The Secret of Kolney Hatch (3 page)

“Richard…if you don’t stop,” Claire warned, but Richard ignored her.

“What did you say about Paul the other day, darling? That he has the ability to be around any woman of any age, type, or status and make her feel…what was that word? Oh yes, cherished.”

“Richard!” Claire said indignantly.

“Keep calm,” Richard laughed and smirked for only Paul to see. “Besides, Paul won’t be here for much longer anyway. No sense in setting him up with someone around here.”

Richard reached for a deep wooden cigar box on the small table next to him. He offered Paul a cigar, but Paul declined, reaching in his pocket for his silver cigarette holder instead. For as long as Paul could remember, Richard only smoked expensive cigars; he considered it an act of status. A few moments later, the room filled with cigarette smoke and the rich, cedar aroma of the cigar. Paul’s eyes met Claire’s for a quick moment.

“I’m sorry, did I miss something?” Claire asked curiously. “Where’s Paul going?”

“Oh didn’t I tell you?” Richard asked with amusement before turning to Paul. “I might as well let you tell her the good news since you’re here.”

He thought for sure Richard would have told Claire he was leaving. Now Paul tried to form the words, but his parched mouth prevented him from saying anything.

“Well?” Claire asked, never once taking her eyes off Paul.

Though Paul felt nervous, he retained his composure as he spoke. “Well, Richard’s been in contact with his friend Charlie Wicks, and I’ve been considered for a job at an asylum.”

Claire’s face filled with excitement. “My goodness Paul that’s wonderful news. I’m so happy for you.”

Richard interjected. “Yes, it is wonderful news. A few months ago, I heard from Charlie, and he was talking about this asylum, and, well, I thought about how my very best friend may need a job, so I put in a good word.”

“And I’m so grateful,” Paul said.

                      “But I don’t understand. Why would you be leaving?”

“Well, Charlie’s in Scotland,” Richard answered. “He was working in Edinburgh and Glasgow and would often travel north to visit a friend in a small town in the countryside…Whitemoor.”

 “Your Aunt Greta’s Whitemoor?” Claire asked curiously as she turned to face Paul.

“Yes,” Paul answered. “And as it turns out there’s an asylum there. I had no idea it even existed. It’s privately owned and extremely underfunded, according to Charlie. He wrote to Richard that they’re in great need of a resident physician. Anyway, when I met with Oscar for dinner at Evan’s the other night, he told me he believes I could handle the job, though he hoped I’d work with him at Maudsley.”

Claire seemed vexed. “But Maudsley’s prestigious. Surely you’re not thinking of going to this underfunded place in the middle of Scotland?”

“Well, actually, I
was
 thinking about it,” Paul said as he took in a deep breath. “It’s small and would give me great opportunity to work one on one with the patients.”

“But you’ve only been considered for the job. It’s not as if you actually have it yet.”

“No, but…”

“Charlie’s told me, at this point, it’s simply a matter of clearing it with the superintendent,” Richard said testily to Claire. “I just know everything’ll work out. Such a wonderful idea. Don’t you think so Claire?”

Paul could see Claire’s disappointment. Her face filled with unruly irritation, and she refused to look away from Paul’s eyes.

“Oh come on Claire, cheer up. He’ll only be a train ride away,” Richard said. “Paul needs to start a life of his own. He shouldn’t stay here because of our selfishness. I think you could be more supportive.”

 For a few seconds, they all sat quietly, and the knot formed in Paul’s throat again. Suddenly Claire’s face filled with a strained happiness.

“I’m sorry Paul,” she said. “Of course I support your decision to leave. In fact, I think it will be wonderful for you.”

 “Of course I’ll come back to visit,” Paul said. “It’s not like I’m going off to die or anything.”

“Then again, outside of London the doctors are likely to be as mentally ill as the patients, so...”

Richard smiled, and his left bushy eyebrow rose in amusement.

“Oh please,” Paul said letting out a laugh. “So tell me more about this manuscript.”

Paul had changed the subject, but he could still feel Claire’s severe stare burning into him.

“It’s still in its beginning stages of course, but it’s a tragic love story about a man who’s feverishly in love with his wife, but goes off to war and is believed dead. And after all his efforts to return home to her, he finds his best mate and his wife are in love…”

“That is tragic.”

“But that’s what the people want, Paul. Tragedy. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe even a little madness. You know all about that one. In this story though, the man’ll end back up with his wife.”

“And the fate of the best friend?” Paul asked coolly.

“Death, of course,” Richard said with a smirk.

Discomfort swept over Paul then as his thoughts drifted to the gray room in his nightmare and the ominous figure chasing him…and then the face, that lifeless face of Louisa Stilwell that permeated his nightmare only because he had seen her photo in the evening paper.

He could hear Claire and Richard talking as he stayed deep in thought about the murder and the resulting nightmare. It had been so similar to his mother’s murder.  

“Paul, are you listening to me?” Richard demanded, and Paul snapped back to reality.

“Of course,” Paul answered, though he hadn’t heard a word Richard had said.

“Right,” Richard said giving him a look. “I asked you if you’ve spent time with Loxley lately.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m always busy working...some of us need to work for our money.”

“Poverty is only a mindset, Paul,” Richard said coldly.

“Tell that to the coal miners.”

“It
is
,” Richard insisted. “That’s how old man Loxley kept
his
 money. You’ve heard him say it before.”

“And what of the man who is good and works hard for his money compared to the man who swindles and steals to get it?

“Wealth has no allegiance to either side, Paul. A good man or an evil one may be rich just as he may be poor.”

“If it is only a mindset, then why not teach the poor to think rich?” Claire inquired.

“Let the poverty stricken stay that way,” Richard argued. “Can’t have the poor man thinking he can take the rich man’s money...We’d all be destitute.”

