is no cause for there to be so many rooms inside.”
“Nell doesn’t belong here,” Grace said, almost to herself.
“Certainly not,” Thornhollow agreed. “There’s nothing wrong with the girl mentally. Physically . . . well, perhaps she hasn’t told you.”
“Elizabeth said she’s a syphilitic.”
“That’s correct.” The doctor nodded. “Which means she receives mercury baths on a regular basis, but that’s something a physician could administer as easily as asylum staff. The true reason for her being admitted here is that she is a young woman who takes an active interest in men and feels no shame in it. The world can’t understand this behavior; therefore the girl must be insane.”
“And Elizabeth? She believes a string dangles from nowhere beside her ear and whispers things to her.”
“Highly unlikely. Janey told me that she sees little Lizzie hovering in doorways often. I think she’s highly attuned to detail, much like yourself. She gleans information from people, then picks up some like any busybody. But in her mind she attributes it all to String.” Thornhollow shrugged. “Then again, I could be completely wrong. Who’s to say String isn’t real?”
“I can hardly agree with that,” Grace said. “I like her quite well, but there’s clearly something wrong with—”
“With her brain?” Thornhollow interrupted. “What would you say, then, if I told you that I’ve dissected hundreds of brains—of both the sane and insane—and found no difference whatsoever in them?”
“None?”
“My brain, and yours, Elizabeth’s, Heedson’s, even our mutual friend Falsteed’s would all look the same if we ever had the opportunity of comparing them. It’s one of the reasons why I have no use whatsoever for phrenology.”
Grace stifled a yawn. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to explain what phrenology is, Doctor.”
“No, no. Don’t let me keep you up. I tend to go on once I’ve got my teeth in a subject, and sometimes I forget that my audience may not be as keen as I am on the matter of dissecting brains.”
Grace glanced at the clock. “Explain phrenology, and then I’ll take myself to bed. I don’t mind being kept up when it’s the only time I am allowed to be myself.”
“Very well.” Thornhollow returned to the board and drew a caricature of a human head, dividing it into uneven sections with a few slashes of the chalk. “The idea behind phrenology is that the brain is divided into certain parts, each part with a specific purpose. Within these parts are smaller areas that control certain functions that determine your personality.” He made smaller crosshatch marks within the sections.
“So, for example, in a particularly brave person the part of the brain that handles courage would be overdeveloped. That section would be larger than others, pressing against the skull and reshaping it to create a subtle bump there. The theory is that a person trained in phrenology—as I am—would be able to feel the bumps and ridges of a person’s skull and intimate from them what their characteristics are.”
“And get a more accurate reading,” Thornhollow agreed.
“Yet you are trained in this pseudoscience. Why?”
“Because there are those who swear by it. I’ve gained access to a few killers for some stolen moments of questions by offering my services as a phrenologist to law enforcement. Although the vast majority of the people whose skulls I’m brought in to read are thoroughly innocent and utterly terrified of being proved otherwise.”
“And what do you do then?”
“Gather information from them, once they’re calm enough to provide it. Analyze the facts, starting with the first and largest step—the one I’ve taught you tonight. As with our made-up killer who planned his crime and dumped the body somewhere familiar to him, I use the crime to paint a portrait of the killer. When faced with an accused innocent, the best possible defense is to find the guilty.” Thornhollow wheeled back to the board, pointing at the series of words he’d written. “That one who . . . I spelled sibling wrong.”
Grace smothered a smile with her hand.
“It’s all very well for you,” Thornhollow said irritably as he wiped the offending word away with his sleeve. “You don’t have to be concerned about your intellect slipping.”
“I very much doubt yours is slipping,” Grace said as he flung himself into a wing chair. “You are simply overtired, as am I.”
Thornhollow tented his hands over his eyes. “That I am. I can’t serve my new patients if I don’t know anything about them, but their histories make