“You’ll forget about her, Richard. You already have. You’ve already been with me, and so, you’ve already broken your promise.”
Petunia backed away without making a sound and scurried down the stairs. She could not believe what she had just seen. Richard Baker was having an affair.
thirteen WILLIAM WILSON
Letter from Paul Watson to Richard Baker
“My friend Richard, “28 May, 8 o’clock
I am happy to hear about your success with your manuscript. Which production company is it? What do they plan to do with it?
Regarding Roger and John, be careful. Roger has always had a way of coercing a person into doing things he would not otherwise do. As for Claire, I will write to her, but I cannot promise she will be receptive.
Kolney Hatch is a strange place, but as the gardener Harold told me, it is an asylum. Oddities are expected. Have you received any word from Charlie Wicks? I thought he might write to me when I arrived, but I have yet to receive anything. Please give your father my regards.
“Your friend,
“Paul”
Paul Watson’s Journal
28 May, 2 in the morning.—A figure loomed over me. Her cold, gray fingers stroked my hair and face. I tried, with all my might, to wake myself from the dream, but my body was paralyzed. She seemed so real, and I was afraid she would suffocate me.
I woke in a cold sweat to the sound of a scream. It was dawn, and the sun peeked over the trees outside my window. My neck was sore from the hard bed, and the restless sleep left me too tired to shave or fix my hair. I already had stubble on my jaw and chin, but I did not care.
When I finally dressed, I headed straight to Doctor Reid’s office—I had a few questions for him. He was locking his door just as I arrived.
“Doctor Reid...may I speak with you?”
“Of course, Watson. Accompany me to the occupational therapy room. Oh...and before I forget,” he said as we walked down the hallway, “August 1st is visitation day and June 28, the inspector will be here, so keep your files updated. What was it you needed to speak with me about?”
“It’s about one of the patients in the isolation ward...Hannah?”
“Oh yes, you handled that incident well.”
“Thanks...I noticed Hannah had a lot of bruises. They seemed...”
“Self-inflicted.”
“No...I...”
“I’m telling you they were.”
“Oh.”
We stopped outside of the knitting occupational room, and Doctor Reid turned to face me. A crease had formed between his brows.
“Hannah’s very troubled,” he remarked. “The hallucinations and seizures began after her son died...she swore she saw his ghost. Her husband didn’t know what to do about it, of course. Then she attempted to take her own life, and then...she tried to murder her husband by poisoning him. That’s how she came to us. Still swears she sees her son.”
“I see.”
Doctor Reid smiled faintly.
“I’d like to think we’re helping her here....keeping her away from harm.”
Doctor Reid was about to walk into the occupational room when Alice walked briskly toward us.
“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” she said sternly. “Doctor Reid, may I have a moment please. You must tell me how to proceed with Frederick Hume.”
“Sure, Alice. Doctor Watson, would you ask Nurse Hinkle to escort Stephen Watters to the patient waiting room and wait for me there?”
I nodded to him and quietly entered the dull room. Clouds had rolled in, making the room appear dark and dreary. The patients—only five were in the knitting room—were all quiet. Nurse Hinkle stood watching over them. Lamont stood in the back of the room staring at Nurse Hinkle. I cleared my throat to get their attention.
“Doctor Reid will see Stephen now. Would you mind escorting him to his office?”
“Sure, Doctor Watson,” Nurse Hinkle said softly. Her face flushed a bright pink. “Come on, Stephen.” She helped him up, and I escorted them both out of the room.
I headed to the dining room to eat breakfast quickly, and by the time I reached the infirmary, Alice was waiting for me.
“William’s complaining of rib pain,” she said briskly giving me a cold stare. “I’ll leave you to it.”
When Alice left, I examined William, a gentle, kind fifty-year-old man who came to the asylum with prolonged melancholia and occasional fits. As he lay on the white bed linens, I noticed something was wrong.
“Would you mind removing your shirt, William,” I asked. He was having difficulty breathing, and when he removed his shirt, I could see why. He had extensive bruising all over his bony chest, and broken ribs.
I worried he had inflammation in the lining of his lungs.
“How did you acquire these bruises?” I asked.
Saying nothing, William’s dark oblong eyes filled with fear, and he shook his head. I tried to comfort him. “I promise I will try to help with the pain, but I’m afraid of possible internal damage. So if you don’t tell me what happened, William...”
“They kicked me. Struck me down!” William exclaimed.
“Who did?”
“Woods and Hodgson.”
Hodgson and Woods were attendants at Kolney Hatch.
“When did this happen?”
“Two days ago.”
“Any witnesses?”
“The Captain,” he answered slowly as he wheezed.
“Any other witnesses?”
William shook his head.
Of course. No sane people to see the act meant it either never happened or would never be taken seriously. I doubted the attendants would confess committing such a crime against a patient.
“Alright, William, you rest now. You’re safe in here.”
Before lunch, I found Doctor Reid and told him what happened.
“They always tell stories, Watson,” he said, his mood unaffected by what I’d just told him.