“What a terrible thought!” Claire exclaimed.

“But true,” Richard added.

“Anyway,” Paul said, changing the subject. “Roger and John are too busy drinking at the arts club or in Bloomsbury to know anything about money...except how to spend it,” Paul pointed out. “Edgar’s the only sane one.”

“Occasionally, I meet up with them in Bloomsbury…” “You do?” Claire asked resentfully. “This is news to me.”

“They won’t meet anywhere else, Claire, you know that. We’re talking about the Loxleys. They’ve an image to keep,” Richard said guardedly.  

Paul knew very well from his past that nothing good came of Loxley and his brother’s aristocratic, Bohemian circles, so nowadays he limited how much time he spent with them. Associating with the “Wild Loxleys” (as they were known in London) was a small piece of his past he had put to rest until last night’s brandy binge. And given Richard’s behavior after he’d had a few drinks, Paul was sure Richard was not being the most virtuous man while he was with Roger and John Loxley.

“Well, I should get going,” Paul said, directing his attention toward Richard. “I know you’ve a lot of work to finish.”

 “Unfortunately, yes,” Richard said as he stood up and gave Paul a friendly pat on the back. “Thanks for the visit. We’ll talk soon.”

“Listen, Paul,” Claire asked as she stood also and smoothed out her dress, “Would you mind walking me to the scent shop? I really do need to go, and since Richard has work to do...”

“Of course,” Paul said.

“And how will you get home?” Richard asked, grabbing Claire in an embrace.

“I’ll wait for her, of course, and walk her home,” Paul said calmly.

“I’m sure you’ve better things to do with your day, Paul,” Richard said letting Claire out of his embrace and helping her put on her coat.

“It’s really no trouble, Richard. I was going for a walk anyway.”

Claire and Paul walked in silence down Westmill Street, listening to the humming of traffic and noisy chatter of men, women, and children enjoying their Sunday. A beautiful pale-faced woman with brown eyes smiled at Paul as she passed, prompting Claire to slip her arm around Paul’s arm. They had turned right on Berkeley Street before either uttered a word.

        “Paul,” Claire said as they passed Lansdowne Row. “Why do you want to leave London?”

        “Don’t you know?” Paul said, turning his head to look into Claire’s eyes. “I need to start fresh someplace else—out of the busy city. Someplace…more quiet.”

        Claire was quiet then—a pained look had crossed her face as they continued to walk in silence. An omnibus full of people thundered passed them, distinguished by a large yellow and red Haig Whiskey sign on the side.

        “Why not the English countryside though?” She asked as they strolled along. “Surely, there are places there you could work and enjoy the fresh air.”

        “I’m sure there are Claire, but Scotland’s very special to me. It’s where I last saw my mother happy. It’s the last time I knew of my father being alive. You know all of this already.”

“Yes but still…it’s so far…”

“Yes, I know. But that’s the point. England has been nothing but pain for me.”

“Has it been all pain, Paul?”

“You know what I mean,” Paul said as he pulled Claire to the edge of the sidewalk as two yelling boys, no older than eleven, ran past them almost knocking the couple over.

“I know. But you can’t run away from your past.”        

“I’m not,” he said calmly, looking into her bright blue eyes. “I’m putting an end to it—I suffer here. I can’t live like this anymore.”

“I understand. I thought maybe…for a second you were leaving because of me,” Claire said as they made a left onto Piccadilly.

 “You? No, Claire,” Paul said.

But the truth was a part of him was leaving because of Claire.

The London uproar filled their ears like a rush of water fills an empty glass.  They walked in silence. When they reached the scent shop, Claire turned to Paul.        

“Thanks for escorting me Paul. You don’t have to wait of course. You know I’ll be just fine.”

“I’ll wait for you, Claire. I need to make sure you get home safely.”

Just then Mrs. Wendell emerged from the shop with a small bag and a black parasol that matched her usual black dress.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Wendell,” Paul said tipping his hat to her in greeting.

“Mr. Watson,” she said, greeting him with a stern nod, but upon seeing him with Claire, she gave a fierce look of disapproval and hurried to climb into a loud motorcar that waited for her outside the shop.  

“You really are the kindest man I know, Paul,” Claire said with a smile and walked into the shop.

A while later they returned to the Baker’s townhouse. Paul gave Claire a goodbye hug, closing his eyes as he breathed in her flowery scent.

“Bye, Claire,” he said and watched as she walked to the door.

 Just before she reached it, she turned to look at him once more.

“If you decide that you want to come back and make a life for yourself here, Paul, know that London’ll be waiting for you with open arms.”

“London, my greatest love,” Paul said in his smooth voice. Then he turned and walked back down Westmill Street.

four
LOOSE ENDS

Paul Watson’s Journal

26 April, afternoo
n
.—In a few days, I leave for Scotland, and I’ve decided to keep a record of my journey in this handsome brown-leather journal Eda bought for me for my birthday this past year. Bits of gold silk are woven into the binding, and the paper is of a fine quality.

I have Richard to thank for this upcoming opportunity in Scotland, for Charlie Wicks was easily able to convince the superintendent of Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum, Doctor Thomas Reid, that I should be the new resident physician. I received the letter just a few days ago from the superintendent asking for verification that I would accept the position.

I can think of nothing better at this moment than to leave this place. The energy in London is thick and heavy. News of a great strike circulates throughout the city. The murderer of the actress, Louisa Stilwell, is still at large, and a second woman has gone missing. The authorities speculate the murder and the missing woman are connected somehow.

This discovery has everyone on edge. In addition, my nightmares have not subsided. They are always the same: a dimly-lit stone chamber, a hooded figure, a dark room. And then I come upon that lifeless, disfigured face, and I remember my mother. I can only hope that the nightmares will wane once I leave London.