“Did they ever find the murderer?” The first woman asked.
“No,” the second woman answered shaking her head. “In fact…”
Paul was unable to listen to another word. The image of his mother’s maimed face surfaced from his subconscious, and he moved away from the women on the train to sit next to an old, unkempt gentleman who seemed engrossed in a book.
A drop of rain grazed Paul’s hand now, and he focused his attention upward to the sky. The clouds had their usual feel—thick and suffocating with a threat of an angry rain.
A gregarious Fieldfare fluttered by him and landed on the top of a laurel topiary tree to the left of the Baker’s front porch. The little bird looked curiously at Paul for a moment, cocking its little brown head to one side, and then it flew off into the grayness. Paul knew the bird would leave London soon and return to its original home; perhaps the rest of its flock had already left.
Paul often thought of leaving London himself. He was tired of the dreary, crowded city. Mostly though, he was tired of feeling sad. And with yesterday’s murder, Paul’s heart felt as heavy as London’s smothering gray clouds.
Paul knocked firmly on the tall six-paneled door and, after waiting for a few long moments, was about to knock again when he heard a rustling noise coming from behind it. When the door opened seconds later, Paul’s eyes widened, and his breath nearly stopped, for it was not Richard that stood in the doorway.
three A FRIENDLY VISIT
This was not the first time Claire had taken his breath away. She stood in the doorway, with her brilliant smile and sparkling blue eyes, and Paul felt his heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird, an uneasy, yet pleasant, feeling. The pink rose-colored silk crepe dress she wore rested delicately just past her knee. Petal panels adorned the bottom of the skirt, accompanied by a rhinestone buckle that hugged her slim, youthful silhouette. Beige t-strap heels hugged her feet, and her skin—soft and creamy, but with a noticeable pink flush—matched her rose embroidered close-fitted felt cloche hat that covered her bobbed, auburn hair.
“Paul, come in!” Claire said as she ushered him through the front door and into a large hallway.
Paul removed his hat and embraced Claire in an endearing hug. Despite his quick beating heart, Paul was his usual, composed self.
“You look great,” Paul said casually. “But I’m surprised to see you. Richard said you’d be out for the day.”
“Well, I had planned to go to the scent shop,” Claire said amusingly, “But I think it may be dangerous for a woman to go out alone after what’s happened.”
“The murderer would be drawn to you like a lion to raw meat,” Paul said wryly, offering her a small smile.
“I thought you might say something like that,” Claire said with a laugh.
She slipped her arm around Paul’s and led him further into the front hallway.
The layout of Richard’s home was different from Paul’s, and the contents were certainly more affluent. The Bakers had been in the medical field since the 15th century when apothecaries were considered practitioners. And they were prudent spenders; they’d saved much of their money and passed it down from generation to generation. This custom left Richard with a bounteous amount of wealth, but Paul often teased that Richard must not be a Baker because Paul saw nothing sensible about his spending habits.
Oak flooring and the fanciest Persian rugs matched throughout the home, from the runner on the stairwell to the hall carpets. Each rug reflected similar shades of red and gold and accented the wooden floors with their wild medallion designs.
Paul peeked into the drawing room; the closed door to the custom-built study meant Richard was most likely engrossed in his latest manuscript. So as not to disturb Richard just yet, Paul headed further into the front hall to look at the paintings that hung on the wall.
Suddenly Paul’s insides writhed as he thought of the women’s conversation on the train.
“Are you alright Paul?” Claire asked as she gently touched his arm.
“Yes,” Paul said calmly, returning the tender touch. Then he pointed to one of the paintings on the wall. “New addition?”
Encased in a smooth wooden frame was the painting of a beautiful mountainous landscape surrounding a quaint stone cottage. Impressive green hillsides and mountains surrounded the charming bungalow while a cow grazed in a luscious green pasture.
“My uncle painted it,” she said proudly.
Paul’s fingers gently grazed the canvas, which felt grainy like a cat’s tongue. The colors were vibrant and detailed, and the vivid blue harebells projecting from the painting sent a wave of nostalgia throughout Paul’s body.
“My mother loved harebells,” Paul said looking at Claire with gentle eyes and a reserved smile. “And lavender. She used to say flowers could brighten any dark day.”
He looked longingly at the painting and wished he could inhale, one last time, that fresh, earthy smell his mother always came home with after working all day at the florist.
“I can’t imagine how hard the news of this murder’s been for you,” Claire said quietly. “I’m sure you’ve been drawing up all kinds of horrid memories.”
Paul turned to face Claire, and a long moment of silence passed as they stared affectionately into each other’s eyes. Claire blushed as she broke the silence.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said as she turned her head away from Paul now, refusing to meet his eyes.
Paul nodded to her but said nothing, and then he quietly entered Richard’s small, well-lit drawing room. It looked different than it had the last time he’d visited. The walls were now pink-rose, the curtains warm brown. Two leather club chairs flanked a peculiar circular table with legs that curved downward. A similar table that had a tray with a pot of tea and cups sat next to a new sofa upholstered with coffee-colored and tan swirls. Paul thought the piece was hideous, but he knew how Richard liked his exclusive furniture.
