“I might as well tell you.” He paused briefly. “My mother lived for a while in that asylum, right up there in the women’s wing where we were today.” His eyes glinted with a hardness Wren had never noticed before.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she replied meekly. She felt a rush of warmth flood her cheeks and wished she hadn’t been so nosey. She hadn’t meant to pry into his private life. It was important, as far as she was concerned, to keep their relationship on a professional level. She didn’t want to be friends—or anything more intimate—no matter how handsome he might be. Their relationship was strictly business. She intended to keep it that way.
“My mother died at the asylum under mysterious circumstances,” Allan went on.
Wren was positively dumbstruck. She had the unnerving sensation that her world would start spinning out of control again. There had been too much trauma for one day already. As her heart began to race, she had another intuitive feeling—not a good one. Maybe she should have brought up the subject of the anonymous letter before now.
“I suppose there was a police investigation at the time,” she finally replied.
“Actually, there wasn’t. It happened many years ago when I was a child—about your daughter’s age. I was told Mom had died from natural causes.” After a heavy pause, Allan looked at her. “Do you remember Gorse mentioning the female patient who jumped from the winding staircase?”
Wren nodded, feeling too miserable to speak.
“That was my mother.”
3
Wren swallowed hard. “But that woman didn’t die,” she said in a quiet voice. “Gorse told us she survived.”
“True, she survived the fall,” Allan replied. “They told my father that she’d jumped, but I’ve always wondered if she was pushed. She died sometime later—from complications, perhaps, or from the flu. My aunt told me my mother had a serious case of influenza.”
Wren’s heart felt heavy with a sadness that seeped deep in her bones. She pitied Allan for having lost his mother at a young age. She knew from watching Pippi cope with grief, how painful his experience must have been. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick. She wished she’d brought along a water bottle. “Why do you think your mother was pushed? Did you overhear some mention of it?”
“No. I was a child. They seldom spoke of my mother in front of me, and I only knew what they told me. But I often wondered if they were telling the truth. My mother was frightened; I do know that. She wanted desperately to come home.” Allan’s statement was unnerving—particularly on top of everything else that had happened today.
Unable to think of what to say, she simply muttered, “I am so sorry.”
He nodded, opened the car door, and made his way to the history building, his hands thrust into the pockets of his corduroy jacket.
Wren followed. She intended to pick up her tote bag and a few items from her desk and go immediately to Deb’s to pick up Pippi. As her mind raced back over the details Gorse had shared with them regarding life at the institution, she considered it all in a different light now—because of what Allan had told her about his mother.
Wren imagined Mrs. Partner as a feminine version of her good-looking son, with dark wavy hair and expressive blue eyes. She couldn’t help wondering if the woman had been truly mentally ill or if she had suffered from melancholy, or one of those other ailments society deemed embarrassing enough to justify sending her away to the asylum. And if she had indeed been mentally ill, was it the hereditary sort of illness? Was there a possibility that Allan might suffer with it too?
That chilling thought haunted her as she walked briskly up the sidewalk beside him. Wren was glad to be back at the college again and away from the old hospital. She worked here nearly every day during the week. The familiarity of the campus helped her resume her emotional balance. Here, she felt far away from the tragedies that had taken place at the asylum in decades past.
As Allan pulled open the door to the history wing, a cluster of chattering coeds came out of the building. Most wore tight jeans and even tighter sweaters. Their faces lit up at the sight of him. “Hello, Professor Partner,” they greeted in a fractured chorus. One or two even batted their long lashes.
Wren tried not to roll her eyes.
Allan only smiled. He acknowledged their greeting with a nod, and then stepped aside so Wren could precede him through the door. His smile was not reflected in his eyes. He appeared troubled. Still thinking of his mother’s death, she supposed, or something else that had made this day so exhaustingly unforgettable.
While she fumbled in her purse for the office key, he touched her lightly upon the arm. “Don’t bother. I’ve got mine right here.”
