Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel)

by Cate Campbell

  He said tonelessly, “All right, doc. I’ll go to the booby hatch. As long as you don’t tell her about me.” He tossed his head in a grotesque imitation of his old charm. “Let’s allow the mater to believe her boy is a hero, shall we?”

  Allison lay down on her bed after lunch and was sleeping so soundly that Ruby had to shake her shoulder to wake her. “Miss Allison,” she said. “Miss Allison, Mr. Dickson wants you. Wants everyone.”

  Allison could hardly lift her eyelids. She yawned, and tried to pull away from Ruby’s hand, but the maid persisted until Allison blinked, pushed a hand through her hair, and sat up. The little enamel clock on her dressing table told her it was past five. “Oh!” she said. “I slept so long.”

  “Mr. Dickson wants you to come to his study.”

  “Really?” Allison had never been to her uncle’s study. She understood it to be his private lair, where even the maids were forbidden to go unless he gave express permission.

  Ruby didn’t seem to appreciate the novelty of the invitation. She went to the wardrobe and got out the plaid dress. “You might as well dress for dinner now, Miss Allison.”

  “Not that dress, Ruby.”

  Ruby turned, the plaid frock in her hands. “I thought this would be good. You haven’t worn it for some time.”

  “I’m never wearing it again.” Allison pointed to the wardrobe. “The cream chiffon, Ruby. You can take the plaid away.”

  “What do you want me to do with it, Miss Allison?”

  Allison pushed herself up from the bed and went to her dressing table. “Burn it. Cut it up. Make curtains out of it.” She sat down on the stool and picked up her hairbrush. Ruby, the plaid dress still in her hands, stared at her, open-mouthed. “If you won’t do it, Ruby, I will.”

  “But, Miss Allison—Mrs. Adelaide especially likes this one.”

  “Let her wear it, then.”

  Allison hurried her toilette and, dressed in the cream chiffon, descended the main staircase to the hall. She found Blake waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and he guided her to the study, which turned out to be much smaller than Allison had expected. There were books everywhere, on shelves, on a low table, piled on a writing desk next to one of Uncle Dickson’s ubiquitous ashtrays. This one was brass, and Uncle Dickson was seated nearby, tapping ash into it in an abstracted way.

  “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” Allison said. Every face turned to her. Her father was there, scowling in a corner. Cousin Ramona sat on a straight chair, with Cousin Dick standing behind her. Allison took a low stool, the cream chiffon pooling around her on the carpet.

  Uncle Dickson said, “That’s all right, Allison. I know you were tired.”

  She looked up in surprise when Blake ushered Hattie into the already crowded room, and closed the door behind the two of them. The servants stood, looking stiff and self-conscious, just inside the door. Hattie had taken off her apron and put on a fresh housedress. Her hair looked as if she had just combed it with water. Small drops glistened in the light of the desk lamp. Blake stood with his hands on the lapels of his jacket, his face drawn in somber lines.

  “Margot will be a bit late tonight,” Uncle Dickson began. “She telephoned from the clinic.”

  “And Adelaide?” Henry asked.

  “I’ll get to that, Henry,” Uncle Dickson said. “There are things I need to say. Hattie and Blake, thank you for joining us.”

  Blake said, “Of course, Mr. Dickson.” Hattie touched her hair as if to be certain it was still in place, and gazed at her feet.

  “I would have preferred, Hattie,” Dickson said heavily, “not to burden you with this, but we have a problem. I know how much you care about Mrs. Edith. This is a good time to tell you that you’ve been invaluable to all of us in this past difficult year.” He paused to crush out his cigar, and Allison was sure he was giving himself time to choose his words with care. It all seemed terribly exciting and mysterious, and it was all she could do to sit still.

  “Fortunately for our purposes just now,” he went on, “Edith has not seemed to notice the—shall we say, drama—that has unfolded around us in the past two days. She has kept to her room, except for dinner last night, and so I think we can manage what I have in mind.” He paused again, and Allison hardly dared breathe. “Hattie, this will be hardest on you. If you find it impossible, I hope you will tell me now.” He looked up, and Hattie, fidgeting with the buttons of her dress, brought her eyes up to meet his gaze. “You learned about Preston,” Uncle Dickson said. “From Blake.”

