The Secret of Kolney Hatch (2 page)

Paul opened his eyes in a panic and took a large gasp of air as his pillow fell from his face to the right side of his bed. After a few deep breaths, he realized he’d had a nightmare and had nearly suffocated himself. As the details of the nightmare raced through his mind, Paul realized he still clutched his bed linens with his fist.

Dogs barking, sounds of children playing, the putt-putt of motorcars, sparrows singing—London was awake. Paul fixed his eyes on the side of the mantel clock that rested underneath a large mirror on his mahogany chest of drawers. He listened to the clock’s swift ticking noises that had permeated into his nightmare and stared blankly as the crisp morning air gently blew the dove-gray window curtains. Only when the chimes signaled eight in the morning did Paul break from his stupor.

He sat up in bed and groaned. He had promised his close friend, Richard Baker—Oscar Baker’s son—that he would be at his house by 11 that morning. He grasped his head, which throbbed with incredible pain. Now he regretted last night’s brandy.

Paul’s bare feet touched the cool pinewood floor, and mechanically he sifted through his wardrobe next to his bed. The wardrobe was full of mostly brown, gray, and black items; several were Paul’s late father’s shirts, with which he could not seem to part. Richard had insisted numerous times that Paul purchase new clothes, but Paul was satisfied with his apparel. He settled on a tan shirt, dark brown pants with a matching vest, jacket and shoes, and a brown and beige striped tie.

Quickly he dressed and fixed his thick, light-brown hair, which was cut close and neat on the sides and longer on top. He slicked the top back with pomade, and then glanced in the tall mirror next to his wardrobe to see if he looked acceptable. Everyone said that he looked so much like his mother; he had her large green eyes, her sharp distinguished nose with a subtle bump on the bridge, and her definitive jaw that housed a large white smile.

He still had a headache from the brandy, and the nightmare had left him tired and unsettled as he hurried down the stairs and through the long hall corridor into the small kitchen.

Yellowish-gold fleur wallpaper adorned the walls, and two oak cupboards sat on each side of a tall stone fireplace. A small and tattered red carpet with fringe rested in front of the fireplace, and against the back wall by the window was an oak table with matching chairs neatly tucked underneath. Paul noticed two freshly prepared eggs, a fruit bun, a glass of milk, and a note on the table.

        Paul picked up the slightly-yellowed notepaper and read it.

Eat. You look peaky. I’ve gone to the baker and then to the fishmonger’s.

-Eda

Eda was his housemaid, but Paul considered her family. A cheery, plump woman who had been fair-haired before her gray hair set in, Eda had been with the Watson family since Paul was a young boy. Now, she was the only family left.

He picked up the pen lying next to the note—it was his father’s safety pen from the war. Paul liked it because it didn’t leak ink. He wrote on the bottom of the notepaper.

Thank you. I don’t like you going out alone with a murderer on the loose.

-Paul

Then he quickly ate the food, grabbed his hat, and hurried out the door to catch the train to Mayfair.

Sometime later, Paul stood on the stone step of Richard Baker’s townhouse, trying to focus on anything other than the murder in Regent Park. Everyone on the train had been talking about it though, and every time someone mentioned the gruesome details, Paul winced. But what made him most uncomfortable was when they referenced his mother.

“Reminds me of the Watson murder,” one woman said to another.

“What a gruesome murder that was,” the second woman answered. “Shot with that pistol, her body dumped in the Thames. Such a pity.”

“Did they ever find the murderer?” The first woman asked.

“No,” the second woman answered shaking her head. “In fact…”

Paul was unable to listen to another word. The image of his mother’s maimed face surfaced from his subconscious, and he moved away from the women on the train to sit next to an old, unkempt gentleman who seemed engrossed in a book.

A drop of rain grazed Paul’s hand now, and he focused his attention upward to the sky. The clouds had their usual feel—thick and suffocating with a threat of an angry rain.  

A gregarious Fieldfare fluttered by him and landed on the top of a laurel topiary tree to the left of the Baker’s front porch. The little bird looked curiously at Paul for a moment, cocking its little brown head to one side, and then it flew off into the grayness. Paul knew the bird would leave London soon and return to its original home; perhaps the rest of its flock had already left.  

Paul often thought of leaving London himself. He was tired of the dreary, crowded city. Mostly though, he was tired of feeling sad. And with yesterday’s murder, Paul’s heart felt as heavy as London’s smothering gray clouds.

Paul knocked firmly on the tall six-paneled door and, after waiting for a few long moments, was about to knock again when he heard a rustling noise coming from behind it. When the door opened seconds later, Paul’s eyes widened, and his breath nearly stopped, for it was not Richard that stood in the doorway.

three
A FRIENDLY VISIT

This was not the first time Claire had taken his breath away. She stood in the doorway, with her brilliant smile and sparkling blue eyes, and Paul felt his heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird, an uneasy, yet pleasant, feeling. The pink rose-colored silk crepe dress she wore rested delicately just past her knee. Petal panels adorned the bottom of the skirt, accompanied by a rhinestone buckle that hugged her slim, youthful silhouette. Beige t-strap heels hugged her feet, and her skin—soft and creamy, but with a noticeable pink flush—matched her rose embroidered close-fitted felt cloche hat that covered her bobbed, auburn hair.

“Paul, come in!” Claire said as she ushered him through the front door and into a large hallway.

Paul removed his hat and embraced Claire in an endearing hug. Despite his quick beating heart, Paul was his usual, composed self.

 “You look great,” Paul said casually. “But I’m surprised to see you. Richard said you’d be out for the day.”

“Well, I had planned to go to the scent shop,” Claire said amusingly, “But I think it may be dangerous for a woman to go out alone after what’s happened.”

