Kolney Hatch: Buried Secrets (The Secret of Kolney Hatch Book 2) Read online

  KOLNEY HATCH

  BURIED SECRETS

  By Stefani Milan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Kolney Hatch: Buried Secrets

  Copyright © 2016 by Stefani Milan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any way without written permission from the Author, with the exception of brief quotations exemplified in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Ray Milanese

  ISBN-13: 978-1519475398 (CreateSpace Assigned)

  ISBN-10: 151947539X

  BISAC: Fiction / Mystery & Detective / Historical

  To mom. You are the reason this book is.

  prologue

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  My home had always been a source of comfort. Many pleasant memories from my childhood filled those rooms and hallways. Now, however, I could only picture Doctor Reid’s bloody, slain body in my front hallway.

  Only a week had passed since I returned from the Loxley Christmas Eve Masquerade Ball to find an attacker in my home, the same man who tortured me when I was a resident physician at Kolney Hatch Lunatic Asylum and tried to keep me prisoner there. A vivid memory of Kolney Hatch engulfed in flames haunted my memory. I thought about the lives that were lost, the people I knew, the people I cared for, and the people I feared.

  Doctor Reid was dead, and I was on the mend from my injuries. Though I still had nightmares about the asylum and Doctor Reid, I could finally put the past behind me. Or so I thought...

  1 A Mysterious Murder

  “She’s being held under strict surveillance in the isolation ward. We’ve been instructed she receive no visitors, Mrs...”

  Hoping to remain anonymous, Petunia Pennyworth scanned the hospital office searching for a new surname. On the far wall hung a large print of the London Bridge.

  “Bridge. My name is Petunia Bridge.”

  “Well, Mrs. Bridge...”

  “Are you certain I cannot see her?”

  “Yes, I am quite certain.”

  Petunia heaved a deep sigh. No visitation rights seemed awfully mysterious. Just two weeks prior, Petunia had eavesdropped on a shocking revelation about Roger Loxley and Richard Baker’s involvement in Wendy Watson’s murder. The only person who knew the whole truth was Agatha Bates, and Petunia knew that unless she could get the truth from Agatha, her secret was hers alone, for not a soul would believe a murder revelation obtained from eavesdropping behind a wall.

  Agatha Bates was Petunia’s only hope, so, on that gloomy winter morning, Petunia traveled for over an hour in the snow, by train and car, to Hollybrook Hospital. Now she stood in front of a dull blonde haired receptionist who had an equally dull personality.

  With one last attempt to see Agatha, Petunia asked again, “Is there no possibility of me seeing her?”

  “As I’ve said numerous times before, Mrs...Bridge, I am sure there’s not,” the receptionist maintained, suspiciously surveying Petunia from the corner of her flat blue eyes. “The police specified that she receive no visitors of any kind.”

  Petunia tucked one of her unruly black hairs back into its bun.

  “But I’m afraid it’s of the utmost importance that I speak with her.”

  The receptionist shrugged as if to say she cared nothing for Petunia’s needs. But Petunia refused to give up and was about to give the receptionist an inflated reason for going to the psychiatric ward, when she suddenly felt faint. Petunia took deep breaths and steadied herself against a nearby wall.

  “Are you all right Miss?”

  Slowly, Petunia nodded her head. She knew she was not alright, not in the least, for she hadn’t slept or eaten much since the night of the ball.

  “Move out of the way!” A penetrating voice growled suddenly.

  Petunia jumped and clutched her heart. She turned to see a tall, muscular guard pushing through a throng of lobby visitors. He disappeared behind a set of double doors.

  The receptionist stood abruptly. Apprehension filled her eyes.

  “Amelia, what is this all about?” She called to one of the nurses who hurried after the guard.

  “Something’s happened,” Amelia, began to say, but seeing Petunia, she stopped. “Just...follow me, will you?”

  “But the lobby...”

  “It can wait.”

  The receptionist scurried around the desk and followed Amelia through the double doors. Once they were gone, Petunia realized that with the exception of the visitors, no people were around. She thought it odd, but decided, if no one would let her into the psychiatric ward to see Agatha, she would just have to sneak in and find Agatha on her own. A peppery buzz generated among the visitors who were speculating reasons for the guard’s behavior. Looking around to make sure no staff had returned, Petunia carefully pushed through the doors. She would obtain the truth from Agatha if it was the last thing she ever did.

  “Whew,” Petunia breathed. Safely through the doors she saw only empty white halls filled with an eerie quietness. An arrow pointed to the psychiatric ward down the hallway and to the right, so she hurried down the corridor. Before she reached the end of the hallway, a tall, abrasive guard caught her by the arm.

  “What are you doing back here?”

  “I...”

  Petunia had no time to answer. She heard cries in the distance. The guard grunted, and still holding her forcefully by the arm, dragged her down the hallway and into the lobby once more. While they walked, he said, “You are not authorized to be back here.”

  “I’m sorry I just...”

  The guard bust through the double doors and moved toward the crowd of visitors who now looked at Petunia with curiosity. In a strident voice, the guard said, “Everyone in the lobby must exit the hospital immediately.”

