Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel)

by Cate Campbell

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You finally read her letter, I suppose.”

  “Yes. She said her folks and mine still hoped to put the ranches together.”

  Margot drew a breath, but couldn’t think of any response. He tightened his grip on her hand to reassure her. “I miss the ranch,” he said. He inclined his head toward the snowy landscape beyond the porch. “If you think this is beautiful, you should see the Bitterroot Valley in the snow.”

  “Frank—the letter.”

  “The letter. Yes.” He cleared his throat again, but he smiled down at her. “Elizabeth is a nice girl, but—after knowing you, Margot—there’s no other woman in the world for me. There never could be.”

  She closed her eyes, savoring the import of those words, letting the comfort of them—the joy in them—wrap around her like cotton wool, warming her heart, easing her fears. When she opened them again she breathed a sigh. “Frank—all the things between us? Not just your family’s ranch, but the Women and Infants Clinic, my practice?”

  “I wrote my mother to explain why I couldn’t come back to Elizabeth or to the ranch. I told her about the clinic, and she said—I should have seen this myself, I suppose, but—”

  Margot made herself wait. She was usually good at waiting, at allowing her patients to find the words they needed, to share their secrets, but this was hard. She bit down on her lower lip to restrain her impatience, and she watched Frank search for how to say what he wanted to say.

  He finally said, “Mother said some things are too important to be kept secret. I should have known that already.”

  “Does that mean you don’t mind anymore?”

  “I still have complicated feelings about it—but then, I’m a man. I don’t know what it feels like to be a woman, to have to deal with such things. But you do, and I know you have good reasons for wanting to help.”

  “I will thank your mother for her wisdom when I have the chance.”

  “She’ll like that, Margot. She’ll like you.”

  “Is she terribly disappointed about you and Elizabeth?”

  “She didn’t say so. Said she wasn’t surprised.”

  “And how are you going to feel if I’m still Dr. Benedict? If I want to keep my name?”

  “That’s hard, too, for an old-fashioned man. But you’re the woman I love, and you’re not old-fashioned.” He shrugged. “I guess film actresses do it all the time.”

  “Film actresses. Oh, dear.”

  The snow began to fall faster, cutting off the outside world, encasing the two of them in a shifting curtain of white. Snowflakes glistened beneath the Christmas lights, ruby and emerald sparks floating through the cold air. Margot gazed at them for a moment and said, almost to herself, “Is everything spoiled, I wonder?”

  “Spoiled? Why, Margot?”

  “Oh, Frank. Because you carried a letter from your old sweetheart around in your pocket. Because your parents would prefer you to marry a girl from home—and because I’m so different from Elizabeth. From most women, I guess.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said. He drew her close to him to kiss her forehead and cradle her against his chest. “No, this isn’t a fairy tale to be spoiled by such things. We’re real people. With real problems.”

  Her voice was muffled against his camel’s hair overcoat. “I love you, Frank.”

  “I love you, Margot.” He put her away from him, just a little, so he could put his right hand into the pocket of the overcoat. “Now, don’t interrupt me. I practiced this.” He took out a small brown velvet box and held it up on his palm.

  Margot opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head, grinning now. “Nope. Wait.”

  He opened the box, and she caught the glisten of jewelry inside as he knelt on the damp surface of the porch. He held the box up to her and said, his eyes twinkling at least as much as the diamond ring in its nest of satin, “Will you marry me, Margot Benedict? I promise to always let you be yourself. And I’ll do anything that lies in my power to make you happy.”

  “That was good, Frank,” she said, smiling. She knelt down herself, heedless of the hem of her brand-new coat, and looked up into his face. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, I will most definitely marry you, Frank Parrish. And I’ll do my very best to make you happy, too.”

  He held the box in his prosthetic hand while he took the ring in his natural one. It was beautifully understated, a small square diamond in a frame of even smaller ones. It was the sort of ring she could wear all the time, even in surgical gloves, and the thoughtfulness of the choice made her heart flutter. He slipped it on her finger, kissed her hand, then took her in his arms.

  When Blake came to call them to luncheon, he put his head out the door, then immediately stepped back inside. He closed the door as quietly as he could, managing to avoid even the softest click. He went to the dining room, smiling to himself, and informed the family that Major Parrish and Dr. Margot would be delayed for a few more minutes. “They would prefer you to begin your luncheon without them,” he said.

  Dickson said, with satisfaction, “Excellent, Blake. Just excellent.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Western State Hospital was a forbidding place. It was huge, made of brick, with sprawling wings that looked almost unintentional, as if they were added as an afterthought. Margot and her father approached the entrance with dogged steps, passing a set of soaring sandstone pillars, making their way through heavy double doors, not pausing until they were inside the cavernous, echoing lobby.

