Fourth stair. Fifth stair.
She would have to stop here in order to understand their words. She wanted to see if they commented on Richard and Rosalind. Not that Phillip would have a problem with Richard’s actions since they so perfectly emulated his own.
Phillip and Roger spoke in low voices, and Petunia had a very difficult time deciphering their words over the loud sounds from downstairs. She was just about to walk down the stairs and give up her pursuit, when suddenly, she heard Roger’s voice rise. Phillip and Roger were arguing.
“I told them everything I saw,” Roger said indignantly.
“But you still haven’t answered my question,” Phillip said in his usual caustic tone.
“I can’t answer that here, Phillip.”
“Fine. Two weeks from now, meet at my house in Kensington. We’re safer there, and I’ll make sure we’re alone.”
The voices ceased then, and Petunia decided Phillip and Roger must have returned to the party. Still, Petunia waited a few more moments before she headed down the rest of the stairs to look for Richard. She had only one thought on her mind then. Two weeks from today, Petunia would find a way to overhear Phillip’s meeting with Roger Loxley.
twenty seven
A SURPRISE VISITOR
Paul Watson’s Journal
July 30, 6 o’clock.—Doctor Reid said nothing to me about the files in his office. I was sure Alice would have told Doctor Reid what happened, but if she did, he did not let on to me that he knew about it. I wrote a letter to Oscar, relaying what I had seen and asking for his thoughts on the matter.
Also, I heard nothing from Amy about meeting me at the tavern, which I found strange. I thought perhaps my letter was never delivered, though, when I asked Mr. Newbury, he assured me he had taken the letter to the post box.
The patients did not seem excited for visitation day. Mr. Newbury warned me about what he had learned as he tended to the grounds.
“Doctor Watson, I have reason to believe these patients are abandoned here. I don’t believe many relatives will come to visit.”
“I still have hope. I do,” I said as I watched George playing a game in the grass with some of the other patients.
And I did. I believed that at least Madelyn’s mother and father would visit.
August 2, morning.—Doctor Reid was specific about which topics to discuss with the families—the different wards, the clothing and contraband, the feeding—and I had rehearsed everything perfectly. But Mr. Newbury was right. Not one family member showed. Not one.
The protocol was for Doctor Reid and me to wait in the front courtyard for the families to arrive, a “welcoming” gesture he told me, to write about in our reports later. But all we did was wait. After an hour, I grew restless.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know Watson,” Doctor Reid said, unperturbed, as he looked over some notes in his notebook. “I know.”
“How is this possible? Is there nothing you can do?”
“I’m afraid not,” he answered sorrowfully as he heaved a large sigh.
Doctor Reid seemed genuinely sorrowful, but part of me wondered if those large transactions of money I had seen in his office had anything to with the absence of visitors.
After waiting another half of an hour, Doctor Reid told me it was highly unlikely anyone would visit, and I had the rest of the day to myself. Though I had not received any word from Amy, I decided I would go to the tavern in case she showed. Perhaps she tried to write to me but could not send the letter for some reason.
“I’m on to you Watson,” Heathcliff said as I fixed my hat on my head.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“You think you can have any lass you lay your eye on. But I see right through you.”
“Really? Tell me Heathcliff, what is it that you see?”
“Weakness,” Heathcliff said. “You’re too soft.”
I refused to respond to Heathcliff’s affront. I could tell he wanted to prove to Rosalind that he was the stronger, better man. What he did not understand was that I did not have as deep feelings for Rosalind as he.
“I’m leaving for a few hours to meet an old friend. I’ll be back later. You’ve arranged for the car, correct?” I asked him.
He did not say a word, only glared at me with narrowed eyes. I walked outside to find a cloud-covered, but mild day, wanting nothing more than to get away to that tavern. I prayed that Heathcliff had actually arranged for the car. I wished I did not have to run all of my requests by him. I could not trust him.
