by Evelyn James
Professor Montgomery turned his head away from Clara, contemplating everything she had just told him.
“I suddenly feel there was a lot I did not know about Lynch,” he said softly. “I thought I understood him, I thought I could have told you exactly who he was. But now… he was so sick and never told me. What does that say of our friendship?”
“He didn’t want you to know about his illness and to worry. He didn’t want or need your sympathy. He just wanted to be able to talk to you as a fellow astronomer,” Clara said, though honestly she could not say what Professor Lynch wanted, she just knew what to say to console Montgomery. “You were colleagues, men of science, and he did not want that tarnished by thoughts of his sickness. You know, sometimes an ailment can take over a person’s life and it is nice for them to get away from it by being with people who know nothing about that problem.”
Montgomery seemed to accept this explanation. He was still quiet, struggling to get his head around these new revelations, but less perturbed than before.
“You have made some excellent points, Miss Fitzgerald, but I cannot authorise the stealing and secret opening of Lynch’s box without giving the matter considerable thought. This could cause a good deal of consternation among the Institute staff, were it to get out,” Montgomery was solemn. “While I come to a decision, I request that you speak with as many of the staff who formerly knew Professor Lynch as possible. There may be someone with information, which will result in us being able to avoid resorting to subterfuge.”
“All right,” Clara said. “I shall see what I can do, but I think that ultimately we shall need to open that box.”
“I understand, but the situation is complicated,” Professor Montgomery took a deep breath. “I am traipsing on the memory of a man who was well liked here. I am also contradicting the beliefs of some of my staff. It might alarm me how many of them have become besotted with the idea of this box and its prophecies, but I still have to be careful how I handle all this. The last thing we need is a permanent rift among the senior staff, that could spell as much disaster for us as a public opening of this damn box.”
Montgomery clenched his fists, beside himself at the problems mounting up before him.
“Why did he do such a stupid thing?” He demanded of Clara. “He was wise enough to see the trouble this box would cause. Why do it? That does not seem to me to be the Professor Lynch I knew.”
“It could have been an innocent thing,” Clara pointed out. “He might not have contemplated how this would affect everyone.”
“Well, it is far from the man I knew,” Montgomery grumbled. “Find me some logic to this mess, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“I am endeavouring,” Clara promised him.
Professor Montgomery rose, a signal that their meeting was at an end. Clara rose also.
“To imagine resorting to creeping around in my own teaching establishment…” Montgomery tutted to himself. “You don’t know how often I think about that box being consumed in a fire, or being lost in the archive room, permanently. Was there nothing in the papers you looked at to explain it?”
“Nothing,” Clara told him. “I found the papers largely to be purely scientific, though there were a handful of astrological charts. But nothing concerning that box. Had Dr Finnigan not mentioned being shown the box by Professor Lynch, I should have almost begun to wonder if it was his work at all.”
“What?” Montgomery latched onto the stray comment as if it was a life raft. “Someone else made the box? As in a hoax? A way of challenging the Institute’s reputation and dominance in the field of astronomy?”
“I never said that,” Clara hastened to add. “I said, had Dr Finnigan not seen the box in Lynch’s rooms, I might have contemplated the chance of it being a fake.”
“But, supposing it was made by someone else? Or at least its contents and that nonsensical letter supposedly from Lynch about the twenty year wait before opening it,” Montgomery was rushing through his words. “Then, this whole thing could be a monumental hoax! Yes, Miss Fitzgerald, you must find who has created this forgery and reveal them!”
“You have the wrong idea…” Clara tried to protest, but Montgomery was already edging her towards the door.
“This could explain everything, and it would make things a lot easier,” the academic continued. “Once you have discovered who is behind this, I shall be able to get the Institute back on track. Heads may have to roll.”
Montgomery shuffled her out of his office and refused to listen to her as he departed for his dinner. He had come to his conclusion over the matter and nothing would change his mind. Clara gave up and headed for home. If all astronomers were as stubborn and singled-minded as Professor Montgomery, she could see why this box was causing such consternation.
Chapter Seventeen
Annie had brought a tin containing homemade raisin and lemon biscuits to the hospital for Private Peterson. She clutched it to her chest like it was a shield as she entered the building and approached the reception desk. The last time Annie had been here was when she was having emergency surgery for appendicitis. Just the smell of the hospital foyer brought back vividly the memories of her sudden collapse and subsequent eventful few days in hospital. She was determined never to go through such a thing again.
At the reception desk she clung to her biscuits in the vain hope they would somehow protect her from her anxieties and stop the hospital from seeming such an intimidating place. If needs be she could lift the lid, sniff the biscuits and be instantly reminded of her safe kitchen and all her familiar things. She fought her nerves, however, she was doing this for Peterson.
“May I help?” The receptionist asked.
“I’ve come to see a patient, Private Peterson,” Annie explained. “She knew it was just at the start of visiting time and there should be no problem with her being allowed to see him, but she still felt worried she might be turned away.
