Enigma Variations

by Bradley W Wright

  There was a car rental place a few blocks away so I walked over along Kensington Road, a busy, no-nonsense thoroughfare dirty from the never ending car exhaust. Low end retail shops lined the street together with ethnic restaurants, real estate offices, and mini-marts, each with its own colorful sign, competing like garish tropical birds to be the most recognizable. The visual language of design always fascinated me, especially in foreign places. Finally, the highly recognizable green and black of the rental company logo materialized and I stepped into the tightly controlled, utilitarian atmosphere of the shop—all gray tile, melamine counters, and carefully ordered racks of keys. The clerk got me into a Vauxhall Insignia with minimal fuss and I was soon sitting on the wrong side of the car, trying very hard not to swerve into the oncoming lane as I navigated my way to the M40.

  I wasn’t really hoping to learn anything useful by going to the old asylum but immersing myself in a job sometimes meant following random seeming side branches. It was founded in 1847 and was originally known as the Worcester County Pauper and Lunatic Asylum. Around that time, the British parliament had passed a law known as the ‘lunacy act’ which required all districts and boroughs to make some kind of provision for residents suffering from mental illness and poverty. It held about two hundred patients to begin with but expanded rapidly and housed over a thousand patients by the time it closed for good. Elgar, who grew up nearby, started out playing violin in the orchestra at the asylum and took over the job of conductor and composer a few years later. He held the job for five years, spending one day per week at the asylum. Over five years it must have been possible for him to make friends and acquaintances among both the staff and the patients. The place was finally closed down in the eighties after a scandal involving mistreatment of patients and stood vacant for years until it was purchased by a developer. A housing estate was now under construction on the considerable acreage that had once been the grounds of the hospital. Only the historic original hospital building and a caretaker’s house still stood. One article I had found stated that the first superintendent of the asylum, Doctor I. R. Grahamsley, committed suicide by drinking prussic acid after only eighteen months on the job. Another mentioned that in the late fifties and early sixties some of the psychiatrists started an experimental program studying the use of LSD to treat patients with schizophrenia. The place had an interesting history. Maybe, I thought, I could soak up some kind of ambiance but going there. I could see and feel what Elgar had felt and immerse myself in his world. Maybe some kind of inspiration would strike.

  Once I left the dense urban core of London and had passed through the outer suburbs, the countryside was a wearyingly regular patchwork of fields and farms and small wild areas. A couple of brief rain flurries spattered the windshield and made runnels in the accumulated dust until I located the right control on the wrong side of the wheel and blasted them away with wiper fluid. Finally, as I was beginning to wonder if the trip had been a prudent decision, the clouds cleared, bright sunlight shone down, and my phone told me to take the next exit onto a two lane country highway. After about a mile, I came to the development I was looking for and followed the pleasant robotic instructions to turn into the main entrance.

  The housing estate was made up of one and two-story brick row houses with steeply pitched, black shingled roofs, dropped haphazardly into the middle of some magnificently fertile farmland. On three sides it was surrounded by green fields and copses that stretched out and out until finally reaching a distant horizon of blue hills. On the fourth side, across the main road, was another, older housing development with a few shops and a pub inhabiting the boundary. I turned into the estate and found myself on a street that curved and wound around groups of houses broken up by small, wild parks that looked like bits of the original forest left untouched by the builders. A second phase on the east side of the estate was still under construction. I could hear the distant sound of nail guns and earth movers through my open window. The recent rain had left the weirdly empty sidewalks damp and an earthy petrichor emanated from the lawns and plantings in the yards. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a single car since entering the development. None driving, none parked. The houses all seemed dark too. The place was uninhabited.

  Just then I came around a bend and saw the facade of the former asylum rising up at the end of the street. Red brick with a black shingled roof echoing the houses in the subdivision, it stood apart, seeming to rise up out of the fields beyond, clearly older and more ornate yet possessing very little architectural character nonetheless. A massive chimney jutted up from the center and, on either side of the four story main building, two story wings extended out. There was parking at the front of the building so I pulled up awkwardly, still figuring out how to adapt to maneuvering from the right side of the vehicle, and shut the engine off. I walked up to the main entrance, gravel crunching loud under my shoes only making the stillness of the place more eerie—a place made by and for humans but no humans around. Above the main entrance was a weird, out of place lunette window split into five wedges by radiating glazing bars. The door below it was wide and solid looking with a brass mail slot inset. Just above the mail slot was an engraved plaque bearing a logo I recognized followed by the business name: Greenbriar Industries Ltd. Below that: Powick Meadows Sales Office. I wasn’t surprised. It had been nagging at my mind that if anyone owned the old Powick asylum property and was developing it into a housing estate it might as well be Morgan Jutting. A billionaire obsessed with Elgar surely wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to purchase the asylum where the composer got his start—especially if the property had potential for development. I tried the handle and, surprisingly, it turned. Inside I found a small lobby with a reception desk but no receptionist. I stood for a moment, unsure what to do, while my eyes roamed around the space, taking in details. Behind the reception desk was a multifunction copier/printer/scanner on a small table. An ethernet cable ran from the printer down to a wall plate with two ports. One of the ports was unused. The open port reminded me of Ashna’s sneaky little box—a little single-board computer in a beige plastic case no bigger than a deck of cards. It had an RJ-45 ethernet plug poking out of one side and was light enough that you could plug it in to a wall port and it would just sit there, hopefully unnoticed, until its battery died—or, if the port provided power over ethernet, until it was discovered. Ashna had given it to me and told me to plug it in to any open port I found if I ever needed a corporate network hacked. I ran out to the car, dug through my collection of weird gadgets, found it near the bottom of my pack, and ran back in. Crossing the lobby, I thumbed the switch on the back of the device and plugged it into the empty port.

