Seven Dials

Narraway sat down at last, pulling the chair around to face the table. Pitt remained standing, and silent.

“Was Mr. Garrick insane when you first went to work for him?” Narraway asked Martin.

Martin winced, perhaps at the thought that Garrick would hear them.

“No, sir,” he said indignantly.

Narraway smiled patiently, and Martin blushed, but he would not argue.

“What happened to him? I need to know, possibly to save his life.”

Martin did not protest, and that in itself did not go u

Martin hesitated.

Pitt stepped forward. “I’ll take Mr. Garrick to where he can lie down for a while.”

“Stay with him!” Narraway ordered with a hard warning in his eyes.

Pitt did not bother to reply, but with considerable effort eased Garrick to his feet and, with Gracie’s assistance, guided him out of the door.

“What happened to him, Mr. Garvie?” Narraway repeated.

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. He always drank quite a bit, but it got worse as time passed, like something was boiling up inside him.”

“Worse in what way?”

“Terrible dreams.” Martin winced. “Lot of gentlemen who drink get bad dreams, but not like his-he’d lie in his bed with his eyes wide open, screaming about blood… and fire… catching at his throat like he was choking and couldn’t breathe.” Martin himself was trembling. “An’ I’d have to shake him and shout at him to waken him up… Then he’d cry like a baby… I never heard anything like it.” He stopped, his face white, his eyes imploring Narraway to let him be silent.

Charlotte sat by, hating it, knowing it had to be.

Narraway looked at her, hesitation in his face. She stared back with refusal in her eyes. She was not going to leave.

He accepted it and turned back to Martin Garvie.

“Do you know of any event that occasioned these dreams?”

“No, sir…”

Narraway saw the slight uncertainty. “But you know there was something.” That was a statement.

Martin’s voice was almost inaudible. “I think so, sir.”

“Did you know Lieutenant Lovat, who was murdered at Eden Lodge? Or Miss Zakhari?”

“I didn’t know the lady, sir, but I knew Mr. Garrick knew Mr. Lovat. When news came of his murder Mr. Garrick was the worst upset I’ve ever seen him. I… I think that’s when he went quite mad…” He was embarrassed, and ashamed of putting into words what they all knew, but to say so still seemed a disloyalty.

There was a flash of pity in Narraway’s face, but he conceded again almost as soon as it was there.

“Then I think it is time we spoke to Mr. Garrick and found out exactly what it is that tortures his mind-”

“No, sir!” Martin started to his feet. “Please… he’s…”

The look in Narraway’s eyes stopped him.

Charlotte took Martin’s arm gently. “We have to know,” she said. “Someone’s life depends on it. You can help us.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pitt,” Narraway cut across her. “But it will be distressing, and we shall not need you to endure it.”

Charlotte looked back at him without moving, a faint, polite smile on her lips. “Your consideration for my feelings does you credit.” She was only barely sarcastic. “But since it was I who heard the original story, it will hold no more surprises for me than for you. I shall remain.”

Surprisingly, he did not argue. Together with Martin, they went through to the parlor, where Pitt and Gracie were sitting and Stephen Garrick lay half conscious on the sofa.

It took them all night to draw from the wreck of a man the terrible story. Sometimes they would prop him up and he spoke almost coherently, whole sentences at a time. At others he lay curled over like a child in the womb-silent, shivering, withdrawn into himself and beyond even Martin’s reach.

It was Charlotte who took him in her arms when he wept and cradled him while the sobs racked his body.

Pitt watched her with a fierce pride, remembering the stiff, protected young woman she had been when he first fell in love with her. Now her compassion made her more beautiful than he could have dreamed she would ever be.

It seemed that the four young men had been friends almost from their initial meeting. They had much in common, both in background and interests, and had spent most of their free time together.

The tragedy was born when they learned that a shrine beside the river, sacred to Christians, was also sacred to Muslims, men who in their view denied Christ.

One night, influenced with drink, they decided to desecrate it in such a fashion that no Muslim would ever again use it. Whipped up in a frenzy of religious indignation, they stole a pig, an animal unclean to Muslims, and slaughtered it in the very heart of the shrine, scattering its blood around to make the place obscene forever after.

At this point Garrick became so hysterical even Narraway’s endless patience could draw nothing further from him which made any sense. He sat slumped forward, leaning a little against Charlotte, who was beside him on the sofa. Only his open eyes, staring vacantly at some hideous sight within his own brain, indicated that he was alive.

She could remember the screams torn from him long after she had hoped to forget them.

She smiled at Narraway very slightly. “Surely you will need to know more exactly what happened?”

His eyes widened a fraction. “Sandeman?”

“You will have to, won’t you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” That apology was real; she knew it without question.

For a moment he seemed about to say more, then changed his mind, and she bent her attention on Garrick, not to speak to him, because he was obviously not hearing anything, but simply to rest her hand on his shoulder and very tentatively touch his hair. Whatever he had done, it was tormenting him beyond his ability to bear. She had no need to judge him, and nothing she or anyone else could do would inflict on him a punishment as terrible as that he put upon himself.

Narraway turned to Pitt. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. “There is nothing more we can do for him here. There is a house where he will be safe until we can find something permanent.”

“Will he be helped?” Charlotte asked when they reached the door and she held it open for them as Martin helped them pull and drag Garrick through it, talking to him softly all the time. It was rendingly clear that Garrick did not want to leave, for all Narraway’s assurances that this was not a return trip to Bedlam and Martin’s promises to remain with him. It was only on the footpath as Garrick turned desperately for one last look that Pitt realized it was Charlotte he clung to, not the house, and a shadow of searing pity crossed his face for an instant, and then was controlled and vanished the moment after.

She turned back and closed the door, leaning against it, almost choked for breath. She felt as if she had betrayed Garrick by allowing him to be taken, and the fact that there was no other possible answer did not take from her the memory of the anguish in his eyes, the despair as he realized she was not going with him.

“Are you go

“Yes,” Charlotte said with hesitation. “There’s a whole lot more to it, there has to be.” She rubbed her hand across her eyes, exhaustion making them gritty. “You can tell Tilda that Martin’s safe.”

Pitt and Narraway returned to Keppel Street by half past nine, weary and aching. They stopped only long enough for breakfast, then Charlotte took them to Seven Dials, sending them through the alley and into the courtyard. This time she had no trouble remembering which door it was, and moments later they were in front of the smoldering fire while Sandeman, white-faced, stared beyond them with misery bleak and terrible in his eyes.