for forgetting, where the insane were locked up with those interred by their own families on some trumped-up charge simply to be rid of them. With nothing but straw for bedding, no regular supply of food, not a shred of kindness from the jailers, and no treatment of any sort, most inmates never escaped. If they did, they rarely recovered from the experience.
“Not content with altering the judgment in Scotland, Matthew now seeks to mete out his own justice here in London,” Hubbard continued. “He went to question them this morning. I understand he is still there.”
It was past noon.
“I have seen Matthew de Clermont kill quickly, when he is enraged. It is terrible to behold. To see him do so slowly, painstakingly, would make the most resolute atheist believe in the devil.”
Kit. Louisa was a vampire and shared Ysabeau’s blood. She could fend for herself. But a daemon . . .
“Go to Goody Alsop, Annie. Tell her I’ve gone to Bedlam to look after Master Marlowe and Master Roydon’s sister.” I turned the girl in the proper direction and released her, putting my own body squarely between her and the vampire.
“I must stay with you,” Annie said, her eyes huge. “Master Roydon made me promise!”
“Someone must know where I’ve gone, Annie. Tell Goody Alsop what you heard here. I can find my way to Bedlam.” In truth I had only a vague notion of the notorious asylum’s location, but I had other means of discovering Matthew’s whereabouts. I wrapped imaginary fingers around the chain within me and got ready to pull it.
“Wait.” Hubbard’s hand closed around my wrist. I jumped. He called to someone in the shadows. It was the angular young man Matthew referred to by the strangely fitting name Amen Corner. “My son will take you.”
“Matthew will know I’ve been with you now.” I looked down at Hubbard’s hand. It was still wrapped around my wrist, transferring his telltale scent to my warm skin. “He’ll take it out on your son.”
Hubbard’s grip tightened, and I let out a soft sound of understanding.
“If you wanted to accompany me to Bedlam as well, Father Hubbard, all you needed to do was ask.”
Hubbard knew every shortcut and back alley between St. James Garlickhythe and Bishopsgate. We passed beyond the city limits and into one of London’s squalid suburbs. Like Cripplegate, the area around Bedlam was poverty-stricken and desperately crowded. But the true horrors were yet to come.
The keeper met us at the gate and led us into what had once been known as the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem. Master Sleford was well acquainted with Father Hubbard and could not bow and scrape enough as he led us to one of the stout doors across the pitted courtyard. Even with the thick wood and stone of the old medieval priory between us, the inmates’ screams were piercing. Most of the windows were unglazed and open to the elements. The stench of rot, filth, and age was overwhelming.
“Don’t,” I said, refusing Hubbard’s offer of assistance as we entered the dank, close confines. There was something obscene about taking his help when I was free and the inmates were offered no assistance at all.
Inside, I was bombarded by the ghosts of past inmates and the jagged threads that twisted around the hospital’s current tormented inhabitants. I dealt with the horror by engaging in macabre mathematical exercises, dividing the men and women I saw into smaller groups only to lump them together in a new way.
I counted twenty inmates during our walk down the corridor. Fourteen were daemons. A half dozen of the twenty were completely naked, and ten more were dressed only in rags. A woman wearing a filthy though expensive man’s suit stared at us with open hostility. She was one of the three humans in the place. There were two witches and one vampire as well. Fifteen of the poor souls were manacled to the wall, chained to the floor, or both. Four of the other five were unable to stand and crouched by the walls chattering and scraping at the stone. One of the patients was free. He danced, naked, down the corridor ahead of us.