  As I straightened up I heard a distant clack clack of heels on wooden floor boards, growing louder. I scrambled back to the other side of the desk, sat down on a caramel colored leather couch, and picked up a brochure from the glass topped table in front of me. The clacking grew louder until a young woman burst through the swinging door behind the desk. She wore a navy skirt suit with a white blouse and had wavy blonde hair to her shoulders framing a foxlike face.

  “Sorry!” She exclaimed. “I was doing some filing. Not many visitors right now. We have a buzzer that alerts me…” she gestured toward the door.

  “No problem,” I answered, glancing at the door, then back to her. “Not in a hurry.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes. I’m visiting from the states. I’m interested in finding a property in the area. I was driving by and liked the look of the houses. Are they not for sale yet? They seem finished.”

  “Yes. I mean no. Sorry. They will be for sale. Phase one was completed several months ago. But we can’t give an exact date yet when sales will begin. The developer has decided to hold them off the market for now.”

  “Interesting. Would it be possible to view one of the houses?”

  “Of course. I can take you around. There are several floor plans. How many bedrooms are you looking
for?”

  “Two or three. This building seems older. Is it historic?”

  “Let me just get the keys,” she said and I watched with interest as she pressed a finger to the scanner of a small safe mounted behind the desk. I recognized it from a blog post I had read a couple of months before. The site was run by a locksmith and was devoted to showcasing ridiculous design flaws in commercial locks and safes. She took a bunch of keys from the safe, closed it, and turned back to me. “Yes,” she continued, picking up a shoulder bag, and rounding the desk. “It was a hospital but was closed back in the eighties. All of the land was part of the hospital grounds. This is the only original building remaining. The plan is to lease part of it out as office space, some flats, and some community space. I’m Angela James.” She offered a hand and I took it.

  “Dustin Cruz,” I said. It was an alias I had used off and on in the past. I had a full set of documents for Mr. Cruz with my photo on them. I never liked using a fake name but sometimes it seemed prudent.

  We left the building and she led me across the lot and up the street. The plantings around the houses were obviously very new, the sod cut precisely to follow curving beds. A few shallow puddles still remained from the earlier rain. Angela James stepped around them carefully, keeping her suede pumps dry. At the third driveway she turned and beckoned me to follow. The door had one of those combination lock boxes with a key inside. I watched her open it and memorized the combination by habit.

  The house was just what I expected inside. I didn’t really want to see the houses. I wanted to see the old asylum building. But I let her lead me around and show me a couple of floor plans.

  “Would it be possible to see one of the flats in the old hospital building?” I asked as we were walking back.

  “Yes. We have several options there too. I can show you a loft studio, a two bedroom and a three bedroom.”

  She led me through the building, up a set of stairs, and into a corridor that seemed to run the length of one of the wings. The place was depressingly anonymous but here and there I saw a flash of the original building—an exposed brick wall, an antique door.

  “All of our flats are on this side,” she said over her shoulder, leading me down the hallway.

  “It feels a little eerie here with no people around. It’s too quiet.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely! I can’t wait until we start selling the units. It gives me the creeps.”

  “Have you ever met Morgan Jutting?” I asked on an impulse. “He owns Greenbriar doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s the owner and CEO. He did come here once to tour the building and the model houses. It was a little bizarre. They sent a cleaning crew through that morning. Even though everything was brand new and never lived in by anyone. He came in a big car with bodyguards. I only saw him from a distance. He was wearing gloves and a hat and sunglasses.”

  “Interesting. I’ve heard he’s a germophobe.”

  “Yes. Even weirder though, did you know his father was the last director of the asylum?”

  “No, I had no idea.”

  “Yes. He was in charge when it was finally closed down. Mr. Jutting must have spent time around here when he was little. He would have been finishing his A Levels when it closed if my math is right.”

  “Fascinating coincidence that he owns it now. Or maybe not a coincidence. Maybe he had some kind of nostalgia. Can I see the community space?” I asked as we descended the stairs, heading back toward the lobby.

  “Sure. We have the old recreation room and the chapel.” She turned down a different hallway that ran along the outside of the building. A wall of windows along one side looked out on bucolic, sun-drenched farm land in shades of emerald. “This is the recreation area,” she said, turning through a wide arched doorway into a large room with a double height ceiling, wood floor, and yellow columns down the center supporting the floors above. Part of the space was devoted to exercise machines and weights and the rest was set up as a studio for fitness classes.

