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

by Delphine Woods

  Iris grabbed her cold tea and drank, hoping the tannin would alleviate her nausea. ‘You didn’t believe her.’

  ‘I thought she could have fallen and hit her head. I hadn’t read her diary then, remember. Or I thought she might be saying things to bring me back to her or to get revenge somehow. I was only going off what the doctor said.’

  ‘What happened after?’

  ‘I agreed to what Basildon suggested. I would tell the doctors who came to assess her the truth of what had gone on between us: I had not seen or heard anybody else that night, nor had I heard Katy scream. I assume they compiled a case to have her sectioned.’

  ‘Didn’t her family try to stop it?’

  ‘She was pregnant out of wedlock. Rumour had been rife before that anyway. Talk of her pushing herself onto Reverend Cotton, and him being married and a man of the Church, that was why she’d been dismissed.’

  ‘If that were the case, why did Dr Basildon employ her? He was adamant about a girl who could set an example.’

  Albert sniffed. ‘About ten years later, Cotton got caught with his trousers round his ankles, bending the kitchen maid over the table. She was thirteen. Another girl told the police he used to watch her through the cracks in the bedroom door, before she was sacked.’

  ‘Do you think…?’

  He shook his head. ‘Katy would have told me if she’d suspected anything, but she was naive.’ He patted the blanket and smiled. ‘It didn’t take Basildon long to get her into Smedley. That was when I received the bundle of her things, including the diary. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it for years.

  ‘Smedley was called a lunatic asylum back then. They locked all the doors. I visited her not long after she’d been brought in – secretly, of course. The screams…’ He shuddered. ‘All these women in these massive wards, crying and shaking.’ He pressed his fingers into his eyes as if he would rip out the memory. ‘She sat in her bed, quiet, looking about herself. Terrified.’

  He dragged the handkerchief up to his face again. Iris didn’t say anything as he cried.

  ‘I never thought she’d be in here long. I really did think she was ill and that she’d get better and she’d come out. A few months, that’s all. She grabbed me when I came to see her. She thought I was saving her.

  ‘She didn’t mention the attack again. After everything they put her through when she came here, questioning her about everything, filling her with medicines, I think she thought it really might have all been in her head. She told me she was glad I was the father because she’d be able to see her baby when she got out. I just nodded and agreed.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To keep the baby.’ He dropped the sopping handkerchief in his lap. ‘But, how could I? No one knew. Mabel and I were getting married that August.’

  Iris didn’t want to ask; she didn’t want to hear the answer. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘There was a family a few miles out of the village. We did their meat and dairy. They were nice.’ He stared at Iris, his eyes pleading for her to understand. ‘They’d been trying for years. All the lady wanted was a child of her own.’

  Iris swallowed. ‘You abandoned your child to strangers?’

  ‘They weren’t strangers! And I never abandoned him. I took him the very day Katy gave birth. I asked how she was, but no one would tell me. I just wanted to know she was all right.’

  Iris tore her eyes away from Albert to look at Kath. She was not sleeping, though her eyes were closed; flowing tears betrayed her.

  ‘She wasn’t all right, Albert. They took her baby away.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Kath whispered, as fiercely as she could.

  Albert gripped her hand. ‘I kept an eye on him. I’ve watched him all his life.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In town. That’s why I moved here, so I could be closer to him, and to you. I kept my promise as best I could.’ He rested his head on the bed beside her as they both wept. ‘I’m sorry, Katy. I’m so sorry.’

  30

  1956

  On the first day of her annual leave, Iris ventured to the high street. The smart black dress was a little too tight, and her black heels were too high. Dressed like this, she felt the unusual sensation of strangers looking her up and down, judging her – for better or worse, she did not know. She twisted the plain gold band around her fourth finger and searched for Benson’s Estate Agents.

  She found the blue sign on the corner of a small side street. It was not a large office, and she could see the dark figures of men in suits through the glass. She pushed open the door, and the bell rang.

  A young man in his mid-twenties pounced on her. ‘Hello, miss. Are you lost?’

  ‘I’d like to buy a house,’ she said, her dry tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. The young man gawped. ‘I mean, my husband and I would like to buy our first house. He’s at work this morning and said I should come and give you our details.’ She lifted her left hand to push away a strand of hair. The salesman saw the ring.

  ‘Right, yes, lovely. Come this way.’ He led her to his desk and pulled out a chair for her. She was facing the wall and had to keep glancing over her shoulder to see the other men in the back room.

  ‘What kind of property are you and your husband looking to buy?’

  She scratched her neck. ‘A small one.’

  The salesman steepled his fingers. ‘Do you have a price in mind?’

  Her gaze roamed the walls searching for inspiration. ‘One thousand?’

  ‘Right.’ The salesman made a note of this figure on his pad. ‘Can I take some of your details? Your name?’

  ‘Mrs Raybould.’

  A door in the back opened. Male voices grew louder and more distinct for a moment, before the door shut. Shoes padded along the carpeted floor behind her.

  ‘Mr Benson,’ the young salesman said, grinning over Iris’s shoulder. ‘Mrs Raybould here and her husband are looking for their first home together.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Mr Benson came to her side. She held her breath as she lifted her eyes. ‘When did you tie the knot?’

