“I’ve come here to help people, Ransford.”
“Uh huh,” he said pacing back and forth in front of his bars. “And then?”
“I planned on staying here.”
Ransford produced a long, drawn out, disturbing laugh and smiled at me, flashing the only teeth he had left.
“As if you had any choice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The evil one knows you’re here now, pretty doctor. You’ll never leave this place. No one ever…leaves this place.”
“That’s quite enough,” I said to him. Suddenly Ransford reached his grimy hands through the bars and grabbed my white coat, pulling me close so that my eyes were level with his. He glared as he delivered a strange and cryptic sermon, his voice louder and stronger. I struggled to free myself, but his grip was so strong his knuckles whitened.
“And when the wild beast comes to drink my holy blood, I will live for a thousand years. I will live for a thousand years, and you will die a sinner’s death. By the hand of the evil one, you will die a sinner’s death.”
I shouted for help and suddenly Lamont appeared and hit Ransford’s forearms with a black and gold truncheon. Eventually Ransford’s now bloody hands released my jacket, and he winced from the pain of the truncheon. Lamont pulled me away from the ward, and above the increasing uproar of the other patients, I could hear Ransford scream.
“It’s only a matter of time before the evil one claims you good doctor, and just like the others, you will die, and your body will rot in this place forever. No one leaves this place. No one ever leaves.”
When we were safely downstairs, Lamont scolded me.
“You shouldn’t be in there alone, Doctor Watson. Ransford is one of the most dangerous patients here. He killed an attendant just this past year—got a hold of a wooden stick and gouged out the poor man’s eyes and ate them…in the name of God.”
“I understand.”
Was I just upset by Ransford’s uncanny outburst, or had I begun to notice other oddities at the asylum? Was I afraid to acknowledge my concerns?
Sometimes strange, daunting feelings overcame me as I walked through the corridors, as though someone was watching me. And though I did not believe in spirits, I felt an eerie chill as I thought of the lost souls that wasted away in Kolney Hatch.
That night, as I lay in bed and finished my entry, how Richard signed his letter “faithful friend” haunted me. His signature reminded me of my affair with Claire and how unfaithful a friend I had been. Only a couple weeks had passed since my arrival to Whitemoor, yet London and those days seemed so far away. I missed everyone terribly; thinking about home made me feel melancholy, and yet, I did not feel happy in Whitemoor either. Only Amy’s letter made me feel joy.
I heard the women patients’ cries and moans in the distance. They were filled with an indescribable sadness. And as I listened to those cries and thought about Ransford’s outburst and Hannah’s pleas for freedom, I thought of my life in London. With desperation, I had escaped the gray doom that was my life, but these poor people, these lonely, physically constrained and mentally caged souls, would never do that. What kind of life was that?
twelve A LOXLEY AFFAIR
“Suffering has become a way of life for so many people in London. The War left many of our once wealthy peoples wounded—with wounds that have not yet healed, in despair that has not yet yielded hope.”
Petunia watched as John Loxley, the square-shouldered, sociable and well-admired man in his late twenties, stood tall at the end of his elongated oak dinner table and addressed his fifty-plus guests. Petunia had attended the party as Phillip demanded. At least the Loxleys knew how to entertain well. The golden fleur-de-lis wallpaper and large chandelier that hung over the dinner table made the room seem warm, yet elegant.
Sophistication defined this event. Petunia noticed the guests dressed as those from high society would, the women with their furs and their glistening jewelry, their colorful dresses, their perfectly bobbed, curled hair, and their cigarettes perched in between their dainty fingers. The men looked dapper in their best suits and ties, their faces clean-shaven, and their hair slicked with pomade.
The Loxleys were fortunate enough to still have maids. The maids, both young and old, in their neatly pressed aprons, filled the glasses with wine first, a Loxley request, and then carried many silver dishes of various kinds of food. Mutton, casseroles, cheeses, red fruits and other delectable foods filled the table, and still no one touched his china, for John Loxley was not finished speaking, and when a man as well-liked as John spoke, people kept quiet.