  I nodded and turned back to Angela. “And the chapel?”

  “This way. It’s at the rear of the building.”

  We continued down the hallway and came to a door at the end. She pulled it open and gestured for me to enter. I walked a few feet in and stopped, gazing around the airy expanse. Finally, I was seeing and feeling what I had hoped for. The chapel must have been forty feet high at the center beam. Cross beams painted white supported a ceiling of dark wood. High, arched windows ran down both sides of the nave. On the right side, sunlight slanted in and pooled on the original floorboards. There was no transept, just a raised area two steps up where the altar would have been and a small, half-circular apse behind it. In the silence of the chapel, watching dust motes swim in the light, I had an inkling of what the place must have felt like back in Elgar’s day. I imagined him rehearsing his little orchestra down the hall in the recreation room. I could almost hear the music. I spent a few minutes wandering around the chapel then returned to Angela James who stood near the door scrolling through something on her phone.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ve seen the whole place now.”

  Chapter 15

  Regency Anomie

  July 3: London

  Jutting’s personal assistant called me as I was driving back from Powick. I was listening to the Enigma Variations again and thinking about the Worcester County Pauper and Lunatic Asylum. Despite the remodel which had carefully hidden any trace of the building’s original purpose, somehow I had still smelled the faintest hint of Victorian antiseptic, felt the whispering reverberations of electroshock jolts in the air, seen the ghostly after images of hollow eyed patients wandering the hallways. Society had come a long way in understanding and accepting people with mental illness, treating them with humanity, and assuring them rights. Still, though, despite the closing of large scale asylums and the decentralization of care, human beings were often treated with just as much disregard now as they had been then. It seemed like the trend of intensifying income inequality and the stubborn refusal to fund and implement effective programs for alleviating homelessness had left many of the most fragile people on the street. At least the administration of the asylum had believed in the humanity of their patients enough to provide them with live music conducted by a man who would go on to become one of the greatest composers of his era. Did they believe the music would help their patients recover? Or was it just seen as entertainment?

  My phone, bluetoothed to the car’s onboard system, interrupted my thoughts with a pleasant little melody, fading out the pensive strings of the eighth variation. The caller ID said Greenbriar Industries. I tapped the answer icon.

  “Hello.”

  “Mister Vincent?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Victoria Butler. Morgan Jutting’s assistant. Calling to book an appointment with you to meet with Mister Jutting.”

  ****

  On my way out, I ran into my temporary landlady Murial on the stairs. She was holding a bag of garbage and wore purple dishwashing gloves.

  “Liking the place all right?” She asked.

  “Yes, it’s fine. Thanks. Quick question though. Is the cat yours?”

  “Cat?”

  “Yes, a big tom. Maine Coon maybe.”

  “Oh, Max we call him. He’s a neighborhood cat. Doesn’t really live anywhere. A bit of a nuisance really. Some people feed him. He gets in fights.”

  “Got it. He’s been hanging around.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t encourage him.”

  “Okay. Have a good evening. I’ll probably be leaving tomorrow. I’ll pay for the week of course since I reserved it but wanted to let you know in case you have someone else who wants it.”

  “Okay. Thanks dear. Hope you have a good evening too. You look like you’re going somewhere fancy.”

  “Just a business meeting unfortunately. Bye.”

  ****

  I arrived at Jutting’s house a couple of minutes early. Our
appointment was scheduled for five PM. Ortoli had given me a list of specific questions to ask. He had confided to me that he found the opportunity interesting mainly because he believed he would be able to take control both financially and on the ground. He was confident his own people could get the project back on track and he could end up profiting from the deal. He had insisted that I be allowed to meet with Jutting in person citing rumors that Jutting was in ill health or going senile.

  I stood across the street for a minute, observing the house. It looked like a posh townhouse but it was probably more like a fortress. Steeling myself, I walked over and knocked. While I waited, I checked out the hardware. There was a biometric keypad on the door. The glass in the nearby window was definitely not original. It looked like ballistic glass-clad polycarbonate—super thick and nearly bulletproof. A capable looking guy in a black suit opened the door. He had hands made for crushing rocks. Each finger was a bratwurst. He stared at me without speaking.

  “I have an appointment with Morgan Jutting,” I said after a few seconds, realizing he was waiting for me to speak first.

  “ID.” He said and held out one of his oven mitts. The intimidating monosyllabic posturing was a bit over the top but it was part of any good private security guard’s arsenal. It was working on me. I didn’t want to try anything in Jutting’s house.

  I handed him my passport and he motioned me into the entry hall. He had a regency desk with an incongruous black PC at one end. He bent over it, probably checking the appointment schedule, and compared my passport to something on his screen.

  “Okay, wait a minute,” he said, handing my document back and picking up a phone. “Justin Vincent here…yes…all right.” He hung up and pointed to a carved walnut bench upholstered in broad gold and black striped chenille. “She’s coming down.”