The Secret of Kolney Hatch (10 page)

“Did you take it, Doctor Watson?”

“Captain, that’s quite enough. Doctor Watson didn’t take whatever it is you’re searching for,” Lamont said and then muttered just loud enough for me to hear, “Probably nothing anyway.”

They followed me inside, and as we passed from the dining room into the main hallway, I heard a woman’s voice call me.

“Doctor Watson!”

I turned to see Nurse Hinkle with a frantic look on her ivory, freckled face.

“Quickly, please...I need your help in the isolation ward. She’s having a seizure, and I can’t find Doctor Reid.”

“Nurse Hinkle! Wait,” I called to her, but she was already through the doors of the lobby.

I hurried to the infirmary to grab phenobarbital to stop the seizure. Upstairs, I found Nurse Hinkle in the women’s section of the isolation ward, which was blocked off from the men’s by a long door that stretched across the center corridor.

“Please help her,” Nurse Hinkle said breathlessly. She had opened the bars to the room at the end of the hallway. Inside, a woman lay on the floor having an epileptic seizure.

Quickly, I administered the anticonvulsant, and soon the woman calmed. The sounds of the other women in the isolation ward, who banged on their bars and moaned madly, forced me to speak louder.

“Nurse Hinkle, get her file for me,” I ordered as I cradled the woman in my arms.  

I looked at the woman’s pale face. She could not have been older than 30, but the creases in her forehead and at the corners of her mouth were deep.

I brushed her long, dark, and wispy hair out of her face and noticed she had a black and blue bruise above her swollen brown eyes.

Nurse Hinkle returned empty handed.

“I…I…couldn’t find the file, Doctor Watson.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s…not with the others.”

“All right,” I said coolly. “Tell Heathcliff to come up here then.”

“I can’t,” she said anxiously, “I can’t find him. I looked everywhere for him earlier. I was just thankful to find you when I did, Doctor Watson.”

“Another attendant then,” I said sternly. “I need help getting the patient into bed.”

“Alright,” she said, and she hurried off to find an attendant.

As I waited for the attendant, the woman opened her eyes. She fixed her glassy gaze on me for several seconds. I noticed her disoriented behavior and her creased brows. Did she have dementia, I wondered? A steady flow of tears cascaded from her eyes now. Suddenly, she spoke in a wheezy tone. I could barely hear her words over the sounds of the other restless women in the ward.

“Free me,” she said as her hand weakly gripped my shirt near my shoulder. “I beg you.”

“What is your name?” I asked her, hoping to spark some memory.

“Hannah,” she said, never once taking her eyes off mine.

“Hannah,” I said. “What a beautiful name. How do you feel now, Hannah?”

“I want to go home,” she said as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Please, let me go home.”

The last part of her words trailed off as her eyes closed, and she fell into a heavy sleep.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to her as an uneasy feeling crept over me. Lamont appeared then and helped me lift Hannah onto her bed.

I checked Hannah’s heart rate and pupils, and as Lamont and I left her room, he locked her door once more.

“Is that necessary…to lock her door? She doesn’t seem very violent, especially now.”

“She’s very dangerous, Doctor Watson, not only to us, but to herself. She’s attempted suicide five times in the three years that she’s been here.”

Lamont exited the ward then, and I followed him. The women clawed at their bars as I passed.

“
Well aren’t you just scrumptious
,” one young woman yelled. I looked her in the eyes, which were bloodshot red. Her hair had been all cut off. “
Why don’t you come in here an play wi me
,” was all she said, and I, ignoring the woman, passed through the doorway into the men’s ward.

Men stared at me through their bars, not saying a word, only eyeing me with complete hatred. When I was about to exit the men’s isolation ward, I heard a deep snicker come from one of the barred doors. I turned my head to the right to see a man standing with his hands clamped around the bars. Only wisps of hair were left on the sides of his head behind his ears, and most of his teeth were missing. His clothes were soiled; his amber-colored eyes glared at me with pure repugnance.

