The Secret of Kolney Hatch (16 page)

“Richard!” Claire scolded, her voice faint and weak.

Dumbfounded at Richard’s tactless words, Petunia stormed into her house with the letter in her hand. She stormed up her stairs and into her sitting room. Finally, she sat down and opened the letter.

My dearest Claire,

I do not know why you are so unhappy. You must tell Richard. He will be so happy. He loves you so very much, Claire. I am sure if you spoke to him about your feelings and his behavior, he would change. But you must tell him you are pregnant.

Kolney Hatch is a strange place, but I would like to think I have made a difference already in the lives of these poor souls here. I miss you all so much. I know I must be careful what I say in these letters, but I trust that everything is well? Please continue to write to me, and I will send the letters only to my home, for you.

With love always,

Paul

Claire was pregnant, and she had told Paul before her own husband. Well, that explained why she was so ill and distant. And what about Richard? He followed Claire as though he were a detective and Claire, his suspect. Was that not so often the case—the wrongdoer questioning the innocent because his unworthy actions had led him to question the very people he had wronged? Petunia decided she would keep the letter. Claire would come for it soon enough.

twenty one
PETUNIA’S SECRET

Petunia walked down Peddler Street with a false confidence. She tried to hide the humiliation she felt, for as Petunia passed her neighbors—many who were outside on this warm June day—she heard their censorious comments about her and felt their disapproving stares on her back.

         “A disgrace of a woman indeed,” Mrs. Wallace, Timothy Wallace’s mother, muttered to a friend as they walked passed Petunia on the street.

So was the common treatment Petunia received in Kensington and in most places she traveled in London. She heard the whispers of Annie Boswell to the new couple that had moved on the street. Even Barnaby Teller’s dog growled at her as she passed by his house.

Petunia decided on this day, however, that she would do something she had not done for many years. She would feed the sparrows in Kensington Gardens. She had the bread carefully wrapped in her purse, and though the neighbors continued to blatantly humiliate Petunia as she walked, she would not be deterred from her mission.

The hum of an omnibus filled her ears until she reached the gardens, where suddenly a wide array of trees blocked the usual gray look of the city. The gardens were such a beautiful place, so green and inviting. Would the trees remember her—how she visited them so many years ago, every day?  The woods beckoned her to enter, and she traveled down a long path, feeling comforted by the surrounding greenery. The trees, unlike people, would not judge her. No, the trees would only whisper to her in the gentle breeze.  

Petunia sat down by the Italian Gardens. A long time had passed since she had seen those beautiful sculptures. As she threw the tiny brown birds small pieces of bread, she could not stop the tears that traveled gently down her soft cheeks.  The last time she fed those tiny birds was the last day she saw her son. She threw another piece of bread, and then slowly closed her eyes. If only she could relive that moment, the last moment she was happy, right here with her son, feeding the sparrows.

The tears streamed down her cheeks now as a small ray of sun peeked through the clouds and shrouded her in warmth. She felt herself smile, a true genuine smile, at the thought of Peter’s laugh, his innocence.  

 
Suddenly she heard the leaves rustle, and Petunia snapped back to the present. She felt someone’s eyes staring at her back. Quickly she turned,
 
and sure enough a figure emerged from behind one of the trees. It was Claire Baker.

        “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Claire said as she approached Petunia in her flowered navy-blue dress and matching cloche hat and heels. “Oh Petunia. You’ve been crying. Are you all right?”

                       “You followed me here,” Petunia accused as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

“I need to talk to you about the letter, Petunia,” Claire said as she removed her white gloves.

“Oh yes, that,” Petunia said, annoyance in her tone. “You could’ve just visited me at my home if you wanted to speak about it, Claire. No need to follow me throughout London.”

 “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just… I didn’t want Richard to know…if I’d gone to your home, he would’ve followed me. He’s acting peculiar. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Petunia felt a pang of guilt. She supposed she should tell Claire what happened at the Loxley party. But she did not feel particularly interested in divulging any secrets on this day. Claire sat down next to Petunia on the bench.

“Do you mind if I feed them also?” Claire asked, motioning toward the bread.

Petunia handed Claire some bread, and they both fed the sparrows in silence. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, a woman with a panting dog passed, and the sounds of London hummed in the background, muffled by the trees but still audible.

“So you know then,” Claire said quietly.

“Yes I do.”

“Are you going to tell anyone?” Claire asked. “I’ll do anything for you not to. Richard can’t know.”

Petunia turned to look at Claire’s face which seemed to have aged from worrying.

“I’m not going to tell him anything.”

“Oh thank you, thank you Petunia!”

They sat in silence together then, and suddenly that gentle breeze, the sounds of those birds, and the sweet smell in the air made Petunia feel sad again. She could not control her tears now as they streamed down her cheeks. She had not cried like this for an entire year. Claire comforted her—she was misty eyed herself at the sight of Petunia’s tears.

“What’s wrong, Petunia?” Claire asked.

Petunia only shook her head. She couldn’t speak—her throat was tight.

“Oh, was it something
I
 did?” Claire asked worriedly.

“Oh, heavens no,” Petunia said through her tears. When she finally composed herself, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I lost him right here.”

“Who?”

“My son…Peter. He was right here where you’re sitting. Right beside me. We came everyday at this time to feed the sparrows. He loved these little birds, and they loved him too.”