  She couldn’t speak. Her mouth dropped as she stared into striking blue eyes. His cold smile faltered.

  ‘In March,’ she stuttered, eventually.

  ‘Best for taxes,’ the salesman said. Mr Benson glared at him.

  ‘Where are you living now?’ Mr Benson asked, his voice slow and smooth.

  ‘Renting, over by that new estate.’ Nothing else came to her mind. The mention of the council estate made Mr Benson’s lips turn down.

  ‘I see why you would want to get away from there. We have some quaint houses on the better side of town for a very good price. There are a couple for only fifteen hundred pounds.’

  ‘Mrs Raybould was looking for something for a little less than that—’ The salesman stopped speaking after another warning look from his boss.

  Iris pushed out her chair and stood; she could not bear being under Mr Benson’s penetrating glare any longer. ‘Thank you very much for your help. I think, perhaps, it would be best if I returned with my husband. My head cannot understand all these figures.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Benson smirked and walked her to the door. He shook her hand. His palm was dry and cold, his grip limp. She smiled tightly and plucked her hand away. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Raybould.’

  She took the bus to Sandhills. Albert opened the door as if he had been expecting her. She asked to use his bathroom; upstairs, she scrubbed her hands with soap, splashed water on her face, and finally calmed down.

  In the living room, Albert had prepared a pot of tea.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Please.’ Iris sat as Albert stirred her drink. They listened to the steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece before either of them could find the right words.

  ‘When did you realise?’ she said.

  Albert sipped from his cup. ‘When he was a teenager. I delivered the meat to the Bensons one day, and he was out pract
ising on his horse. The resemblance was astonishing.’

  ‘That’s why Kath never got out, isn’t it? Basildon couldn’t let her see him.’

  Carefully, Albert set his cup on the table. ‘I think so. Basildon died in 1920. She could have come out then, I suppose, but everyone had forgotten about her. The shame in those days of having a relative who’d been in somewhere like Smedley… It was easier to leave her where she was.’

  ‘You hadn’t forgotten about her, though.’

  He shook his head, his cowardice writ deep in the lines of his face.

  ‘I should have known sooner that I wasn’t the father. Mabel and I tried for years to have a baby.’ He glanced at his wedding photograph on the wall. ‘I failed her too.’

  Iris finished the dregs of her tea, crunched the granules of sugar that had not dissolved.

  ‘Will you tell Katy?’ he said.

  She took one last look around Albert’s living room. The place was steeped in sadness, in two lives denied true happiness.

  The whole thing was just so sad.

  She heard the back door open as she lay curled in a ball on her bed. Mum banged around in the kitchen downstairs and set the kettle on to boil.

  ‘Iris? You up there?’

  Iris tried to swallow the lump in her throat. ‘Yes,’ she shouted, but her voice sounded strangled.

  Her mum climbed the stairs, tapped gently on Iris’s door, and peeped inside. ‘Oh, love.’ She strode over to Iris, arms wide, and bundled her into a hug. ‘What’s up? You can tell me.’

  ‘Everything’s just going wrong, Mum.’ Iris’s tears fell thickly.

  ‘What is? I don’t understand, Iris. You never tell me anything.’

  Iris clutched her mother’s cardigan and felt the familiar softness of her mum’s body underneath. How could she put everything into words? The whole thing was too long and complicated.

  ‘Is it work? Are you unhappy there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘There are so many lies, Mum. Everybody just lies, all the time, even the people you think you can trust.’

  ‘Who’d lied to you?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t – couldn’t – say it out loud, not here, in the sanctuary of her childhood bedroom.

  ‘You know, there are different kinds of lies, love.’

  Iris wiped her cheeks with the corner of the cardigan, the way she did when she was little.

  ‘There are big lies. There are lies where people get hurt – those are the bad lies. But there can be good lies, to save someone’s feelings. Your dad tells me I’m beautiful and I know that’s a lie,’ she said with a laugh, ‘but he does it to make me feel good. Sometimes, the truth can be worse than a lie.’

  She wasn’t sure if her mother was right. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

  The kettle began to screech downstairs.

  ‘Now, then.’ Her mum kissed her forehead and unwrapped herself from Iris’s sticky embrace. ‘How about I get us a cup of tea and a fish sandwich to make you feel better?’

  31

  1956

  ‘He’s been here all afternoon,’ Nurse Okeke said, pointing at Albert, who was sitting beside the bed. Both he and Kath were dozing. ‘They were talking about their childhoods.’

  ‘Was she all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s been a lot of laughter.’

  As she neared Kath’s bed, Iris saw their hands intertwined.

  ‘Hello.’ Iris gently roused the two of them.

  Albert pushed himself up in his chair, suddenly self-conscious. He tried to pull his hand away from Kath’s, but Kath squeezed it tight.

  ‘Iris.’ Kath reached for Iris and bound the three of them together. They stayed like that for some moments, reassured by each other’s touch.

  ‘I found him, Kath. I saw your son.’

  Albert flinched; he glanced at Iris nervously. Kath stilled.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He is very well.’

