The Detective and the Devil by Lloyd Shepherd Read Free Book Online Page A

education in madness, and access to its investigators.
    She watched the inmates while she cared for them, and tried to understand their lunacies: their manias, their melancholies, their hysteria. She spoke to the nurses and, when she could, she spoke
to the senior doctor at the place, whose name was Drysdale, and who had taken a particular interest in this intelligent woman who worked for nothing and asked such penetrating questions about
mental disorder.
    He had become particularly interested when she mentioned Brooke House during one of her early visits. He knew something of the place, of its own Dr Monro and its former consulting physician, Dr
Bryson.
    ‘I have heard strange stories about the place,’ Dr Drysdale had said to her.
    Abigail had not heard stories, but she had imagined them.
    ‘They say Bryson was involved in some odd investigations there. Involving mesmerism.’
    ‘Mesmerism?’ Abigail asked.
    ‘Yes, though I cannot think why a qualified doctor would indulge in such quackery. It is said Bryson had come to believe that one might be able to guide another’s thoughts using a
species of mesmerism. He called it
moral projection
. Did he speak to you of it?’
    ‘I . . . I do not recall.’
    ‘You do not recall his theories? Or you do not recall the doctor?’
    This seemed an oddly penetrating question, and Abigail found herself wondering if Drysdale might help her understand things from the previous year somewhat better.
    ‘I do not recall the theories. The doctor . . . Well, I recall
a doctor
, of course. But none of his details. His face, his voice, how he treated me. None of it.’
    ‘That is most odd. Mrs Horton, I wonder if you would indulge me.’
    ‘In what way, doctor?’
    ‘I would like to examine you, in the mental sense. When you are here, perhaps we could spend some time talking about Brooke House and your memories of it. I am fascinated by the odd wisps
of rumour I have heard. Bryson’s theories, while fantastic, do in some way overlap with some of my own ideas. You are an intelligent woman who may have experienced something unique. Might I
make use of your brain, as it were?’
    Drysdale had smiled when he said this, and while Abigail found his request odd, she also discovered she wanted to know more of what had happened to her. Wasn’t that why she had come to St
Luke’s in the first place? She would learn by talking to the inmates, and Drysdale would learn by talking to her, and who could say? Perhaps they would both learn things of interest.
    So she fell into a pattern of working at the hospital and being spoken to, once or twice a week, by Drysdale in his consulting rooms. They spoke of many things – of her past, of her
husband, of her terrible dreams and of her oddly fractured memories of Brooke House. Some things that had happened there began to reveal themselves; other things stayed hidden. But she found her
intellect reviving and her mind calming under the regular activity, like a weakened leg recovering from injury. Charles knew of her working days at St Luke’s, of course, but she did not share
with him those sessions with Drysdale, because she knew his concern would be painful to her.
    Abigail Horton had returned from St Luke’s and was reading inside the apartment, which she had freshly cleaned, when her husband returned from his work. He was still
wearing the clothes he had put on the previous day for their trip to the theatre. Indeed, she smelled him first rather than saw him.
    ‘Good afternoon, husband,’ she said, looking back down to her book. ‘How was the magistrate?’
    He kissed her, and sniffed her hair as he often did, holding the curve of her skull in his hand, such that she wondered if he thought he could cradle the mind inside, protect it from its old
disturbances. Abigail lifted one hand from her book and placed it on his forearm, with an affectionate squeeze.
    ‘What is your book?’ he asked.
    She smiled.
    ‘Ah, so you will give no