Fatal Inheritance (18 page)

But there was no time to waste, and I dragged a chair to the wardrobe and climbed upon it to reach the hatboxes perfectly stacked upon the top. The grey one was, as Mrs Munn had told me, on top of the striped one, and during the few seconds it took me to lift it down, I worried myself into a panic over whether she might have moved the key. I knew something was wrong the second I touched the box, for it was too light. My fears were confirmed as soon as I opened it. The box contained no hat at all, only a crumple of protective tissue paper.

Stupid me – why had I expected to find the hat here? Had not Mrs Munn specifically said that the key was tucked into the loops of ribbon on the black hat that Mrs Cavendish wore for mourning? Obviously, she hadn’t been wearing it on the day that Sebastian came home, but, just as obviously, she was wearing it today. In fact, I had seen it not more than an hour ago atop her beautifully arranged silvery blonde hair.

I fingered the tissue paper, and the tiny key dropped into my hand.

In a wink, I was out of the room and in the study, where I unlocked the drawers and began to go through them with feverish haste, listening all the while for Ephraim’s warning cry.

With an efficiency partly born, I admit it, from a certain amount of practice, I rifled through the contents of one drawer after another. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Cavendish’s papers were perfectly organised, everything classified in carefully arranged folders of bills, household affairs and correspondence, through all of which I anxiously flipped, until in the very bottom drawer I finally came upon a single slim folder containing an exchange of no more than a dozen or so letters. No sooner had my eye caught sight of the letterhead on the top of each than I grew cold and shivered, while the letters themselves burnt my fingers.

Holloway Sanatorium, Virginia Water, Surrey
was printed in beautifully calligraphed letters across the top of each page. The name of Lydia Krieger jumped out at me at once, a blinding confirmation of everything I had guessed.

It did not take long to read them all.

In 1875, Mr Edward Cavendish, brother-in-law to Miss Lydia Krieger, became her legal guardian in the place of Mr Charles King, who had played that role since the death of her mother. The reason given was that Lydia’s mental deficiency necessitated a continued guardianship, and that, given certain events that had transpired while she was his ward, Mr Charles King found that he could not provide the necessary surveillance and desired to relinquish his responsibility.

Mr Cavendish took the decision to consign Lydia Krieger to the Holloway Sanatorium, an institution specialised in the care and treatment of mentally deranged patients. The fees charged and paid by Mr Cavendish proved that the sanatorium was not intended for members of the poorer classes. These monthly fees had been paid by Mr Cavendish for nearly twenty years, until his death in 1894. The individual bills had not been kept, but only a complete yearly financial statement whose figure gave me a clearer understanding of what had happened to at least a significant part of Mr Cavendish’s money, both before and after his death. Indeed, I discovered that his widow received a not unreasonable pension, which should have been quite sufficient to allow her to afford servants and the usual luxuries of a ladies’ life; if she could not, it was essentially on account of the expense of keeping her sister at Holloway.

The last letter in the folder was dated March 1899 and contained a fact that gave me a painful shock. In that month, another person assumed full responsibility for the payments of Lydia’s fees, indefinitely or until further notice – and that person was no other than Lord George Warburton! This information consigned more than one of my different theories about why Sebastian might possibly have been murdered to the rubbish bin. Whatever had been the reason for Sebastian’s death, it was not to prevent Lord Warburton finding out about Lydia’s existence – nor did that existence appear to have provided any incentive for breaking off his coming marriage. It was sorely disappointing. Yet inexplicably, even as the motives I had sketched out in my mind thus melted away, my intimate conviction that Sebastian’s death was not suicide but murder grew stronger.

I put the papers back, locked the desk, hurried to the bedroom, dropped the key back into the hatbox, piled it perfectly symmetrically atop the wardrobe, put back the chair, closed the bedroom door, rushed out of the flat, locked it, hastily scooped up boots, wrap and umbrella and rushed down the stairs to the main entrance with them all bundled in my arms, to find a trembling Ephraim standing in the cold, pale with anxiety. His interest in the crimes of others appeared to have evaporated; he thought only of rushing off to erase his own as soon as possible, and he literally pawed the ground with impatience as I buttoned my boots, and heaved an immense sigh of relief as I handed him the key and some money to put inside Mrs Munn’s bag and gave him careful instructions on how to reach her home, located in the poorest section of Bermondsey. Off he went at a run, and I walked away by myself, deep in thought.

Lydia Krieger had existed; she still existed, and now I knew exactly where she was.

Lord Warburton knew it as well.

But what of Sebastian?

He had seen the same papers that I had, and he must have understood that the person named there was his aunt, if not actually his real mother. He had rushed away from the flat after reading them – where else but directly to Holloway? He must have seen her there. And what had happened? Had he somehow received an unbearable shock to his nervous system? Had he, rather, blundered unforgivably into the middle of a secret that was not really his? Or was his death due to reasons quite apart from his discovery of Lydia’s existence and her refuge? To a hidden jealousy, for example, burgeoning within the heart of a friend?

If he had not killed himself, then what was I to make of the suicide note? I recalled its words.

Not for the first time, I was struck by the lack of signature. But now I suddenly understood it differently.

Was this not merely the beginning of a letter? A letter breaking off an engagement, not a life?

Holloway Sanatorium was pointed out to me by the porter as soon as I emerged from the Virginia Water railway station. Vast and impressive with its multiple wings and gables, surmounted by a great square tower, it was as grand and imposing as any castle, and a monument to the founders’ intentions of bringing the treatment of mental illness to the middle classes and applying the most progressive methods to the patients, with the firm intention of effecting actual cures and sending them back to the bosom of their families. In principle, it was not intended as a place to permanently harbour mad patients, but the case of Lydia Krieger was obviously an exception of some kind.

The sanatorium was visible at a short distance from the station, and I set forth to walk to it in a great state of suppressed excitement. The grounds stretched, rolling, pleasant and richly wooded, all about the enormous building, bestowing upon the entire property the agreeable pastoral atmosphere that people generally expect from their country estates. A large and forbidding iron railing, however, surrounded the entire property, leaving the visitor no possible ingress – and the patients no exit – except for the tried and true method of the well-guarded main gate.

I followed the road leading to this very place and, as I approached, a surly-faced porter emerged from a small shed placed just within, and proceeded to unlock and swing open the gates to let me in. He did not allow me to go towards the building, however, but detained me while he rang for a person to come. I had to wait idly for several long minutes before a white-capped figure appeared at a distance, approaching with hasty steps. Only when she had nearly reached us did the porter consent to allow me to advance a few steps on my own and join her on the path, never removing his suspicious eyes from me until she had, by means of enquiring as to my name and purpose there, taken over from him the role of officially designated escort and guardian to the intruder.

When I explained that I had come as a visitor to one of the patients, she immediately extracted a large watch from her pocket and made a show of examining the time, but said nothing, as I had taken the precaution of informing myself that proper visiting hours were from two to four – unlike Sebastian, who must have come rushing straight here from London directly he had discovered the letters concerning Lydia, but who would certainly have arrived too late in the afternoon to be admitted before the following day. He must have been beside himself with impatience, and I could well imagine that he did not feel like returning home to face his mother before he had plumbed the depths of the situation. He had probably found himself a room at an inn in Virginia Water on the night of December 30th.

The nurse did not ask me any further questions, but led me into an impressive entrance hall with a vaulted ceiling supported by arched wooden beams worthy of some of the loveliest of our Cambridge colleges, and from there into a spacious office at the side. Here, another nurse, significantly older, severer and invested with greater authority than the one at my side, received me from behind an immense oaken desk.

After mulling over a hundred possibilities, I had decided to ask in the simplest manner to be allowed to visit one of the patients, a Miss Lydia Krieger.

The woman’s face took on a look of surprise and momentary doubt, then cleared to resume her previous rather impassive expression.

‘Miss Krieger; you wish to visit Miss Krieger,’ she repeated, raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘Let me see. I am not sure that will be possible. Please excuse me for a moment. I must check in her file.’ She rose, went into a room behind, and came back bearing a thin file in her hand, into whose contents I should have dearly liked to have a glimpse. However, as she turned over the pages, I perceived from upside down that they were letters, no doubt exactly those whose answers I had already read at Mrs Cavendish’s flat. The patient’s medical history could not possibly fit into such a small file; it must be kept in a different place. The nurse extracted the very last document and read it over carefully. Then she said,

‘No, it is as I thought. Miss Krieger is not allowed to receive visits. I am very sorry that you have come all this way for nothing.’

Her voice held a tone of simple finality that aroused a sense of immediate furious frustration inside me. I turned my tongue around seven times in my mouth while collecting my spirits.

‘Surely it is not so,’ I replied as soon as I felt able to speak in a level tone. ‘A friend of mine visited her less than one month ago, and encouraged me to do so.’

She looked up a little sharply.

‘What friend would that have been?’

‘A Mr Cavendish. Mr Sebastian Cavendish,’ I replied, risking my all.

‘Quite. I see. Let me explain. The fact is that precisely following the visit of that gentleman, we received a letter from Miss Krieger’s guardians explicitly forbidding her to be disturbed by any further visits. It appears that Mr Cavendish’s visit caused a serious problem which is not to be allowed to recur.’

‘A problem for Miss Krieger herself?’ I said, playing innocent and hoping to extract some information.

‘I do not know. I know nothing about it except that we received this letter.’

‘But I am certain that the visit caused no harm to Miss Krieger, quite the contrary,’ I persisted, ‘and I do not see why she should be the one to suffer for the problems of another, of which she may not even be aware.’

‘It is not in my hands,’ she replied coldly, beginning (as well she might) to be annoyed. ‘I am very sorry I cannot help you,’ she added, and rang a bell, probably to summon someone to escort me out. I quickly staved off the moment of absolute failure by insisting upon speaking to Miss Krieger’s physician.

‘Dr Richards is excessively busy, as are all the physicians here, with over six hundred patients,’ she replied. ‘He cannot be disturbed for a mere question of visits. Besides, there is no more to be said. The letter is quite explicit.’

‘Surely,’ I said, ‘even from guardians as severe as these, there cannot be any letter explicitly forbidding the physician to receive a visit.’

She pressed her lips together, and when the young nurse who had met me earlier near the gate knocked gently and opened the door, she said,

‘Run to Dr Richards’ room, Sister Theresa, and tell him that there is a visitor for Miss Krieger here, who wishes if possible to speak to him.’

She gestured with her hand to a pretty brocade chair against the wall, and I sat down and waited. At length Sister Theresa returned and said that Dr Richards was with a patient, that he could spare a few moments in a quarter of an hour, and would I please save time by waiting in his ante-room? I followed her up many stairs and down many halls, and we passed a vast number of people bustling in every direction; patients, some in white robes and others normally dressed, doctors, nurses, young girls pushing carts laden with cups and dishes or medical equipment, and groups of well-dressed people who were possibly visitors like myself. As we went, I tried to pump the young nurse discreetly, but I met with no success at all, not least because, in her anxiety not to waste a single second of the doctor’s precious time, she was hurrying me along at a pace nearly worthy of a footrace. This species of nurse is clearly trained to a high degree of functionality and discretion.

She finally stopped, opened a door without knocking, and inserted me, like a letter in the postbox, into a beautifully decorated room that had little or no relation to how I would have imagined a mental doctor’s waiting room to appear. Here she left me alone, to hurry on to other duties.

An inner door of this room was closed, but certainly led to the room or office where the doctor received his patients; indeed I could make out the muffled sound of his voice, alternating with a woman’s tones. I tried to make out some of his words, but could not, yet their tone evoked a spirit of reasoning. After many minutes, the door opened, and the white-clad doctor ushered a plain woman with a sickly, indifferent expression on her face quickly out of the waiting room and into the hall, where a nurse – yet another one – was waiting to accompany her to some other place. I could not help noticing a long red scratch on the woman’s cheek as she passed. Dr Richards then closed the door to the hall, came towards me and said in a quick, businesslike manner,

‘You are the visitor who came to see Miss Krieger? How may I help you? I do not have much time, I’m afraid.’

Alas, before he even spoke these words, I perceived in him the very type of doctor (and, let me add, of man) that I most dislike. Too refined to look openly self-important, he nonetheless had the air of a man who is in command and knows it. Here was a person imbued with a sense of his power; not a constructive sense, I felt, but an unfortunate, unhealthy sense, fed and nourished daily by the knowledge of his actual, perfectly real power over all those around him – helpless patients and respectful, obedient and scuttling nurses. Here was a man whose professional word was law, whose personal decisions bore the weight of law in the truest sense, for were he called to a court of law for any reason, either to aid in a judge’s decision or to defend his own medical doings, his expert words would no doubt be held to be unassailable and his expert opinion trusted implicitly. Such people raise my hackles; I feel an instinctive abhorrence for them, and am sometimes driven, I confess it, to flout their power for the pure pleasure of being able to do so.

But this did not seem to be a moment when such a course of action was advisable. Speaking respectfully, I explained my great wish to visit Miss Krieger, adding a totally untruthful tale about having been begged to do so by a dear friend of mine, now deceased, who had seen her quite lately and was aware that the visit had done her the greatest good.

The nurse downstairs may or may not have been ignorant of the entire story surrounding Sebastian’s visit; her discretion made it impossible for me to guess. But the quick glance in Dr Richards’ sharp blue eyes told me that he knew exactly what had occurred, and certainly much more about it than I did.

‘Surely you were told downstairs that Miss Krieger is to receive no visits?’ he said coldly, and snapped his lips shut. If possible, my dislike of the man increased by a notch.

‘I was,’ I said, ‘but I wished to enquire further, to learn why this was suddenly the case, and to make sure that it was truly for Miss Krieger’s benefit. For it appears to me possible that the family’s request to bar her from visits was made for a very different reason, and that it is equally essential, if not more so, to consider her own well-being. As her doctor, you must surely agree.’

It was a losing battle.

‘As her doctor, I am quite able to judge for myself of the best manner of ensuring my patients’ well-being,’ he said. ‘Visits are not useful to Miss Krieger. She is a patient whose peace of mind is fragile and must be preserved at all costs.’

‘I quite understand,’ I replied smoothly. ‘Holloway Sanatorium is reputed, of course, for curing its patients and releasing them into their normal lives. I presume your care for her well-being is oriented towards such a cure?’

‘Naturally,’ he replied, his tone yielding nothing to mine. ‘Miss Krieger’s case is, however, particularly complex, and it will take an amount of time which cannot be determined at present.’

‘Twenty-five years seems quite long already, does it not?’ I murmured.

‘It is long, too long. However, the methods of psychological treatment of one or two decades ago were not what they are now, and I may hope to succeed where my predecessors failed.’

I felt convinced that he was lying; that he had been tacitly or openly charged with the task of keeping Miss Krieger a prisoner for the rest of her life – for no really adequate reason, I was sure – and that he knew it, just as his predecessors had known it.

‘I am delighted to think that you believe you have a chance of bringing Miss Krieger to make a normal use of writing,’ I chanced, having no idea whether some earnest doctor along the way – or simply the passage of time – had actually improved Lydia’s condition years ago. ‘In that case, she could certainly leave the premises at once, could she not? For I am informed that she has no other psychological problems.’

The doctor’s face stiffened.

‘That is the assessment of an amateur,’ he stated. ‘A psychological problem is never confined to one narrow domain, although it may appear so to a layman. In any case, I am not at liberty to discuss my patients’ medical conditions. I beg that you will not trouble yourself about Miss Krieger’s well-being. You have seen our building, met our nurses. Look out of this window and you will see our gardens. You can judge for yourself whether the patients here are adequately cared for.’

He pointed out of the window as he spoke, and I followed his glance eagerly, for the window was not set in the anteroom where we were, but on the wall of his inner office, facing the door. The doctor had left this communicating door wide open when he ushered the patient out, and I had been dying to have a glance inside, but it was out of the question to let my eyes pry about indiscreetly, when his own were fixed so sharply upon my very face. Pretending to admire the grounds (which were indeed lovely), I took one or two steps forward and scanned what I could of his office. I immediately spotted the fact that behind his desk stood a set of large oaken filing cabinets with drawers, each of which was labelled with a card bearing a letter of the alphabet. A delightful idea suddenly entered my head, having the immediate effect of causing all of my spirit of rebellion to creep modestly back into the place in which it lives when it is invisible. Bowing my head submissively, I said that I would leave now. I added hopefully that I could find my own way out, but the doctor was not to be manipulated. ‘That is against our rules here,’ he said shortly, and rang a bell. I had perforce to wait until Sister Theresa appeared with a firm step to guide me directly to the exit, down the path, and inexorably out of the grounds.