The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2)

by Carolyn Haines

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “It’s one of the best examples of Greek Revival architecture built during the postbellum period. Most Southerners were near starvation, but the Roswells had great wealth. Some say Wick was obsessed with restoring what the Yankees had destroyed. He bragged that his house and his wife were of impeccable lineage.” One corner of her mouth tilted up. “He spared no expense in materials or furnishings, and the house was considered one of the finest homes in the Southeast.”

  Camilla had learned the details of the house admirably. While she could recite all the facts, they didn’t seem to resonate emotionally with her. She seemed unattached to the house or its history. It was the first hopeful thing I’d come across.

  “So David took you to the house and told you it was to be your new home when you were married. What did you think?”

  “I was overwhelmed, and then I thought how much Mama would love it that I had my own antebellum mansion. She’d lord it over everyone she could.”

  Reginald’s lips twitched into a smile, and then he laughed aloud. “You have Maude Granger pegged.”

  “She’s my mother, but I am aware of her pettiness.”

  “And what of the house? Did you connect with it?” I thought of my attachment to Caoin House, my bedroom overlooking the beautiful oaks, the library. Even the cemetery. There was so much I loved about my uncle’s estate.

  “Roswell House is magnificent.”

  Despite her claim, something felt off. I couldn’t put my finger on it. “And?” I hated to press, but it was important.

  “There’s a cantilevered staircase in the house that floats. It circles the foyer and reaches to the second floor as if supported by air.”

  I’d heard of such staircases, but I’d never seen one. “Was there a room you loved?”

  “The ballroom.” She inhaled sharply. “There’s a sense that one could dance there all night long. I could almost hear the music.”

  My pulse increased. Aural manifestations were clues to a haunting, according to Madam Petalungro and much of the literature I’d read. “Did you imagine the parties, the men and women dressed for the evening, moving about the dance floor? Could you see it?”

  She tilted her head, and for the first time, her smile was relaxed. “You want to know if I imagined other people in the house or if the house is haunted.”

  “I do.” There was no point in denying it. If Camilla had sensed someone else there, it might help us figure out what, or who, might be influencing her.

  “It was my imagination. Nothing more.”

  “Camilla, two times you’ve changed personality so radically that you attempted to harm the person you love. Both times you were alone with David and at Roswell House. If David himself and/or Roswell House are the source of your . . . illness, we have to know.” Reginald leaned forward and patted her hand. “We want to help, but you must tell us everything you remember.”

  “I guess it’s a little late to worry that people will think I’m crazy.” She tried to shrug it off, but it was clear she was hurting.

  “This is what we do,” I said. “I’ve had my own experience with departed spirits. I’ve lost people I cared about because of it. I don’t want that to be your experience.”

  She nodded sharply. “The first time I . . . changed, I was in the kitchen at Roswell House. I was so thrilled at what David had done, buying the house and property, renovating it, planning to put the house in a trust for me so that I always have my own place, away from Mama.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I was exploring the cupboards, arranging the kitchen in my mind. David had samples of countertops and cabinets for me to pick from. I was going to have things my way. For the first time in my life, I was allowed to make decisions.” She withdrew her hand from Reginald’s. “I was so happy. Then I became aware I was acutely cold, and then hot, burning hot. I couldn’t see. It felt as if I’d been pushed deep down inside my body. Like I was trapped. I could feel my legs moving, walking, my hand finding the butcher knife . . . I could feel my fingers grasping it, but I couldn’t see or move or speak.”

  Reginald and I were riveted, not daring to interrupt.

  “I was overwhelmed with an urge to kill David. To slice his throat or take his head.” She ignored the tears that streaked her cheeks. “The next thing I knew, I was lying in the grass outside the house. David was beside me, bleeding where I’d cut him.”

  Reginald and I exchanged looks. I knew nothing about such intense hauntings. I hoped he had some experience.

  “Did you notice anything else unusual before you felt the cold?” Reginald asked. “A smell or odor? Maybe a change in the light or a heaviness of atmosphere?”

  She shook her head and finally wiped the tears away.

  “Did you see anything? A shadow? Or maybe sense a presence?” I followed up.

  “One minute I was so happy and excited. The next I was freezing, then burning up. Then I wanted to murder the man I love.”

  “Why did David buy Roswell House? You said it had been abandoned. Why not build a new house?”

  “When I first met David, I mentioned the house to him. I said that I wanted a house just like Roswell, with the beautiful columns and the porches and balconies. He wanted to give me my dream. I think the lavish, glamorous history of the property also appealed to David. He wasn’t from here, but he could buy a part of the past.”

  “What happened to the Roswell family? Yellow fever? Financial disaster? Or something worse?” A murder could account for a haunting.

  “I only know the family died out, except for one heir who was born up north and never even came to Alabama. I don’t think he ever saw the house. David tracked him down and made an offer.”

  “You mentioned the house was reputed to be haunted,” Reginald began.

  “Schoolgirl foolishness. You know, a place to go and pet with the thrill of a possible ghost lurking about. Nothing like a little trill of fear to push a girl into a boy’s arms.”