The receptionist went through a book listing current patients and finally came to Peterson’s entry.
“You can locate him on the second floor, in a private room,” she said. “There is a note here to say he is to be limited on visitors.”
“I have permission from Inspector Park-Coombs,” Annie said quickly.
The receptionist studied the page a moment longer, seemingly making up her mind as to what to say. Finally, she relented.
“I think the note means he is limited to how many people can visit him in a day,” she concluded. “He has been through a serious trauma and needs a lot of rest.”
“Of course,” Annie said with a nod. “He shall come to no harm from me.”
The receptionist had lost interest, there was a queue of people behind Annie and they were growing impatient. She said Annie could go upstairs and paid her no more heed.
Annie found her way to Peterson’s room and saw that Constable Maven was on duty outside. She automatically opened her tin of biscuits and offered him one.
“Thanks, miss,” Maven said with clear delight, Annie’s cooking resulted in many friendships. “No more trouble with chicken thefts?”
There had been a brief spate in the neighbourhood of chickens disappearing from backyards. Annie had been so concerned that she had herded her flock into the outhouse and had insisted on sleeping there with them.
“No,” Annie told him. PC Maven was one of the constables who had been assigned to patrol the area for a few nights and see if he could catch the chicken thieves. Annie had made him tea and sandwiches. “I’m guessing your presence scared them off.”
“Hopefully,” Maven said with a boyish smile. He looked too young to be a police constable. “Still, better chicken thieves than this business.”
He tossed his head towards the door of Peterson’s room to indicate what he meant, then he bit into his biscuit.
“Poor fellow sounds insane,” he said. “Reckon a shell dropped too near him during the war, or something. I hear him talking to himself sometimes, and I look in and he is sound
asleep. But he keeps talking.”
“What does he say?” Annie asked.
“All sorts of things, some of it you can’t understand, but one time he was calling out for someone called Jimmy for nearly half-an-hour. Seemed to me he was trying to look for the fellow, in his dreams, like,” Maven shrugged, this was all a bit beyond his limited understanding of psychology. “Could be he was dreaming he was back at the Front, that’s what I reckon.”
“Could be,” Annie nodded.
“And Jimmy was a comrade who never came back from an assault,” Maven had clearly been mulling this all over. “I dare say that’s it.”
“Sounds likely,” Annie agreed with him. “Well, I better get in to see him before visiting hour is over. Have another biscuit.”
Annie left Constable Maven munching on a second raisin and lemon biscuit as she pushed the door to Peterson’s room.
The soldier was staring blankly at the floor. He lay stock-still and his eyes didn’t blink. Annie felt a chill run down her spine as she saw the state of him. He looked to have lost all hope and to have hidden away into some safe part of his mind as a defence against the demons. She wasn’t even sure if he was aware she had entered the room. Annie placed the box of biscuits on the cabinet beside his bed.
“Peterson?” She said, softly. “I brought some biscuits. These are the ones I promised you the recipe for.”
Peterson said nothing, his gaze fixed statically on a floor tile. Annie stifled a sigh of despair, she had to be positive for his sake.
“I wanted to talk with you, about all this nonsense about the woman and the knife,” she said, wondering if he heard her. She carried on, nonetheless. “I’m going to be plain. I do not think you would hurt anyone, I would stake my life on that, and I don’t think you would kill a woman. I don’t understand why you would confess to such a thing. It is simply not you.”
There was no reaction from Peterson. Annie started to feel a little despondent.
“Clara is on the case, anyway. You know, this brawny fellow threatened her life when she went poking around and that has to be clear proof that something is going on in those backstreets. I think that man was responsible for the death of that woman, not you,” Annie kept speaking as it made her feel better hearing her own voice. “I don’t know why you were in that alley, or how everything occurred, but I do know you are not the sort of man who would stab a woman. I have seen your skill with pastry, don’t forget. That takes a light hand and an even temper. You don’t have it in you to stab someone.”
Peterson had still not reacted and Annie was beginning to fret whether he was actually alive, his stillness was scaring her. She reached out and touched his arm, then clasped his hand in hers.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” She asked him, feeling relieved that his hand was warm. “Won’t you eat a biscuit?”
Annie looked at her box of goodies. It was rare that such a gift would not rouse a person from despair, that made her fear Peterson was already too lost to be saved. Feeling agitated, Annie grabbed up a biscuit and began nibbling on it herself.
“Why would you make a confession?” Annie repeated. “Did you suddenly remember something? Or did someone pressure you into it? Because I don’t believe you did this and so there is nothing to confess, but if you think you are somehow helping everyone by confessing, you are not. If you can’t remember what happened, you can’t feel guilty over it. There is no point.”
Annie felt a little pressure in her hand from Peterson twitching his fingers.
“I want you fit and out of here in time for my next cookery class,” she continued. “I was going to show you all how to make jam. There has been a glut of strawberries, O’Harris tells me. The greenhouses at the Home are positively bursting. There shall be so much strawberry jam you will be eating it until next Easter. Maybe you can send a jar to your mother, she would like that.”