  Hattie’s lips parted, but she seemed not to know what to answer. Blake, seeing, said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Dickson. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “There’s no blame to attach, Blake,” Uncle Dickson said. He drew a long, sibilant breath. “No need for an apology. This is a profound shock to us all, and you naturally thought of confiding in Hattie.”

  Allison had to clutch at the stool beneath her to keep from bouncing on it. She could hardly wait to see what would happen next.

  “The reason I mention this, Hattie, is that Miss Margot and I feel it would be best not to tell Mrs. Edith that Mr. Preston survived the fire.”

  Ramona pressed a hand to her lips. Dick patted her shoulder.

  “This means,” Uncle Dickson went on, “that we will be keeping a big secret, for Edith’s sake. Ramona and Dick have already heard my thoughts about this, but Henry, and you, Allison, need to understand our reasons. My wife has had a terrible year, and her mental state is not the best. You have no doubt noticed this already.”

  Allison took a surreptitious glance at her father. He stood with his hands in his pockets, listening with his head on one side. When he didn’t say anything, Allison said, “We don’t need to tell Mother, do we, Uncle Dickson? I’m not sure she can keep this secret.”

  Her father said, “I don’t like keeping secrets from my wife.”

  Allison lifted her head. “You do it all the time, Papa,” she said, winning a glare from him and a sympathetic glance from Cousin Ramona.

  Uncle Dickson said, “I would like your promise, Henry. Please don’t speak of this. It will serve no purpose to tell Adelaide.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, and he finally said, “Yes. Of course, Dickson. Allison and I will both respect your wishes in this matter.”

  “I’ve already said so,” Allison said. “You don’t need to speak for me.” She turned her head to escape his angry expression. There was going to be trouble later, and plenty of it. Just now she didn’t care.

  Cousin Ramona asked quietly, “What’s going to happen to him, Father Benedict? To Preston?”

  Uncle Dickson sighed. “Of course you’re concerned, my dear. Thank you. Preston is going to be committed to Western State Hospital.”

  “The insane asylum,” Dick said.

  “I don’t care for that description, but yes, Dick. He needs psychiatric care. He agreed to it as long as we—that is to say, on the condition that—his mother is kept in ignorance. Of all of it. When he’s been there long enough to satisfy the courts—to speak frankly, that is, to avoid criminal prosecution—Margot and I will find an appropriate place where he can be cared for.” He cleared his throat and added sadly, “Indefinitely.”

  Blake said, with dignity, “Hattie and I have discussed this, Mr. Dickson. She will tell you herself, but you can count on us.” He nodded to Hattie and moved a little aside, as if to leave her in center stage.

  Hattie, staring at her shoes, spoke so softly Allison wondered if Uncle Dickson could hear her. “I think this is a good thing, Mr. Dickson. Mrs. Edith has suffered enough. She don’t need more grief in her life.”

  “Thank you, Hattie,” Dickson said gravely. “Your loyalty humbles me. I hardly know what we would do without you.”

  Cousin Ramona said, “Father Benedict, I usually go up to Mother Benedict at this time to help her get ready for dinner.”

  “Please do, Ramona. We’ll gather in the small parlor, and carry on as usual.”r />
  “Adelaide,” Henry said sharply. “I’m still waiting to hear something about my wife.” Allison turned to stare in disbelief at her father’s tone.

  “Oh, yes,” Uncle Dickson said. He stood up and pushed his chair under the writing desk. “Dr. Creedy will meet with you in the morning, at the hospital. Your appointment’s at ten. Margot will be there, and the three of you can discuss Adelaide’s condition.”

  “What condition?”

  Uncle Dickson shook his head. “I’m not a medical man, Henry, but apparently there is one, or Margot wouldn’t be concerned.” When Henry began to bridle, Uncle Dickson held up one hand. “You can trust her,” he said, firmly. “My daughter is an excellent physician, and if she thinks Adelaide needs treatment, then you should seek it.”

  Blake said, “Drinks, then, Mr. Dickson?”

  “Please, Blake.”

