Beyond a long grove of pines, which then opened to the vast countryside, was a small stone cottage surrounded by considerable earthy hills, from which jagged rocks protruded. At one point, clouds rolled in, covering the blue skies slightly and making the hills appear dull. A rippling river curved along that road. Another river traveled all the way down a small mountain; its serrated rocks stuck out as the water calmly flowed over it.
Nigel did not ask many questions during our drive, and though I asked him a few, most of the time I spent observing the scenery around me. What I did learn about Nigel was that his family was from Aberdeen, off the Northeastern shores of Scotland.
“Fittie,” Nigel replied in a deep, baritone Scottish accent when I’d asked him from which village in Aberdeen he came. “It’s at the east end of the harbor. I’m part of a long line of fishermen, but after the death of my wife, I didn’t want to live there any longer.”
By the time we reached Dalwhinnie, a small quaint town in Glen Trium where we would stay for this evening, the skies were overcast with clouds, and the temperature had dropped significantly.
I stepped out of the car and embraced a much-needed stretch before examining the layout before me. We were in a wide, flat land surrounded by hills. London had been quite warm compared to Dalwhinnie. Nigel must have noticed me shivering.
“It’ll be warmer inside, Doctor Watson,” he told me. “There’s enough whiskey to keep a man warm.”
I followed Nigel into the Inn, which was comfortable and cozy from the moment I stepped inside. Nigel retired to his room early, but first he showed me where the bar was, which, when I entered, was already filled with smoke and the dull buzz of men and women immersed in conversation.
I learned from a burly Scotsman with a pear-shaped head and a thick white beard about the origin of the distillery in Dalwhinnie—how the men trekked through moorland heather to collect the pure waters of the Allt an t`Sluic, and how in Gaelic, Dalwhinnie meant “The Meeting Place.”
“Macleod,” the man introduced himself in a husky voice with a thick accent and held out his chubby hand. I shook it.
We sat in the deep red lounge chairs arranged in one of many clusters around the room.
“Watson,” I replied, and then he handed me a glass of whiskey. I learned then that Macleod’s ancestors had been distillers.
As he adjusted his spectacles, which fitted his down-slanted eyes but looked disproportionate to his bulgy-cheeked, oblong face, Macleod told me that Dalwhinnie was untouched by conveniences I had come to enjoy in London. No telephones or electricity existed in the village he explained, and the distillery was lit by paraffin lamps, the equipment powered by steam engines.
“Is all of the Highland area like this?” I asked him as we both took a sip of our whiskey.
“Mostly,” was all Macleod said with a shrug, and I began to wonder what Kolney Hatch would be like.
The whiskey was good, I had to admit—light and heathery, and gave me a deep warm feeling.
“Do you know anything about Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum?” I asked Macleod, who had so much whiskey that he needed to “rest his eyes.” He opened them when I spoke, and after a long moment, he answered.
“Nae.”
“Kolney Hatch?” I heard a woman’s soft voice say, and I turned my head to see a young woman with curly, bobbed blonde hair who looked about my age.
She stood from where she sat to sit in the empty chair across from me. The woman, elegant, tall, lean and beautiful, with her rosy cheeks and eyes the color of frost-covered blueberries, seemed almost familiar, yet I did not know her, I was sure of it.
“Yes,” I asked. “Do you know anything about the place?”
“I should hope so,” she said with a laugh, “My uncle is the superintendent there. I’m Rosalind.”
She extended her dainty hand for me to kiss, which I did willingly.
“Paul Watson,” I said.
“Well Mr. Watson, what business do you have at Kolney Hatch?”
She batted her eyelashes that rested under her thinly plucked eyebrows. Her lip curled into a modest smile.
“I’m the new resident physician there at the request of your uncle,” I said returning the smile.
“Well if that’s true, then I shall have to pay a visit to my uncle when I return from London.”
“Ahh, London. Have you been there before?” I asked.
