The Secret of Kolney Hatch (9 page)

ten
A REQUIRED INVITATION

“Well, Phillip?” Petunia asked with folded arms as she tapped her foot against her elderberry red bedroom carpet. She stood just to the right of her husband so he could see her in the tall standing mirror as he buttoned his white shirt.

Yes, Phillip had finally come home, but only to change his clothes.
Sure
, Petunia thought,
 home to grab his things and then he’d b
e
off on another one of his escapades
.

He hadn’t greeted Petunia, hadn’t uttered a word to her, hadn’t even looked her in the eyes since he’d been home. Though the timing was problematic, Petunia knew this moment may be her only chance to confront Phillip about Agatha Bates.

“Phillip, when is the last time you saw Agatha? Did you see her recently? What did you tell the police?”

Phillip, who fixed his hair in the mirror and still refused to look at Petunia, realized that Petunia needed to be distracted. His forehead formed a crease then, and he spoke in his deep, all-pervading voice.

“Did you get a paper today, Petunia? I want to read about what’s going on with the general strike.”

“Phillip, don’t ignore my questions.”

The heavy rain had left a damp, oppressive air in the house, and Petunia fanned her face with her hand before pushing a piece of her black hair away from her cheek—a hair that refused to stay in her bun.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now…with you especially.”

Petunia decided she needed to stand her ground this time.        

“Phillip, I am still your wife. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

Phillip smirked at her then. Oh how Petunia hated when he smirked.

“My affair with Agatha is none of your business.”

Petunia wagged her chubby finger in front of him. “When the constable shows up at
my
 door asking about
your
 missing prostitute,” she snapped, “I don’t care any longer whether or not you feel like talking about your affairs.”

 “Now that’s enough!” Phillip shouted as he slammed his fists down on the small wooden table next to the tall mirror, making Petunia jump. He lingered there for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning back toward the mirror.

She liked him least when he displayed his temper—it was an angry Phillip that frightened her most.

“I just…” she tried to say calmly, “I just need to know the truth Phillip, please.”

“What does the truth matter?” He said as he turned to face Petunia. His icy, empty stare was all too familiar.

“I need to know if everyone will know…if my life will change.”

“Oh so that’s what this is about? I’d hate to see you destitute and for your busybody friends to dislike you, Petunia.”

 “Did you murder her?” Petunia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Phillip’s rabid laugh startled Petunia.

“Did I…are you mad?” He said, running his hands through his salt and pepper hair out of frustration. “Me,
murder
 Agatha? Huh. I was crazy about her, Petunia. I’m devastated that she’s gone missing. Now keep out of my business, you old nosey parker.”

Many years ago, this comment would have stung Petunia’s heart so deeply; she would have cried for days. Now, she told herself she felt nothing, and she did feel nothing, well, almost nothing.

She turned her back towards him so he would not see the single tear that escaped down her cheek. She decided to go downstairs to the drawing room and close the door until Phillip left the house. At least she knew he wouldn’t be back for the evening.

“Where are you going?” he asked her testily.

“Downstairs.”

“Stay right where you are. I’m not finished speaking,” he said as he fixed his tie once more, and put his suit jacket on top. “I need you to attend a party with me three weeks from today at the Loxley mansion. The Loxleys are one of my wealthiest clients, so don’t even think about declining this request. And don’t give me that face, Petunia; this is part of our bargain, the reason you still have this musty house and food to eat—we have an image to maintain.”

Petunia kept a downcast look as she gripped the sides of her long, silky purple dress. She and Phillip had not gone anywhere together in so long, she wondered if she could still keep up with the façade.

He stood close to her now.

“And you will not eat much until then. I need you fitting into your old dresses, not stuffing into those usual sacks you wear. This is an upscale event.”

“How dare you…”

“How dare I? Children are starving to death on the streets of London, and you look like you eat children.”

Petunia’s heartbeat quickened, adrenaline rushed throughout her body, and in a quick outburst of rage she slapped Phillip so hard across his face that he stumbled back. Instantly, she knew she had made a mistake. Petunia turned to run, and was just about through the bedroom door and into the sitting room when Phillip’s hand grabbed her bun and pulled her backward.