The touch of his fingers caused Wren’s heart to flutter. How silly! They’d been clutching hands and elbows earlier in the day as they tiptoed through the muddy tunnel. She hadn’t felt any embarrassing flutters then. Why should things be different now? She silently chastised herself for being as inane as those crush-struck coeds.
As Allan inserted his key, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. “Go on in, Wren. I need to take this.”
She nodded and opened the office door. Startled, she stopped at the threshold.
A woman dressed all in black was sitting behind her desk—a woman with a face as fierce and wrinkled as an old crone’s.
Wren caught her breath. “Who are you? How did you get in?”
The old woman raised a thick, dark eyebrow—one neatly penciled in, but with a heavy hand. “The door was unlocked. I’m here to see Professor Partner.” Her voice was deep and slightly hoarse.
“Do you have an appointment?” Wren asked, frowning.
“You’re not the department secretary,” the other woman retorted.
“No, I’m not,” Wren admitted. “I’m the professor’s research assistant. You’re sitting at my desk.”
The woman’s black slacks and sweater, short black overcoat, black gloves, and black felt hat appeared to be expensive, but not of the latest fashion. The woman’s hair should have been gray or silver with age. Instead, it was as black as a raven’s wing and tightly curled. A wig? The woman rose slowly. “I beg your pardon.” Her tone was stiff and formal, but not apologetic.
How long had the strange visitor been sitting there? Had she gone through the file folders on the desk? Opened the files on Allan’s computer? There was a stack of steno pads filled with notes and reminders regarding Allan’s book manuscript. Had the woman looked at those?
“If you’ll have a seat over there, I’ll get the professor.” Wren indicated a small arm chair across from Allan’s desk.
The woman moved with surprising agility for her age. She wore thick black loafers, too.
Wren darted into the corridor to fetch Allan. They nearly collided as she came around the door into the hall.
He gripped her by both arms. “Steady there. Where’s the fire?”
“Someone has been waiting for you in the office. A woman,” Wren said, slightly breathless.
“Who is she?” Allan asked.
“She didn’t—wouldn’t—say.”
“When did she arrive?” he asked, a frown puckering his forehead. “No one passed me in the corridor.”
“She was in there waiting already and sitting at my desk,” Wren replied. “She told me the door had been unlocked, but it wasn’t, Allan. I know it wasn’t. I locked it before we left for the asylum. I know I did.” She could hear her voice rising with agitation.
Allan gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Wren. I believe you.” He walked past her into the office and strode forward to meet his mysterious visitor, a hand thrust out. “Good afternoon. I’m Allan Partner. I believe you have been waiting to speak with me?”
“I am Dr. Sylvia Leadill—a physician, not a professor,” she said, keeping her hands encased in the black gloves. “At one time I was the superintendent of the state mental asylum. Perhaps you’re familiar with my name,
as you have been working on a new book and doing considerable research on the institution.”
Wren hovered near her desk, her thoughts now in stirring turmoil. She longed to leave at once, to pick up Pippi and join Deb and Charlie for supper. And how she longed for that hot shower! On the other hand, she was keenly curious about Allan’s odd visitor, who had lied to her so boldly. The door had been locked. She’d bet the farm on it—if she had a farm.
As she stood there wrestling with indecision, Allan asked her to take a seat at the desk. “I may need you to write something down,” he said, tilting his firm, dimpled chin toward her stack of research notebooks.
Taking her seat, Wren reached for a steno pad. Should she take down the conversation between Allan and Dr. Leadill, or simply wait for Allan to tell her what he wanted her to write down? Wren made up her mind to record as much of their conversation as possible, using the unique shorthand she’d devised for quickly taking notes while helping Allan research his book.
“I do recognize your name, Dr. Leadill. I’ve run across it several times in my research. How can I help you?” Allan asked. He reached into his pocket to retrieve the digital camera and placed it on the corner of his desk.
Dr. Leadill placed her black clutch on the desk next to it.