“I’m in London quite often, Doctor Watson,” she said
playfully.
“Please, call me Paul,” I told her. “What brings you to London?”
“Meeting friends in Bloomsbury.”
“Bloomsbury, I see...Bohemians?”
“I prefer to use the term avant-garde to describe my friends, Paul.”
“Well, regardless,” I cautioned. “You should be careful there. There’s a murderer on the loose, you know, targeting women. Another woman’s gone missing. London is a very dangerous place these days.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve visited my uncle at the asylum plenty of times. I think I can handle dangerous.”
“I have no doubt.”
Then Rosalind stood and smoothed out her silky light-pink dress that set off her hair and eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said with a smile, and then she turned and left the common room.
That night as I lay in my hotel bed, I thought about Rosalind. She was full of such mystery and intrigue. I hoped she did visit her uncle so that I might see her again.
eight
KOLNEY HATCH LUNATIC ASYLUM
Paul Watson’s Journal
May 3, afternoon.—We left Dalwhinnie early in the morning, traveling on the flatland of the moor for quite some time. Unable to cut through the considerable rugged mountain range, we headed a long ways west before turning northeast again toward Whitemoor. Gray clouds covered the skies. As we traveled deeper into the Highlands, the roads became small and winding, and we passed many stone cottages that were humble in appearance. Herds of cows and flocks of sheep grazed on the land around us. A wave of nostalgia flowed through me, and suddenly I remembered passing this way as a child.
Then the heavy rain began. We could not see even a foot in front of us, but Nigel reassured me he had driven through worse. We came upon a large lake with the mountains in the distance, and even through the rain, it was still beautiful. We traveled for miles along that lake, which I learned later was called Loch Laggan, and soon the large and barren mountains with snow-topped peaks appeared through the half-budded trees. The rain stopped then, and I observed an eerie thick mist that surrounded the mountains beyond the lake.
We passed a village before we made our final turn toward Whitemoor. Nigel said that our supplies would most likely come from there, but we wouldn’t be able to get to town regularly.
We traveled on through a dense grove of trees—the mist staying with us—and when we arrived in Whitemoor, I realized what Nigel meant about the town being so far from the asylum. Only a few cottages were scattered about. I could not remember which cottage had been my Aunt’s, which I found humorous because that was one detail about this place that I thought I distinctly remembered. We crossed one more tiny stone bridge and then traveled down a very narrow, long, and winding dirt path surrounded by tall evergreens.
Nigel informed me that a mile down this path, we would be at Kolney Hatch.
Midnight.—It was three in the afternoon when Nigel and I finally saw the tall, black wrought-iron gateway, for the rain had slowed our journey significantly. Carved onto a large sign just outside the gate were the words “Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum- Established 1832.”
Nigel stepped out of the car in an attempt to announce our arrival. He tugged on the large gates to see if they would open, but they were locked tightly. When the heavy rains resumed, he returned to the car.
For several seconds, I watched the dark silhouette of the facility in the distance, and then shrugged off a sense of foreboding. Finally, a man in a long, black-ho
oded coat appeared b the gate. He unlocked the gateway and with some struggle, pulled it open wide enough to let Nigel’s car pass.
We drove slowly down the long gravel path that led to the asylum. The vast, flat, and green land was surrounded by endless trees that formed a second border behind the high stone wall that encompassed the property. The asylum, though a smaller structure, was made of stone and had a grand, castle-like appearance with two identical towers on either side of the symmetric building and a bell tower in the middle. An abundance of ivy climbed up most of the asylum, stopping just before the chimneys on the roof. In the large green courtyard that surrounded the building were scattered oak trees and wrought-iron benches. A long, cobblestone pathway led from the asylum to a beautiful river.
Nigel pulled around Kolney Hatch’s gravel circular driveway and parked at the front of the building. I exited the car, taking cover under the stone archway at the front entrance, while Nigel gathered my suitcases. The man in all black finally caught up to us.