“But Doctor, I’m afraid he may have pleurisy. He has bruises all over his body, and he’s having difficulty breathing. His lungs are weak. I’m not saying it was definitely Woods and Hodgson, but perhaps William did get into some type of argument…”
Doctor Reid considered the situation for a moment.
“I’ll have a look at him when I get back. I have some house calls to make in town, so I’ll need you to run the facility while I’m gone.”
And with that, Doctor Reid left.
fourteen JEALOUS LOVER
Paul Watson’s Journal
28 May, evening.—My new office was in the downstairs East Wing. I’d made it as comfortable as I could—moved some unused pieces from other rooms, took the red sofa from the patient waiting room and some of the paintings. Nurse Hinkle had some of the patients weave me a rug for the room as well, which fit nicely. And some of the patients in the carpentry workshop made me a very nice table.
Woods had brought my next patient, George Wallingston, to my office. Once George was inside, I stepped into the hallway and closed the door to my office. I called to Woods.
“Mr. Woods?”
Woods turned to face me—the deep scar on his upper lip gave him a permanent smirk.
“Were you and Hodgson the attendants on duty in the men’s ward yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“See anything strange happen among the patients?”
“No, why?”
“William Wilson was hurt badly.”
“I didn’t see any rows. Perhaps he did it to himself.”
Woods crossed his arms and looked around the empty hallway.
“These bruises were absolutely not self-inflicted. Were you and Hodgson in the room the entire afternoon?”
“We took shifts. Most of the patients were in therapy...”
“Only the Captain and William were in there then...”
He nodded.
“Did you ever have any trouble with William?”
“No...you think we hurt
him?”
“I didn’t say that, but I was hoping you could help me figure out who did.”
“I don’t know...sorry...” he said and then he turned and headed back down the empty hallway.
I lingered there for a moment and then returned to my office where George sat on the red sofa. As I sat down at my desk, I could not stop thinking that William Wilson was telling the truth about Woods and Hodgson, but I had no way of proving it.
The ticking of the clock on the tall oak cabinet brought me back to the present.
George was a small, scrawny boy with dirty blonde hair and pale skin who was committed to the asylum for setting his house on fire, resulting in the death of his sister. Doctor Wicks’ reports had noted that George insisted his sister had started the fire, but the numerous accounts of George starting fires—as noted by his stepmother and housekeeper—indicated that George suffered from pyromania.
“What you say in this room to me will always be safe,” I said to George before we began our session. “I will never tell another soul.”
For the next hour I engaged George in a series of questions about the incident. At first, he seemed reluctant to answer, but after some encouragement, George told me his story.
“We couldn’t get out,” George said, referring to how he and his sister were locked in the attic by his cruel and violent step-mother after their father passed and how they were fed only scraps of bread like beasts. With no toys and no beds, George and his sister were left to die in that attic. To George, Angela had started the fire in an attempt to save them both, but only George escaped. When the session was over, I cross-referenced Wicks’ notes with my own. Perhaps Charlie had not had enough sessions with the boy, but I saw nothing written about the step-mother’s abusive nature.
If George were telling the truth, then he and his sister were severely ill-treated children. Of course, I would need to obtain the whole story, but I wondered why this information had not been recorded anywhere in George’s file.
After my session with George, I took a break in the atrium. As I smoked my cigarette, my thoughts turned back to William Wilson. I heard a noise, and I looked up to see a woman stood in the atrium doorway—Rosalind.
“So you came to visit after all,” I said to her as I kissed her hand. Her milk-colored skin looked beautiful in her knee-length icy-blue dress and cream-colored cloche hat.
“So I have,” she said, flashing me a smile.
“How was London?”
I escorted Rosalind through the empty atrium. I could see droplets of water falling from the gloomy gray clouds onto the glass ceiling.
“It was certainly interesting,” Rosalind said turning to look at me with her penetrating gaze.
“How so?”
“I’d rather not bore you with those details,” Rosalind answered.
“That doesn’t sound interesting,” I said with a smile. Rosalind laughed as we headed down the stairs.
When we reached the lobby, Heathcliff emerged from his office before I could say anything else.
“Rosalind!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea you’d be back so soon.”
I stood with my hands folded in front of me as he embraced her in a long, affectionate embrace, which I noticed was only slightly returned by Rosalind.
“Is my uncle here, Heathcliff? I couldn’t find him anywhere.”
“He’s gone to town,” I said.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Rosalind. We could dine together, if you’d like.”
“Actually, I’d like to spend some time with Doctor Watson. I’d like to get to know my uncle’s new hire a little better.”
The perceptible aversion directed towards me at that moment from Heathcliff indicated his adulation for Rosalind.
“But Doctor Watson is the only doctor here right now. I’m sure he is needed in the infirmary or to help some of the patients.”
“We won’t be long,” I said. “If you need me, I’ll be right in the front courtyard.”
I grabbed an umbrella for Rosalind and did not bother to look at Heathcliff’s face as I let Rosalind and me out the front door and onto the gravel pathway.