“The murderer would be drawn to you like a lion to raw meat,” Paul said wryly, offering her a small smile.

“I thought you might say something like that,” Claire said with a laugh.

 She slipped her arm around Paul’s and led him further into the front hallway.

The layout of Richard’s home was different from Paul’s, and the contents were certainly more affluent. The Bakers had been in the medical field since the 15
th
 century when apothecaries were considered practitioners. And they were prudent spenders; they’d saved much of their money and passed it down from generation to generation. This custom left Richard with a bounteous amount of wealth, but Paul often teased that Richard must not be a Baker because Paul saw
nothing
 sensible about his spending habits.

Oak flooring and the fanciest Persian rugs matched throughout the home, from the runner on the stairwell to the hall carpets. Each rug reflected similar shades of red and gold and accented the wooden floors with their wild medallion designs.

Paul peeked into the drawing room; the closed door to the custom-built study meant Richard was most likely engrossed in his latest manuscript. So as not to disturb Richard just yet, Paul headed further into the front hall to look at the paintings that hung on the wall.

Suddenly Paul’s insides writhed as he thought of the women’s conversation on the train.

“Are you alright Paul?” Claire asked as she gently touched his arm.

“Yes,” Paul said calmly, returning the tender touch. Then he pointed to one of the paintings on the wall. “New addition?”

Encased in a smooth wooden frame was the painting of a beautiful mountainous landscape surrounding a quaint stone cottage. Impressive green hillsides and mountains surrounded the charming bungalow while a cow grazed in a luscious green pasture.

“My uncle painted it,” she said proudly.

Paul’s fingers gently grazed the canvas, which felt grainy like a cat’s tongue. The colors were vibrant and detailed, and the vivid blue harebells projecting from the painting sent a wave of nostalgia throughout Paul’s body.

“My mother loved harebells,” Paul said looking at Claire with gentle eyes and a reserved smile. “And lavender. She used to say flowers could brighten any dark day.”  

He looked longingly at the painting and wished he could inhale, one last time, that fresh, earthy smell his mother always came home with after working all day at the florist.

“I can’t imagine how hard the news of this murder’s been for you,” Claire said quietly. “I’m sure you’ve been drawing up all kinds of horrid memories.”

Paul turned to face Claire, and a long moment of silence passed as they stared affectionately into each other’s eyes. Claire blushed as she broke the silence.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said as she turned her head away from Paul now, refusing to meet his eyes.

Paul nodded to her but said nothing, and then he quietly
 
entered Richard’s small, well-lit drawing room. It looked different than it had the last time he’d visited. The walls were now pink-rose, the curtains warm brown. Two leather club chairs flanked a peculiar circular table with legs that curved downward. A similar table that had a tray with a pot of tea and cups sat next to a new sofa upholstered with coffee-colored and tan swirls. Paul thought the piece was hideous, but he knew how Richard liked his exclusive furniture.

Richard did not seem to notice Paul as he knocked softly on the door of the study and entered the room. He sat at a small desk with his back toward Paul, typing away on his typewriter. Papers were scattered everywhere in the tiny room, including the floor and the desk.

“I better not be the main character of that manuscript,” Paul said in his imperturbable tone, and Richard jumped up from his seat.

“Paul!” Richard exclaimed giving Paul a friendly pat and then ushering him back into the drawing room. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

Richard was not handsome in the same sense as Paul, but he was very attractive. His thick, jet black hair was parted in the middle and slicked with pomade, and his hollow cheeks surrounded his strong angular nose. Dark eyebrows and a thick black mustache set off his deep, dark eyes. And as usual, Richard was dressed well; today he wore a gray vest over a carefully pressed white shirt. His pants matched his vest perfectly while his black, shiny shoes matched the small, dark silk scarf tied around his neck.

“What do you think of the new room?” Richard asked, pointing to the leather chairs and then the flamboyant
 
looking sofa.

“Eccentric.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Richard said cheerfully, “But, Paul, this is the new style in France. Someday even
you
 will have to modernize. You can’t stay stuck in the past forever you know.” Richard motioned toward the pot. “Have a cuppa.”

Paul took a cup of tea and sat on the unattractive sofa.

“How ‘bout what happened to that Louisa Stilwell, huh?” Richard continued.

A knot welled in Paul’s throat—he reached for the cup and drank some tea to try to soothe the uncomfortable
 
sensation. “Didn’t you know her?” Paul asked.

“In passing, yes, through mutual friends,” Richard said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “But I haven’t heard of her in years. The whole situation is tragic.”

 Paul rubbed his still aching head.

“All right?”

“I just…had a rough night.”

“Who is she?” Richard teased, raising his left eyebrow as he took his seat in the leather chair that was next to the tall stone fireplace.

“No, that’s not…”

But Richard was already on to his next subject. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about a woman.”

“Richard,” Claire said sternly as she entered the room with tea cakes and set them down next to the teapot, “I told you he won’t be interested.”

Paul was curious now. “Interested in what?” He asked.

“Claire has a cousin. Elena. She just broke off an awful engagement,” Richard said. “Paul, trust me, you’d like her.”

Richard winked, and Paul looked at Claire whose face had formed a scowl as she took a seat in the leather chair next to Richard.

“Honestly,” Claire said skeptically, “I don’t think she’s right for you at all, Paul.”

Richard looked at Claire with surprise.

“Oh, come on Claire. She’s perfect.”

Claire said nothing more, only folded her arms across her chest.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in the women around here anyway,” Paul said, resting the teacup on the table tray.

“I’m speechless, honestly,” Richard said feigning disbelief, “Haven’t met a lady in London that doesn’t desire you.” Then he leaned in and whispered. “Even Claire talks about you a little
too
 much.”