By and large, Miss Thorby seemed to have a good deal of first-hand knowledge about lunatic asylums. In a voice growing steadily more shrill, more distraught, and in phrases that became more and more incoherent, she poured out threats and promises, interspersed always with the accusation of madness. ‘You’ve done this kind of thing before. You’ve been locked up. . . .’ In the spate of words pouring from Miss Thorby’s lips there were truths as well as lies. She even mentioned the name of the place where Miss Mayfield had stayed during her breakdown on her return from Africa. Their investigations had been very thorough.

The screaming tirade, with its mingling of fact and fantasy, combined with the steadily increasing agony in her shoulder, beat upon Miss Mayfield’s mind until she was almost overwhelmed. She backed away to the foot of the staircase and sat down, covered her left ear with her hand, bitterly regretting the impossibility of covering the other. She could still hear, however; and slowly the idea that she might indeed be mad began to take possession of her mind. Hadn’t she, earlier in the evening – after asking herself. What am I going to do? – admitted the craziness of her behaviour? Would anybody who was not mad, knowing so much, venture out single-handed to snatch a victim from such a pack of wolves? Even her distrust of Canon Thorby, of Miss Benson, of Mr Freeman, now rose up to challenge her sanity; not to trust anyone was a symptom of some forms of madness. So was the idea that all alone you could overcome anything, an overblown sense of your own importance and power – paranoia. . . .

‘Then if you won’t come out of your own accord, you must be made to come out, made to come out. Do you hear me? You have one more chance. Come out and we’ll do our best for you. Stay there and you will be forced to come out, and you’ll go straight into the asylum.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Then you have only yourself to thank for what happens now. And Ethel’s blood will be on your hands.’

After that, there was a silence which lasted until Ethel began to cry.

23

ETHEL CRIED IN THE LOST, WRETCHED WAY OF someone waking from a hideous nightmare. Miss Mayfield went down on her knees beside her and one-handedly, awkwardly, lifted her head into her lap and held her and patted her and assured her, over and over again, that everything was all right now.

For several minutes Ethel snuffled and sobbed and burrowed into the warmth and solidity of another human body without caring about its identity, but presently she lifted her head, looked at Miss Mayfield and said, with immense astonishment:

‘Miss Mayfield!’

‘That’s right. Here I am. And here you are. And everything is all right now.’

‘How did you find me?’