The Secret of Kolney Hatch (6 page)

        “The letter was too wet for anyone to decipher its message,” Beatrice squeaked testily. “But Constable Wyatt thinks Louisa may’ve been trying to reach the police about something.”

        Petunia grabbed onto her long silky black and gold garb as she took a very slow (her bottom still hurt from earlier) seat on her long forest-green sofa. She pondered the newest murder information for a moment.

        “So if Louisa was trying to expose something but was murdered before she could reach the police,” Petunia reasoned, “then perhaps the missing girl was also trying to do the same.”

        Beatrice nodded her head.

        “Perhaps, yes.”

        “What was the missing girl’s name?” Mrs. Wendell asked, fixing the top button on her usual black dress.

        “Agatha Bates. She was….” Suddenly Beatrice stopped speaking to look at her dress. Her voice was breathy and full of disappointment. “Oh darn, there’s a tear in my dress.”

        Petunia took in a deep breath.

        “She was what, Beatrice?”

        Mrs. Wendell’s eyes widened with irritation. “That dress is brand new, Beatrice. You must be more careful with your things.”

         Mrs. Wendell continued to interrogate Beatrice about the origins of the rather large tear in her new dress while a large lump formed in Petunia’s throat. Her body began to tremble, and, was it hot in this room? Suddenly, she felt as though she may faint.

        A fierce knock on the front door made her jump.

        “Excuse me for a moment,” she said to Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice, who in continuing their conversation about the dress, ignored Petunia as she spoke. Petunia was eager to leave the room to calm her nerves.

        By the time she reached the front door, she was panting. The fierce knock came once more, just as she opened the door. Immediately, Petunia stiffened.

        “Constable Wyatt, whatever brings you here at this hour?” Petunia asked politely and low. The last thing she needed was for Mrs. Wendell to question why the constable was at her home.

        “Good evening Mrs. Pennyworth. So sorry to disturb you,” he said, taking off his hat to reveal his bald, egg-shaped head. “I was hoping I might speak with your husband for a moment.”

        “Phillip isn’t here,” Petunia said.

She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, just in case Mrs. Wendell and Beatrice were listening. She hoped they were still talking about the tear in Beatrice’s dress. She tried to control her trembling voice. “Perhaps I could help you with something?”

        “No, I don’t believe you can. We just need to ask Phillip a few questions. Do you know where I might find him at this hour?”

        Petunia could not conceal a snide laugh. She never knew where Phillip was at any hour.

        “I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Petunia said curtly as she looked to her left and right to make sure she and the constable were alone. “I never quite know where Phillip is.” Then she brought her voice to just above a whisper. “You see, he’s hardly
ever
 around, especially at nighttime...if you know what I mean.”

        The constable seemed to understand.

        “I see,” Constable Wyatt said. “Well, I suppose we’ll find him at the bank tomorrow then.”

        “Alright. If he does come home tonight, of course I’ll let him know you must speak with him,” Petunia said with a half-hearted smile. She hoped the good constable would leave before Mrs. Wendell or Beatrice overheard. He was about to turn away when suddenly he stopped.

        “Perhaps you can help me after all, Mrs. Pennyworth. You see, we’re trying to find friends or acquaintances of the missing woman. Agatha Bates? Have you heard that name before?”

        Petunia pretended to think about it for a moment and then slowly shook her head.

        “Can’t say that name rings a bell, Constable Wyatt.”

        “Alright. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good evening Mrs. Pennyworth.”

        And with that the constable was gone. But Petunia’s insides twisted and whirled as panic consumed her, for she
had
 heard that name before, too many times. That name had haunted her dreams, her thoughts, and her life for many years, for Agatha Bates had been her husband’s mistress.

seven
AN UNUSUAL MEETING

Paul Watson’s Journal

May 2, 1926, afternoo
n
.—I reached Edinburgh in the morning. The locomotive ride was nice—delicious food, and I was able to rest comfortably in the spacious sleeping car.

Nigel, my driver, was waiting for me when I alighted from the train. He was a short and rather reserved man with an unusually round face. A large, shiny bald spot on the top of his head sat amid thinning reddish hair.

As we drove away from Edinburgh, I took in the scenery before me. I had never seen such a beautiful landscape in all of my life.

We passed a monumental castle standing tall in the distance, surrounded by the most attractive snow-covered mountains. Not a single cloud was in the sky, and there was a large lake that surrounded the castle. The lake was so still that for a moment I believed the site was an exquisite painting rather than a landscape. A single tree sat next to the castle. By far, the most beautiful part of the scenery was the reflection of the mountains, castle, and sky in the lake.

Late
r
.—
We continued through the Grampian Mountains, through the various clusters of pine and birch trees. Some of the trees were still barren and brown; others had buds, and still others were a deep green. The grass looked like a green blanket over the land, soft and lovely. Some roadways were very small and winding while others were more spacious.

Beyond a long grove of pines, which then opened to the vast countryside, was a small stone cottage surrounded by considerable earthy hills, from which jagged rocks protruded. At one point, clouds rolled in, covering the blue skies slightly and making the hills appear dull.  A rippling river curved along that road. Another river traveled all the way down a small mountain; its serrated rocks stuck out as the water calmly flowed over it.

Nigel did not ask many questions during our drive, and though I asked him a few, most of the time I spent observing the scenery around me.  What I did learn about Nigel was that his family was from Aberdeen, off the Northeastern shores of Scotland.

“Fittie,” Nigel replied in a deep, baritone Scottish accent when I’d asked him from which village in Aberdeen he came. “It’s at the east end of the harbor. I’m part of a long line of fishermen, but after the death of my wife, I didn’t want to live there any longer.”