Petunia screamed as Phillip swung her around by her shoulders. She could see the sheer hatred in his gritted teeth, his squinted eyes, his heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she screamed through sobbing cries as his hand smacked across her face. “Phillip, please don’t…”

He banged her shoulders continuously against the tall wardrobe near the bedroom door.

“Don’t you ever touch me!” he screamed as he threw her to the ground. “Ever! Do you hear me?”

Petunia could feel a trickle of blood escape her mouth as she lay half on the carpet, half on the wooden floor. She did as she usually did when Phillip hurt her: she escaped the pain with thoughts of her innocent son, and what life would have been if Peter were still alive.

Sometime later, Petunia still lay on the floor. Phillip was gone, and all she could hear was the tapping of the heavy rain against her windows. She slowly rose from the floor. There was blood on the carpet and sleeve of her dress. She hobbled slowly to the mirror to examine her bruises. Her lip was cut, and her cheek was a slight shade of green.

She wiped the blood from her mouth. Her bruises were noticeable this time. She decided she would have to cancel her usual Saturday evening with the ladies this week.

eleven
THE ISOLATION WARD

Letter from Richard Baker to Paul Watson

“My dear friend,                                    “May 15, 6 o’clock

I am glad to know you are safe and am eager to hear more about the asylum. I am almost finished with my manuscript, and a local production company has taken an interest in it. Also, thanks to Roger, I am now a member of the Chelsea Arts Club. Spending time with him brings back fun memories.

Something is wrong with Claire, and I need your help. Perhaps you can write to her and discover the cause of her peculiar behavior. Women always seem to bare their woes to you easily. Besides, I know she would love to hear from you. Stay well.

“Your faithful friend,

“Richard.”

Letter from Amy Rose To Paul Watson

“My dearest Paul,                                           “May 10

I am so happy to hear from you again. I care so deeply for you as a friend, and I know you are a wonderful person despite all that you have experienced. You say your experiences have changed you, but perhaps you just need to be reminded of that innocent and imaginative boy I once knew.

I remember the first day we met; I watched you play in your Aunt Greta’s garden. You pretended to be a soldier. I often played in the field by your Aunt’s cottage, and I was surprised to see another child playing there. Too afraid to befriend you, I could only stare at you through those bushes. But you, so kind and friendly when you noticed me staring, sought me out.  Though I ran from you, you did not give up on me.

Oh Paul, I meant so many times to write to you, truly I did. I thought of you and our friendship all the time, but I also dealt with many hardships. I could not bring myself to write to you until now, but I have never stopped caring about you. Never.

I want to spend time with you. I truly do, but I cannot at this moment. I must take care of a few personal affairs before I visit. Perhaps I will see you soon. Just hearing from you makes me happy. Please be safe at Kolney Hatch. You are right. Oddities are expected, but still, be careful. I look forward to your next letter.

“Your grateful friend,

“Amy”

Paul Watson’s Journal

20thof May, evenin
g
.—
I spent most of the morning cramped in the pasty infirmary, so I skipped lunch to spend some time outdoors.  

Outside in the fresh, slightly cool air, I inhaled the pure smell of nature around me. Oaks and pines were scattered about on the four acres behind Kolney Hatch. The gardeners were busy trimming the grass and removing weeds. One wiped the sweat from his brow under his white hat. I passed through a tall wooden arbor covered in ivy and found myself in an extravagant garden.

One of the gardeners was kneeling over a patch of red-velvet roses, a rose cupped delicately in his hands.

“You must be the new doctor,” he said in his fruity, inviting voice when he saw me.

“I am,” I answered. “Are you Mr. Newbury?”

“Call me Harold,” he greeted.

“I’m Paul Watson. I passed a few of the other gardeners on the way, but Heathcliff told me to find the one with the orange hair if I wanted my letters delivered.”

 “That’s me,” he laughed. “Know anything about flowers?”

 “Yes,” I nodded. “Some...My mother worked at the florist back in London.”