Richard did not seem to notice Paul as he knocked softly on the door of the study and entered the room. He sat at a small desk with his back toward Paul, typing away on his typewriter. Papers were scattered everywhere in the tiny room, including the floor and the desk.
“I better not be the main character of that manuscript,” Paul said in his imperturbable tone, and Richard jumped up from his seat.
“Paul!” Richard exclaimed giving Paul a friendly pat and then ushering him back into the drawing room. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”
Richard was not handsome in the same sense as Paul, but he was very attractive. His thick, jet black hair was parted in the middle and slicked with pomade, and his hollow cheeks surrounded his strong angular nose. Dark eyebrows and a thick black mustache set off his deep, dark eyes. And as usual, Richard was dressed well; today he wore a gray vest over a carefully pressed white shirt. His pants matched his vest perfectly while his black, shiny shoes matched the small, dark silk scarf tied around his neck.
“What do you think of the new room?” Richard asked, pointing to the leather chairs and then the flamboyant looking sofa.
“Eccentric.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Richard said cheerfully, “But, Paul, this is the new style in France. Someday even you will have to modernize. You can’t stay stuck in the past forever you know.” Richard motioned toward the pot. “Have a cuppa.”
Paul took a cup of tea and sat on the unattractive sofa.
“How ‘bout what happened to that Louisa Stilwell, huh?” Richard continued.
A knot welled in Paul’s throat—he reached for the cup and drank some tea to try to soothe the uncomfortable sensation. “Didn’t you know her?” Paul asked.
“In passing, yes, through mutual friends,” Richard said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “But I haven’t heard of her in years. The whole situation is tragic.”
Paul rubbed his still aching head.
“All right?”
“I just…had a rough night.”
“Who is she
?” Richard teased, raising his left eyebrow as he took his seat in the leather chair that was next to the tall stone fireplace.
“No, that’s not…”
But Richard was already on to his next subject. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about a woman.”
“Richard,” Claire said sternly as she entered the room with tea cakes and set them down next to the teapot, “I told you he won’t be interested.”
Paul was curious now. “Interested in what?” He asked.
“Claire has a cousin. Elena. She just broke off an awful engagement,” Richard said. “Paul, trust me, you’d like her.”
Richard winked, and Paul looked at Claire whose face had formed a scowl as she took a seat in the leather chair next to Richard.
“Honestly,” Claire said skeptically, “I don’t think she’s right for you at all, Paul.”
Richard looked at Claire with surprise.
“Oh, come on Claire. She’s perfect.”
Claire said nothing more, only folded her arms across her chest.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in the women around here anyway,” Paul said, resting the teacup on the table tray.
“I’m speechless, honestly,” Richard said feigning disbelief, “Haven’t met a lady in London that doesn’t desire you.” Then he leaned in and whispered. “Even Claire talks about you a little too much.”
“Richard…if you don’t stop,” Claire warned, but Richard ignored her.
“What did you say about Paul the other day, darling? That he has the ability to be around any woman of any age, type, or status and make her feel…what was that word? Oh yes, cherished.”
“Richard!” Claire said indignantly.
“Keep calm,” Richard laughed and smirked for only Paul to see. “Besides, Paul won’t be here for much longer anyway. No sense in setting him up with someone around here.”
Richard reached for a deep wooden cigar box on the small table next to him. He offered Paul a cigar, but Paul declined, reaching in his pocket for his silver cigarette holder instead. For as long as Paul could remember, Richard only smoked expensive cigars; he considered it an act of status. A few moments later, the room filled with cigarette smoke and the rich, cedar aroma of the cigar. Paul’s eyes met Claire’s for a quick moment.
“I’m sorry, did I miss something?” Claire asked curiously. “Where’s Paul going?”
“Oh didn’t I tell you?” Richard asked with amusement before turning to Paul. “I might as well let you tell her the good news since you’re here.”
He thought for sure Richard would have told Claire he was leaving. Now Paul tried to form the words, but his parched mouth prevented him from saying anything.
“Well?” Claire asked, never once taking her eyes off Paul.
Though Paul felt nervous, he retained his composure as he spoke. “Well, Richard’s been in contact with his friend Charlie Wicks, and I’ve been considered for a job at an asylum.”
Claire’s face filled with excitement. “My goodness Paul that’s wonderful news. I’m so happy for you.”
Richard interjected. “Yes, it is wonderful news. A few months ago, I heard from Charlie, and he was talking about this asylum, and, well, I thought about how my very best friend may need a job, so I put in a good word.”
“And I’m so grateful,” Paul said.
“But I don’t understand. Why would you be leaving?”
“Well, Charlie’s in Scotland,” Richard answered. “He was working in Edinburgh and Glasgow and would often travel north to visit a friend in a small town in the countryside…Whitemoor.”
“Your Aunt Greta’s Whitemoor?” Claire asked curiously as she turned to face Paul.
“Yes,” Paul answered. “And as it turns out there’s an asylum there. I had no idea it even existed. It’s privately owned and extremely underfunded, according to Charlie. He wrote to Richard that they’re in great need of a resident physician. Anyway, when I met with Oscar for dinner at Evan’s the other night, he told me he believes I could handle the job, though he hoped I’d work with him at Maudsley.”