“How long will you live, good doctor?” The man asked me in a slow, eerie, gravelly voice. He never once took his golden eyes off mine.

“I suppose as long as any man,” I answered calmly.  

“I’ll live for a thousand years. Do you know why?”

He gripped his hands more firmly on the bars. I could see the dirt crusted around his fingernails. He looked as though he hadn’t bathed in weeks. I walked closer to him.

“No man can live a thousand years,” I answered.

“It is God’s will that I will live for that long. You see I am a man of God, come here to do his work.”

“You’re the missionary, Ransford.”

“You’ve heard of me? How delightful. Then you should know I’ve been wrongfully accused of crimes I did not commit. My congregation loves me dearly and misses me. I should be giving Sunday sermons, not sitting here locked behind these bars.”

Ransford was not wrongfully accused of anything. He’d committed fraud by taking money from the good people of his congregation and using it for his own personal gambling habit—that and preaching that his wife would need to die because God told him she was evil. I decided not to say anything.

“You’re all sinners. And the time will come when I am free and able to carry out the Lord’s work as he intended. And you should hope that your soul is not stained when I do. Tell me doctor,” he continued with his sinister stare, “Have you any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into by coming to this place?”

“I’ve come here to help people, Ransford.”

“Uh huh,” he said pacing back and forth in front of his bars. “And then?”

“I planned on staying here.”

Ransford produced a long, drawn out, disturbing laugh and smiled at me, flashing the only teeth he had left.

“As if you had any choice.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The evil one knows you’re here now, pretty doctor. You’ll never leave this place. No one
ever
…leaves this place.”

“That’s quite enough,” I said to him. Suddenly Ransford reached his grimy hands through the bars and grabbed my white coat, pulling me close so that my eyes were level with his. He glared as he delivered a strange and cryptic sermon, his voice louder and stronger. I struggled to free myself, but his grip was so strong his knuckles whitened.

“And when the wild beast comes to drink my holy blood, I will live for a thousand years. I will live for a thousand years, and you will die a sinner’s death. By the hand of the evil one,
you
will die a sinner’s death.”

I shouted for help and suddenly Lamont appeared and hit Ransford’s forearms with a black and gold truncheon. Eventually Ransford’s now bloody hands released my jacket, and he winced from the pain of the truncheon. Lamont pulled me away from the ward, and above the increasing uproar of the other patients, I could hear Ransford scream.

“It’s only a matter of time before the evil one claims you good doctor, and just like the others, you will die, and your body will rot in this place forever. No one leaves this place. No one ever leaves.”

When we were safely downstairs, Lamont scolded me.

“You shouldn’t be in there alone, Doctor Watson. Ransford is one of the most dangerous patients here. He killed an attendant just this past year—got a hold of a wooden stick and gouged out the poor man’s eyes and ate them…in the name of God.”

“I understand.”

Was I just upset by Ransford’s uncanny outburst, or had I begun to notice other oddities at the asylum? Was I afraid to acknowledge my concerns?

Sometimes strange, daunting feelings overcame me as I walked through the corridors, as though someone was watching me. And though I did not believe in spirits, I felt an eerie chill as I thought of the lost souls that wasted away in Kolney Hatch.

That night, as I lay in bed and finished my entry, how Richard signed his letter “faithful friend” haunted me. His signature reminded me of my affair with Claire and how unfaithful a friend I had been. Only a couple weeks had passed since my arrival to Whitemoor, yet London and those days seemed so far away. I missed everyone terribly; thinking about home made me feel melancholy, and yet, I did not feel happy in Whitemoor either. Only Amy’s letter made me feel joy.