“Hullo there!” he exclaimed in a thick accent. “I’m Heathcliff, the warden.”
“Hullo!”
“You’re Doctor Watson, I presume?”
“Please, call me Paul,” I said, shaking his wet hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“And you.”
Heathcliff turned to help Nigel bring my luggage into the asylum.
“It’s no trouble for you to stay,” Heathcliff was saying to Nigel. “We have plenty of room for you.”
“N..no, that’s alright,” Nigel stammered without looking at Heathcliff. “I’ve business in Edinburgh, and I must get back.”
He placed my luggage inside, and then patted me on the shoulder.
With sympathetic eyes, Nigel said, “Take care of yourself now.”
Then he returned to his car. I gave him one last wave goodbye and entered the asylum.
Once inside, musty air filled my lungs. Arched windows, covered by dusty gold curtains, rose to the ceiling. A skinny legged table with a dull candle lamp sat next to a shabby green couch and its matching single chair. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. Candle flames flickered in the chandelier, and I wondered if the asylum had any electricity. Behind a tall, wooden spiral staircase were two heavy doors. The whole atmosphere was strange and new to me.
“Raining for two days now,” Heathcliff remarked as he removed his wet coat and hung it on the tall coat rack.
“Oh?”
Heathcliff looked slightly older than me, with prominent creases around the corners of his thin lips. He had light hair and eyes, and a straight fierce nose and jaw. He was a big man, both in height and bone structure—an even bigger man than I—not a man one would want to engage in a squabble.
“The patients are getting restless,” he continued.
“I’m sure.”
“Well then, come along with me, and I’ll show you to your room. You have the rest of the day to settle in.”
He grabbed my luggage, and I followed him up the creaky, spiraling staircase to the second floor, which was eerily quiet. A tired, heavy feeling crept over me. Only a faint light filled the dull white corridors.
“You should have everything you need, but don’t hesitate to ask if you do need something.”
I nodded. The wooden floor creaked underneath my shoes, and we made a few turns before we finally reached my room. Heathcliff pulled out a large ring of keys from his pocket.
“Here we are,” Heathcliff said unlocking the door. “The key to your room is on the table by your bed.”
“Thank you.”
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, and with overdone cordiality, he said:
“If you’d like me to show you around, just find me in my office by the front entrance. I’m sure you’ll want to know where the dining room is...must be starving.”
“I am hungry,” I agreed. “I’ll find you once I finish unpacking.”
He left me then. Though the room was unsophisticated compared to my own, the bed, with its crisp white linens and mahogany bed frame, seemed rather inviting. The soft light from the lamp by my bed, and the gold rug with leaflet designs gave the room a warm feeling. I even had my own desk with a chair, a fireplace, and two decently sized wooden bureaus, one that rested under a large trellised paned window and the other by the back wall next to the desk.
I walked over to the small fireplace and gazed at a portrait of a fair-haired woman fixed to the wall above the mantle. Her eyes had a sad, frightened look about them. I felt a chill run up my spine. For a split second, I thought I saw her eyes move. I realized then how tired the journey had made me and decided I better eat something.
After I unpacked, I found Heathcliff in his tiny office adjacent to the front entrance. He rose from a comfortless gray chair on which he’d been sitting and staring perplexedly out a tall window at the rain.
“Unfortunately, I’m too tired for a tour,” I said.
“I understand.”
“But I would like to eat before I retire to my room...if you wouldn’t mind pointing the way to the dining room.”
“Of course. Through those doors,” he said, pointing to the hefty double doors at the end of the lobby. “Just sit down, and the kitchen staff will serve you.”
“Great. Thank you.”
All of a sudden, I heard a blood curdling scream. I looked at Heathcliff with alarm.
“Oh there’s plenty of that here, Paul. You’ll get used to it.”
Though I knew he was right, his queer tone made me think he was hiding something. I bid him a good day then.