Claire seemed vexed. “But Maudsley’s prestigious. Surely you’re not thinking of going to this underfunded place in the middle of Scotland?”
“Well, actually, I was thinking about it,” Paul said as he took in a deep breath. “It’s small and would give me great opportunity to work one on one with the patients.”
“But you’ve only been considered for the job. It’s not as if you actually have it yet.”
“No, but…”
“Charlie’s told me, at this point, it’s simply a matter of clearing it with the superintendent,” Richard said testily to Claire. “I just know everything’ll work out. Such a wonderful idea. Don’t you think so Claire?”
Paul could see Claire’s disappointment. Her face filled with unruly irritation, and she refused to look away from Paul’s eyes.
“Oh come on Claire, cheer up. He’ll only be a train ride away,” Richard said. “Paul needs to start a life of his own. He shouldn’t stay here because of our selfishness. I think you could be more supportive.”
For a few seconds, they all sat quietly, and the knot formed in Paul’s throat again. Suddenly Claire’s face filled with a strained happiness.
“I’m sorry Paul,” she said. “Of course I support your decision to leave. In fact, I think it will be wonderful for you.”
“Of course I’ll come back to visit,” Paul said. “It’s not like I’m going off to die or anything.”
“Then again, outside of London the doctors are likely to be as mentally ill as the patients, so...”
Richard smiled, and his left bushy eyebrow rose in amusement.
“Oh please,” Paul said letting out a laugh. “So tell me more about this manuscript.”
Paul had changed the subject, but he could still feel Claire’s severe stare burning into him.
“It’s still in its beginning stages of course, but it’s a tragic love story about a man who’s feverishly in love with his wife, but goes off to war and is believed dead. And after all his efforts to return home to her, he finds his best mate and his wife are in love…”
“That is tragic.”
“But that’s what the people want, Paul. Tragedy. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe even a little madness. You know all about that one. In this story though, the man’ll end back up with his wife.”
“And the fate of the best friend?” Paul asked coolly.
“Death, of course,” Richard said with a smirk.
Discomfort swept over Paul then as his thoughts drifted to the gray room in his nightmare and the ominous figure chasing him…and then the face, that lifeless face of Louisa Stilwell that permeated his nightmare only because he had seen her photo in the evening paper.
He could hear Claire and Richard talking as he stayed deep in thought about the murder and the resulting nightmare. It had been so similar to his mother’s murder.
“Paul, are you listening to me?” Richard demanded, and Paul snapped back to reality.
“Of course,” Paul answered, though he hadn’t heard a word Richard had said.
“Right,” Richard said giving him a look. “I asked you if you’ve spent time with Loxley lately.”
“Which one?”
“Any of them.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m always busy working...some of us need to work for our money.”
“Poverty is only a mindset, Paul,” Richard said coldly.
“Tell that to the coal miners.”
“It is,” Richard insisted. “That’s how old man Loxley kept his money. You’ve heard him say it before.”
“And what of the man who is good and works hard for his money compared to the man who swindles and steals to get it?
“Wealth has no allegiance to either side, Paul. A good man or an evil one may be rich just as he may be poor.”
“If it is only a mindset, then why not teach the
poor to think rich?” Claire inquired.
“Let the poverty stricken stay that way,” Richard argued. “Can’t have the poor man thinking he can take the rich man’s money...We’d all be destitute.”
“What a terrible thought!” Claire exclaimed.
“But true,” Richard added.
“Anyway,” Paul said, changing the subject. “Roger and John are too busy drinking at the arts club or in Bloomsbury to know anything about money...except how to spend it,” Paul pointed out. “Edgar’s the only sane one.”
“Occasionally, I meet up with them in Bloomsbury…” “You do?” Claire asked resentfully. “This is news to me.”
“They won’t meet anywhere else, Claire, you know that. We’re talking about the Loxleys. They’ve an image to keep,” Richard said guardedly.
Paul knew very well from his past that nothing good came of Loxley and his brother’s aristocratic, Bohemian circles, so nowadays he limited how much time he spent with them. Associating with the “Wild Loxleys” (as they were known in London) was a small piece of his past he had put to rest until last night’s brandy binge. And given Richard’s behavior after he’d had a few drinks, Paul was sure Richard was not being the most virtuous man while he was with Roger and John Loxley.
“Well, I should get going,” Paul said, directing his attention toward Richard. “I know you’ve a lot of work to finish.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Richard said as he stood up and gave Paul a friendly pat on the back. “Thanks for the visit. We’ll talk soon.”
“Listen, Paul,” Claire asked as she stood also and smoothed out her dress, “Would you mind walking me to the scent shop? I really do need to go, and since Richard has work to do...”
“Of course,” Paul said.
“And how will you get home?” Richard asked, grabbing Claire in an embrace.
“I’ll wait for her, of course, and walk her home,” Paul said calmly.
“I’m sure you’ve better things to do with your day, Paul,” Richard said letting Claire out of his embrace and helping her put on her coat.
The Secret of Kolney Hatch Page 2
