“I can think of a few. Would you mind contacting two detectives in London for me? They’re working with you on the Thomas Reid case.”
“Detective Wicksy and Detective Barnes?”
“Yes.”
I touched the bandage on my head. I didn’t know how many more head wounds I could endure.
“You may want to be more careful, Doctor,” the doctor said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, a couple more hits like that in the head for you, and you’re going to be in real trouble.”
I nodded and let out a weak laugh.
“Any more injuries like this, and I’ll be as mobile as a vegetable.”
The doctor chuckled.
“Let’s help you stand then.”
He and one of the policemen helped me sit up. I felt a bit wobbly once both of my feet touched the ground, but soon I steadied myself and felt good enough to walk alone.
“Franklin,” I said, “Would you do me a favor and look around the room for a wooden box with carved leaf designs on it? It’s my aunt’s.”
“Of course, Doctor,” he said, and as Franklin searched the room, the doctor and policemen guided me down the stairs.
Many minutes later, as I stood with the doctor by Franklin’s motor car, Franklin returned with no box.
“I didn’t see any box, Doctor Watson.”
“Whoever hit me must have taken it,” I reasoned.
I felt angry and disappointed. I thought that with Doctor Reid’s death, all of my nightmare of this place was gone, but today’s incident showed me that I had a much deeper mystery to uncover.
“I did find this though,” Franklin said, reaching out his hand.
In it, he held a stack of parchment papers.
“They were in a mess on the floor. Looks like someone threw them.”
“Thanks, Franklin,” I said, disappointedly, and I put the parchments in the inside of my coat pocket. Then, making sure I was safely in the car, the police and doctor left and Franklin and I headed back toward the inn.
30 Amy’s Letter
Paul Watson’s Journal
March 8, 1927—I rested at the quaint inn for a few days, taking my meals in my room. On the third day, I began to feel better, and I headed down the stairs into a warm and inviting dark mahogany walled lobby. Only a couple people were in the lobby, which was filled with tapestries of Scottish family crests and smelled like burning firewood from the lit fireplace. I wanted breakfast early, and as I passed the front desk, the front desk clerk, a middle aged woman with tightly pinned graying hair, called out to me.
“You’re Doctor Watson, right?”
I turned to face her.
“I am. How do you know my name?”
“You’re the only guest here with trauma to the head,” she smiled, pointing at my bandage. “Doctor Wield telephoned and asked that I keep a close watch on you.”
“Ah,” I nodded.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, much better now. Thanks. Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. I pulled out a small note and handed it to the clerk. “If detectives call for me, they can reach me here.”
“Will do,” the clerk said, “And I almost forgot.”
She disappeared behind the desk for a moment and when she returned, she held an envelope.
“This letter came for you.”
I took it, thanked the woman, and headed down a long corridor to the breakfast room. As I walked, I looked at the letter. The envelope was unmarked and once I pulled the small discolored parchment paper from it, I recognized the handwriting immediately. The letter was from Amy Rose.
“My dearest Paul,”
Your courage and kindness helped me realize I could find freedom from those tunnels, freedom from my torturous life. I’ve found out something truly extraordinary. I’ll come back to you, but please do not look for me. Be careful. You’re not safe. Some secrets are better off buried. Trust no one.”
With love, always.
Amy Rose
I folded the letter. Amy was here, the real and true Amy Rose. She’d found something extraordinary. Could she have been the one to take the box from the floorboard, I wondered? But why? How could she have known it was there? Where was she all this time, and why didn’t she want me to look for her? And what secret did she feel was better buried? All of these thoughts raced through my mind, and as I put the letter in the inside of my coat pocket, I remembered the stack of papers Franklin gave me a few days before.
I took a seat at one of the dining tables and pulled out the stack of papers. As I flipped through each one, I noticed that they were all poems. I took the one on top and read it.
A secret file
Stowed away
Never meant to see the day
But when it’s found
There is a cost
For when it’s found
A life is lost. –M
My heart began to race. Who was “M,” I wondered? And why did my Aunt Greta have these poems? I felt more determined than ever to uncover the truth.
“Doctor Watsoon,” said a familiar voice. A hand on my shoulder made me jump.
I turned around quickly and my eyes widened.
“Sheldon!” I exclaimed, jumping from my seat. “It is good to see you, old chap.”
31 The Lord of Madness
Paul Watson’s Journal
March 8, continued— I couldn’t believe Sheldon stood before me. I thought he had died in the fire.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Sheldon said. “I’ll have Jaimie bring us some breakfast. I’m the head cook here now.”
Sheldon disappeared into the kitchen and when he returned, I was already seated again. Sheldon sat down across from me.
“Doctor Watson, it is good to see you alive and well,” Sheldon said. He had a hint of sorrow in his voice. “A lot of people didn’t make it out that night.”
I nodded my head.
“Please, call me Paul.”
I shared in Sheldon’s sorrow for I often thought about those poor souls. I noticed the slight burn scars on his arms.
“I almost didn’t make it out alive myself,” Sheldon continued. “But from working in the kitchens all my life, I didn’t panic, just got myself and the rest of my staff out first. I tried to go back in an’ save people, but by then it was too late, the whole place had fallen apart.”
