The Salop and Montgomery Asylum, otherwise known as Shelton Hospital, is an imposing, albeit splendid, looking building that covers a substantial plot of land in the village of Bicton, just outside of Shrewsbury. The red brick structure is inoffensive to the eye, in fact on a warm summer's day, there is no doubt it might even be charming to behold, if it were not for the knowledge of the residents held inside.

I knew very little of the hospital itself, other than it had been built in 1845 and the plans to establish the asylum in Bicton had been met with some argument by the locals, who of course, were concerned that they would be overrun with the insane. They had some right to be concerned, it was said, for the asylum was always oversubscribed with patients and despite measures to prevent otherwise, there had been several escapees over the years, one of whom went missing for eight whole days. When they finally found him, he had throttled the life out of the woman whose house in which he had sought refuge and he inevitably then met his fate at the gallows at Shrewsbury Prison, where the noose throttled the life out of him.

The journey to Bicton has been arduous for many reasons, mostly because I have lost any fondness for lengthy journeys in the trap, since Mama's death, but I am grateful the weather has held dry and for Daniel's company by my side.

We passed the time with conversation, with Daniel asking me questions of Papa's story, intermittently breaking off into bouts of melancholic silence as he looked far into the distance, although whether he saw the road ahead or something else in his mind, I know not. The closer we got to our destination, the more I languished in my own melancholy, thinking to what I must now face, or, more specifically, who.

How did we reach this point, Lizzie? What has become of you?

It seems utterly staggering to me that this is where we are now. A false accusation that could have led to a man's execution. A confession to a murder most foul. Lies. Falsehood. Betrayal. It was not so long ago that Lizzie and I giggled in the secret passageway of Lutwyche as we spied on the mysterious and handsome Sin-Eater who now sits at my side. It was not so long ago that we were friends – the best of friends, and, it must be said, I had harboured more than a passing admiration for her strength and confidence. As children, Lizzie had encouraged me to be daring and full of life. As women, she had urged me to be brave, to fight, to desire more than what society deemed appropriate for a woman such as myself.

Her decline into madness and despair, it seems, has been quick – too quick – and I cannot help but wonder whether I have been at fault here in some way. How could I not have seen what was happening? What important signs did I miss? How could I be her friend and yet not see what was right in front of my eyes?

Whatever has befallen Lizzie, I am finding it difficult to understand just why she would murder Mama. It is true that Mama was always a touch disapproving of Lizzie, but there was no malice, no ill-will, in fact, despite her disapproval of Lizzie's ways and opinions, she always seemed quite fond of her. This whole turn of events seems ludicrous, and yet, here we are, staring up at a building which houses lunatics and one of those very lunatics is my own best friend.

Daniel assists me down from the trap and tethers it, stroking the horse's muzzle with a warmth that I would find endearing if it was not for the fact, I am terrified of walking into this building. He must sense my disquiet, for he catches hold of my hand and threads his fingers through mine, squeezing them gently.

'Don't, I say, when he opens his mouth to speak. He raises a brow in question. 'You were about to tell me that I do not have to go inside, that we can get back into the trap and leave, but I cannot. I will not.'

'Actually, I was going to tell you that stepping foot inside this place might be the bravest thing you've ever done, and I've seen you tackle the undead and Percival Baker.'

I cannot help but afford him a small smile. 'Truth be told, I think I would rather face the walking corpses of both Mr. Hawkstone and Mrs. Smallman than have to face Lizzie. But I need to hear it from her mouth. I need to know why.'

Daniel pulls me to him and presses a kiss to my forehead. 'Then let us hear it.'

At the door, we are greeted by a rather gruff-looking man, who eyes Lizzie's letter with some suspicion until he spies the stamp of the head doctor at the bottom of the page.

'Wait here, please,' he says, when I tell him our names and closes the door on us, leaving us standing inside the porch. Anxious minutes pass and just when I think the man has no intention of returning, I hear sharp footsteps from within and the door opens again.

