Page 92 of The King's Man
‘I’ll find her. In the meantime, do you have an empty room with a key to the door? Lucy, your purse.’
Lucy opened her mouth and closed it again as the knife pricked her flesh. She thrust the purse into his outstretched hand. Kit held up a gold coin. He saw the wardress’ eyes open wide for a moment.
‘Through here, sir,’ she said, her manner now obliging.
She opened a heavy oak door on a room only a little bigger than a cupboard, with barely enough room to lie down in the same filthy, mouldy straw as the main room.
‘We uses it for those patients who get a little upset,’ the wardress said.
‘Good. My friend here is somewhat overwrought and could do with a peaceful night,’ Kit said.
‘You’re not going to leave me here,’ Lucy wailed.
‘That is exactly what I am going to do. It may teach you a little humility.’
Kit closed the door on her, pocketing the key. She threw herself against the solid door, shrieking curses that would have made the most hardened inmate of Bedlam blush.
‘Oi, how d’yer think we’re going to get her out?’ the wardress protested.
Kit shrugged. ‘Break the door down I expect, but it can wait till morning.’ He tossed her a couple more coins. ‘Now, I’m looking for a young woman brought in within the last couple of days. Chestnut hair, name is Thamsine Granville.’
‘No one by that name here.’ The woman frowned. ‘Only one come in the last few days was a woman by the name of Morton, Annie Morton.’
The name of Ambrose Morton’s sister.Kit closed his eyes in disgust.
‘Take me to her,’ he said in a low, uneven voice.
The wardress indicated a dark, dank corner. Hardly daring to hope, Kit touched the shoulder of the huddled woman who lay manacled to the wall. She recoiled beneath his touch, hunching herself smaller.
‘Thamsine,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
At the sound of her name she uncoiled and turned towards him. The few days in Bedlam had wrought a frightening change. The Thamsine he knew had vanished within herself. Even in the faltering light of the lantern, he could see that beneath her filthy, matted hair, her face was pallid, her lips grey and her eyes sunken in great, dark holes.
Her manacled wrists came up in a defensive gesture. ‘Don’t hurt me,’ she pleaded, looking into his face and not seeing him.
He knelt beside her and stroked her hair. ‘Thamsine? It’s Lovell.’ He raised the lantern to his face.
She stared at him for a moment or two, her brow furrowed. Her breath came in short flurries. ‘Lovell? It can’t be. He’s in Norfolk … or France … or … ’
She began to shake and he laid his hands on her shoulders to still her. She wore only her shift and the material beneath his hands was wet and cold to the touch.
Kit stood up and looked at the wardress. ‘Why has she been treated this way?’
The wardress put her hands on her hips. ‘Man what brought her in said she had a nasty, violent nature and suggested she be kept manacled.’ She looked down at Thamsine. ‘We find cold water normally quiets ’em down.’
Kit spared her a withering glance. ‘I dare say it does! Undo those manacles.’
Taking her time, the wardress knelt and turned the key in the rusty locks. Kit took Thamsine in his arms. She clung to him, shivering and icy to the touch.
‘Where are her clothes?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, they’re long gone, ducky.’
‘Well, fetch a dry blanket. She’ll catch lung fever left like this.’
‘Most of ’em do,’ the wardress muttered as she ambled off.
Kit took off his cloak and wrapped it around Thamsine’s slight figure. He held her to him, rocking her like a child. Another few days of this and she would have agreed to marry the Devil himself. Morton had a refined method of torture.