  Blake held the door for Hattie and ushered her out into the corridor. Uncle Dickson rose, grunting a little, and waited for Ramona and Dick to go out ahead of him. Allison followed close behind, but her father caught her arm to hold her back. She tried to pull free, but he held tight, and she gave in so as not to make a scene.

  He waited until the others had gone out into the hall. He gave her arm a small, angry shake before he released it. “Just because you’ve fooled Dickson and the rest of them, Allison,” he said, “don’t think you’ve fooled me.”

  “Fooled you how, Papa?” Allison was proud of the steadiness of her voice. She thought of the way Margot stood up to Cousin Preston, her bravery in the face of that terrifying blade, and she met her father’s eyes without blinking.

  “Acting like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, my girl. I know better. I know how you really are.”

  Allison tried to hold on to her dignity, to be as much like Margot as she could, but this was too much. She stamped her foot, and angry tears sprang to her eyes. “You don’t know anything, Papa,” she whispered. “You don’t know anything about me, and you know even less about Mother.” She stepped around him and turned toward the door.

  Before she reached it, he said, “I’m warning you, Allison! Dr. Kinney—”

  Her tears dried instantly. She spun, in a twirl of cream chiffon, to face her father. “I have Cousin Margot now. She’s a good doctor. She knows perfectly well I’m not a hysteric. I am not going to a sanitorium no matter what you or Dr. Kinney or any other stupid old man says!” She spun again, full of defiant energy, and marched through the door and down the corridor to the small parlor. She didn’t bother to look back to see if her father was following.

  CHAPTER 25

  Margot met Dr. Creedy at the door to Aunt Adelaide’s ward and greeted him. “Father asked me to tell you how much we appreciate your help with this situation.”

  Creedy nodded. “Of course, Margot. You don’t mind if I call you Margot?” He smiled at her with the familiarity of long acquaintance. “After all,” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his white coat, “I’ve known you since you were a toddler.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m grateful you’re here to explain things to my aunt and uncle. I doubt they see me as fully qualified.”

  “Families are like that,” Creedy said. “My mother never let me prescribe anything for her, much less examine her! But I’m happy to help. The Benedicts are keeping me busy these days.”

  “I know. Here’s my uncle now. I’ll introduce you, and we can go in.”

  Uncle Henry looked wary as he shook Creedy’s hand, and the look he directed at Margot could only be called truculent. They went into the ward, and Margot asked the nurse to bring them a privacy screen. Adelaide was sitting up in bed, her arm in its cast supported by a sling, with a thick pillow under her elbow. Without the cosmetics she always wore, and with her hair lying loose on her shoulders, she looked younger. Softer, somehow. Margot could see, also, that she was frightened.

  She touched her hand. “Aunt Adelaide, how do you feel this morning?”

  “Why are you all here?” Adelaide asked in her reedy voice. Her eyes flicked from one to another of them, and Margot thought it must look like an inquisition to her. “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Margot said. She turned to Henry. “Uncle Henry, why don’t you bring that chair over so you can sit beside Aunt Adelaide? Dr. Creedy wants to talk to both of you.”

  When Henry was settled, she moved to the end of the bed to let Creedy manage the consultation. As he talked, she watched her aunt’s fear dissolve into resistance, and then denial. Her face set in stubborn lines. Henry’s eyes darted from side to side, as if he were trying to escape, as if he didn’t want to hear any of it.

  Creedy was good, speaking in clear, simple language. He mentioned the osteoporosis, and the poor condition of Adelaide’s teeth. He described the heart murmur he had detected, and discussed the possibility of anaemia.

  “These could all have different causes, Mrs. Benedict,” Dr. Creedy said. “But in my view, the simplest explanation is usually the right one. Because of your extremely low body weight, I think my diagnosis is correct. You’re exhibiting symptoms of malnutrition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Malnutrition, Aunt Adelaide,” Margot said quietly. “Starvation.”

  “Ridiculous!” Henry erupted. He seemed to select Margot as the troublemaker. “That’s a preposterous thing to say. No one is starving in my house.”

  Margot gave him an exasperated look. “Uncle Henry, two people are starving in your house. Why don’t you see that?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Adelaide said, “I’m not starving! I eat perfectly well.”