“Marred ex-heroes beg on our corners,” John continued, “Children wonder if they’ll ever match up to our fallen and surviving heroes. One of those surviving heroes is my own dear brother, Edgar, whom I attempt to honor with this long-winded speech.”
Many guests chuckled at the youngest Loxley’s words as everyone turned to clap for Edgar, who seemed withdrawn at the end of the table sitting back in his tall chair, one leg crossed over the other. One of his long, thin hands was gently crossed over his legs as he smoked his cigarette with the most stoic face Petunia had ever seen a man wear.
“As the youngest Loxley,” John continued, “I fear I’m often viewed as—oh how do I put this delicately so as not to bruise my precious ego? An irresponsible ingrate.”
The guests laughed. Even Petunia chuckled.
“But the truth is, I’ve the deepest gratitude for all of you in my life, and for the ability to stand before you in this luxurious home. I have my father to thank. Though he could not be here tonight, I will thank him in front of all of you. So if you would all kindly hold up your drink glasses, and let us toast to my father, Aldous Loxley, whose fervent progressive mind enabled him to make wise financial investments in many large corporations and industries. These investments have spared the Loxley family from the destitution and pain our peers have faced. We thank you father. And now everyone, because I am sure you’re all famished, please enjoy this delicious food and evening, and may you have many entertaining evenings after this one.”
At the conclusion of the applause, which continued much longer than the usual polite clap after a dinner party speech, the guests ate. Petunia could hardly contain herself, for she had nearly starved herself for two weeks just to squeeze into that black beaded dressed that barely zippered. Just when she’d taken a full mouthful of the scrumptious mutton, Phillip opened his mouth.
“Smaller bites, Petunia,” Phillip chided under his breath. “You’ll embarrass yourself and me if your dress bursts at the seams in front of everyone.”
Petunia contained her composure, and although she ate smaller bites, she made sure to stuff herself when Phillip turned his head to converse with the odd and mysterious Roger Loxley.
Roger Loxley, the middle Loxley, a lanky fellow with round, sunken dark eyes and black hair, and an abnormally hooked nose was an intellectual of quite exceptional powers, that fact was certain. Through his bucked teeth, he spoke to Phillip of his fascination with books from the sixteenth century, of detective books, and of his authority on ornithology. Roger impressed most people, but to Petunia, he was just an odd fellow, detached somehow as if perhaps his intellectuality had overthrown his capacity to socialize properly.
When the dinner was over, and all the china had been cleared from the table, John led his fifty guests into a large drawing room. Wines, whiskeys, and scotches flowed into glasses and smoke filled the room. One man sat on the seat of the Loxley’s pearly white baby grand piano in the corner of the room and began to play. Another pulled out a saxophone, another a trumpet, and soon music filled the room. Some danced and drank while others enjoyed the Loxley’s outside verandah conversing and savoring the cool summer night.
Phillip somehow freed himself from the guests, and left Petunia standing in the corner of the room by the tall built-in bookshelves—alone. Suddenly Petunia heard the harsh voice of a woman behind her, a voice she immediately recognized.
“Petunia Pennyworth, you should be ashamed for showing your face at such an elegant affair as this,” said Lady Elizabeth Dane, shaking a white-gloved finger toward Petunia. “Come here to ruin someone else’s life?”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Dane….”
Petunia wanted no trouble with the woman, but trouble always seemed to find Petunia.
“You and your insolent friends ruined my granddaughter’s reputation.”
“Lord Dellington is a married man, Lady Dane, and your granddaughter…”
“Their affair was a rumor, started by that blasphemous Wendell girl.”
Petunia could not help but scoff.
“I hardly think your granddaughter was an innocent girl, Lady Dane. Perhaps you don’t know her as well as the rest of the men in London do…”
“How dare you disgrace my family with your spurious tales?
“How dare you accuse me of spreading rumors that were actually truths? We saw her with Lord Dellington…”
“You…”
“Ladies, please,” said the bronzed, ocean-eyed John Loxley, “I’m sure we can iron out this disagreement at another time and place. You both do know what the definition of a party is, correct?”