Petunia seemed lost in the nostalgic moment, and sighed before she continued. “I turned my back for just a moment. Just a moment to help a woman who’d fallen and bruised her ankle, and when I turned back around, Peter was gone.”

She paused again.

“He vanished into thin air. I searched everywhere in this entire park, in these waters...in every single structure...but he was just gone, as if he blew away in the wind.”

Petunia did not know why she was telling Claire all of this—she had not spoken a word to anyone about this story, anyone except Wendy.

“They never found his body. I have my theories. I think someone was watching us that day. I think someone took him.”

“Oh, Petunia, I am so sorry.” Claire said between tears. “I never knew.”

“I tried to tell Phillip. I did...but the damage was done. He blamed me then, and he still blames me now. And he’s right. I’m the reason Peter’s gone.” Petunia could barely make out the words now. “I was a very bad mother.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Petunia.”

“It was my fault, and I deserve my punishments. Lord knows I’ve suffered. But I deserve it.”

“Petunia…no.”

Petunia turned to face Claire.

“I’ve ruined a lot of lives, Claire. I do deserve to be punished.”

Claire hugged Petunia then, and the women cried together for each other. Then Petunia sat back and heaved a huge sigh of relief. They sat in silence for a long while until Petunia finally spoke.

“You should tell Richard you’re pregnant. That’s what Paul said in the letter...that Richard would change his behavior if he knew.”

“So he was happy?”

“He seemed very happy for you, yes.”

“I see.”

Petunia sensed Claire’s disappointment.

“You must love him very much,” Petunia said suddenly.  

“I do love Richard. He’s….”

“I wasn’t talking about Richard,” Petunia interjected. “I’m talking about Paul.”

“I’m sorry?”

Claire seemed taken aback at the accusation, almost offended, but also in deep thought about what she would say next.

“I’ve always loved Paul,” Claire said carefully as if she were saying it out loud for the first time. “I’m afraid I always will.”

Petunia sensed that perhaps Claire could not confide this love to anyone else, and rightfully so.

“That is something to fear,” Petunia said, and suddenly she started laughing. For some reason, thinking about all of the women in this city that loved her best friend’s son seemed so absurd to Petunia that she could not stop laughing. Claire seemed to read Petunia’s thoughts and began to laugh as well. And they sat, the two of them, and continued to feed the sparrows in the park.

 
twenty two

THE INSPECTOR’S VISIT

Letter from Amy Rose To Paul WAtson

“Dearest Paul,”                                                 “20 June”

I did not think you would remember the locket. It pleases me so that you do. I am faithful to you also, in the same way that you are to me.

Selfishly, I wish you stayed with me in Whitemoor and that we grew up together. Perhaps our lives would be different today.

Happiness for me arises in simple ways. Your letters make me happy Paul. Lately, I’ve felt contented just to connect with you again.

I hope you never change Paul, especially during your time at Kolney Hatch. Nothing good seems to come from that place. I am sorry to say it, but it is true. I am sure you notice the strange people and things there. No one in Whitemoor will go anywhere near that asylum. Please, always be the good soul I know you are.

“Always Yours,

“Amy”

Letter from Claire Baker To Paul Watson

“My dear Paul,”                                            “18 June”

Thank you for your letter. I understand now why you have always been so kind to Petunia. She really is a misunderstood woman, isn’t she? Please tell me how you are.  I want to hear more about Kolney Hatch. What are the patients like? I want to know everything Paul, every detail about your time there, every person you meet. When are you coming home to us?

“Your loving,

“Clair
e
”

Letter from Eda Holmes To Paul Watson

“My dear Paul,”            “June 21, 2 o’clock in the morning”

My brother Amicus passed early this evening. I will return to London once the burial takes place. I hope you are doing well in Whitemoor, and I am sorry I did not write to you sooner. I miss you terribly.

“Your humble,        

Eda”

Paul Watson’s Journal

June 28, late mornin
g
.—Birds. I heard the birds. And quietness. Though my muscles ached from the hard bed, at least I slept well.

After I dressed, I made my way down to the dining room which was mostly empty on this morning, except for Lamont, Nurse Hinkle and a few patients.

“What do you suppose he’ll do?” I heard Nurse Hinkle ask Lamont as I approached their table.

“Morning,” I said to both of them.

They answered at the same time.

“Good Morning, Paul.”

“Good morning!”

Nurse Hinkle’s cheeks flushed.

“Have you seen the inspector yet?” I asked.

“Yes,” Nurse Hinkle answered. “He arrived just a few minutes ago.”

“I hope the inspection goes well.”

“It always does,” Lamont assured. “Edward Fitch has inspected us before...he and Doctor Reid are friends.”

“I see...well...enjoy the rest of your breakfast.”

I sat at one of the tables in the back of the room by the kitchen and in seconds, one of the kitchen staff brought me some porridge. As I ate, I thought about my reports. I finished them and had already given them to Doctor Reid. There were ten deaths this year. Two deaths were unusual: Frederick Hume and a patient who died before I came to Kolney Hatch of a perforated stomach from swallowing a toothbrush. The remainder of deaths and records were routine, though I still questioned William Wilson’s sudden discharge from the asylum. I hoped Edward Fitch questioned it also.

  “In the night, in the night, come and take him in the night,” I heard the Captain say. He muttered to himself as he ate his porridge, occasionally directing his stares toward the wall. “Why! Why did you take it?” He yelled at the wall. And then: “Put ‘em in a locked box, cut ‘em up and let ‘em rot.”