  “If that’s the case, Mrs. Benedict, then we should conduct other tests to assess why you’re not absorbing nutrition from your meals.”

  Henry said, “Margot, why did you say two people?”

  A burst of impatience made Margot snappish. “Have you looked at your daughter recently?”

  Dr. Creedy raised his eyebrows at this, but did Margot the courtesy of letting the conversation continue. Henry said, with the air of someone much put upon, “I don’t have any idea what you mean.”

  Adelaide said, “Allison is slender, as a young girl should be. I’ve made sure of that.”

  “How?” Margot demanded. She realized she had put her hands on her hips, like an angry parent, but she didn’t bother to correct the posture. “Tell me, Aunt Adelaide. How have you made sure?”

  Adelaide sniffed. “That’s between a mother and a daughter. I think I know what’s best for my—”

  “Stop it,” Margot said firmly. “You’ve made yourself ill—how, I don’t know, but I expect between us, Dr. Creedy and I will figure it out. I won’t have you making Cousin Allison ill as well.”

  Creedy rose at that and beckoned to Margot. She followed him past the screen and on to the far side of the ward, where a nurse was preparing medication trays. Creedy leaned against the wall and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “What’s this about a daughter? Does she have the same symptoms?”

  “Extreme thinness. Probably amenorrhea, although she hasn’t confessed that. Oh, and quite low blood pressure. She fainted a few weeks ago.”

  “What do you think it is, Doctor?”

  Margot didn’t realize at first that he had called her by her title. She was too absorbed by the problem before them, the puzzle to be solved. She said, “Allison has been living at Benedict Hall for two months. I noticed how thin she was, of course, and then realized she wasn’t eating her meals. Our cook was upset, and I was worried. Have you read the studies on a condition called anorexia nervosa? The studies are French and German—they’re hardly exhaustive, but Pierre Janet seems to have done the best work. His opinion is that it’s a psychological condition. He distinguishes two types—obsessive and hysterical. I didn’t know which might apply to Allison, but listening to her mother just now—”

  Creedy was nodding, rubbing his uppe
r lip with a forefinger. “We could ask one of the psychology men, but obsessive seems to fit. So the girl—how old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Young Allison starves herself, and Mrs. Benedict has some other way to make herself thin.”

  “I should mention the Simmonds opinion about pituitary insufficiency as a cause for extreme weight loss, but I found a paucity of clinical evidence. His paper didn’t convince me.”

  “I haven’t read it, but I’ll take your word for that, Doctor.” Creedy pushed away from the wall. “I’ll test your aunt for anaemia, and recommend she see her own physician for the heart murmur. If both Mr. and Mrs. Benedict deny there’s a problem, I don’t know if there’s anything further we can do.”

  “I’d like to keep Allison at Benedict Hall, though. She was getting much better—that is, she was until her parents arrived.”

  He considered this, alternately pulling on his lip and pushing at his spectacles. Finally, he said, “I could recommend a rest cure for Mrs. Benedict. I believe there are a number of reliable places in California. Expensive, though.”

  “I don’t think the money’s a concern.”

  “Good. Well, if Mrs. Benedict takes a cure, no doubt the two of them would be willing to leave their daughter with your branch of the family. You can call me if the girl doesn’t continue to improve.”

  As they walked back to the patient’s bedside, Margot felt the knot of worry that had been tightening in her belly begin to release. Perhaps, somehow, they would find a way through this.

  The whole family was at lunch when Henry and Margot returned. Allison tensed at the sound of her father’s voice in the hall, but when he came into the dining room, he looked subdued, and said little beyond greeting Aunt Edith and Cousin Ramona. Uncle Dickson said, “How did things go at the hospital?”

  Henry said only, “Fine. Creedy’s a good man.”

  At this, Uncle Dickson raised his eyebrows at Cousin Margot, but she—looking more rested than she had in days—only gave a small shrug. She felt Allison’s gaze on her and winked across the table. Allison’s cheeks warmed with pleasure. They were friends now, she thought. They had been through a great adventure—well, a tragedy, of course, poor Cousin Preston!—but they had come through it together, with Major Parrish to help, and everything was going to be fine.