“I’m sorry John, but I cannot stay in this house with such an impertinent woman.”
“Well that’s too bad, Lady Dane. Mrs. Pennyworth is welcome in my home, and if this affair no longer suits you, well then, you are free to leave. But I do wish you would stay—the fun has only just begun. Come with me, I’ve something to show you.”
With one last hateful look at Petunia, Lady Dane accompanied John Loxley who turned his head slightly to wink at Petunia. John Loxley, who seemed to judge no one and accept everyone, was the only person at the moment that Petunia liked at this party.
Petunia, still shaken from her encounter with Lady Dane, ambled cautiously with pursed lips through the throng of smiling and laughing people. She listened to their conversations as she walked—what she could hear over the music anyway. Some spoke of their jobs, some talked about their wonderful relationships, and Petunia could not help but wonder if these people, who seemed so incredibly happy, were actually just putting on a facade as she was or if their lives were truly as wonderful as they claimed. She found herself stepping onto the verandah and found her way to the outside bar so she could lean on it.
“Petunia?” A voiced called to her, and she turned to see the tall, gray-haired and broad shouldered Oscar Baker, clad in a black suit, a glass of wine in his large hands.
“Oscar Baker,” she said embracing him in a long hug. She gazed into his wide, dark eyes. “I had no idea you were here. I didn’t see you at dinner.”
“I wasn’t at dinner. I was at the hospital until late. And I’m afraid I can only stay a short while.” He looked around. “Besides, this crowd isn’t really my taste.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, Oscar,” Petunia answered with a smile. “Are you well?”
“Quite, thank you. But I’ve been very busy as you can imagine. How’s Phillip?” He asked with a warm smile.
Petunia knew Oscar only asked her that question as a formality. Oscar knew very well what kind of person Phillip was, and Petunia did not think Oscar liked him all that much or cared about his well-being.
“He’s...Phillip. Around here somewhere,” she answered.
For a moment, silence ensued. The last time Petunia had really spoken to Oscar was once after Wendy’s funeral.
“Have you…spoken to Paul?” Petunia asked him.
“He’s written to Richard…says he’s doing well in Whitemoor. But I’m worried about him, you know? He still blames himself for Wendy’s death.”
“Of course it wasn’t his fault.”
“Of course. But it’s hard when a person has no closure. It’s been hard for me too.”
“I understand.”
“I often think, if only she’d married me. She wouldn’t have been there that day.”
“Perhaps. But Wendy was a stubborn woman. A good woman, but stubborn. She likely would have been there even if she’d agreed to marry you Oscar.”
Oscar laughed. “Now that I think of it, yes, you’re absolutely right.”
They shared a laughed, and then Petunia changed the subject. Talking about Wendy made her sad.
“Is your son here, Oscar?” Petunia asked.
“Richard and Claire are both here somewhere. They couldn’t make the dinner either. Richard had a meeting about his manuscript, but between you and me, I don’t think they’ll be leaving with me. Richard’s quite attached to the Loxley brothers these days.”
Suddenly, Claire and Richard appeared by Petunia’s side. Richard nodded toward Petunia and then turned toward his father.
“Father, I want you to meet someone,” Richard said to Oscar. After excusing themselves, they strolled over to a group of men crowded around a tall wicker table.
Claire stayed by Petunia’s side.
“Hullo Petunia,” Claire said.
Petunia greeted Claire with a light smile—she seemed as uncomfortable at the party as Petunia.
“Are you enjoying the party?” Petunia asked Claire.
“Sure, I suppose. How ‘bout you?”
“Not really,” Petunia answered truthfully. She let out a small sigh. “But I think John Loxley is a wonderful person.”
“He is. He’s very nice.”
“The ladies seem to enjoy the Loxley brothers.”
“They do.”
Petunia noticed Claire seemed distant, her mind somewhere else. Her shoulders had sunk in her black crepe dress, and she seemed almost frail.
“Oscar tells me that Paul is doing well in Whitemoor.”