“I used to be a gardener for a wealthy family in Glasgow,” he said, wiping the dirt off his hands. “Worked there until Mr. Jones passed away. Then I moved up here with my wife, Laura. Does your mother still work at the florist?”

“She passed....six years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s all right.”

 “Did she teach you anything about flowers, Paul?”

“Let’s see,” I said, fumbling to remember something. “Well...I...I know that in some flowers...the petals are joined completely or partly...whereas, in others, like these lilies,” I said pointing at a patch of them, “the flower is radial symmetric.”

 “That’s right, that’s right,” he laughed out of his brilliant blue eyes as he stood.

“How long have you tended to these gardens?”

“Just a few months now.” 

“Seems a lot of us are new here.”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Doctor Reid dismissed a lot of the previous staff, including the head gardener.”

“I wonder why.”

“Oh...well as I understand the story...” Harold said, “he just...disappeared one day. Never showed up. Heathcliff showed up at my door asking if I would be interested in the position. No one’s heard from the old gardener since.”

Harold paused for a moment as he looked around the garden.

“I’ll tell you though...he did an exceptional job on this garden.”

The garden
was
exceptional, filled with vibrant colored flowers and plants, including roses, heather, harebells and bluebells. Also there was a large section of wildflowers made up of mostly thistles and willowherbs. Stonewalls covered in generous ivy encased the garden.

“Anyway, I try to collect the letters in the morning. There’s a small basket in the front lobby. You can drop your letters there or give them to me. I’ll drop them in the post box when I leave for the day.”

“You don’t live on the grounds?”

“No, I don’t. I live just north of Whitemoor. It’s not too far away.”

“I see. Well I’ll be sure to give you my letters. I should get back to the infirmary.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Harold.”

“You too, Paul.”

On my way back from my visit to the garden, I observed the facility from a distance as I smoked a cigarette. It was brilliantly constructed with a mixture of extravagant brick and stone. The towers cast their massive shadows over the back grounds. Pine, oak, and birch trees towered over the stone walls. In the distance, tall, rugged mountains and green hills surrounded Kolney Hatch, adding to the beauty of the landscape.

As I pondered on how Kolney Hatch—such a baroque structure—could be so grim inside, I observed one of the young attendants, Lamont, who looked very similar to Richard when he was just nineteen, standing in the tall stone-archway by the bridge that connected the asylum to the back grounds. At first, I thought Lamont was staring at me until I noticed the small, gruff, and shabby looking man waddling along the grounds beside me. He was talking to himself loudly, and I surmised this man was “The Captain.”

Doctor Reid had cautioned me about him. The Captain was thirty-four, and first came to the asylum in 1918 after serving in Gallipoli and France. Passing through various war hospitals, he was admitted to Kolney Hatch after he began hallucinating and had uncontrollable fits of laughter. He called himself The Captain, though this was only one of his personalities, and he was convinced he was all-powerful.

Prone to excitable outbursts and occasionally dangerous and impulsive, The Captain had been hit with a bullet which was still lodged in his brain. That day I first noticed The Captain, I noticed he favored one leg, so he hobbled along with a walking stick, which Doctor Reid later told me The Captain sometimes used as a weapon. He often had to be sedated.

“It was on the floor, it was on the floor,” The Captain said to me nervously. I could see by the lines on his rough-looking face that he had been through much in his lifetime.

When Martha, the patient with vacant eyes whom I had met on my first day, passed by me, I watched as The Captain’s twitchy voice changed to a growl.

“Did you take it, Martha?”

Martha didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. She had cut out her own tongue in a post-encephalitic psychosis. Doctor Reid had saved her life, but because of her inability to communicate, her morbid emotional reactions and her unstable temperament, Martha was safer in the institution.

 “Martha didn’t take anything from you, Captain,” said Eleanor Bigsby, the English nurse.

Eleanor’s overly large teeth stuck out over from under her upper lip. She was an odd looking woman, too thin, her eyebrows too close together.  Martha and Eleanor passed, and The Captain turned to face me.

“You took it, didn’t you?”

“No...I didn’t.”

“Who are you?”

“Doctor Watson.”

The Captain’s eyes were black as the night sky as he pointed his stick toward me.