A different face greets us this time, a thin gentleman who looks to be closer to Papa's age, only with far less hair. Small half-moon spectacles sit on the end of his long nose, barely concealing shrewd grey eyes that show little warmth, despite the smile on his lips.

'Miss Elmes? Mr. Carver? Welcome to Shelton,' he says gripping Daniel's hand, quickly dropping it, to take mine and inclining his head respectfully. 'My name is Doctor Richard Oliver; I am the medical director of this facility.'

'Good day, sir,' I respond. Daniel is stunned silent and stares a little too long at his hand, I think, surprised for anyone to greet him in such a way. Of course, this is Bicton and not Church Stretton, and we are far enough away for folk not to know of his profession.

'I understand you wish to visit with Miss Darby,' the Doctor asks.

'Yes.' I nod. 'Elizabeth is my friend, and I just learned this morning of her incarceration here.'

The Doctor's cool eyes narrow. 'She has also confessed to your mother's murder. I should imagine that is the reason for your visit and you are not here just to enquire after her well-being?'

When I raise my chin to respond, the Doctor waves a hand to quiet me.

'It is no matter, Miss Elmes. I read and signed the letter myself; I am quite aware of who you are and why you are here. Of course, in usual cases I would be concerned to allow such a visit as it would undoubtedly cause the patient some distress, however Miss Darby has been informed of your presence and it seems the situation is quite the contrary.'

'What do you mean, Doctor?' Daniel asks.

The Doctor sighs and brushes at a speck of fluff on lapel of his coat. 'Miss Darby has been in a state of severe distress ever since she was brought here. I was even in the process of authorising sedation as you arrived, as no restraint or reasoning has calmed her. Your presence, however, Miss Elmes, has done just what the pharmaceutical intervention would have achieved, albeit of course, without rendering her unconscious.'

I glance at Daniel. 'Well, I would certainly not wish to render anyone unconscious, not when we have travelled all this way. Does this mean we can see her?'

'I will allow it,' the Doctor replies, gesturing us to enter.

Inside the high-ceiling foyer, the interior of the hospital is certainly far less charming than the exterior. A distinct tang of chemicals hangs in the air, an attempt to mask the stench of urine and worse that pervades even the hallway. The inside is as cool grey as Dr. Oliver's eyes and just as unwelcoming. Somewhere, a violin plays, no doubt to soothe and entertain the patients with music, but the sound is strange and discombobulated as it echoes through the building and makes my skin prickle with foreboding.

We follow the Doctor along the hall, my heels clicking against the wooden floors. Signs marking the segregated male and female wards hang either side, but Dr. Oliver leads us past these and continues until we reach a staircase leading downwards. The stench grows heavier as we descend, and I must retrieve my handkerchief to cover my nose. Even Otto of Roses cannot douse the foul odour that sticks to the walls like glue.

A corridor at the bottom of the staircase, dimly lit, stretches ahead. Closed doors line either side and as we pass them, I can hear the sounds of the asylum creeping out from the cracks underneath – moans, laughter, an incessant babbling of voices, and on occasion, muffled screams. Daniel lingers close to me, for his own benefit or my own, I know not, but I am glad for his comforting presence. My hand brushes his a few times, a whisper of connection that is sorely needed.

'Doctor, why are these patients housed in the basement?' I ask, trying not to cough as I remove the handkerchief just enough to ensure my words can be heard.

'These patients, Miss Elmes, cannot be housed with the rest of the inmate population,' he says, talking without looking back or stopping. 'Some are particularly violent and pose a threat to themselves and others. Some are disruptive to the congenial atmosphere we work hard to cultivate on the wards upstairs. Shelton Hospital is about rehabilitation. Patients take on employment, some working in the garden, or through carpentry and bricklaying. The female patients work in the kitchen or laundry room. We find it helps them to find a focus, a way back to rational thought. It promotes cure and comfort. The patients down here, however, have proved unable to rehabilitate. They are only focused on disorder and tumult. They have to be separated to ensure the smooth and cohesive mechanism of the asylum.'