“It is I who have come to help you, Professor,” she replied. “I understand you are writing a book about Dorothea Dix. You will certainly want to include a chapter or two about the asylum here in Jacksonville.”
“I intend to,” Allan admitted.
“I was superintendent there for many years, even into the 1970s when the patients were relocated to other mental hospitals across the state before ours was closed down.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Allan admitted. “I’m not sure how you can help me, Dr. Leadill, but it’s kind of you to offer.”
“I have notes and files relating to the asylum,” she told him in a raspy voice. “Personal notes.”
Wren made a note of that—personal notes/Leadill.
“I’m not writing about the state hospital specifically,” Allan said. “I’m writing about Miss Dix. I will, of course, mention the hospital, as she was responsible for it being built in the first place. Although she had fallen ill during her campaign, Miss Dix requested that a small party of Illinois legislators visit her in her hotel room, where she made an impassioned plea for the mentally ill from her sick bed.”
“How clever,” Dr. Leadill said, pursing her wrinkled lips. “That could not fail to impress even her harshest critics.”
Allan shot his visitor a startled look. “Miss Dix was a sincere reformer. It was her heartfelt desire to see that the mentally ill were no longer treated like animals. She spent many years of her life investigating their living conditions and doing what she could to improve them.”
Dr. Leadill inclined her head. “Yes, but there were those who would have considered her investigating to be a nuisance. Not everyone looked upon her efforts kindly, as you must know. Her invasion of the almshouses, jails, and asylums surely intimidated the men who ran them. Her accusations of incompetence and inhumanity must have been met with open animosity. I am speaking as a former superintendent, you understand.”
Wren recalled what she’d read about the tireless reformer. When Dix discovered appalling conditions in asylums and prisons, she did not hesitate to take her case to court in an effort to secure better treatment for the unfortunate prisoners or mentally ill patients. Not everyone appreciated Dix’s efforts. One particular man had offered to donate $600 if someone would escort Dorothea Dix to the state line so she could pursue her meddlesome reform efforts somewhere else.
“Despite everything, Miss Dix succeeded with her mission,” Allan pointed out.
“She did,” Dr. Leadill acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. “A board of trustees purchased the one hundred and sixty acres in our community and established the Jacksonville State Hospital for the Insane. It was believed that a quiet, safe pastoral setting was the best environment for such patients.”
“I’m still not sure how you think you can help me, Dr. Leadill.” Allan’s voice was now sharp with impatience. “And frankly, I’m not sure why you should wish to.” He placed his hands on the desk and interlocked his fingers.
Dr. Leadill turned her head then, fixing her intense gaze upon Wren.
Wren blinked and straightened her shoulders. There was something predatory in the gleam of the woman’s small, dark eyes. Wren had a strong impression that Dr. Leadill was silently willing her to leave the room so she could speak with Allan alone. But a quick glance at Allan confirmed Wren’s hunch that her boss wanted her to stay put. Wren lowered her gaze and pretended to be reading over the notes she’d taken. She wondered if Dr. Leadill knew they’d been out to the hospital grounds earlier in the day. It seemed odd that the former superintendent of the facility should show up on the very same afternoon they’d toured the place. Had Gorse informed Dr. Leadill of the scheduled tour, perhaps? And if she had been rifling through Allan’s notebooks, as Wren suspected, what could the woman possibly have been looking for?
Finally accepting the fact that Wren had no intention of leaving, Dr. Leadill turned her attention back to Allan. “I wish to help you because I am hoping you might mention me in the acknowledgements of your book, Professor. I’d be happy to give my endorsement as well for the back cover, if you will let me read the manuscript before you submit it to your editor.”
Allan raised an eyebrow again as he exchanged a cynical glance with Wren. The corner of his mouth turned up in a humorless smile. “I am surprised you do not wish to write your own book—a memoir perhaps of your years as the asylum’s superintendent. I can recommend Mrs. Bergschneider here as an able research assistant. She is thorough and reliable.”