  Even Margot, veteran of hospital lobbies, found this one oppressive. After the gaiety and color of the Christmas celebration at Benedict Hall, the grimness of this place was particularly hard to bear. A pervasive smell of cleaning products hung in the air. Straight vertical bars topped every window, and though the lower parts of the windows bore a curlicue pattern, they were still iron bars, merely bent into shapes meant to be easier on the eye. There were locks on every door, and in the distance, half-heard cries and screams sounded from the wings, making goose bumps rise on her neck.

  Dickson tensed, the muscles of his arm shivering beneath her fingers. He muttered, “Better than the city jail, at least.”

  “We’re not abandoning him, Father. We’ll do our best to see he’s well treated.” She hoped that was possible. There had been horrific stories, when she was a medical student, of abuses of mental patients. It had been a running joke among the interns that if they turned out to be really bad doctors, they could always get work at Western State Hospital.

  Her father’s cheeks were drawn into deep, unhappy furrows that made him look older than his years. Margot stayed close beside him, her gloved hand under his arm. She had left her medical bag with Blake, in the Essex, and she felt exposed without it. In her free hand she carried a small valise, lovingly packed by Hattie with fresh underwear, sweaters, a wrapped box of Christmas cookies and gingerbread. No few of Hattie’s tears had fallen on these things, though Margot doubted Preston would ever know.

  The police had moved Preston the day after Christmas. Technically, commitment to Western State Hospital was involuntary. Preston, true to his side of the bargain, did nothing to resist it. Dickson’s friends in the courts had done their work with efficiency and without attracting notice from the newspapers. Only one official had pressed Dickson for details on the son everyone believed deceased, and that one, an associate of decades, expressed more sympathy than surprise. The whole thing had been handled with her father’s usual deftness, and Margot suspected she was the only person in the city who knew what it had cost him in heartbreak and shame.

  They found the administrator’s office without difficulty, but they had to press a bell before someone came to the door and admitted them. They had to wait even longer while the managing physician, Dr. Keller, read them a long list of rules and restrictions. He said, “As you’re a medical professional, Dr. Benedict, we’ll allow you and Mr. Benedict to go up to the ward. As a general rule, we restrict visiting, but we’ll make an excep
tion in this case. This once, you understand.”

  “We understand,” Dickson said. His voice was harsh with tension.

  Margot said nothing. She was sure Preston would not want to see her, but she had come in support of her father. Neither Blake nor Frank had been in favor of it, though she had assured them there was nothing to worry about. Most of the inmates were deemed criminally insane and treated accordingly. Preston would be no exception.

  Dr. Keller called for an orderly and gave instructions. The orderly, a thickset giant of a man with the unlikely name of Small, led Margot and her father to an elevator that carried them up two floors. Mr. Small pushed the elevator doors open, and ushered them out into a long ward with a gray linoleum floor and dull green walls. A tiny nurse’s office, with another locking door, faced a common room where books lined one wall and a cabinet radio dominated the other. Beyond the office the corridor stretched the entire length of the wing. Rooms—no, cells, Margot thought, there was really no other word—lined the corridor, each with a tiny window and a handwritten nameplate beside the locked door. Voices came from behind the doors, calling, muttering, weeping. The whole thing felt Gothic to Margot, and she could only imagine how appalling it must seem to her father.

  The orderly spoke to the nurse on duty, a woman wearing a long brown sweater over a white uniform. She set off briskly down the corridor, a huge ring of keys clanking at her waist, and Mr. Small followed her.

  The nurse unlocked a door, and she and Mr. Small stepped inside. Margot said, “Let’s sit down, Father. Preston may need to get dressed or something.”

  Her father, looking numb, settled onto a straight chair. Margot almost sat on the sofa, but its array of stains discouraged her. She took another straight chair, resting the valise on the floor beside her. She was scanning the bookshelf, wondering who had chosen these nineteenth-century titles, when the nurse and Mr. Small reappeared. They had Preston between them, supported by their hands as he made a slow, shuffling progress down the long corridor.

  Dickson said, “My God, Margot, what’s wrong with him?”

  Margot murmured, “I don’t know, Father. Let’s wait and see.” They both rose and watched Preston’s approach. His head drooped, and his eyelids were heavy, as if he had been sleeping. The nurse and Mr. Small bore a good deal of his weight, Margot could see, as if his muscles were too slack to bear it himself.

