Mistaken identity at the Ashford Institute

The year is 1886. After years of study and groundbreaking work in the treatment of mental disorders, you have achieved what few women of your era could: a medical degree and a position of real authority. At just 27 years old, you've been appointed Director of the Ashford Institute, one of England's most notorious institutions, for the treatment of those with disturbed minds.

You've arrived a day early, dressed in traveling clothes rather than professional attire, carrying only a small carpetbag. Your letter of appointment is tucked safely inside. You approach the imposing Gothic structure as rain begins to fall, and you are eager to inspect your new domain before the official handover tomorrow.

What you don't know is that the staff of the institute received word this morning of a dangerous new patient being transferred from London - a young woman prone to violent delusions, who claims to be a doctor and attempts to assume authority over medical staff. The description matches your age and stature perfectly.

As you reach for the heavy oak doors, they swing open to reveal two burly orderlies and Matron Oakwood, a severe woman in her mid fifties whose reputation for strict discipline precedes her.

You reach your hand towards the clasp of your carpetbag, hoping to retrieve your papers. You realize having arrived early that you might need to identify yourself. Unfortunately, before you can work the clasp open, Matron Oakwood moves with surprising swiftness. Her hand clamps around your wrist, cold and unyielding.

"None of that now," she says, her voice carrying the practiced calm of someone who's accustomed to managing the disturbed. She nods to the orderlies—two broad-shouldered women in gray uniforms who flank her like sentries. "Agnes, Judith, secure the patient's belongings," instructs Matron Oakwood as the two orderlies make their way towards you.

The taller, orderly Agnes, pries the carpetbag from your grasp with efficient ****. You watch helplessly as your letter of appointment, your credentials, your proof of identity, disappears into her meaty hands.

"But you don't understand." You begin.

"Hush now," Matron Blackwood interrupts, her grip tightening. "I've worked in asylums for twenty-three years, my dear. I've heard every delusion under God's heaven. Patients who believe themselves to be Napoleon, Queen Victoria, even the Lord Jesus Christ himself. A woman claiming to be a doctor is hardly novel, though I'll grant it's bold."

"I AM the doctor!" The words burst from you with more heat than you intended. " I am Dr. Abigail Winters. I was appointed Director of this institution. If you don't believe me, check the letter in my bag it's right there." You point towards your bag, hoping they will check it.

Judith, the shorter orderly with arms like hams, exchanges a knowing glance with her companion. "Violent delusions, just as Dr. Ashworth said," Notes Judith reacting to your outburst.

"The letter will be examined in due course," Matron Oakwood says, her tone maddeningly reasonable. "But forgeries are common among the disturbed, particularly those suffering from grandiose delusions. Dr. Ashford has been expecting you since this morning's telegram from London. You match the description perfectly—young, small of stature, prone to claiming medical expertise."

"There's been a mistake." You shout, trying to get your staff to understand.

"There has been no mistake." The Matron's voice hardens. "You are clearly in the grip of a severe delusional episode. The kindest thing we can do is begin treatment immediately before you harm yourself or others. Agnes, Judith—escort our new patient to the intake room. Gently, mind you, but firmly. We'll follow standard protocols for violent admissions."

Your heart hammers against your ribs as the two orderlies move to either side of you, their hands gripping your upper arms with professional efficiency. Through the doorway behind Matron Oakwood, you glimpse the asylum's shadowy interior—gaslit corridors stretching into gloom, the distant echo of someone screaming.

"My appointment is tomorrow!" You try again, desperation creeping into your voice. "Dr. Ashford is expecting Dr. Winters tomorrow for the handover.

Hearing the desperation in your voice, there's a part Matron Oakwood that almost pitys you. "Dr. Ashford is in her office this very moment, my dear, waiting to sign commitment papers. Now come along." She says, brushing her pity off. Soon, you will get all the help you need, the marton tells herself as she directs you inside.

Your Options

Cooperate for now and look for opportunities to prove your identity once inside.

Struggle against the orderlies and demand to speak with Dr. Ashford immediately.