Wren’s head snapped up. She tightened her lips to keep her mouth from gaping. What in the world was Allan up to now?
Dr. Leadill turned her head again, fixing Wren with that predatory gleam. Then with a mild snort, she returned her attention to Allan. “Really, Professor, look at me. I’m old—I won’t tell you how old. Even if I started a book, I may not live to finish it. I have not enjoyed good health for quite some time. However, I believe my personal files contain information your readers would find quite interesting. For instance, did you know that in 1952, exactly one hundred years following the opening of the institution, there were over one thousand employees working there? Many of them could barely read and write. Others were full-time beauticians and barbers, dentists, doctors, and even chaplains.”
Allan appeared unimpressed. Wren recognized the signs—her boss was growing bored and impatient. He sat back in his chair and pushed slightly away from the desk. “Yes, I’m well aware of these things. My assistant and I have been doing thorough research on the place. In fact, Mrs. Bergschneider and I have just returned from the asylum. The present comptroller—Mr. Gorse—gave us a tour of the facility.”
Dr. Leadill pursed her thin, withered lips. “Frankly, I am surprised you received permission to do so. The building has been condemned for some time. It’s dangerous. You could have had an accident and been seriously injured. The place should have been demolished long before now.”
“Yes, so I have been told,” Allan agreed, watching her.
There was an awkward silence as the two appeared to be taking the measure of the other.
A sharp tinge of unease permeated Wren’s being. She had the distinct impression that Dr. Leadill was hiding something and that she really did not want to be as helpful to Allan as she indicated. She’d practically insisted on being allowed to read Allan’s manuscript before he turned it in to his editor. Why? It took some nerve to expect such a privilege. What was she afraid Allan would write about?
“Actually, I believe the demolition will be postponed temporarily—considering what happened when we emerged from the food transportation tunnel this afternoon.” Allan broke the silence by his slow, calculating tone.
Dr. Leadill di
d not move. Although she gave no evidence of surprise or even curiosity, she sat with rigid attentiveness.
Wren’s feelings of unease intensified.
“What happened, Professor?” Dr. Leadill spoke in that deep, harsh voice.
“Someone took a shot at us,” Allan replied with candor. “Gorse was as surprised and dismayed as we were. Makes me wonder if the rumors about the tunnels are true—that bodies are buried down there and someone wants to make sure there’s no more snooping. But who can say? The police were still investigating when we left.”
After a rather pregnant pause, Dr. Leadill spoke. “There is one possibility we can certainly rule out: any remains that might be discovered in the food transportation tunnel will not be those of your mother, now will they?”
~*~
Allan’s jaw clenched as his pulse surged. He rolled his chair closer to the desk, gripping the edge. For a moment, words failed him. He fixed his gaze on the doctor’s wrinkled visage. “What do you know about my mother?”
Dr. Leadill was seemingly intent on picking a bit of lint from her dark slacks with one gloved hand. “Mrs. Leah Partner was admitted to the institution after being diagnosed with severe depression. You must have been just a young child at the time. I daresay you hardly remember her.”
“I was seven, and I do remember my mother quite well,” Allan told her, his eyes narrowing. What he actually remembered most was his mother’s absence. She’d not been there to cheer him on at his ball games or to cut the cake at his birthday parties. Aunt Patsy had filled in the best she could, but it wasn’t the same. He’d missed his mother’s cool hand on his feverish forehead when he was sick. He’d missed the faint, spicy scent of her skin, which reminded him of carnations. He remembered the way her long dark hair tickled his cheek when she bent down to kiss him goodnight. He also remembered her frequent bouts of sobbing and his father’s yelling at her to get a hold of herself.
Glancing over Dr. Leadill’s shoulder, he fixed his gaze on Wren. She sat so still. Her face was pale, her eyes as wide and startled as a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Was she frightened or appalled by the strange turn the conversation had taken?
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