“Oh Paul,” Heathcliff called to me when I was nearly through the lobby doors. “If you want to write home, be sure to give your letters to the gardener, Mr. Newbury. He’s the one with the orange hair.”
I pushed through the doors and found myself in an eerily quiet hallway. Where had that scream come from, I wondered? Where was everyone? A single door separated the dining room from the hallway. I opened it to find a narrow and empty room, lit only by the dull ceiling lights. Comfortless chairs surrounded each of the ten square tables. Glass windows were streamed across the top of the front and back walls of the room. On the side closest to the hallway, part of the glass window followed all the way to the floor—I was able to see the hallway clearly from inside the dining room. A door connected the dining room to the tiny sunroom that led to the back grounds.
Heathcliff had said to simply sit to be served, but the room was so quiet, I wondered if anyone would even know I was in there. I started whistling.
Through a set of double doors at the end of the dining room, a stocky man emerged and waddled toward me. He had wisps of tiny, shiny light hairs on his blemished chubby cheeks.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said in his thick Scottish accent. “Name is Sheldon. I’m the head cook ‘ere.”
“I’m Paul Watson, the new doctor.”
“Splendid to meet yah,” he said. “Bet you’re hungry. Meat and potatoes all right for supper?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Kitchen’s right through those doors if yah need me. Happy to have ya here, Doctor Watson,” Sheldon said, and then he hobbled back toward the kitchen.
After I finished my dinner, which was surprisingly tasty, I thanked Sheldon and headed back upstairs to my room. The sound of the heavy rain against the windows relaxed me, and my eyelids began to close. I sat down at the tiny desk to write home before I fell asleep.
Letter from Paul Watson Richard Baker
“Richard, “May 3, 8 o’clock.”
Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum is a curious place, nothing like the world we know in London. I can not say much more as I have only just arrived. I only write to say that I have arrived safely and that the air is fresh in Whitemoor. Are you well? How is Claire? Please give my regards to your father.
“Your friend,
“Paul Watson”
Letter from Paul Watson to Eda Holmes
“My dearest Eda, “May 3, 8 o’c
lock”
I have arrived in Whitemoor safely. Please give me news of your brother. I look forward to hearing from you.
“Your faithful friend always,
“Paul”
nin e CRIES AT NIGHT
Paul Watson’s Journal
May 4, noon.—No cars, no dogs, no sounds of men, women and children. Just the sweet songs of birds and the rustling of a large pine tree’s leaves outside my open window filled my ears in the early hours of the morning. I breathed in the fresh air and stayed in bed a few extra moments to take in the peaceful quiet.
I washed in the lavatory, and once I was clean-shaven and acceptable, I hastily dressed. Doctor Reid wanted me in his office by seven in the morning. I neatly folded up the sleeves of my white-collared shirt and threw on a dark brown vest and matching pants.
After locking my door, I hurried down the South-A corridor, where I, and most of the staff, including the teachers, cooks, and housekeepers, resided. As soon as I opened the hallway doors, I nearly fell backward as an old screaming man in a long white gown ran past me, his arms flapping in the air. A tall and lanky attendant, dressed in all white, chased after the man, eventually catching up with him and restraining him gently.
“Good morning,” I said to a youthful, freckled face nurse who was guiding a woman toward the East Wing. “Is that the women’s ward?”
“Martha, let’s stop for a moment,” the nurse said timidly to an unkempt brunette with glassy eyes. “Yes,” the nurse answered, flashing me a smile out of her beautifully curved lips. She gently tucked a piece of her auburn hair under her crisp white hat. “The West Wing is the male ward.”
“I see.”
“And of course in the South Wing...” Suddenly, the nurse tensed. “Never mind. I must go. Come on Martha.”
“What’s in the South Wing?”
She said nothing as she turned to leave, but I called to her.
The Secret of Kolney Hatch Page 5