  She was right about that. “But you never saw anything there.”

  “We’d scare ourselves by seeing something pass in front of a window. Or we’d see someone in the rose garden or in the shadows of a tree. Fluttering dresses or tree leaves, who can say? You know how the imagination conjures up images on a dark night.”

  Oh, I knew it well. I also knew that it wasn’t always the imagination. Spirits did roam. Roswell House, with a past not unlike my uncle’s home, might reasonably be expected to have some danglers, as Madam Petalungro called the spirits caught between life and death.

  “But you never sense anything . . . sinister?” I asked.

  “Nothing like that. Ever.”

  “Thank you, Camilla.” I felt the young woman had told us everything she knew.

  Camilla’s body tensed, as if she dreaded our leaving. “Before you go, can I ask you something? How is David? Really? I haven’t seen him for days. Mama’s left word with the nurses that he shouldn’t be allowed to visit me again. She says I’ll frighten him into canceling the engagement. No man wants to be tied to a maniac. That’s what she says.”

  If Maude Granger had stood before me, and if I’d had a butcher knife in my hand, I might have been tempted to cut off her head, or at least slice out her tongue.

  “Your mother has a remarkable talent for brutality,” Reginald said. He offered Camilla his arm and assisted her to her feet. “Let’s walk. I’d like to see more of the hospital. I’m particularly interested in the area where Dr. Perkins conducts his studies.”

  Three abreast, we left the sunny room and headed down a corridor that wasn’t well lit. I realized that the day had slipped away from us. Night was still a long way off, but the angle of the sun had shifted, and this hallway obviously received morning light.

  Ahead of us, the sound of something skittering across the floor stopped us in our tracks. Reginald walked forward and quickly bent over. When he returned, he held out a jet earbob, a per
fect match to the one in my pocket. I drew it out and held it beside the one he’d found.

  “Those are Joanne’s,” Camilla said.

  “Joanne?” I asked. “A nurse?”

  “No, she’s my friend. She doesn’t want to be here. She says she doesn’t belong with the deranged.”

  The earbobs looked expensive, and I was curious as to why a young woman would bring jewelry to a mental hospital, where it could easily be stolen. “They’re lovely.” I put them in Camilla’s hand.

  “She’ll be happy to have them back. She puts a high value on them. Her brother gave them to her before he left for the war.” She looked down at the floor. “He didn’t come back.”

  A chill touched my neck and back. I had no doubt the placement of the jewelry was deliberate.

  What game, I wondered, was this Joanne playing that she left them in the hallways for us to find?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bryce Hospital had been designed to house fewer than five hundred patients, but the population had swelled to the point that facilities, staff, and services were strained to bursting. Camilla had a private room, but the wards were bunk to bunk with patients in all states of mental anguish. The sounds of that distress bruised my heart.

  We passed a male who stood in the corridor banging his head against the wall over and over.

  “Can we help him?” I asked Reginald. It was almost more than I could tolerate, watching a man harm himself. I’d thought Zelda a coward for turning tail and running. Now I understood her actions and wanted only to follow suit.

  “They’ll give him medicine to make him quiet,” Camilla said. “His name is Tobias. Dr. Perkins is going to perform the new brain surgery on him when he returns from his meeting. I’m after Tobias.”

  I tried my best to master the fear that surged at Camilla’s casual mention of the surgery that had been proposed as treatment for her. “You’re agreeable to having them cut into your brain?”

  “I want to go home. I want to marry David and be his wife and the mother of his children. I can’t do that if I’m afraid I’ll kill him. I have to be cured.”

  “At any cost?” Reginald asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Surgery should be the last alternative,” I said. “I hope Reginald and I can find a reason for your outbursts and that surgery can be avoided.” As much as I wanted to terrify Camilla with the details of what Dr. Perkins had planned for her, it wasn’t my place to do so.

  “Miss Granger!” The two words cracked down the hallway like artillery fire.

  We all turned to find a broad-hipped nurse striding toward us, fire in her eyes.

  “Who are these people, and what are they doing in the ward?” the nurse demanded.

  Camilla calmly made introductions. “Head Nurse Margaret Brady, this is Raissa James, a writer, and Reginald Proctor, a chemist for Proctor Pharmaceuticals.” She smoothly used the cover story Zelda had devised for us. “My mother sent them for a consultation.”

  Nurse Brady eyed us with dark suspicion. “You should have checked in at the front desk and obtained permission to tour the wards.”

  “I apologize.” Reginald stepped up. “Miss Granger was telling us how hard the nurses here work. And that poor patient”—he indicated Tobias, who’d finally stopped banging his head as he watched Nurse Brady—“needs attention. I was on my way to find someone.”

  “Return to your room,” Nurse Brady said to Camilla. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Camilla said her good-byes and excused herself. I wouldn’t have dared disobey the nurse either.

  “Tobias, return to your bed, please.” She spoke with some gentleness to the man, whose hands were now bloody from rubbing his bleeding forehead.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He shambled away, now calm.

