Story Excerpt
Marchland’s Missing Patient
by David Dean
No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace—they drag us away from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship—they take us body and soul to themselves and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return?”
–The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
“I have a patient missing, Owens,” Dr. Marchland remarked as his butler came into his surgery to clear away the tea things.
“Shall I search the house, doctor?” Owens enquired, a glint of anxiety noticeable in his small eyes. “My missus is alone in the kitchen.”
Patting the corner of his mouth with a napkin, Marchland replied in a strained voice, “I see that you’re recalling that unfortunate episode with the girl and her wardress. In this instance, however, the patient is not at large in the house but has failed to show for her appointment. This will make the third consecutive week she has done so while offering no explanation whatsoever. It’s all very vexing . . . and I must say, a bit troubling—Mrs. Lafton-Britt has always been punctual.”
Owens features decompressed somewhat at this news. “Do you wish a note of enquiry sent over, doctor?”
“Hmm,” Marchland mused while gazing out upon his small garden made green with spring rain, a few pink buds glistening with moisture. “The rain has stopped, and I don’t have another patient in my diary today. I think I’ll pay a call myself. A good stretch of the legs, as Miss Houghton might say.”
“As you wish, sir.” Owens went to fetch his employer’s hat, coat, and stick.
Marchland, like most of London, still wore a mourning pin on his lapel commemorating Prince Victor’s sudden death that previous January—1892 had been a gloomy winter. Yet now he walked out into a changed city—one of those rare days when the scent of growing things could be detected despite the more pungent and characteristic odours that generally prevailed. Passersby were smiling, laughing, and chatting, giving a touch of frivolity to the already pleasant day.
Mrs. Lafton-Britt’s address was in his own neighbourhood, so Marchland soon found himself on her doorstep. In response to his ringing an elderly manservant appeared, his comportment decidedly at odds with the improved mood of the city. Taking Marchland’s card, he brought him into the foyer then promptly disappeared into the depths of the house, leaving him standing.
Looking about, Marchland saw a tastefully decorated residence—a place meant to be warm and welcoming. Yet, he felt it lacked those same qualities—not a flower was to be seen, no sound disturbed its stillness. It had the air of a house in mourning, though no black bunting had been hung.
Marchland’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of brisk, approaching footsteps. A man seeming in his thirties, close in age to himself, came into view tapping his calling card impatiently on an open palm.
“Yes? May I help you?” He thrust the card at Marchland.
Somewhat affronted, Marchland took it and asked the slender, rather good-looking man, “Have I the honour to address Mr. Lafton-Britt?”
“I am he.”
“I’m here to enquire after your wife’s health, Mr. Lafton-Britt. I grew concerned when she failed to show for her weekly appointment today. Having received no word of the reason for her recent absences, I thought to enquire personally.”
“Damned impertinent of you, if you ask me—” Lafton-Britt snapped “—calling round after a man’s wife.” He stroked a waxed moustache with a knuckle.
“I say,” Marchland replied, stung by the man’s inexplicable rudeness. “As you no doubt know, your good wife has been a patient of mine for over a year. I am simply acting out of concern for her wellbeing. Her absences are uncharacteristic of her behaviour.”
“What the devil would you know about her behaviour? Do you think your consultations—or whatever you alienists call them—have helped her in any way? All that mumbo-jumbo you fellows tout as insight into the human mind—hogwash!—all of it! If it did any good at all she wouldn’t be in an asylum, now would she?”
“Asylum?” Marchland repeated in disbelief. “Why? Why on earth should she be confined to such a place? I assure you, her anxieties were entirely mild and manageable. What has happened?”
With a bark of laughter, Lafton-Britt replied, “She pulled the wool over your eyes sure enough. She’s a raving lunatic, you quack—attacked me on several occasions. It had gotten to the point I daren’t close my eyes at night with her creeping about the house!”
“Good God, is that true? I can’t believe it! Something dreadful must’ve happened to have effected such a change. May I see her in this sanitarium? Where is she being lodged?”
“Carfax Asylum for Women.”
“Carfax?” Marchland echoed. “Under the care of Dr. Seward?”
“Seward? I don’t know anything about any Seward—the man in charge there is a Professor Van Helsing. Now there’s a man knows something about lunatics.”
Stunned and angered, Marchland replied, “Van Helsing?—yes, he certainly knows something about them, being one himself. I shall go there immediately to assess the situation.”
“You can go to the devil for all I care!” Lafton-Britt retorted. “You’re no longer her doctor, if such a word really applies to you charlatans. Merton! Show this fellow the door.”
Within moments, Marchland found himself standing outside the Lafton-Britt house, hat still in hand, his auburn locks stirring in the spring breeze.