  Petunia barely had time to put on her gloves before she was herded with visitors and staff like sheep through the doors. She was not a fan of tight spaces and was flustered that she traveled all this way just to be disappointed. Outside the facility in the biting air, flurries trickled out of grey skies. A throng of people had gathered by the front of the facility and shivered in their overcoats and gloves. The police arrived several seconds later, and Petunia watched the crowd part as the police pushed through to the front of the facility.

  Petunia stood closest to the door and watched as the officers filtered into the building. Suddenly, she noticed an egg-shaped head emerge from the opening in the crowd. It was Constable Wyatt.

  The last thing Petunia wanted was for the Constable to recognize her. She tried to move out of sight, but the crowd had become so large that she could not move without being seen. The Constable approached the door of the facility where a guard met him. Petunia watched as the guard leaned over and whispered in the Constable’s ear.

  “What?” Constable Wyatt snapped, narrowing his eyes. Petunia tried to hide behind the wall, but the crowd had moved closer to the door leaving her nowhere to turn. To Petunia’s horror, Constable Wyatt turned and glared directly into her eyes.

  His eyes met hers and lingered for a moment. Recognizing her, he cocked his head slightly to one side, and then turned back toward the guard and followed him inside. Petunia turned and struggled through the crowd until she stood alone. Her heart was pounding so quickly that it was difficult to catch her breath. When she finally did, she overheard two of the hospital’s attendants speaking to one an
other as they each smoked their cigarettes.

  “The asylum’s never had this kind of situation,” the first man said.

  “Yes, quite a tragedy indeed,” said the second man.

  “Did they say how it happened?”

  “It was murder.”

  “Are you sure? That’s impossible.”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure. I heard they found a puncture wound on the neck where the victim was poisoned.”

  “Do you think they’ll suspect the staff?” Petunia heard one of the men say.

  “I suppose they’ll question everyone who was here today and entered that ward.”

  Petunia heard their voices drop lower and inched closer to hear them better.

  “The guards were baffled. She was under such heavy surveillance.”

  Petunia’s stomach dropped.

  “The police sure have their work cut out for them,” one of the attendants pointed out. “Someone has gone through great lengths to kill the Bates woman.”

  Petunia clutched her chest as she tried to catch her breath once more. Could it be true?

  Agatha Bates was dead.

  2 Amy Rose

  Paul Watson’s Journal

  Evening, January 10, 1927— Detective Sergeant Wicksy and Detective Inspector Barnes had been calling on me for the last two days, questioning me about the journals and my time at Kolney Hatch asylum. On this day, they sat in my drawing room on a snowy afternoon and questioned me further.

  “Can you tell us anything about the Admission Registers, Casebooks, Ledgers…how did Doctor Reid admit patients to Kolney Hatch?” the husky Barnes inquired.

  He sat in one of my brown leather chairs in my drawing room scribbling down every word I said. Barnes’ tall eyebrows elevated even higher when he asked questions, and his overly thick brown mustache twitched as he spoke.

  “He mentioned that admission was selective,” I answered wearily. I glanced from the detectives to the crackling flames in the fireplace. “I had my own casebooks, but I was not privy to the ledgers…”

  Although two weeks had passed since the incident in my home, I was still healing from my painful wounds. I felt better than I had when I was at Kolney Hatch. I sat in one of my chairs, dressed in my brand new grey vest and pants, a crisp white shirt underneath, and my hair neatly done. I touched the bandage on my throbbing head before continuing.

  “I did my own investigation at the asylum and found the peculiar payments, which I included in the journals I turned over to the police.”

  The lean Wicksy stood and adjusted the double breasted grey vest that was under his single breasted jacket.

  “Could Thomas Reid have forced these patients into admission…against their free will?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “I suppose he could have…he did all he could to keep me there…but the patients at Kolney Hatch were admitted by their relatives in many cases.”

  Barnes checked the time on his golden pocket watch.

  “In your professional opinion, Doctor,” Barnes asked, over-enunciating the “r” in professional. “Do you believe any of the patients did not belong in the asylum or were wrongfully admitted?”

  “I should think so,” I nodded.

  “Can you provide an example?” Wicksy asked as he paced in front of my tall bookcase.

  “George. He was a young lad admitted for pyromania, but after observing him, I noted nothing abnormal about him.” I touched the bandage on my head again, as my head began to throb. “His story of what had happened to him was drastically different than the casebook showed, and the ledger showed George’s step-mother was depositing large sums of money into Doctor Reid’s account.”

  Wicksy stood still for a moment with one hand in his pocket, the other cupping the inside of his vest.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Yes,” I said reservedly. “A woman named Hannah. She was kept in the isolation ward. Her husband had also been paying Doctor Reid large sums of money to keep her there.”

  Wicksy’s slender fingers pulled a notepad and pen from the inside of his jacket, and scribbled notes on it.

  “She perished in the fire,” I added sorrowfully.

  Barnes’ mustache was particularly twitchy then, and I decided in this lighting, the detective resembled a rodent.