  The nurse rounded on us. “I don’t care that Maude Granger sent you here. She doesn’t have the authority to grant you access to my patients.” Margaret Brady drew herself up to her full height of nearly six feet. She was physically sound and obviously able to handle most patients if force proved necessary. “You must leave.”

  Reginald motioned the head nurse aside, leaving me to stand in the corridor. I watched him work his charm, and, after a few moments, he had her nodding at whatever he said. For a man who had no real interest in women, Reginald certainly knew how to manage them.

  Nurse Brady approached me. “I understand you’re a writer working with Mr. Proctor to report the effects of his new drugs.”

  “Yes,” I said. Better not to embellish a lie.

  “His company’s using the powdered root of a shrub grown in India?” She watched me sharply.

  I refused to look at Reginald for confirmation. “I’ve only seen the capsules, so I can’t say how the substance is obtained. If I’m to truly document this remarkable medical breakthrough, I’ll have to probe more deeply into the process he’s using.” I gave him a look. “Like many other inventors, Mr. Proctor is very secretive.”

  “Mrs. Brady, I don’t wish to make trouble for you.” Reginald showed no irritation. “The state mental institution in Whitefield, Mississippi, has agreed to work with me. I came to Bryce Hospital because of Dr. Perkins’s reputation. He is a daring physician and surgeon who is willing to try new techniques to help his patients. But I don’t want to cause any problems. I’ll take my trial—”

  “Dr. Perkins will return next week.” Nurse Brady’s tone had softened. “I don’t see the harm in showing you around the hospital, but our involvement with your drug trial will be up to him.”

  “Of course,” Reginald said, smiling. “His endorsement is what I came to get. His work is well known, and a word of approval from him will smooth the way for Proctor Pharmaceuticals. Now, if you have a few moments, perhaps you could show me around.”

  Unbelievable. Nurse Brady was no one’s fool, yet Reginald had charmed her into doing exactly as he wanted.

  “I’d like to return to my interview with Miss Granger,” I said. I had no desire to see the operating theater where brains were cut into and disabled.

  “I’m not sure Dr. Perkins would approve of an interview.” Nurse Brady might have yielded to Reginald, but she hadn’t warmed to me.

  Reginald stepped in. “It’s merely a statement of how she feels, how the rages come over her. These will help with the initial dose of medicine, if Dr. Perkins decides that he wants to work with me and if Miss Granger chooses to participate.”

  “I am wary of writers.” Nurse Brady eyed me.

  “I write in the service of Mr. Proctor,” I said. “I’m not a reporter. I’m merely trying to get as clear a picture of Miss Granger’s illness before and after. It will help draw financial backers for Proctor Pharmaceuticals. The development of a new drug is an expensive proposition.” I was talking through my hat, but I employed Reginald’s absolute self-assurance. Amazingly, it worked.

  “Of course.” Nurse Brady wasn’t happy, but her complaints subsided.

  “Mr. Proctor, shall I meet you in the front lobby in . . . half an hour?” I asked.

  “Give us an hour,” Nurse Brady said. “There is much to see. Dr. Perkins is a pioneer, and I’d like Mr. Proctor to understand the scope of his work.”

  “Of course.” I turned and walked away. When I was out of sight, I slowed my pace and began to explore the hospital. The high ceilings offered as much ventilation as possible, but the day was hot and humid. The heat worked on me, and I could only imagine how it must be in the wards, where dozens and dozens of patients were stacked so close together.

  Some of the patients were serene, seemingly at peace with their surroundings, but others were agitated. Some were tied to chairs. The nursing staff was thin, and they hustled about. What was it like to work in a place where the possibility of recovery was slim? What about the patients’ families? Camilla’s parents had not visited, I reminded myself. Only David, Zelda, and Tallulah.

  I came to the lobby—obviously I’d lost my way—and stepped o
utside for a moment to compose my thoughts. The grounds had the potential for great loveliness, but gardening and landscaping came with a price tag. The fountain of Hygeia, the goddess of healing, was forlorn. Mold stained her face, giving her the look of black tears. It was a distressing thought, and I turned to go back inside. My time with Camilla was limited, and I needed to make the most of it.

  Around the corner of the main building, I caught a glimpse of the young dark-haired girl I’d seen before, in the trees beyond the rose garden. She looked even younger from this distance. Surely she wasn’t an inmate. She looked to be no older than fifteen or sixteen, at most.

  I started after her, compelled by curiosity, and then a growing sense of dread. Something wasn’t right about this girl.

  I made the corner of a building and saw her disappearing behind a bank of shrubs. She wasn’t running, but she covered the ground quickly. A chill traced along my back as I ran after her. There was no one else about on the front grounds, and fear drove me forward. Fear of what? I couldn’t name it, but it squeezed my lungs in a tight grip.

  When I made it to the shrub, I saw her standing in the shade of a tree. She looked directly at me. The sun caught her brown curls, and I realized she was a beautiful girl, angelic in visage.

  “What’s your name?” I had to speak loudly as I walked slowly toward her.

  She didn’t answer.

  She wore a yellow frock, a shift, still in the style of a young girl, though I could see she’d begun her womanly development. A yellow ribbon tied back her hair.