Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries)

by Delphine Woods

  Iris flicked over the pages, watching the years tumble by. The notes became less frequent, less detailed. Over three quarters of the way through, the pages stopped at another photograph, which had been stuck into the binding. Persephone, older now, stood in front of The Retreat dressed in black, her face scrunched against the brightness of the sun. She held the arm of a girl, only a little taller than her, wearing a grey dress, who was very thin and had hair that looked silver in the black-and-white shading. Between them was the blur of a white dog who had not managed to keep still. The writing on the back read:

  Mrs Persephone Leverton and her attendant, Miss Katherine Owen, enjoying the autumn sunshine. October 1900.

  ‘Iris?’ Simon touched her knee. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  She showed him the picture.

  He frowned at it. When his eyes met hers again, there was a sad smile on his face; finally, an understanding of why this was so important to her.

  ‘Does it say what happened to Persephone?’ Edgar prompted her to continue reading.

  She skimmed the scant amount of words scattered across each page. Nothing new to note for months. Once or twice, the mention of slight improvement, the reduction of time in penitence, but then a downward spiral. Melancholy… Required supervision… Violence towards attendant… New delusions.

  5th April 1903. Annie died two nights previously. Mrs Leverton has taken it badly. Bromides to aid sleep.

  Iris’s gut twisted. She did not want to turn to the last page, didn’t want to see the final words. She held her breath as she flipped the paper – and gasped.

  ‘Iris?’ Simon grabbed her hand. She did not pull away.

  ‘1st May 1903. Mrs Leverton discovered dead in the lake. Suicide by drowning as a result of melancholia over dog’s death. Investigation into attendant’s neglect to commence forthwith.’

  ‘Thank you for this.’ Iris clutched the book to her chest as the three of them stood beside Simon’s car.

  ‘I’m sorry it was such bad news.’ Edgar pushed his hands into his pockets and stared up at the house. ‘I could never keep it. As beautiful as it is, there’s just something about it...’

  He didn’t have to explain. The souls were still inside Highfields. Iris could feel them watching her. Did Ernest linger in the window of his study? Did Persephone walk the corridors? Had Iris heard the tap of dog-claws on the wooden floor, the sound of a door being locked? The past had not released Highfields; the past was all that remained of it.

  ‘I suppose we shan’t see you again,’ Simon said.

  ‘I expect not. We live in Warwickshire, my wife and I.’

  ‘It was lovely to meet you,’ Iris said, feeling the sudden urge to embrace him.

  ‘And you. And please give my regards to your friend.’

  Simon slunk his camera out of its case. ‘Would you mind me taking your picture to show Kath?’

  ‘You don’t want my ugly face, do you?’ Edgar laughed, but shuffled beside Iris nevertheless. Both of them smiled as best they could.

  ‘I hope it gives her some comfort, knowing what happened to Persephone. It must have been a dreadful end for her but… Well, at least it was an end.’

  ‘You’re doing the right thing, letting this place go.’ Iris did not want this sweet man caught up in the horrors of the place. She kissed him on the cheek before Simon opened the car door and they drove away. She watched Edgar waving them goodbye in the wing mirror, growing smaller and smaller as Highfields towered behind him.

  They drove in silence all the way to the meeting spot and parked next to John’s car. The last thing Iris felt like doing was going for a picnic, but she trudged along beside Simon, who carried a rolled-up blanket and a basket of plates, cutlery, and glasses.

  The air was growing heavier, the clouds lowering, as dense as cotton wool. The birdsong was too loud as it shot across the water in the stillness. Iris’s thin dress clung too closely, and the grass on the riverbank buzzed around her bare legs uncomfortably.

  Simon took the lead, stomping down the long grass so that Iris could follow in his footsteps. Cow parsley and meadow buttercups reached to their waists, and disturbed butterflies fluttered between their legs.

  It was a fair distance to where Shirley and John sat under a tree. The ground was parched, the pale roots sticking out of the dry earth like raised veins. Shirley had laid out a yellow blanket and covered it with plates of food: sandwiches, salads, fruit, small pies, a birthday cake, a bottle of champagne.