I nodded as I listened.
“I read about what happened to you in London,” Sheldon offered. “Kolney Hatch was always a strange place, but I don’t believe anyone had any idea of Thomas Reid’s madness. Suppose it could happen to any man that worked at an asylum like that for that long.”
Out of curiosity, I asked, “How long did you work at Kolney Hatch?”
“Oh let’s see, had to be about six years.”
“Had you ever seen or heard anything unusual there?”
“Well, I tried to steer clear of Reid and Alice. They were always so...well, anyway, I didn’t see anything, but I did hear some stories.”
“About what?”
“About Kolney Hatch...Have you heard of the Lord of Madness?”
I shook my head.
“When I first came to Kolney Hatch there was a servant, a kitchen maid who had worked there for years before me. She told me the story of the Lord of Madness, and I never looked at Kolney Hatch the same way again.”
“What did she tell you?”
Sheldon leaned in close and looked around the room before he spoke. I thought the behavior odd.
“The story goes that Lady Edna Kolney had twin sons, Angus and Gaylord. She loved them both dearly, but their father was sick with an unexplainable madness. He died of it, and soon after, Lady Edna learned Angus had inherited her husband’s madness. After their father died, the twins inherited the Kolney fortune. But...Angus’ madness became so great, he terrorized the village. He built himself a home away from everyone with an elaborate tunnel system underneath.”
“Kolney Hatch,” I guessed.
Sh
eldon stopped speaking then as Jaimie brought us plates full of eggs, bacon, and toast. Once Jaimie was gone, Sheldon whispered, “Yes, Kolney Hatch, but at the time, it was not an asylum.”
“What was the purpose of the tunnels?” I asked, taking a bite of my eggs.
“As you can imagine, Angus did not have many friends, and as the story goes, he enjoyed games. It was part of his madness. Once, he invited a prominent Lord and Lady to dinner and offered them a great deal of his money if they would play a game with him.”
“A game?”
“Yes. It’s only hearsay, but...according to the maid, Angus gave the Lord and Lady wine and a feast and performed a show for them as though he were a jester. Though Angus insisted he’d sent them home after dinner, the Lord and Lady disappeared that evening and were never seen again. The townspeople speculated that Angus killed the Lord and Lady and no one dared near his house. But soon people began to bring their weak and feeble minded burdens, and those they wanted rid of to Angus Kolney’s home. The poor souls had no idea what was to become of them. None who entered were ever seen again. Some said he would torment his victims by chasing them through the tunnels with his jester mask.”
I breathed in deeply.
“So he created an underground lair, lured people into it, and killed them?”
“That is the rumor, yes.”
“How did it become Kolney Hatch?”
“Angus took his life at only 30, and soon after, Gaylord and his mother turned Angus’ home into an asylum.”
“That is a very interesting tale, Sheldon. I wonder if it’s true.”
Sheldon shrugged and shook his head as he took a bite of his bacon.
“No one knows.”
“What about the living twin? What happened to him?”
“People say he was a nasty old man. Had a son who was just as nasty. But they’ve all died, as far as I know. Not a single one left. Some distant cousin owns all the land now. All I’m saying is, a man like Thomas Reid was bound to go mad running a place like that. There’s lore that in those tunnels is a room full of hidden secrets with the truth about the asylum.”
“I’ve seen the tunnels,” Paul said.
“Then it’s true.”
“In the time that you worked there, were you never curious enough to search for the tunnels or the girl who lived in them, the one they thought was the ghost of Kolney Hatch?”
“I hadn’t time to be curious, Paul. I’m a head cook.”
Sheldon and I finished eating. I thanked him, wished him well, and told him I was leaving the inn that day. The day before I had telephoned Mr. Harold Newbury and asked him if I might visit. He and his wife Laura had insisted that I stay at their home for as long as I was in Whitemoor, and I planned to stay until I could unearth the answers that I sought. As I headed back to my room, I thought about the poem signed M.
A secret file, Stowed away, Never meant to see the day, But when it’s found, There is a cost, For when it’s found, A life is lost. What if the file that the mysterious M. wrote about had something to do with the story Sheldon told me? After all, I didn’t believe in coincidences. I packed my bags, telephoned Franklin, and was on my way to Harold’s house an hour later.
32 Beatrice Confides
A heavy rain fell in London on that cool April day. Phillip had finally been found and thrown in jail for unwillingness to cooperate on his whereabouts. Because the police had no body, they could not move further in their investigation against Phillip as Agatha’s murderer. He was released from prison a day later when the head of the bank vouched for Phillip, saying that he was working on a private banking venture in the countryside and would need to return immediately.
Petunia felt ashamed; she secretly wished that Phillip had stayed in prison permanently. She was relieved that at least for the moment, her name was no longer a topic of scandal. In any case, now she needn’t worry about money. On this day, she sat at her drawing room table with Beatrice, and for the first time in many months, she felt at ease.
“She said she was going to be a little late, but I can’t imagine what is taking her so long,” Beatrice said as she took a bite of her cream cheese and walnut sandwich.
