Burton held up a hand to stop him. “Quite so! Quite so! It's nothing more than a formality, I assure you, but one that must be observed in order to complete the paperwork and leave you in peace.”

Bismillah! Peace! Here? In this Jahannam!

Monroe ran his tongue across his lips, shrugged, and gave a curt nod. “Oh, very well, very well. Whatever you say. How should we proceed?”

“I suggest you continue the inspection with Mr. Faithfull and Mr. Skylark. In the meantime, I'll remain here to interview Sister Camberwick and her nurses. It should be enough to fulfill the terms of the inspection. Once done, a sister can escort me to your office. My colleagues and I will then take our leave and, I assure you, we'll draft a most favourable report. I think it fair to predict that you'll not be bothered by us again.”

The doctor heaved a sigh, gave a smile, and suffered a facial spasm.

A few minutes later, Burton was seated in a small office, alone with Sister Camberwick. The door was closed, muffling the screams and curses from the cells.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Cribbins?”

“No thank you, Sister. Please sit and relax. This is merely a routine procedure, there's nothing to be nervous about.”

“I'm not nervous,” she said. She sat down and adjusted her bonnet. “After working in an asylum, one ceases to feel nerves.”

“I should think that's a great advantage.”

“It is.”

“When did you start here?”

“At the beginning of the year. Early February.”

She glanced into his eyes then looked down at her skirts and straightened them.

“And before that?”

She blinked rapidly. “I served in the Crimea, and, when the war was over, in workhouses.”

“The Crimea. You must have seen great suffering.”

He moved his chair closer to hers and in a low, melodious, and rhythmic tone, recited: “Lo! in that house of misery

A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,

The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

Her shadow, as it falls

Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be

Opened, and then closed suddenly,

The vision came and went,

The light shone was spent.

On England's annals, through the long

Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast

From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand

In the great history of the land,

A noble type of good,

Heroic womanhood.”

Sister Camberwick's lower lip trembled.

“‘Santa Filomena’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” Burton murmured. “Look at me, Sister.”

She looked. Her eyes slid away, returned, held.

Burton began to rock back and forth very slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“It is fine work you have done.”

She leaned forward to better hear him.

“And it is fine work you continue to do.”

She seemed transfixed by the deep, soothing quality of his voice, and, unaware that she was doing it, she began to sway, keeping in time with his own movement.

“For the purposes of this interview,” he said, in almost a whisper, “it is important that you relax. This exercise will help. I want you to breathe with me. Feel the air entering your right lung. In. Out. Now breathe into your left. In. Out. Slowly, slowly.”

Gently and patiently he guided her through a Sufi meditation technique, watching as her attention centred on him to the exclusion of all else. He softly issued instructions, taking her from a cycle of two breaths to a cycle of four, subduing her mind through the complexity of the exercise until she was entirely under his control.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Patricia Camberwick,” she answered.

“And behind that? The other name? The one that you've been forbidden to use?”

“Florence Nightingale.”

“Tell me about the circumstances that led to your presence here, Miss Nightingale.”

“I-I can't-I can't remember.”

“I know. The memory has been blocked. What occurred to you happened while you were enslaved by a mesmeric influence. Can you feel that blockage, like a wall in your mind?”

“Yes.”

“It is only a wall because you've been made to think so. The truth is, it's a door. Just walk through it, Florence. Open it and pass straight through.”

Silently, Burton thanked Herbert Spencer for inspiring this mesmeric technique.

“Yes. I'm through.”

“You see how easy that was? The barriers planted in your mind have no power now.”

“No power.”

“So, tell me. What happened?”

“The woman.”

“Woman? Who?”

“The Russian. I don't know how she entered my surgery. I was conducting an experiment and had locked the doors. I didn't want to be disturbed. I heard a footstep behind me. I turned and there was the woman.”

“What did she look like?”

“Medium height. Heavy. The maternal type. Horrible black eyes.”

“Was she solid? I mean to say, was she an apparition?”

“An apparition? A ghost? No, she was there.”

“What happened next?”

“I-I-I fell into her eyes. Those eyes! I fell right into them!”

“She mesmerised you. What did she instruct you to do?”

“She told me to travel to Santiago in South America, to go to the asylum there and use the authority of my name to take charge of a patient named Tomas Castro. I was to escort him back here to Bethlem Royal, but upon entering this hospital I must use the name Patricia Camberwick and forget my true name. Service here had been prearranged for me and my primary duty was to care for and guard Mr. Castro. I must not allow anyone to see him apart from the woman and a man named Edward Kenealy.”

“Castro is still here?”

“Yes, on this floor, in the observation chamber.”

“Why were we not shown that room?”

“Doctor Monroe and the senior staff have had their memory of the room removed. An aversion to the door that leads to it has been implanted into them. They think it's a broom cupboard.”

“So, with the exception of the Russian and Kenealy, are you the only person who visits Castro?”

“Yes.”

“Take me to him.”

“Yes.”

Nightingale stood and, as if sleepwalking, drifted across and out of the room, leading Burton along the corridor to a nondescript door. She pulled a bunch of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked it. Burton followed her across the threshold and down a short passage leading to a heavily bolted portal.

“There,” Nightingale said.

“Lead the way,” he replied.

Keys were inserted and turned, bolts drawn, a padlock opened, and a chain removed. With the nurse's shoulder pressed against it, the barrier swung aside with a painful creak. She stepped onto a platform that ran around the wall of a tall circular chamber, about fifteen feet up from the floor. The room was fifty feet or so in diameter, fitfully illuminated by four gas lamps, and was sparsely furnished with a bed, table, chair, and a wooden screen, which, Burton guessed, concealed a toilet and basin.

A thin chain, attached to an iron ring set in the middle of the floor, snaked across to where a man lay on the bed. It was joined to a manacle that encircled his left ankle.

He was dressed only in ragged trousers and an undershirt, and was dreadfully thin. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. His face was encased in an iron mask, featureless but for four horizontal slits, one for each eye, one level with his nostrils, and one for the mouth.

Tomas Castro.

The man struggled to a sitting position and looked up at them.

“ Ce qui maintenant? ” he whispered huskily. “Is there to be more torment? Who is this? I have not seen him before.”

He spoke with a French accent.

Burton turned to Nightingale. “Follow me.”

He walked along the platform until he came to a ladder and descended to the chamber floor.