  Shirley leapt to her feet, her pink skirt swirling around her legs, a puff of perfume wafting from her, and kissed Iris and Simon on the cheek. She handed Simon a card.

  ‘Happy birthday, old man.’ John stood and patted his old friend on the back.

  ‘Less of the old. You’re not far behind.’

  ‘Hello, Iris.’ John pecked her cheek. He was looking as handsome as ever in his signature white t-shirt and jeans. ‘Champagne!’ He ripped the foil off with his teeth, twisted the metal, and popped the cork. Shirley screamed in delight.

  Pretty glass flutes overflowed with foam. Iris rushed one to her lips, not letting a drop of the expensive champagne go to waste. The bubbles stung the back of her nose, the liquid dried her tongue.

  ‘Happy birthday!’ The three of them chimed in unison and clinked Simon’s glass.

  Simon fumbled with his camera. ‘Shirley, Iris.’ He motioned them together. ‘Must get a picture of the prettiest girls I know.’

  Shirley giggled in Iris’s ear as she draped her arm over Iris’s shoulder and posed for the photograph.

  ‘Let me take one of you and Iris.’ Shirley lunged for the camera and elbowed Iris towards Simon.

  Simon’s palm was sticky as he rested it on Iris’s arm, but for the moment, Iris didn’t care. She smiled as the camera snapped. Shirley took another photo of Simon and John. Side by side, the differences between the two of them were almost comical.

  ‘So?’ Shirley said, picking up her champagne and plopping herself down on the blanket. ‘What have you two been getting up to this morning?’

  Simon dived for the sandwiches. He stuffed his mouth before he could say anything. John tapped his plate into Shirley’s arm as he lay back on the blanket, propped up on one elbow. Shirley arranged a selection of food for him. He took the plate back without a ‘thank you’.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Shirley can’t keep her nose out of other people’s business,’ John said.

  Shirley blushed and got herself one triangular ham sandwich. ‘Sorry, ignore me.’

  Iris laughed. She couldn’t believe Shirley would let the subject drop so easily. She usually pestered and pestered until she’d wrung any and all gossip dry.

  Iris had planned on keeping quiet – she wanted as few people to know about Kath’s secrets as possible – but the silence was stretching, and Iris couldn’t bear to see Shirley nibble the corner of her sandwich like that, gaze dropped to the blanket.

  ‘We’ve been to a place called Highfields.’

  Simon jerked his head up, surprised.

  ‘It’s past Clun, quite a distance actually.’

  ‘Why did you go there?’ Shirley said quietly, but the sparkle had returned to her eyes.

  ‘It’s where Kath used to work. It was an old madhouse.’

  ‘I thought you’d be wanting a break from mad people, Iris,’ John scoffed as he bit into a pork pie.

  ‘Kath?’ Shirley said. ‘Kath from the ward?’

  Iris nodded.

  ‘What on earth have you got yourself tangled up in now?’

  ‘I haven’t got myself tangled up in anything. She’s very ill, and she was telling me a bit about her old life. I thought it would be nice if I could find out what had happened to the place.’

  ‘So,’ John said, ‘she was a patient at this Highfields place?’

  ‘No.’ Iris sipped her drink. ‘She was an attendant.’

  ‘Christ.’ John shook his head. ‘We’ll have to watch out,
Simon, seems like this madness must be catching.’

  Simon tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  ‘You get too attached,’ Shirley said, her nose sticking in the air as it did whenever she disapproved of something. ‘It’s no good for them or for you. She’ll probably be dead by next week.’

  Iris dropped the sandwich she was eating on her plate. No matter how much Iris tried to convince herself otherwise, Kath was worsening. And Shirley was right – Iris did get attached. Even her dreams had been filled with cartwheeling images of Flo’s last breath and Kath’s frail body. Maybe it did make her sad at times, but what made her sadder and angrier was to think of those old women being left in the hands of people who didn’t care a jot about them, who had to check the tags on their wrists to know their names.

  John cleared his throat in the silence.