As I stood outside, I saw the wrought-iron gate open in the distance, and a black car moved slowly up the gravel path. I sighed in relief.
The car pulled in front of me, and I walked toward it. The driver, a man I did not know, quickly hurried to open the door. Before I could get into the car, someone stepped out.
Rosalind.
I was not expecting her visit. She had told me she would be in London for two weeks. I would not have arranged a meeting with Amy if I had known Rosalind would be here. It wasn’t that I felt guilty about Amy; she was only a friend from the past, after all. But something told me Rosalind would not want to share my attention.
“Paul!” Rosalind exclaimed. “I’m so happy to see you darling,” she said caressing my face with her white-gloved hands.
She hugged me tightly.
“I thought you would still be in London,” I said, trying to hide my frustration.
“I returned home early,” she said with a smile. “I just missed you so much. I could only think of you when I was there.”
“But...”
I stopped speaking, for I could not tell Rosalind about my plans to meet Amy.
“Aren’t you happy to see me, my darling?” She asked.
“Of course,” I lied. She slid her arm around mine and led me back toward the asylum.
I contemplated telling her I had to leave for a short time, but she seemed insistent on my company.
Heathcliff stood by the door when we entered; a clear scowl formed when he saw Rosalind’s arm firmly linked around mine.
“Doctor Watson, back so soon?” he sneered.
“Oh, Paul were you headed somewhere?” Rosalind asked with a large smile.
“I planned to meet an old friend actually,” I said to Rosalind.
“A woman. That’s what you told Mr. Newbury, wasn’t it?” Heathcliff said testily.
“A woman?” Rosalind said. I noted her inquisitive, high-pitched tone. “Who is she?”
“Just someone I knew when I was a young boy.”
Heathcliff scoffed and folded his arms.
“What was her name, Heathcliff? Did Paul tell you? Was it Claire?”
“Claire?” I asked her with surprise. How did she know Claire?
“He didn’t tell me,” Heathcliff said indignantly.
At least his anger was not directed only toward me.
“Rosalind, why did you mention the name Claire?”
“I just thought of it,” she said nonchalantly as she smoothed out her ocean-blue dress.
I stood defensively, arms crossed. Rosalind’s mention of Claire made me angry. I did not want Rosalind anywhere near Claire. Ever.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, Paul, please,” Rosalind said and then sighed. “Can we talk about this later darling, in private perhaps?”
“Fine,” I said coldly, glancing once more at Heathcliff who stood glowering at both Rosalind and me.
twenty eight
VISITATION DAY
Paul Watson’s Journal
August 2, continued.—At two in the afternoon, the visitation day festivities began. Several of the patients, even in the isolation ward, attended the party which consisted of art-crafting, food, and folk dancing. Woods, Hodgson, and Heathcliff stood on either side of the exits in the dining room—they were in charge of the isolation ward patients. Ransford sat in one of the chairs, a smug and crooked sneer planted on his face as he glared
at different people around the room. I even saw the woman who always made inappropriate comments toward me.
George sat in the corner playing with paper cut-outs. Some of the patients—Martha, Anna McCrae, and Eaton Fergus—were folk dancing with a few of the other patients. I even helped Alexander Parker (who was still recovering) to the dining room to sit and enjoy the festivities. Bonnie was teaching some of the patients how to dance while Nurse Bigsby, Lamont, and Nurse Hinkle looked on. The rest of the staff, including the housekeepers and kitchen staff, conversed at the dining room tables.
Doctor Reid and Alice were absent from the festivities, but I had a feeling I knew where they were. Sheldon and the rest of the cooks made mutton and potatoes, but the party seemed cold and depressing, the music on the gramophone low and eerie.
“Where are the rest of the patients?” I asked Lamont when Rosalind finally left my side briefly.
“Some of them are much too dangerous to even let out,” Lamont said.
“Well, where’s Hannah then?”
“Doctor Watson, she’s too dangerous.”
“And yet, Ransford is here,” I said motioning toward Ransford.
