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  ‘How long has your husband been drinking, Mrs Mac-Andrew?’ asked Dr Rose. He was a tall man, handsome, brown-haired, brown-eyed, high-coloured. He had been struck by me when he saw me, slim as an ebony wand in the shadowed hall. But now he had pen and paper before him and was doing his job.

  ‘I have seen him drinking since his return from Scotland,’ I said. ‘That was seven months ago. Since then he has had few days sober — but I believe whisky was always drunk in his father’s home, and he drank excessively after the death of his mother.’

  Dr Rose nodded and made a note. His partner sat beside him in a hard-backed chair and listened. He was a burly giant of a man, blond, with a stolid face. It would be him, I thought, who could be trusted to restrain insane patients, or to fell them with one well-placed blow behind the ear if they became unmanageable.

  ‘Any reason for him to start drinking?’ asked Dr Rose.

  I glanced down at my clasped hands. ‘I had just given birth to our first child,’ I said, my voice low. ‘I had known before our marriage that he was madly jealous, but I had not understood how desperate he was. He was in Scotland when our child was born, and when he came home he became obsessed with the thought that the child was not his.’

  Dr Rose pursed his lips and looked professionally neutral. But no man could have avoided sympathizing with such a pretty victim.

  ‘That night my mama was taken ill and died,’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper. ‘My husband was too drunk to care for her properly and blamed himself for that.’ My head drooped lower. ‘Since then, our lives have been a misery,’ I said.

  Dr Rose nodded, and stilled the impulse to pat my hand in comfort.

  ‘Does he know we are coming?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In his lucid moments he is very anxious to be well again. I think he has taken nothing to drink today. So you should see him at his best.’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘I thought you might like to meet him informally,’ I said. ‘He is in the parlour with my sister-in-law. We could go there for coffee if you wish.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ said Dr Rose, and I led the way to Celia’s parlour.

  Celia had done a fine job this morning, keeping John out of the way while the doctors arrived, and then bringing him to the parlour for coffee with her. He was surprised when I entered the room and when he saw the two men with me his hand trembled so that he had to put his cup down on the table. He shot a look at Celia, which she met with a reassuring smile, but it had shaken his confidence in her that I was involved in this visit.

  ‘This is Dr Rose and Dr Hilary,’ I said. ‘My sister-in-law, Lady Lacey, and my husband, Mr Mac Andrew.”

  No one commented on the fact that I had dropped John’s title from my speech, but Celia’s eyes were on my face as she gave her hand to the two men and bade them sit.

  I glided to the coffee pot and poured three cups. John watched Dr Rose like a bird watches a snake, and he kept a wide berth from the massive bulk of Dr Hilary, who eased himself into one of Celia’s slight chairs like a bailiff on house arrest duty.

  ‘I have heard a little about your problem,’ said Dr Rose to John, his voice son. ‘I think we can probably help you with it. I run a small house outside Bristol where you could come and stay if you wished. There are four patients with me now. One is addicted to laudanum and the other three have trouble with drink. They each have a private room and plenty of quiet and privacy while they come to terms with the cause of their problem and learn to resist the craving. I use limited amounts of laudanum in the early days, so the worst period is eased. And I have had some remarkable successes.’

  John nodded. He was as taut as a trip-wire. Celia’s eyes on his face glowed with support and love. He kept glancing at her as a superstitious man might touch a lucky charm. He seemed reassured by the softness of Dr Rose’s voice. But he kept a wary eye on Dr Hilary, who looked at his own boots and sat like a mountain, still on the chair.

  ‘I am willing to come to you,’ said John, his voice a thread with strain.

  ‘Good,’ said Dr Rose, smiling reassuringly. ‘I am glad. I am sure we can help you.’

  ‘I will order your bags to be packed,’ I said and slipped from the room. After I had spoken with John’s valet I lingered in the hall outside to listen.

  ‘There are just some papers which need to be signed.’ I could hear Dr Rose’s gentle tones. ‘Just formalities. Sign here, please.’ I heard the rustle of the documents as he passed them to John and then the scratch of the pen as John signed. I smiled, and went into the room.

  It was too soon.

  I had mistimed my return. I had been impatient when I should have waited longer. John had signed the first document, agreeing to accept Dr Rose’s prescriptions, but he had not reached the power of attorney. My return to the room distracted him, and the pen hovered as he glanced at the close-printed text.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, his voice suddenly sharp, his eyes narrowed. Dr Rose glanced across.

  ‘That is a power of attorney document,’ he said, his tone still smooth. ‘It is usual for people committed to my care to leave their business affairs in the hands of a responsible relation, in case any decision needs to be made while they are with me.’

  John glanced wildly around the circle of our reassuring, smiling faces.

  ‘Committed?’ he said, his trained mind picking out the one, revealing word. ‘Committed? I was coming to you as a voluntary patient.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Dr Rose. ‘But as a mere formality we always have our patients committed in case their craving for drink becomes too much for them. So we can keep them in, away from suppliers.’

  ‘Locked up?’ said John, his voice harsh with shock. ‘These papers take my fortune from me and commit me to a lunatic asylum! Don’t they? Don’t they?’ He rounded, in a panic, on Celia. ‘Did you know of this?’ he asked fiercely. ‘This was your idea; you persuaded me it would save me. Did you plan this?’

  ‘Well, yes, John,’ said Celia, unable to speak coherently while John became more and more frantic. ‘But it could be no harm, surely?’

  ‘Who has my estate?’ John demanded. He grabbed at the document and the rest of the papers slid in a sheaf to the floor.

  ‘Harry Lacey, and Harry Lacey’s lawyers!’ he exclaimed. ‘And we all know who controls Harry Lacey, don’t we?’ He shot a venomous but frightened look at me. Then he dropped the paper from his hand altogether as the realization hit him.

  ‘My God, Beatrice. You are stealing my fortune and putting me away!’ he said in horror. ‘You are having me locked up, and robbing me.’

  Dr Rose gave an inconspicuous nod to Dr Hilary but John saw it at once. Dr Hilary rose ponderously to his feet and John screamed like a terrified child.

  ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No!’ and he broke for the door, knocking over the little table and Celia’s workbox. Spools of cotton and coffee cups scattered over the carpet and then, moving surprisingly fast for a heavy man, Dr Hilary dived for John’s feet and brought him down to the floor in a crashing tackle. Celia screamed, and I clenched my hands in horror as the heavy man pinned John to the floor.

  Dr Rose pulled a strait-jacket from his case and handed it to Dr Hilary. John shrieked in panic and terror, ‘No! No! Celia! Celia, don’t let them!’

  Celia snatched at the strait-jacket but I was at her side in an instant. I grabbed her and held her tight. She pushed me away and cried out, ‘Beatrice! Beatrice! You must stop them! There is no need for this! Stop them hurting John! Stop them tying him!’

  With deft skilful hands Dr Hilary had slid John’s flailing arms into the jacket and rolled him over as neatly as a trussed chicken with both hands tied around his belly and strapped behind his back. John’s back arched; his eyes bulged in a contortion of terror.

  ‘You are a devil, Beatrice,’ he moaned. ‘You are the devil itself.’

  John’s eyes rolled towards Dr Rose. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said. His