  ‘Sorry, Iris,’ Shirley said, as if prompted. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Shirley has the unfortunate habit of speaking before she thinks,’ John said. ‘Pass me an apple.’

  Shirley did as she was told.

  ‘Mind if I have a top-up?’ Simon reached for the champagne as thunder rumbled. ‘The storm’s coming.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Shirley fanned her face with her hand. ‘It is far too hot.’ As she lifted her arm, Iris saw the small patches of sweat on her shirtsleeves. Her white shirt was buttoned up all the way, the pretty collar tight around her slender neck. It was no wonder she was too warm, and it wasn’t like Shirley to cover up so much; even in winter, the only thing that came close to her throat was jewellery.

  ‘As long as it holds until we’re finished.’ John grabbed the bottle off Simon and refilled his glass. He didn’t give any to Shirley or Iris.

  A few fat spots of rain splattered around them, making the dust on the ground fly. They stuffed as much food into their mouths as they could, eyes flicking at the sky as it grew blacker and blacker. Then, the clouds opened. Rain pelted down, slicing through the thick covering of leaves above them, soaking the sandwiches and splashing into the champagne.

  ‘Shit!’ John threw the food into their baskets, ordering Shirley to hurry.

  It was such an unusual sensation, rain. It had been weeks since they’d had even a slight shower. Now, the breeze was strengthening, growing cooler, making Iris shudder. The rain was bitter as it stabbed her hot skin, seeping through her dress, tickling her spine as she bent over to help Simon roll up the blankets.

  A burst of giggles escaped her lips as she looked at Simon, his dark hair sticking to his big, round face, water already dripping off his nose. He laughed with her, and she knew her own hair was beginning to lie in unattractive dark streaks across her forehead.

  ‘Hurry up, will you!’ John shouted at them as he chucked the final few plates into the basket, which only made her and Simon laugh harder.

  The four of them raced across the open fields of the riverbank. Overhead, flashes of fork lightning split across the sky. John and Simon galloped awkwardly as they tried not to smash the plates and glasses in their baskets. Iris clutched the blankets and champagne bottle to her chest as she skipped over the grass. Shirley, some feet behind, gripped the cake.

  It was so absurd! The one time they had chosen to have a picnic in this summer heatwave, and they had got caught in a storm!

  Iris glanced back at Shirley to find her face as dark as the sky, her hair unusually messy and flat. In front, Simon gaped at the storm spectacle and tripped on lumps in the grass.

  It took an age to reach the cars. John and Simon dropped the baskets on the floor as they grappled the keys out of their wet pockets. Once the car was unlocked, John chucked the basket in the back then jumped onto his seat and shut the door.

  Simon opened his boot and let Iris put the blankets in. They were both still laughing breathlessly by the time Shirley joined them, and Iris was not paying any attention to Shirley until Simon’s face suddenly fell.

  ‘Shirley?’

  Tears melded with the rain on Shirley’s face. Her skin was blotchy, her eyes red, her brows furrowed tightly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Iris stepped around Simon and pulled Shirley under the roof of the boot and out of the rain.

  ‘It’s ruined.’ Shirley stared at the cake in her hands. The white icing had begun to melt and was slipping off the side of the stand. The black lettering had smeared like Shirley’s mascara.

  ‘Not to worry.’ Iris put her arm around Shirley’s shoulders and felt her shivering. ‘Don’t go crying over cake, now. We saw how beautiful it was.’

  ‘I made it specially.’

  ‘I know, and it was beautiful. Simon loved it, didn’t you, Simon?’

  ‘Absolutely! It was a wonderful cake, Shirley, you did a marvellous job.’

  Shirley grimaced and wiped her wet hand across her wet cheek.

  ‘It can’t be helped.’ She rolled out one of the blankets and searched for some dry patches, then she rubbed those dry patches against Shirley’s wet skin. ‘Don’t go getting upset over it.’

  ‘It should have been perfect.’

  ‘It was.’ Iris lifted her face and made Shirley look at her. ‘It was perfect.’

  ‘Shirley!’ John shouted from inside the car. Shirley jumped, thrust the cake into Iris’s hands, and ran to him.