  “Doctor Watson,” Barnes said, “Do you believe Thomas Reid could’ve kidnapped Agatha Bates and brought her to the asylum against her will?”

  “I…I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t say. I suppose he could’ve...”

  Wicksy and Barnes exchanged a peculiar look. Barnes’ eyebrows had risen unusually high.

  “Why are you asking me?” I asked. “I thought he was responsible for her kidnapping. The authorities said...”

  “We know what they said, and yes, that was the initial proclamation, but Constable Wyatt has informed us that Agatha was murdered under the protection of seven guards who kept a 24 hour watch...two weeks after the death of Doctor Reid. Someone was able to slip past all of them and poison Agatha. Someone wanted her quiet...permanently.”

  “Which means,” Barnes said, “She had quite the secret to tell.”

  “How easy it would have been to pin on Doctor Reid were he not dead,” I interjected.

  “Exactly,” Wicksy agreed. “I believe there are a lot of people involved in a complicated web of wrongdoings. And no one wants to be discovered.”

  “Doctor Watson, the woman who saved you, the one from the letters, who murdered Reid, do you know where she is?” Barnes inquired.

  “I don’t, honestly…” I said shaking my head once more. “I wish I did. I want to help her and thank her for saving my life.”

  “You say she is Thomas Reid’s daughter…” Barnes remarked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew her?”

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  “You knew it was she because of the locket she left on the table…”

  “Yes. This one right here.”

  With some difficulty I pulled the locket out of my pocket.

  “May I have it?” Wicksy asked, stepping toward me.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I said, handing it to him.

  “How do you know this Amy Rose is who she says she is?” Barnes inquired, once more over-enunciating his r’s. He stuck his nose high in the air.

  “I knew Amy Rose as a child.”

  “Yes, but how do you know this woman was Amy Rose?” Wicksy asked.

  “I...I just do.”

  “If you knew her as a child, then surely you knew her father,” Barnes said inquisitively.

  “No...I never knew her parents,” I said. “She came to visit me...to my Aunt Greta’s cottage. I didn’t even know her surname.”

  “Did your Aunt Greta know her then?”

  “If she did, I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “So, you don’t know if the girl from the tunnels is actually Amy Rose,” Barnes reasoned.

  “No…but yes, I do. Look…I believe…”

  “I’m sorry Doctor Watson,” Wicksy interrupted. Now he paced by the fireplace and stroked his chin. “Truth be told…the Whitemoor police informed us that according to their records…Amy Rose Reid died in a fire along with her mother many years ago.”

  “She couldn’t have. I assure you…” I argued.

  “It’s not that we don’t believe you, Doctor,” Wicksy continued, “It’s just…we work strictly on evidence. Right now, this girl, whoever she is, is wanted for questioning.”

  “Why?”

  “Doctor Watson, you must understand. We’re conducting a murder investigation. The fact is, this woman murdered Thomas Reid. Now, it’s not likely she’ll face repercussions. She is, after all, the reason you’re still alive. But...the fact is, both she and Agatha were in those tunnels together. We can assume the girl, Amy, was likely unhinged from her experiences, and perhaps Agatha did something to make her angry.”

  Their accusations against Amy angered me.

  “A
my wasn’t unhinged,” I said defensively. “She was tortured. There’s a large difference. And Amy would never hurt someone like that.”

  “The only way for us to know that is to eliminate her as a suspect. So if you do see her or hear from her, your only job is to bring her to us. Do you understand?”

  I folded my arms and said nothing.

  Barnes and Wicksy exchanged glances with one another and then me. “We’ll sort this out, Doctor Watson. We promise. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Of course.”

  The detectives stood and I with them. Wicksy handed the locket back to me.

  “Keep this...your memory of the friend you once knew.”

  “Thanks,” I grumbled, and I walked the detectives to the door.

  After I saw the detectives out, I retired to my bedroom. I sat down at my desk and continuously turned Amy’s locket over in my hand. I opened the locket and gave Amy’s picture once last glance. Yes, the girl from the tunnels certainly was the Amy Rose I’d known as a child. I was sure of it. She couldn’t have murdered Agatha. Could she?

  3 Calm Before the Storm

  “Agatha Bates, murdered!” Mrs. Wendell’s plummy voice said. “Well I...I don’t know what to say. It’s absolutely horrid. Poor girl.”

  Beatrice read the newspaper silently, her slender fingers scanning the article.

  “What does the newspaper say?” demanded Mrs. Wendell. “You must read on Beatrice.”

  Many a time Beatrice Smith and her Aunt Tessie sat in those lion’s paw-footed chairs in Petunia’s drawing room and discussed the latest gossip in London. This evening was no different, though perhaps it was considerably colder, even though a well-lit flame in the fireplace warmed the softly-lit room.

  The women were so eager to gossip, they traveled through the remnants of a blizzard that had raged from Christmas Day through Boxing Day three weeks prior. Though they had planned to discuss the attempt on Paul Watson’s life, the sudden death of Agatha Bates was far more interesting. Now, as they sat around a white-clothed table, sipping tea and nibbling on scones and sticky ginger cake, tension and excitement stirred amongst the ladies with every new piece of information they learned.