By the time we reached Dalwhinnie, a small quaint town in Glen Trium where we would stay for this evening, the skies were overcast with clouds, and the temperature had dropped significantly.

I stepped out of the car and embraced a much-needed stretch before examining the layout before me. We were in a wide, flat land surrounded by hills. London had been quite warm compared to Dalwhinnie. Nigel must have noticed me shivering.

“It’ll be warmer inside, Doctor Watson,” he told me. “There’s enough whiskey to keep a man warm.”

I followed Nigel into the Inn, which was comfortable and cozy from the moment I stepped inside. Nigel retired to his room early, but first he showed me where the bar was, which, when I entered, was already filled with smoke and the dull buzz of men and women immersed in conversation.

I learned from a burly Scotsman with a pear-shaped head and a thick white beard about the origin of the distillery in Dalwhinnie—how the men trekked through moorland heather to collect the pure waters of the Allt an t`Sluic, and how in Gaelic, Dalwhinnie meant “The Meeting Place.”

“Macleod,” the man introduced himself in a husky voice with a thick accent and held out his chubby hand. I shook it.

We sat in the deep red lounge chairs arranged in one of many clusters around the room.

“Watson,” I replied, and then he handed me a glass of whiskey. I learned then that Macleod’s ancestors had been distillers.

As he adjusted his spectacles, which fitted his down-slanted eyes but looked disproportionate to his bulgy-cheeked, oblong face, Macleod told me that Dalwhinnie was untouched by conveniences I had come to enjoy in London. No telephones or electricity existed in the village he explained, and the distillery was lit by paraffin lamps, the equipment powered by steam engines.

“Is all of the Highland area like this?” I asked him as we both took a sip of our whiskey.  

 “Mostly,” was all Macleod said with a shrug, and I began to wonder what Kolney Hatch would be like.

The whiskey was good, I had to admit—light and heathery, and gave me a deep warm feeling.

“Do you know anything about Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum?” I asked Macleod, who had so much whiskey that he needed to “rest his eyes.” He opened them when I spoke, and after a long moment, he answered.

“Nae.”

“Kolney Hatch?” I heard a woman’s soft voice say, and I turned my head to see a young woman with curly, bobbed blonde hair who looked about my age.

She stood from where she sat to sit in the empty chair across from me.
 The woman, elegant, tall, lean and beautiful, with her rosy cheeks and eyes the color of frost-covered blueberries, seemed almost familiar, yet I did not know her, I was sure of it.

“Yes,” I asked. “Do you know anything about the place?”

“I should hope so,” she said with a laugh, “My uncle is the superintendent there. I’m Rosalind.”

She extended her dainty hand for me to kiss, which I did willingly.

“Paul Watson,” I said.

“Well Mr. Watson, what business do you have at Kolney Hatch?”

She batted her eyelashes that rested under her thinly plucked eyebrows. Her lip curled into a modest smile.

“I’m the new resident physician there at the request of your uncle,” I said returning the smile.

“Well if that’s true, then I shall have to pay a visit to my uncle when I return from London.”

“Ahh, London. Have you been there before?” I asked.

“I’m in London quite often, Doctor Watson,” she said

playfully.

“Please, call me Paul,” I told her. “What brings you to London?”

“Meeting friends in Bloomsbury.”

“Bloomsbury, I see...Bohemians?”

“I prefer to use the term avant-garde to describe my friends, Paul.”

“Well, regardless,” I cautioned. “You should be careful there. There’s a murderer on the loose, you know, targeting women. Another woman’s gone missing. London is a very dangerous place these days.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve visited my uncle at the asylum plenty of times. I think I can handle dangerous.”

“I have no doubt.”

Then Rosalind stood and smoothed out her silky light-pink dress that set off her hair and eyes.

 “If you’ll excuse me,” she said with a smile, and then she turned and left the common room.

That night as I lay in my hotel bed, I thought about Rosalind. She was full of such mystery and intrigue. I hoped she did visit her uncle so that I might see her again.

eight

KOLNEY HATCH LUNATIC ASYLUM

Paul Watson’s Journal

May 3, afternoo
n
.—
We left Dalwhinnie early in the morning, traveling on the flatland of the moor for quite some time. Unable to cut through the considerable rugged mountain range, we headed a long ways west before turning northeast again toward Whitemoor. Gray clouds covered the skies. As we traveled deeper into the Highlands, the roads became small and winding, and we passed many stone cottages that were humble in appearance. Herds of cows and flocks of sheep grazed on the land around us. A wave of nostalgia flowed through me, and suddenly I remembered passing this way as a child.

Then the heavy rain began. We could not see even a foot in front of us, but Nigel reassured me he had driven through worse. We came upon a large lake with the mountains in the distance, and even through the rain, it was still beautiful. We traveled for miles along that lake, which I learned later was called Loch Laggan, and soon the large and barren mountains with snow-topped peaks appeared through the half-budded trees. The rain stopped then, and I observed an eerie thick mist that surrounded the mountains beyond the lake.

We passed a village before we made our final turn toward Whitemoor. Nigel said that our supplies would most likely come from there, but we wouldn’t be able to get to town regularly.

We traveled on through a dense grove of trees—the mist staying with us—and when we arrived in Whitemoor, I realized what Nigel meant about the town being so far from the asylum. Only a few cottages were scattered about. I could not remember which cottage had been my Aunt’s, which I found humorous because that was one detail about this place that I thought I distinctly remembered. We crossed one more tiny stone bridge and then traveled down a very narrow, long, and winding dirt path surrounded by tall evergreens.