Lamont shrugged.
I wanted to go to Hannah’s room and look for her, but Rosalind was by my side again, and I did not want her to know I was snooping around the isolation ward.
“Paul, come with me quickly.”
“What is it, Rosalind?”
“An emergency. Hurry.”
She took me by the hand into the kitchens. I thought perhaps someone had been hurt, but the kitchens were empty since the staff was attending the party. Once inside, Rosalind rushed toward the back of the kitchen. She stopped at the back cupboard and opened it.
“This party is dreadfully boring, darling. I thought perhaps we could make it more interesting.”
Rosalind stroked my arm and then opened the cabinet and pulled out an unopened bottle of Cardhu.
We sat on the floor of the kitchen, drinking the whiskey. Rosalind was the only woman I knew who would drink whiskey like a man. For such a delicate lady, this behavior confused me.
I had too much on my mind to say anything. The notes left in my room, the fact that someone at the asylum was watching me, the mysterious ghost/girl, Claire, Rosalind, William Wilson, the fraudulent payments—my mind could not take another thought. I would have to drink until I was numb. And that is what I did.
“You know I would do anything for you,” Rosalind was saying, her face only inches from mine. “Anything.”
In my inebriated state, I forgot my woes. I even forgot about meeting Amy at the tavern and about why I was angry with Rosalind. I could only think of one thing now. Rosalind tantalized me with her sensuality.
I kissed her, but after a short lusty embrace, my mind cleared slightly, and I stopped.
“Tell me why you mentioned Claire earlier.”
“Oh Paul please, not right now. We’re having such a pleasant time.”
“I mean it, Rosalind. Tell me now.”
Rosalind sighed.
“Paul….”
“Now.”
“Alright. While I was in London, I spent some time at the Chelsea Arts Club. I met some of your friends there, the Loxleys, Richard Baker. They were all so nice to me, except one...Claire.”
“I can’t imagine Claire being mean to anyone. I also can’t imagine her at the club.”
“Perhaps you don’t know her as well as you think you do then. She was very unkind, Paul,” Rosalind said, as a tear formed in her eyes.
“What did she say that made you so upset?”
“She said to stay away from you. She said I wasn’t the type of woman with which you would take interest.”
The whiskey prevented me from controlling my laughter.
“I just don’t think…”
Rosalind looked disappointed at my reaction.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“She said you could never love a woman like me. Is she right?”
“No, of course I’m interested in you, Rosalind. Richard said Claire’s been acting strangely lately. I know she’s having a bit of a rough time. But I promise she isn’t usually like that.”
“Well, I don’t care. I never want to see her again,” Rosalind said as a tear rolled down her cheek.
I never imagined Rosalind would meet my friends, especially Claire. I hoped the two would never meet. I did not believe Claire would be unkind, but I did not want Rosalind to be sad. We sat for a long moment in that embrace, and then I took her face in my hands and began to kiss her cheeks and then lips.
“What in th’…?” A voice said, and Rosalind and I turned to see that Heathcliff stood in the doorway, perceptibly surprised at seeing Rosalind and me in an intimate embrace.
It only took him seconds to put together the situation. He was livid, but I could not decipher with whom he was angrier: Rosalind or me. I had never seen Heathcliff this angry—his eyebrows furrowed, hatred loomed in his eyes, his fist clenched, and he punched one of the kitchen cupboards without flinching and stomped out of the kitchen.
Rosalind and I both laughed.
“Come with me, Paul,” Rosalind said as she took my hand and led me out of the kitchen and down the hall away from the dining room. We stopped in front of my office.
“Let’s go in here,” I said unlocking the office door.
Barely inside, I pulled Rosalind into my arms, and as she caressed me, I fell into her seduction there in the secluded safety of my office.
twenty nine
THE MYSTERIOUS MAN
Petunia told Phillip she would lunch with Tessie Wendell at noon on that August day when Phillip planned to meet Roger Loxley. She told him she would not be back for a few hours. The predictable Phillip would entertain Roger in the drawing room, so two days before the “secret meeting,” Petunia cleared out the small closet in the room and hid the items usually stuffed inside—linens, blankets, extra silverware and such—in various places in the house.