This moment was the first I had been out of the front grounds of Kolney Hatch since I’d been at the facility, and looking around at the mountainous scenery before me, I realized just how isolated the place was.
A light rain trickled on the top of my head; the sky was now completely cloud-covered. I held the umbrella up for Rosalind as we walked.
“How do you like Kolney Hatch so far, Doctor Watson?”
“It’s paradise,” I said with indifference. I offered her a small smile.
Rosalind laughed as she locked her arm through mine.
“You’re very handsome, Doctor Watson. Too handsome, in fact.”
“Can anyone be too handsome?”
“Oh yes, it’s a dreadful affliction.”
“Really, and how do you know I suffer from this dreadful affliction?”
“I watch how women look at you,” she smirked. “Is there a woman in the world not smitten with you?”
“Alice doesn’t seem to like me, so there’s one…”
“Alice doesn’t like anyone.”
“She likes your uncle.”
“She ought to like him...she works for him after all.”
“So what do you think of me?”
I guided her to one of the wrought iron benches under the Oak tree.
“I think you’re just fine, Paul Watson.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, that doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“It’s as convincing as it can be right now,” she answered somberly.
“You’re seeing someone.”
“I am, but I’m not sure about him now.”
“Is it Heathcliff?” I asked.
Rosalind laughed.
“Heathcliff has always loved me, but I’ve never felt the same for him.”
“I see. Well then, tell me about this chap who seems to be making you so sad.”
“He’s smart...Powerful. And…”
“Handsome?”
“Not like you.”
“At least I have something over him then.”
“You’re funny. Do you have any bad traits?”
“Well, I’m not a fan of football.”
Rosalind smiled, and we walked, linked in arms, back toward the front of the building. Heathcliff was waiting for us when we returned.
“Doctor Watson,” he called out to me, “You’re needed in the infirmary…somethin’ to do with William?”
I turned to Rosalind. “I have to go.”
“I understand; I’ll come back and visit you soon.”
“I’d like that,” I told her. For a moment, we stood under the umbrella just staring into one another’s eyes. That familiar look in her eyes made me feel closer to Rosalind.
Heathcliff scowled at me as I entered the asylum, but Rosalind quickly eased his aversion for me by showering him with attention.
I exchanged one last smile with Rosalind before rushing to the infirmary to check on Wilson. But when I reached the room, I found Wilson safely asleep in his hospital bed. After checking his vital signs, I could not help but laugh at Heathcliff’s endeavor to get me away from Rosalind, though I could not believe that a man would stoop to such a level of childishness.
When the day was over, and I turned in for the evening, I noticed someone had slipped a letter under my door. It was from Claire.
Letter from Claire baker To Paul Watson
“My dearest Paul, “May 21, 1926, London”
I hope you are well. I hoped that with your absence, perhaps I would feel lighter—a heavy weight would lift off of my shoulders. I would be unbound from the thought of you like a freed bird from a cold-wire cage. But I am afraid that is not possible because I miss you terribly Paul. I feel so alone without you around.
Richard is different since you left. He acts distant toward me most days. He is never
around, always out until the early hours of morning, always with the Loxleys, and I fear that he is beginning to fall back into his old habits. Do not worry though; he has not hurt me again.
He wonders why I am acting strange, but I cannot tell him. The truth is I am pregnant, and you are the only person in the world I can tell, the only person who can comfort me.
I feel like the worst person in the world to say what I am about to, but I do not want to be pregnant, Paul. I do not want to be pregnant. I am scared. I do not feel comfortable with Richard. He is turning into someone I hardly know. What am I to do, Paul? Please write to me as soon as you can. Send the letter to your home, not to mine. Richard will read the letter if you send it here, and I have not told him I am pregnant yet.
“Yours always and forever,
“Claire”
fifteen A MISSING PERSON
Paul Watson’s Journal
June 1, early morning.—Screams of restless patients kept me up most of the night until I fell into a nightmare about a corpse that rose from its grave and chased me. Cornered in a dark room, when I turned to face the corpse, it was my mother that stood before me. At first, she was as I always knew her, beautiful. But soon, her face changed to gray and dying—the bullet hole in her head oozing blood. I wanted to save her, but I could not move. Then her body crumpled to the floor, and she was just a corpse again.
When I awoke, I stared at the pasty walls for a long while before I rose from that hard bed and dressed. The eyes in the portrait of the woman over the fireplace seemed different today—less sad and more distant.
Even after I’d dressed, I thought about my mother, how much I missed hearing her voice and her laugh. I blankly stared into the mirror. I hardly recognized my reflection. With my growing hair and beard, I looked older, hardened.
Shifting my gaze to the clock, I realized I would need to hurry to the infirmary. I had to check on Alexander Parker who was recovering from his operation. He had swallowed a bunch of metal rivets, washers, and hob-nails. I also had to check on William. His bruises had started to heal, but he was still unable to breathe well.
The Secret of Kolney Hatch Page 9