  ‘Is he kind?’

  Iris recalled the cold, blue eyes, the condescending smirk. ‘He is. We had tea together.’

  ‘Is he happy?’

  ‘Yes. He told me about his wife. He loves her very much. I have a picture of him, if you would like to see?’

  Kath gasped, nodded. Albert held his breath.

  Carefully, Iris peeled the photograph out of her handbag. Kath’s trembling fingers covered her mouth as she began to cry.

  The photograph was of Iris and Edgar. Iris had cut it down to size so that the background of The Retreat was not visible. Instead, all Kath saw were two smiling faces.

  She brought the photograph to her lips and kissed it. ‘My darling little boy.’ Her wet eyes turned to Iris. ‘Thank you.’

  32

  1956

  ‘Thanks for this,’ Iris said for the third time.

  They’d been driving for over two hours already, the map spread out unhelpfully on her lap. She kept trying to read the place names on the signposts, but they were so long and complicated, that she didn’t really know where they were.

  She’d only called Simon yesterday. She’d said it was urgent, that Kath didn’t have long left. Could he get a day off work? Somehow, he’d managed it, and he’d picked her up at eight-thirty this morning. She’d readied a flask of tea and brought out a slice of cold buttered toast for each of them.

  They’d sat in comfortable silence for most of the journey, but the question had been niggling away at her.

  ‘What did you do to John? Shirley said you upset him.’

  ‘That was my intention.’ Simon shifted down a gear as they rounded a tight bend. ‘There are a few things John wouldn’t want people knowing. I told him if he ever touched you again, I would tell his secrets to the people who mattered most.’

  The mountains were growing. Waterfalls trickled down their sides and into the nearby river.

  ‘What if he hurts Shirley?’

  Simon sighed. ‘Shirley has to make her own decisions. I’d step in if she wanted me to, but I don’t think she does.’

  She didn’t press Simon to tell her John’s secrets. It was enough that he had sacrificed their friendship for her. It was enough that he had forgiven her for thinking he could be as base as John.

  The river was widening. If Iris’s instructions were right, they should not be too far away.

  They came upon a pretty village where the stone terraced houses sat on the banks of the river, their roofs lined in traditional Welsh slate. An old Norman church squatted at the head of it.

  ‘Mallwyn,’ she said, reading the sign. ‘This is it; we aren’t far now.’

  They traced the thinning road out of the village as the river disappeared behind a mountain. The road bore a sharp left, then the river came back into view. After crossing a high-arching stone bridge, there was a tiny left-hand turn.

  ‘Here! This is it.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Simon spun onto the potholed track.

  Iron gates had been pushed back and were now lost amidst the hedges. Behind the thick growth of bushes hid a small, groundkeeper’s cottage.

  ‘Keep going.’

  They traced the river, driving beside lush, overgrown lawns and orchards. The road dipped lower into the heart of the valley, and then, nestled amongst the two forest-covered hillsides, Argoed finally came into view. Its red-brick facade and thick chimneys were like something out of a fairy tale. Ivy sprawled over the exterior. Trees towered beside it, their untended branches tickling the leaded windows. Weeds splintered up between the gravel on the driveway.

  ‘What now?’ Simon gazed up at the mansion before him.

  Iris hopped out of the car. The oak door was as wide as it was tall, but she didn’t have the nerve to knock on it. Instead, she crept to one of the ground floor windows and peered inside. The room was empty. She walked to the next window and again, found the room inside bare of furniture.

  �
��It’s deserted.’ She was disappointed, although she didn’t know why – she wouldn’t have known what to say to the distant relatives of Persephone Leverton if they had still been living here. She couldn’t exactly tell them the truth, that she was searching for a dead body.

  ‘Let’s have a look around.’

  They walked the circumference of the house, taking in the sorry state of the shrivelled knot garden, peeping in through the windows to see only a few old paintings and animal heads left on the Jacobean walls.

  ‘What are we actually looking for?’ Simon said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The view of the sun-splashed river against the dense, dark forest was dazzling. She made her way out of the once-beautiful formal gardens, over the stretch of grassland, and to the bank of the river. It had a steady, summertime flow. Skater-flies flicked on and off the surface. Beyond, a quick trill of beak against bark vibrated through the forest as a woodpecker searched for food.

  She scanned the riverbank. To her left, at a fair distance away, an outcrop of land jutted into the river. The water hit into it and swirled in slow currents. She glanced back towards the house and saw the glint of a first-story windowpane in the sunlight – Persephone’s window.

  ‘I think that is where Edward might have docked his boat. Don’t you?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘I suppose so, but it can’t have been a very big boat.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  She gazed across the river and up into the edges of the forest. ‘What’s that?’

  Simon squinted at where she pointed: a standing, grey stone. ‘It looks like…’

  ‘A grave.’

  They ran towards the arching bridge, crossed it, and scrambled down onto the other side of the river. Simon led the way, stamping on the tall grasses and trampling down nettles so that Iris would not get stung.

  They were panting as they arrived beside the outcrop of land. Directly above it, on a patch of flat ground, lay the stone. It had some engraving on it, but Simon had to scratch away the moss and lichen in order for them to read it.