Phillip would take his lunch break around noon, so Petunia had wedged herself—with much difficulty—into the empty closet and sat, close to an hour, waiting for Phillip and Roger to enter the room. The closet was hot; Petunia felt faint more than once, and her pink silk dress stuck to her body. She was thankful she remembered to bring the silk folding fan to cool herself. Otherwise, she may have either burst out of that closet during the secret meeting, or days from now someone would find her unconscious in the closet. She believed sometimes one must suffer through certain endeavors in order to learn the truth.
At exactly half past noon, the door opened and Petunia heard the voices of Phillip and Roger. She had kept the door to the drawing room wide open, as well as a tiny part of the closet door, just a crack, so she could see and hear everything.
“Right in here,” Phillip said, and Petunia knew the two were headed into the room.
“And you’re sure your wife won’t return?” Roger asked.
“I’m positive. She’s out to lunch with that nosey parker Tessie Wendell. She’ll be out for a few hours, though the last thing Petunia needs is another meal.”
You are a blasphemous lout, Phillip, Petunia thought.
“You speak quite ill of your wife.”
“And with good reason,” Phillip barked. “But that, is none of your business. Now tell me what I need to know.”
Petunia heard the clink of glasses; she surmised Phillip was pouring Roger a drink.
“I can’t tell you much about him, Phillip,” Roger replied, “He’s too dangerous.”
“I need to know everything, Roger.”
“Trust me,” Roger cautioned. “You are better off not knowing.”
“Damn it Roger! It’s a large sum of money. I have to know. They’re watching my every move.”
“Do you want Agatha to stay alive or not?” Roger growled.
“Fine! Just tell me where and when to meet him, and what I have to say.”
“He won’t be in to
wn until the last week of October. You’ll meet him at The Old Wind Tavern on Jermyn.”
“And what am I to do once I see him?”
“Go to the bar, hand him the package, and leave… immediately. Do not converse with him, do not utter a single word to him. If he asks to buy you a pint, say, ‘no.’”
“Are you that affected by him, Roger?”
Petunia noted a bit of uneasiness in Phillip’s tone.
“Yes, and you should be also.”
“At least tell me his name.”
“Thomas. His name is Thomas Reid.”
The men stayed in the parlor for a half hour more, discussing lighter subjects—Lord Loxley’s latest investment in an American steel company, American Prohibition, and the best types of gambling. Inside the closet, a fainty Petunia’s mind reeled, and her stomach churned.
So Phillip did know about Agatha’s disappearance. And Roger Loxley was involved also. But who was this Thomas Reid? And why was he so dangerous? Petunia fanned herself again. The closet was becoming hotter and hotter. She prayed she would not faint.
thirty PUDDLE OF BLOOD
Paul Watson’s Journal
September 15, Noon.—The last thing I remember was that it was the sixth of September, and as I returned to my room from a late supper in the cafeteria, I heard whispering voices toward the end of the downstairs West Wing. I crept down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. Normally, I’m not interested in another person’s chatter, but that night, though the voices were somewhat muffled, I recognized one of them as Alice’s.
“Paul,” Alice whispered. “He’s really got himself in a boiling pot, I tell you.” And then, “No, no. You mustn’t. We can’t have another…”
I found her tone peculiar—I sensed a mixture of anger and fright. I wondered whom she was speaking to, and at that moment, I accidentally lost my balance. I could not help but make a noise, and then the voices ceased. They sensed someone was there, so I swiftly ran down the hallway and into the dining room. I had just enough time to plop into one of the dining room chairs and pretend I was making notes in my journal when Heathcliff appeared in the doorway.
The Secret of Kolney Hatch Page 14