Peterson’s eyes flickered and this was enough to give Annie hope she was heading in the right direction.
“No one has told her yet what has happened. We didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. Hopefully this can all be resolved before she needs to know anything,” Annie paused. “You know, you owe it to her to hang in here. To not take the easy path of succumbing to your demons. Your mum knows you are not a killer. She would be broken through and through were she to discover you had confessed to this crime. You wouldn’t want that.”
Peterson’s fingers twitched harder this time.
“Your mother needs the truth, she deserves that. Not some confession you were persuaded to make because you can’t remember what really happened. She is going to be so worried about you.”
Peterson made a noise at the back of his throat. It could have been a moan, or it might have been a sigh. Annie felt she was reaching him.
“I want to know why you made that confession,” Annie persisted. “Did you suddenly remember something? You have so many people on your side, Peterson, so many people wanting to help you. Give us the chance.”
Peterson made the strange noise again. Annie wasn’t sure if he was trying to speak.
“Do you want to sit up?” She asked him.
Peterson slipped his hand from hers and pushed himself onto his side. He winced as pain pressed into his injured back, but he could breathe more freely on his side, and he could talk.
“Why did you come, Annie?” He said weakly.
“Because you are a friend and I like you,” Annie told him in her blunt fashion. “And I can’t imagine you murdering a woman you had never met before.”
“I was having one of my moments,” Peterson said bleakly.
“You have never attacked anyone during those moments before,” Annie pointed out. “Why would this time be different?”
“I don’t know,” Peterson said softly. “I just feel this guilt in me. As if I failed to do something or did something I shouldn’t have.”
“Then you still don’t remember what occurred?”
“I had this dream and in it there was the woman, the one I stabbed…”
“The one who was stabbed,” Annie corrected him. “We do not know you stabbed her.”
“In my dream I stabbed her,” Peterson said miserably. “She was running down the alley towards me. I felt afraid, I can’t explain why, but that is how I felt, and suddenly there was a knife in my hand and I lashed out at her.”
“You confessed because of a dream?” Annie said, aghast.
“It was so vivid, and I have dreamed about things before and later they proved to be things that had happened.”
“We all have dreams like that,” Annie said. “But we also all dream about things that have not happened, that could not physically occur. I have dreamed I was a bird and flew over the houses of Brighton, that was not based upon reality.”
“This felt real,” Peterson countered.
“And you have never had a dream like that before?” Annie pressed.
Peterson fell silent, unable to answer her question.
“Exactly,” Annie said firmly. “Dreams are just our brains firing off crazy ideas. You have been thinking about this matter so much, no wonder you dreamt of stabbing that woman! It does not mean it happened. After all, your dream did not explain how you came to have the knife, or how you ended up stabbed in the back.”
Peterson did not know what to say.
“I know you feel guilty. I know you are terribly afraid you did this thing but confessing helps no one. It does not get us any nearer the truth. Clara believes you are innocent, and Clara is good at these things.”
Peterson fixed Annie with his gaze.
“You don’t really know me, Annie. I killed people in the war. A man can’t come back from that.”
“You are not a killer,” Annie promised him. “Thousands of men served in the war from this country alone. They are not all walking around in danger of killing a perfect stranger at any moment. Please, stop thinking the worst of yourself.”
Peterson clearly did not know how to d
o that.
“You have to hold on,” Annie pressed him. “You mustn’t be afraid. Clara will find the truth.”
Peterson was thoughtful a while, then he spoke.
“Annie, why do you care what becomes of me?”
“You silly thing!” Annie groaned. “Because I like you, because I think you are a good person who could have a future ahead of him, if only you would start to believe in yourself. And trust yourself. You have allowed these episodes to rule your life for too long. You live in fear of them, when you really don’t need to.”
Peterson was silent again, rolling his head into his pillow.
“I can’t take back my confession,” he almost sobbed.
“You can,” Annie told him firmly. “In any case, Clara is going to prove it could not have been you.”
Annie paused.
“Do you not remember anything about that night?”
“I don’t know. Things become… strange. I don’t know which bits are genuine and which bits I imagined or dreamt.”
“Don’t fret over it,” Annie advised him. “Clara is very clever at these things. She can solve anything.”
Annie touched his shoulder lightly.
“You’ve got to stop hiding from yourself,” she said. “Maybe its time you embraced your demons.”
“Embraced them?” Peterson said appalled.
“Yes, accept them as a part of you, instead of fearing them. After all, you’ve been fighting them all these years without success, what would it hurt to try a different approach?”
“You mean well Annie, but you don’t understand,” Peterson shoved his face deeper into his pillow.
“Maybe I understand better than you think,” Annie told him. “Maybe you’re not the only one with demons to fight.”
Somewhere deep in the hospital a bell rang; it was the end of visiting time. Annie gave a sigh; the time had flown past.
“I’m going to come and visit you again,” she told Peterson as she rose.