“Well, you know your aunt,” Petunia replied, “She’s probably involved herself in some poor chap’s scandal.” At least it wasn’t mine, Petunia thought.
Beatrice’s face formed a scowl.
“Petunia, would you mind if I asked your opinion on something?”
In all of the time Petunia had known Beatrice, never once had she asked for her opinion.
“I...don’t suppose why not?”
“It’s about Constable Wyatt.”
“Perhaps you should ask someone else then, Dear,” Petunia said taking a bite of her apple sandwich.
“I can’t,” Beatrice whined. “I don’t have anyone else to ask. I don’t have anyone who would listen.”
As much as Petunia did not want to hear about Constable Wyatt, she felt sorry for the girl.
“Go on then. What’s wrong?”
“It’s just something he does that worries me.” Beatrice paused to take a sip of her tea. “He...frequently visits this woman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Almost every day he goes off, and he visits with this very beautiful woman, and I think he may be taken with her.”
Petunia was pensive for several seconds and then asked,
“If you don’t mind me asking Beatrice, how do you know this? About him meeting the woman?”
“Well, I spy on him of course.”
“I thought as much.” Petunia paused for a moment before saying, “The truth is, Beatrice, I don’t know that I trust Constable Wyatt all that much, and so...my advice would be to...”
Suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Glum entered.
“Mrs. Pennyworth, Mrs. Wendell has arrived.”
Petunia looked at Beatrice whose eyes were wide with anticipation of what Petunia was going to say.
“Send her in Mrs. Glum,” Petunia said. “Beatrice, we’ll have to discuss it later.”
“Discuss what?” Mrs. Wendell said as she sauntered into the room.
“Oh it’s nothing, Tessie. Beatrice just wanted my advice on a dress.”
“Your advice? Please, Beatrice, go elsewhere for your clothing advice.”
Mrs. Wendell sat down and immediately filled her tray with a sandwich as Mrs. Glum poured her tea.
“Oh, I did learn of an interesting story from America that you all might want to hear.”
“I never want to hear about a story from America.”
“But it’s about children from Scotland, Auntie.”
“My curiosity is peaked.”
“Remember how I said that Francine Chandlers sister’s friend receives all of the latest gossip magazines from New York?”
“How could we forget?” Mrs. Wendell answered.
“Well, as it turns out, many years ago a few boys from Scotland were playing a game in the school yard, and suddenly vanished. They were never found again and were presumed dead. But then, one of them just turned up. He is the adopted son of a wealthy fashion designer. They investigated the family and found that many wealthy families who thought they adopted their children legally, had actually adopted stolen children from overseas.”
“How horrid!” Mrs. Wendell exclaimed.
Petunia Pennyworth, however, felt a wave of sadness wash over her at Beatrice’s words. She remembered how her own son had been stolen, and wished more than anything that her child was one of the ones given to a wealthy family because to think that he was dead was unbearable.
33 A Visit to Harold
Paul Watson’s Journal
April 10, 1927 evening— I spent the next month at Harold’s home. When I first arrived, I relayed to him what happened to me on Christmas Eve. I also told him about my Aunt Greta’s letter, the box and my attacker, and the poems I found. Harold encouraged me to stay out of sight for a while until the authorities were able t
o track my assailants. He reasoned that if I went searching for answers at Kolney Hatch too soon, someone might try to harm me again.
So I spent the month helping Harold tend to his newly acquired cows. I learned that Bonnie White was able to legally adopt George, and so we even visited them one day. George seemed quite happy in his new home, and I was glad to see how well he was.
In my free time, I studied “M’s” poems. They were extraordinary, and what I found was that they all seemed to be a piece of a larger puzzle. The only one I couldn’t figure out, I read to Harold as we sat on his back grounds on that cold, April day.
“Little baby gone away, taken from his mum. Little baby stowed away, forever he is gone. Little baby, little baby, forever he is safe. Taken from the park one day, and sent to a new place. M,” I read out loud as I breathed in the earthy, fresh air.
“Hmm,” Harold sounded. “And you say this poem is different from the others. How?”
“It just doesn’t fit. The others are about things going on in Kolney Hatch or about the writer herself. For instance, this one.”
I pulled out an old sheet of parchment paper, torn and stained yellow. I caught a whiff of a faint mildew smell and read the writing on the paper.
Eyes turn left,
Eyes turn right,
Patients cry,
Don’t snuff the light
Unleashed terror
Behind the walls
He’ll sew you up
Just like a doll.
-M.
“This one is about Amy Rose. I’m sure of it. M. knew that Amy’s mouth was sewn shut. And clearly this writer is saying that the patients are terrified of the man who did this.”
I showed him another one of M’s poems.
A thicket here,
A thicket there,
A branch that tore my dress.
I walked along
With much despair
My heart filled with distress.
Past pines and fields
And morning mist
My soul the wind did catch
That’s how I felt
As I marched on
My way to Kolney Hatch.
M.
Kolney Hatch: Buried Secrets (The Secret of Kolney Hatch Book 2) Page 11
