The Secret of Kolney Hatch (14 page)

He shook his head.

“How did he die?” I asked.

“He tried to escape through the river. But he didn’t make it across. He drowned.”

“What?” Lamont exclaimed.

“I’ll get Doctor Reid,” I said, and hurried off to find him.

Doctor Reid wasn’t in his office, so I hurried out to the back grounds to his cottage. I banged on his large oak door.

“Doctor Reid!” I yelled to him. “Doctor Reid! There’s been a death. You must hurry.”

He opened the door moments later looking a bit disheveled.

“What’s happened?” He asked me.

“Frederick Hume. He drowned in the river trying to escape.”

“For heavens sake, no.”

He hurried past me toward the asylum without closing the front door, so I went to do it for him. I could not help but peer inside.

“Thomas, you left the door…” a woman’s voice called, stopping abruptly when she saw my face.

Alice. She had let her long, dark hair out of her tight bun and wore only a robe. For a moment, we both stood in shock at my discovery. The patients had spoken of this affair. I had not believed them. Alice was allegedly a married woman. Then again, who was I to judge? I only stood in that doorway for seconds, but it felt like several minutes. Alice just stood there, frozen, with horror-filled eyes.

“Frederick Hume is dead,” was all I could say.

And then I shut the door and hurried back to the asylum.

seventeen

THE KIDNAPPING

        “Lady Dane is an appalling woman. Her granddaughter deserved every bit of humiliation she received,” Mrs. Wendell said. “What else did she say to you?”

        “Nothing really. But she would have continued on had John Loxley not swept in and smoothed everything over.”

        “The Loxleys,” Mrs. Wendell scoffed. “Bunch of miscreants.”

        “Perhaps comments like that are the reason you weren’t invited to the party, Tessie,” Petunia said with a laugh.

        Mrs. Wendell played with the pearls around her neck and turned her face away from Petunia.

        “I wouldn’t have wanted to attend such a dreadfully boring party anyway. Now are you sure nothing else interesting happened?”

Petunia had thought long and hard about whether to tell Mrs. Wendell about Richard Baker’s indecent behavior. Normally, Petunia would have delighted in delivering the salacious details of what she saw the night of the party. All she had to do was tell Tessie Wendell what had happened, and Richard and Claire Baker’s lives would change forever, and not for the better.

But Petunia did not want to ruin Richard and Claire’s lives. She was no longer interested in spreading gossip. She had the realization that perhaps other people’s business was none of her concern. After all, her life with Phillip was full of secrets and disgrace, and Petunia realized more and more that she ought to keep her mouth shut.

Just then Beatrice returned from the lavatory.

“Nothing else happened, unless you count Roger Loxley’s peculiar behavior as something,” Petunia continued.

“Miscreants....all of them.”

“John is so handsome. Edgar is, too,” Beatrice remarked as she flopped onto the couch.

“Yes, well, I don’t think Edgar is going to fancy you,” Mrs. Wendell said in her usual shrill voice.

“Why not?”

 “If one thing is for certain, Edgar Loxley is not interested in women.”

“Well, I mean we don’t know that for sure…only rumors of course,” Petunia interjected.

“Petunia, please, you’ve said it yourself plenty of times.”

“I may have in the past yes, but…”

            “It hardly matters,” Beatrice interrupted. “John is still available. Oh...speaking of the Loxleys, I overheard Constable Wyatt again today…”

            “Beatrice, I do not approve of you scouting around police headquarters and following the constables. They’re going to catch you one day. Someone somewhere is going to notice.”

“Oh, Auntie. They have no clue I’m listening or following them. I’m very discreet.”

“Beatrice Wendell! That is unladylike.”

Mrs. Wendell was furious, but Petunia was curious.

“Well, what did they say?”

“Agatha is still missing, but they’ve found no body or evidence to suggest she’s dead, so they believe whoever kidnapped her is hiding her somewhere.”

“Did they say how they know she was kidnapped?”

“Oh, yes, um, well, you see, Roger Loxley is the one who last saw her, and he told them that Agatha was with an older gentleman that she was seeing.”

Petunia felt a large pit in her stomach. Could Phillip have been involved in Agatha’s disappearance after all? Beatrice continued.

“And this man and Agatha were arguing outside  the Chelsea Arts Club the night she went missing.”

“Were there any other witnesses?” Mrs. Wendell asked.

“No, just Roger.”

“Did he recognize the man?” Petunia asked nervously. “Did he say who it was?” Petunia felt the lump in her throat grow larger.

“No. Apparently, he said he’d never seen him before, and that he looked as though he was from out of town,” Beatrice squeaked.

“American. I knew it.” Mrs. Wendell huffed.

“No, not American, Auntie, just not from London.”

“American,” Mrs. Wendell said again nodding her head.

“But still couldn’t she have willingly gone off with this man?”

“No. You see, when they searched her home, nothing was missing. Not one ounce of clothing, nothing. She just...vanished.”

“And the man?” Petunia asked.

“No one can find a man with the description Roger provided.”

“That is peculiar indeed.”

“And what’s more, they still feel very strongly that Agatha’s disappearance is connected to the murder of Louisa Stilwell.”

“Why?”

“Agatha and Louisa were best friends. You see, they think Louisa had been going to the police about something, something the killer did or knew. Agatha must have known also.”

“That doesn’t explain why the killer, this American, would kill one woman and leave the other trapped or hidden somewhere.”

“Auntie, he isn’t American,” Beatrice said again.

“Well, you don’t know that.”

Beatrice ignored the comment and continued to speak.