  When the trio reached the common room, the nurse and Mr. Small helped Preston into a chair. Mr. Small stayed behind Preston, his eyes never leaving him. The nurse went into her office, but returned a moment later with a blanket. She spread this over Preston’s lap. “If you need anything,” the nurse said, “I’ll be right over there.” She pointed to her office. “But Mr. Small will see that everything is all right.”

  Mr. Small folded his arms and dropped his chin to his chest. His presence was a security measure, obviously, but Margot could see it wasn’t necessary. Preston was incapable of threatening anyone at the moment. She leaned over him, causing Mr. Small to stiffen. Margot shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’re fine.” Mr. Small didn’t move.

  Margot touched Preston’s wrist with her fingers and lifted his eyelids. Delicately, she touched the conjunctiva of his left eye. He didn’t flinch or blink. She said, “Preston? Can you hear me? It’s Margot. And Father.”

  Preston struggled to lift his head, and his scarred lips twisted as he tried to speak. It took a few seconds for him to slur, “Doc. H-hiya, doc. Come to f-finish me off?” His eyelids drooped, and he gave a short, strangled laugh. “N-not much left of me.”

  Margot straightened, and glared at Mr. Small. “Who’s been medicating him? And what is it? Potassium bromide, I would guess. The dose is far too high.”

  The orderly said, “I don’t know, miss. I don’t do medicines.”

  “Doctor. I’m Dr. Benedict. Get the nurse, please.”

  “Yes, miss.” He backed toward the office door, not taking his eyes from Preston.

  Dickson, stiffly, crouched in front of his son to take one scarred hand in his. “Preston,” he said. “We’ve brought some things from—some things for you. Clothes. Some of Hattie’s gingerbread. She knows you love that.”

  Preston’s eyelids lifted, but awkwardly, first one and then the other. A silvery thread of saliva slid from his lips and down his scarred chin. Margot stripped off her gloves and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. As she wiped his chin clean, he said, “Wh-what’s this, doc? D-diamonds?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Frank Parrish and I are going to be married.”

  “G-God. P-poor Cowboy.”

  The nurse, with Mr. Small close behind her, came hurrying across to the common room. She stood beside Preston’s chair, frowning at Margot. “You’re a doctor?” she demanded. “Someone should have told me.”

  “It didn’t seem important,” Margot said. “But now I want to see my brother’s records. Who prescribed for him? And why is he sedated so heavily?”

  “The admitting physician prescribes potassium bromide for all incoming patients. It eases the transition. Helps them settle in.”

  “How? At this level of medication, I doubt the patient remembers a single thing about the transition.”

  “Doctor, I’m not the one to ask. It’s hospital procedure. I’m sorry.”

  Margot drew a noisy breath and released it. It wasn’t the nurse’s fault, and it wouldn’t help to alienate her. Her father was still kneeling by Preston, holding his hand. His lips were clamped tight, and his thick eyebrows drawn fiercely together.

  She bent over the two of them, aware that this motion brought Mr. Small to attention again. She said, “Preston, they’ve given you too much medicine. I’ll speak to the doctor in charge, I promise.”

  Her father pushed himself to his feet. The nurse pushed a chair forward, and he accepted it with a nod. “Now, son,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go through these things we brought, shall we? Just a few little—” His voice caught, and he coughed. “Just a few things to—to make you feel better.”

  Margot’s own throat ached, watching her father’s attempt to converse with Preston. She couldn’t avoid the bleak thought that it would have been better—better for everyone—if Preston had died in the fire. Her brother was accustomed to a life of style and comfort and sophistication. Being in this place, for Preston, must feel like a living death.

  They spent a few more minutes with him. Dickson took each item out of the valise, described it to Preston, and laid it back inside. Preston said, “P-p-pater. Tell Hattie I l-love her gingerbread.”

  “I will, son. I’ll tell her.”

  “N-not Mother.”

  “No. As we promised.”

  There was more saliva whenever Preston spoke. The nurse moved to help, but Margot was already there, wiping the spittle from his scarred chin with her handkerchief. She said, “These scars should be treated, Nurse. First, sweet almond oil as a demulcent, then an emollient. Petroleum jelly will be fine. Do you have those things here? If not, I’ll send them from my office.”

  “I can get them.”

  “Please do. I’ll leave you my telephone number in case there’s a problem.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Preston said, “Even h-here, d-doc?”

  Margot answered quietly, “Yes, Preston. Even here. For your own good.”

  His eyes opened, and he looked into her face. He said, very clearly, “Hell.”

  Dickson said, “What?”

  Margot said, “I know, Preston. I understand.” His eyelids drooped again.

  The nurse signaled to Mr. