The Secret of Kolney Hatch (5 page)

I arrived home after the long day tired and hungry. Thankfully, Eda had dinner prepared, and I quickly finished my fish and potatoes.

“The girls are going to miss you, Paul,” she said in her silvery, soft-spoken voice. “When I saw Francine and her friends at the fishmonger’s today, they were devastated you were leaving.”

“Really? I thought Francine ‘never wanted to see me again.’”

She cleared my plate from the table.

“She’s seemed t’ve changed her mind now that she knows you’re leaving. Of course, then all of the girls started arguing over who should get to marry you.”

“I guess I have no say in the matter.”

Eda laughed.

 “Oh dear, I almost forgot. You’ve received a letter,” she said.
 

She’d kept it in her apron, and when she handed to me I saw that it had specks of sludge on it. The letter felt damp and fragile in my hands.

“Poor letter must’ve been splashed by the rain yesterday.”

 The return address on the letter was from Whitemoor, and I thought perhaps it was from Charlie or Doctor Reid with details about my journey.

Surprisingly, the letter was from Amy Rose, a girl I had known as a young boy. I had not heard from Amy since I was thirteen. I had given her a tiny piece of paper with my London address and told her to write, but she never did. I thought Amy had forgotten about me, at least until now.

        Her letter was brief, only stating that she hoped we would be friends through letters. The water had smeared some of the handwriting, but I could still make out the words. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of nostalgia. Amy reminded me of a time when I was truly happy—when my mother and father were still alive.

        “Coincidence or fate?” I asked Eda after I’d finished a last bite of bread and butter and explained how timely it seemed that Amy would write to me when I was about to return to Scotland.

Eda answered with her same misty eyes, and warm, motherly smile she’d had since I was a child.

“Fate of course,” she replied. “Fate brings people together at just the right time.”

For a split second, I thought of Claire, but Eda brought me back to the subject of Amy.

“What was Amy like?”

“She was…the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen,” I replied. And she truly was—with her silky blonde curls and emerald green eyes. I wondered what she looked like now, all these years later. “She was younger than I by four years. I don’t know how I remember that. We were only friends for a short time, but Amy was my closest friend until I met Richard.”

“Well, are you going to answer her letter?” Eda asked softly.

“Of course,” I answered with a smile.

“There it is,” Eda said lovingly as that familiar motherly smile spread across her face. “I almost thought I’d never see it again.”

“What?”

“That smile, Paul. I remember that smile from when you were a young boy.” She paused. “I haven’t seen you smile in that way for many years.”

Eda was right. Thinking of Amy gave me a rekindled hope that anything was possible for me, even happiness. And I hadn’t felt that for many years.

I headed upstairs to the large desk in my sitting room then, cleared off the stacks of papers, and sat down to write.

Letter from Paul Watson to Amy Rose

“My dear friend Amy,                                    “27 April,10’oclock”

How wonderful it is to hear from you. I truly believed you’d forgotten me. Of course, I remember you. Our time together was brief, yet one of the happiest times of my lif
e
.

A lot has happened to me since we last met—somber situations have left me a hardened man. Gone is that young, innocent boy you once knew. I am not proud of my past and some of the things that I have done, Amy, but I am a good man.

So, if you still wish to be friends, I am very happy. In a few days, I shall travel to Whitemoor, for I am the new resident physician at Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum. While I am there, perhaps you will visit me, and we can spend some time with one another.

Thank you for writing to me. I do believe in fate, and between your letter and this new job, something calls me back to Whitemoor.

“Your dear friend,

“Paul Watson”

Paul Watson’s Journal

April 28, London, afternoo
n
.—
I am prepared to leave for Scotland. Doctor Reid sent me the details of my journey. I’m to take the train from King’s Cross to Edinburgh station where Doctor Reid informed me a car will be waiting to take me the rest of the way. The driver’s name is Nigel. The train ride will be about eight hours, and the distance from the station to the asylum may be close to a day because we will stop at an inn along the way.

More than ever, I long for that simple country life, far away from the chaos of London. The village of Whitemoor is located in a secluded area, perhaps more remote than I remember. I knew nothing about the geography of the land when I was younger—I had no idea of the differences between lowlands and highlands. My memories of the land are vague at best, but pleasant. I remember green hills, and sheep, and lots of purple flowers.

Doctor Reid wrote in his initial letter that because of the patients’ constant need of assistance, I will not be able to leave the asylum for the next twelve months.

I told this to Richard when he surprised me with a visit today. When I opened my front door to greet him, he looked awful, with an unshaven face and messy hair. The whites of his eyes were slightly reddened, and his clothes were disheveled. I swore he’d worn that white shirt the other night—had he changed or bathed, I wondered?  Initially, I feared the worst—Claire had told him what had happened between us.

But Richard confessed he was simply distressed about what he had done to Claire.

“Can’t believe I hurt her,” he said as he plopped on the sofa in my drawing room, the same one on which Claire and I lustfully embraced just a couple nights before. “I hadn’t the slightest idea until the next morning. I didn’t even remember that you’d helped me onto the sofa.”

I tried to concentrate on his words. I wanted to shout at him and be angry, but my mind was full of its own anguish. I wanted him to get up from the sofa. I could not bear to be in that room with him any longer. Overwhelming guilt flowed through my veins. My heart beat quickly, and I began to sweat, so I hurried to the cupboard to open a new bottle of brandy. I poured a glass for Richard and a glass for me.

 “Here…drink this,” I said, handing Richard his glass.

As I gulped down the contents of my glass, Richard watched me with a look of disapproval.

“You’re drinking, Paul?” Richard asked me inquisitively in a hoarse voice as he studied me intently. “Should I be worried?”

I could not help but laugh. Of all the people to be concerned about my drinking, Richard hardly seemed fit.

“Trust me, Richard, it’s not what you think,” I said pouring a second glass.

I could feel the sweat on my brow now as a knot welled in my throat, and I contemplated telling Richard what had happened. No. I wouldn’t betray Claire like that. I did not know what Richard would do to her if he knew. Or worse, what he would do to me. Still, I did have something to say to him. I drew in a deep breath.

“I know you weren’t yourself that night Richard, but don’t ever hurt her again. Ever. Do you understand me?”

“I understand.”

“No, Richard. If you hurt her again, I’ll make sure you suffer.”

“I promise, Paul,” Richard said, suddenly standing. “Can’t you see how distraught I am over this situation? To think I’ve hurt the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

Paul felt his stomach lurch. Richard paced as he spoke now.

“I almost can’t live with myself for this. Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

When I didn’t answer, for all I could think about was my betrayal to Richard, he questioned me.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just nervous about this new adventure.”

I hated lying.

“I’ve been thinking,” Richard said suddenly, “Perhaps you shouldn’t go to Whitemoor after all.”

I laughed.

                      “I’m serious.”

                      “Richard,
you
 are the one that facilitated this situation. Now you don’t want me to go?”

                      “It’s just…” he said, keeping his eyes downcast to the floor. “I’ve realized I don’t have many true friends…any true friends, in fact, except for you.”

                      “What about Charlie and the Loxleys?” I could not help the hint of uneasiness in my voice as I spoke her name. “And Claire?”

                      “They’re friends, but not true ones, except for Claire, and I’ve been an awful friend and husband to her,” Richard continued. “I don’t deserve her, Paul.”

                      Richard’s rare outpour of sentiment made me feel worse about my actions. I poured another drink for myself and filled Richard’s glass.  Then I sank into one of the leather chairs.

                      “Life is so complicated,” Richard replied, downing his glass.

                      I had to break the long moment of silence that followed.

                      “Look Richard,” I said trying to comfort him, but the words felt counterfeit as they left my lips. I was not sure if I were reassuring Richard or myself. “You made a mistake. It was an awful one, I’ll give you that, but you’re a good man, I know it.”

Richard still seemed perplexed. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then changed his mind. He shook his head as he stood and gave me a friendly pat on the back.

 “I have to go. Goodbye Paul. Be safe.” He produced a half-hearted smile. “You’ll write me when you arrive?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You’re a true friend Paul.”

His words stung me, and I could not utter any response. Richard gave me a friendly hug goodbye, and with that, he left.         

six
A HAUNTED NAME

Smack
! Petunia was hit with such force from behind that she nearly fell flat on her face onto the pavement outside of her stone front steps. Luckily, her body twisted when she landed so that her large bottom cushioned the fall.

“Pardon me,” Richard Baker mumbled as he attempted, with some struggle, to help Petunia up.

Richard’s grungy appearance intrigued Petunia—too much for her to be angry with him. The Bakers’ were known around London for their exceptional fashion and lustrous, groomed look, so Petunia was surprised to see Richard with unshaven whiskers, shabby hair, and a shirt that Petunia swore was stained. He was an intriguing sight indeed.

 “Are you alright? I wasn’t watching where I was going…I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s no matter, Mr. Baker. I appear to be fine,” Petunia said as she intently studied Richard’s face.

“Sorry again, Mrs. Pennyworth,” Richard said as he hurried down Peddler Street and out of sight. Petunia watched him until he turned the corner at Cromwell. She rubbed her aching bottom.

And then she thought about the other night, when she watched through her window with curious eyes as a sopping wet Claire Baker nearly shattered Paul Watson’s front door with her persistent knocking—a knocking that had jostled Petunia from a rather peaceful sleep. She had watched that night as Claire quickly entered Paul’s home and then left with him a few hours later.

Petunia knew something unusual had come to pass from the dread on Claire and Paul’s faces that night as they stood several feet apart from one another waiting for the cab and the peculiar actions and appearance of Richard on this day. Oh yes, something strange stirred between the Bakers and Paul Watson, and Petunia had a few assumptions of what that may be.

         She decided though, for the sake of Paul, not to discuss these curious observations and the events of this day with Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice, who visited that Tuesday afternoon instead of their usual Saturday. The ladies were considerably more interested in the newest gossip anyway.

        “Has Phillip heard anything at the bank about it?” Mrs. Wendell asked.

        “No, no he has not. Not that I know of anyway.”

        “Where is Phillip anyway?”

        “Boring meetings with potential clients as usual. That’s why I always have you over when he’s not here. He’s such a bore, that one.”

        “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you both. They’ve found a letter,” Beatrice said as she sipped on her chamomile tea. She was clad in a dull pink garb with a thin brown belt this evening, her hair tight in a bun like Petunia’s, but much, much neater.

        When Beatrice did not add anymore to the statement, Mrs. Wendell became agitated, her voice more plummy than ever.

        “Hwho? Hwhat? Hwhere?...” Mrs. Wendell snapped. “Beatrice, it is rude to leave a person wondering after uttering a statement such as that one. You must learn to clarify your statements.”