I heard the women patients’ cries and moans in the distance. They were filled with an indescribable sadness. And as I listened to those cries and thought about Ransford’s outburst and Hannah’s pleas for freedom, I thought of my life in London. With desperation, I had escaped the gray doom that was my life, but these poor people, these lonely, physically constrained and mentally caged souls, would never do that. What kind of life was that?

twelve
A LOXLEY AFFAIR

        “Suffering has become a way of life for so many people in London. The War left many of our once wealthy peoples wounded—with wounds that have not yet healed, in despair that has not yet yielded hope.”

Petunia watched as John Loxley, the square-shouldered, sociable and well-admired man in his late twenties, stood tall at the end of his elongated oak dinner table and addressed his fifty-plus guests. Petunia had attended the party as Phillip demanded. At least the Loxleys knew how to entertain well. The golden fleur-de-lis wallpaper and large chandelier that hung over the dinner table made the room seem warm, yet elegant.

Sophistication defined this event. Petunia noticed the guests dressed as those from high society would, the women with their furs and their glistening jewelry, their colorful dresses, their perfectly bobbed, curled hair, and their cigarettes perched in between their dainty fingers. The men looked dapper in their best suits and ties, their faces clean-shaven, and their hair slicked with pomade.

 The Loxleys were fortunate enough to still have maids. The maids, both young and old, in their neatly pressed aprons, filled the glasses with wine first, a Loxley request, and then carried many silver dishes of various kinds of food. Mutton, casseroles, cheeses, red fruits and other delectable foods filled the table, and still no one touched his china, for John Loxley was not finished speaking, and when a man as well-liked as John spoke, people kept quiet.

“Marred ex-heroes beg on our corners,” John continued, “Children wonder if they’ll ever match up to our fallen and surviving heroes. One of those surviving heroes is my own dear brother, Edgar, whom I attempt to honor with this long-winded speech.”

Many guests chuckled at the youngest Loxley’s words as everyone turned to clap for Edgar, who seemed withdrawn at the end of the table sitting back in his tall chair, one leg crossed over the other. One of his long, thin hands was gently crossed over his legs as he smoked his cigarette with the most stoic face Petunia had ever seen a man wear.  

“As the youngest Loxley,” John continued, “I fear I’m often viewed as—oh how do I put this delicately so as not to bruise my precious ego? An irresponsible ingrate.”

The guests laughed. Even Petunia chuckled.

 “But the truth is, I’ve the deepest gratitude for all of you in my life, and for the ability to stand before you in this luxurious home. I have my father to thank. Though he could not be here tonight, I will thank him in front of all of you. So if you would all kindly hold up your drink glasses, and let us toast to my father, Aldous Loxley, whose fervent progressive mind enabled him to make wise financial investments in many large corporations and industries. These investments have spared the Loxley family from the destitution and pain our peers have faced. We thank you father. And now everyone, because I am sure you’re all famished, please enjoy this delicious food and evening, and may you have many entertaining evenings after this one.”

At the conclusion of the applause, which continued much longer than the usual polite clap after a dinner party speech, the guests ate. Petunia could hardly contain herself, for she had nearly starved herself for two weeks just to squeeze into that black beaded dressed that barely zippered. Just when she’d taken a full mouthful of the scrumptious mutton, Phillip opened his mouth.

        “Smaller bites, Petunia,” Phillip chided under his breath. “You’ll embarrass yourself and me if your dress bursts at the seams in front of everyone.”

        Petunia contained her composure, and although she ate smaller bites, she made sure to stuff herself when Phillip turned his head to converse with the odd and mysterious Roger Loxley.  

Roger Loxley, the middle Loxley, a lanky fellow with round, sunken dark eyes and black hair, and an abnormally hooked nose was an intellectual of quite exceptional powers, that fact was certain. Through his bucked teeth, he spoke to Phillip of his fascination with books from the sixteenth century, of detective books, and of his authority on ornithology. Roger impressed most people, but to Petunia, he was just an odd fellow, detached somehow as if perhaps his intellectuality had overthrown his capacity to socialize properly.