'And Miss Darby is considered to be a patient focused on disorder and tumult? How can one make that assumption when she has only very recently been admitted?'

The Doctor stops abruptly and turns to face us. Shadows make his face look thinner, his eyes blacker.

'Miss Elmes, I understand that for a lady such as yourself, it must be hard to understand the dark complexities of the human mind for I am sure you have never had to witness the horrors it can contain. Madness is contagious and I do not mean contagious like a disease. The very idea of madness is contagious and once that idea is released into the mainstream population of a place like Shelton, it spreads. First one person, then the next, and the next. What once was a serene and calm place of rehabilitation, soon becomes chaos and bedlam. We cannot have chaos and bedlam, Miss Elmes. I will not allow it.'

'You truly believe that Miss Darby is capable of that?'

'Miss Darby believes the Devil sits at her right shoulder, Miss Elmes. She believes he walks with her, speaks with her, whispers in her ear. She believes her controls her every whim, her every desire, her thoughts, her feelings. She believes he has consumed her very soul. Tell me then, what would you do, if you were in my position? Would you let someone spread the idea of the Devil in an asylum?'

'You do not believe in the Devil, Doctor?' says Daniel.

The Doctor turns his gaze upon him, his eyes widening a little and I wonder what he sees. What darkness lurks there that only a Sin-Eater possesses?

'On the contrary, I believe in the power that the idea of the Devil conjures. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have seen men gouge their own throats to rid themselves of the Beast. I have treated women who attempted to murder their own children in fear that they have birthed the Devil's offspring. I believe in the idea of him, but do I believe he exists? No, sir. I am a man of science, not myth and superstition. Miss Darby, on the other hand, believes in him very much. And for that reason, I have no choice but to keep her segregated for the well-being of this hospital.'

'And what of her well-being, Doctor?' I ask.

Dr. Oliver tilts his head slightly, as if he is taken aback to hear the question. 'Considering her confession, Miss Elmes, I am surprised that you even care.'

I swallow. 'I would like to think that the moment we care nothing for an individual's well-being, is the moment we care less for humanity as a whole. Elizabeth is still human, after all, insanity or not.'

'Very noble, Miss Elmes,' he replies, a touch haughtily. 'Of course, there is always the problem of the patient no longer believing they are human.'

'What do you mean?' I say, but the Doctor instantly withdraws a bunch of keys from his coat and unlocks the nearest door. It swings open with a creak worthy of an asylum.

'Please...' he gestures, stepping back to allow us entry. 'I shall wait. Knock when you wish to leave.'

I linger first beyond the doorway, scarcely able to breathe, let alone remember how I am meant to put one foot in front of the other.

'Lily?' Daniel prompts.

I step forward into the cell, for from the size of it, it cannot be described as anything but. There is no window, we are in the basement after all, and the walls are painted brick, possibly once white and now the grim colour of cold gruel. A small, narrow cot sits against the wall, the leather restraint straps unfastened. To the left, there is a table and at this table, restrained in the chair, sits the woman I once called my friend.

The woman who has confessed to my mother's murder.

The woman who once used to be human.

**Author's Note: The Salop & Montgomery Asylum, also known as the Shelton Hospital, and originally as the Salop Lunatic Asylum, was a real place. Before it was constructed in 1845, the lunatic population of the area were sent to the Kingsland Workhouse which was formerly the Foundling Hospital. Patients were segregated into 'higher class' and 'lower class' but only the lower classes were further segregated into four categories of insanity - ordinary patients, convalescents, frantic patients and incurables. References to the incurables in this story and the basement cells are purely fictional. Dr. Richard Oliver was the chief medical superintendent of the asylum, but his time at Shelton precedes this fictional account and I cannot find any record of him beyond about 1860.

Today, the Salop & Montgomery Asylum has been converted in a complex of luxury apartments and houses.