“Maybe the killer didn’t mean to kill Louisa. Maybe he went to reason with her, to persuade her not to tell anyone what he’d done,” she said in her high-pitched tone, “but then, the situation went wrong, and he killed her. Some men have an awful temper.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Wendell interjected.

“And maybe Agatha knew his secret too, but didn’t plan on telling anyone because she loved him, so he kidnapped her and is stowing her somewhere, so she will never tell his secret.”

“Of course this is all speculation,” Petunia answered quickly. “Perhaps this man argued with her, left that evening, and someone else came along and snatched Agatha. I mean, after all, does this man Roger described even exist? They obviously cannot find him. Maybe Louisa’s death isn’t related to Agatha’s disappearance at all…”

“Well, what has gotten into you Petunia?”

“Nothing, I’m just suggesting another theory.”

        That night, when the women were gone, and everyone was asleep, Petunia cried as she lay in her bed. She wondered if Phillip could have been the one to hurt Louisa and kidnap Agatha. She wondered if Roger’s description of this man from “out of town” was only to protect Phillip. Perhaps Agatha had been seeing another older man in addition to Phillip. After all, when she asked Phillip if he murdered Agatha, he laughed at Petunia, told her that he was crazy about Agatha. Did that mean he kidnapped her instead of killed her? But then Petunia wondered something else. What was the secret that Louisa was trying to deliver to the police that would warrant a man to kill her?

eighteen

THE MYSTERIOUS GIRL

Letter from Paul Watson to Amy Rose

“My dearest Amy,                                               “2 June, 10 o’clock”

I remember the day we met as well. I saw your big beautiful eyes glaring at me as you peered through that thorny bush in my Aunt’s garden, and I chased after you in the field.  And when I finally caught up to you, you were crying because you lost your locket. I remember that locket—beautiful diamond and ruby encrusted golden cattails, and a picture of you on the right. I remember we looked for that locket all day and found it by a thorny bush. The thought of that memory makes me smile.

My mother was happy I found a friend to take my mind off the war. Strange, how I feel so close to you, and yet I hardly know you. What is your life like now? What brings you happiness and peace? I seem to have forgotten what makes me truly happy.

“Yours Always,

“Paul”

Paul Watson’s Journal

June 2, evenin
g
.—I had the day off. Doctor Reid felt it was important not to overwhelm me and thought perhaps he spoke too harshly the other day. I think, however, the sudden day off and Doctor Reid’s apology were the result of my discovery. Alice had not even looked me in the eye since I discovered her half-clothed in Doctor Reid’s cottage. In any event, I had not had a free day in an entire month, and I desperately needed it. I grabbed the unopened bottle of Cardhu and headed down the stairs.

        “Heathcliff, I’m going outside for a bit,” I said.

        “Don’t get lost,” was all he said, and I stepped out onto the front grounds.

        I breathed in the crisp morning air and reveled in the quietness around me. I heard the birds chirping in the tall trees as I ambled through the front courtyard and down the gravel path. The wrought-iron gate of Kolney Hatch was closed, but I managed to climb over it. I could have had Heathcliff open it, but I did not feel like walking all the way back to the asylum. Besides, I felt freedom in this act. I could leave this place and never return if I wanted, and I enjoyed that feeling. I continued down the dirt path. The river where Frederick Hume drowned was to my left. He would have been a free man, if only he’d been able to hold his breath longer.

         Random thoughts drifted into my mind as I continued down the path. I thought of Claire’s letter and her pregnancy. Then I thought of Amy. Maybe I would visit her today.

         When I was a good distance from the asylum, I opened the Cardhu and took a nice long gulp. Sheldon had been right about its taste, so I took another swig and turned left off the dirt path, through the trees and down to the bank of that dirty river.

        I stood there for many moments without a single thought in my mind, and took another big swallow of the Cardhu. I closed my eyes. I felt so free; I wanted to stay in this moment. Then I heard a rustle of a tree, and my eyes shot open. I looked around.

        “Who’s there?” I called out.

        No one answered, so I began searching through the trees. I could not see anyone.

        “Hullo? Is anyone there?”

        I heard the crunch of leaves in the distance—someone was running. I ran out to the dirt path and continued down it away from the asylum. I ran and ran until I was breathless and then plopped in the middle of the dirt road, panting heavily. I took a longer than usual sip of the Cardhu, which was disappearing rapidly, and sat in the middle of the dirt trail for several minutes until I heard the putt-putt of a motor car. I hopped up, and when the black car approached, I recognized the driver instantly.

        “Nigel!” I waved to him, and he smiled back at me.

        “Doctor Watson, how aur yah?”

        “I’m good, Nigel. I’ve had a bit of whiskey. What brings you back this way?”

        “Me,” a voice said as Rosalind emerged from the backseat of the car. She looked beautiful as ever—her soft curls tucked under her cream-colored cloche hat.

        “Rosalind!” I said, perhaps a little more excited than I meant. I blamed that solely on the Cardhu.

        “Nigel, I’ll walk from here. I think Doctor Watson could use a little company, unless he would prefer a ride back to the asylum.”

        “Oh, no, no. I do not plan to return to the asylum until I have to.”

        “I’ll join you out here then,” Rosalind said.

        When Nigel was gone, I turned to escort Rosalind back to the asylum.

        “Come on, I’ll walk you up there. I don’t want you to get dirty out here.”

        “I want to stay with you,” she confessed.

        “But surely you don’t want to stay out here.”

        “Of course...I would love to. As long as you give me some of that whiskey.”

        I hesitated for a moment before handing Rosalind the bottle. She smiled and took a sip, then grabbed my hand and led me into the wooded area. I can’t remember how long we walked, but when we finally stopped, we were well into the wood by a felled tree.