Claire seemed taken aback by the mention of Paul.
“He’s…um, written home to Richard, and Richard to him.”
Suddenly Claire’s face turned white, and she looked ill.”
“Will you excuse me a moment, Petunia,” Claire said uneasily.
“Are you alright, Claire?”
“Oh yes, of course. I just need to freshen up.”
Claire walked away, and Petunia stood alone once more. She examined the bar and finally poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir. Taking a large gulp, she watched everyone still seemingly having a wonderful time, Phillip included; he stood clinking glasses with Loxley and his brothers. She made her way to an empty wicker chair, and was just about to sit down when suddenly Richard appeared by Petunia’s side.
“Have you seen Claire?” Richard asked.
“She’s gone to freshen up,” Petunia told him. “But, Richard, I think…”
A heavy crease formed between Richard’s bushy eyebrows, and he hurried away from Petunia to hide himself behind Oscar who was speaking to John. Suddenly, a woman appeared by Richard’s side. That woman was not Claire. Richard walked away from her and headed to the outside bar where Petunia had originally stood. Relentlessly, the woman followed him and stood close to Richard as he poured himself another drink. Petunia thought this situation was very peculiar.
The woman was tall and thin, clothed in a crimson red dress that set off her bobbed, curled blonde hair. Her eyes were blue frost. She was a woman confident of her beauty—her head was held high, her hands moved with elegance in her white, long gloves. Heads turned to stare at the woman as if she were a Queen, no, as if she were the goddess Aphrodite herself. Oddly, she only seemed concerned with Richard, but then John Loxley made his way over to greet her, and suddenly she seemed taken with him.
Claire was still not back from the lavatory when Petunia went to the lavatory herself. Petunia scurried through the oaken hallway doors, past the warm golden wallpaper and unlit fireplace. She took a quick glance at the velvety painting of a fierce, stern looking Lady Loxley, and as the tall oak grandfather clock chimed ten in the evening, she hurried into the grand hallway.
When Petunia finally reached the lavatory, the door was closed. Was Claire still in there, she wondered? She knocked
on the door but did not hear anyone inside.
“Claire? Claire, are you alright?” She whispered, but still she heard nothing.
Petunia decided she would use the lavatory upstairs when suddenly she heard low voices close by.
“Rosalind, no, not here. Come with me.”
Petunia knew Richard Baker’s distinct voice, so when she heard him speak the name Rosalind, she quietly peered around the wall in the grand hall to see Richard pulling the ungloved hand of the blonde woman in the red dress up the grand staircase. When they were out of sight, Petunia decided to follow them. She tiptoed up the white marble stairs and tried not to breathe heavily as she climbed. Large tapestries of medieval knights lined the walls of the grand stairs. Petunia had learned on the “grand tour” when they had arrived that the Loxleys had the tapestries specifically designed so the eyes of the knights were always staring at a person from whichever direction he stood on the staircase. Petunia thought the whole set up was petrifying.
When she finally reached the top of the tall steps, she stopped. She had not seen which way they had gone. She heard low voices coming from the archway to her left, so she tiptoed slowly toward the slight opening. The voices were just above a whisper, and Petunia had a difficult time deciphering what they were saying as she quietly approached the door. Now, the voices were louder. At one point she thought she heard Richard say “that was not part of the plan,” but Petunia wasn’t certain.
She ever so gently peered through the opening in the door. Now she could see them both, for to the right of the opening was a large mirror in which she could see their reflections. Richard looked worried as he paced back and forth. The woman, however, stood tall and confident.
“Rosalind, I love my wife. I never meant for this to go so far.”
“This? Well, you didn’t seem to mind this last night.”
“Rosalind, please, this arrangement, you and me, is not going to work anymore. I made a promise to Claire…to love her forever.”
Petunia held her breath as she watched Rosalind step closer to Richard and stroke the side of his face with her hand. Rosalind grabbed his hand then and placed it around her waist as she stepped even closer to him.
The Secret of Kolney Hatch Page 8
