An inmate from the acute ward, having earned certain freedoms from Dr. Thornhill as he worked toward release, had snapped unexpectedly and flown into a rage. The madman had been one of the doctor’s success stories, one destined to be released as so many others had under Thornhill’s skilled care—until he killed the doctor’s entire family with a fireplace poker and set fire to the asylum with kerosene lamps. The building was a total loss, and fourteen patients were killed in the blaze. It had devastated the entire Southampton area to learn of the news, claimed the article, and the repercussions were felt throughout the community.

Dr. Thornhill’s ominous warning spidered through Mitchell’s mind. “Someday you will stand back and survey the wreckage of what was, the utter devastation caused by a patient who only the day before seemed perfectly sane and deserving of every liberty he’s been given.”

Those words echoed in Turner’s head for hours, even through luncheon. Voices came from the entryway as he skirted it—several men he did not know were talking with Thornhill. He should join them as his fellow doctor, but Mitchell wasn’t in the right frame of mind for passing pleasantries—not that he often was these days.

Veering away from the front hall where their conversation echoed, Mitchell ran fingers through his hair as he entered the kitchen, looking about for leftovers to scrounge from staff meals. Questionable meat and a few wilted vegetables languished on the sideboard, and he turned instead toward the few remaining teacups on the shelf. The rest were being readied for patient tea, spread over the surfaces as teapots boiled nearby.

“There you are, Dr. Turner. You’re a difficult man to locate.” It was Harford in the kitchen doorway, grasping his suit lapels. “A word, if you would?”

Mitchell turned and cleared his throat as he rummaged through the larder for a tin of something that wouldn’t put him to sleep. “Of course. I’m making tea—would you care for some?”

“Please.” He settled himself on a stool and gave a nod to one of the new aids who scurried about, pouring tea from kettles into a long line of cups.

“I’d like to know what you think of your superintendent, Dr. Thornhill.”

Thoughts collided. Heat edged up under his collar. Mitchell glanced at the aid, who seemed not to be listening. He couldn’t be sure, though. “I don’t agree with every method he chooses, but what he does is born of hard-won experience.” Mitchell’s voice quieted on this last part. “He’s a well-respected alienist, and he is dedicated to Hurstwell, whatever faults he may have.”

“What makes you call him dedicated, if you don’t mind my asking?”