  John wound down the window a crack. ‘Sorry about this, old boy, but it is your fault for being born on such a wretched day.’

  Simon opened his passenger door for Iris and let her slip inside. He remained in the rain and leant against John’s car. ‘My fault, as always. Thanks for the picnic, I was really enjoying it.’

  John nodded sharply, then started his engine.

  ‘Safe trip back.’ Simon patted the car roof and waved them off. Iris couldn’t see Shirley for the condensation on the windscreen as they pulled away.

  Simon slumped into his seat. Water dripped from his hair and off the tip of his nose. The sound of the rain was deafening as it struck against the metal and glass.

  ‘Well,’ Simon shouted. ‘That went well.’

  19

  1900

  Tuesday, 25th December

  Mrs Leverton – Persey, as she now insists – asked me where I had been last night. I couldn’t tell her. Not because I did not trust her, but because I could not bring myself to describe what had happened. I didn’t know how to begin. It all seemed too big and horrific to put into stupid little words. She didn’t press me on it. I said I was sorry about missing the ghost stories, but she said there would be plenty of other nights when we could scare ourselves.

  After Christmas service in the chapel, we took Annie for a short walk. We didn’t stay out long – the weather was cold drizzle, the kind of skinny rain that finds all your hidden nooks and crannies. We had to towel ourselves and the dog dry when we got inside.

  Instead of a light lunch in the day room, all patients were to go to the dining room for a Christmas feast. And so, as Annie slept in her blankets, we crept out of Mrs Leverton’s chamber and made our way to the main house. The decorations were still fantastic, their leafy scent a welcome change from pungent carbolic. The dining room had been put back in order after the party. The carpet had been rolled out again, and the table was in the centre of the room, loaded with fine china and silverware and vast centrepieces of fresh Christmas flowers and candelabras. The tree was as splendid as ever beside the fire, and pristinely wrapped gift boxes lay underneath it.

  The male patients were already in their seats but stood on our arrival. Mrs Leverton took her place near the top of table with Dr Basildon to her right and Mr Merryton to her left. Mrs Basildon sat at the foot of the table, and I felt the woman’s eyes as sharp as a blade on me as I made sure Mrs Leverton was comfortable. The rest of us attendants took our seats at the side of the room like we do at dinner, to be out of sight but on hand if any trouble arises.

  I had to sit near Daniel. I kept my gaze fixed on Mrs Leverton as the domestic staff entered. A bowl of steaming
soup, followed by huge silver platters of food were offered to each diner. Gasps of wonder and joy rippled through the room.

  I hadn’t been able to face breakfast, but this food smelt so good that my stomach began to groan. I pushed my arms into myself, hoping the noise would not travel. Daniel sniggered.

  The diners talked about dull things, avoiding topics that might prove too much of an excitement. They recalled previous Christmases at The Retreat, Dr Basildon amusing everyone with tales of how his father always hacked the turkey into tiny pieces.

  It was both odd and comforting to see such a happy table of lunatics.

  ‘Sleep well?’ Daniel whispered to me as the cheese, nuts, and fruit bowls were brought in. I dared one quick glance at him and hated his handsomeness. ‘I don’t know why you look at me so. I am only being friendly.’

  ‘How many other girls have you been friendly with?’

  He smirked. ‘None as pretty as you, though.’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful for the compliment?’

  ‘It was not meant to offend.’

  I ignored him and found Mrs Basildon eyeing me as she popped one purple grape in her mouth. I held her gaze as her jaw circled up and down like a cow.

  ‘Did Father Christmas put anything in your stocking last night?’ Daniel said, and I heard the joke in his voice.

  It was a silly, crude thing to say, but for some reason it made me laugh.

  ‘What is so funny over there?’ Mrs Basildon said.

  I had a moment of sheer panic when I could not stop myself laughing. It was like someone had turned a tap and all this laughter came pouring out of me and I could not turn the handle back again. Daniel had straightened his face, and I tried to do the same, but the more she looked at me, her face slackening in shock at my rudeness, the more I couldn’t control myself.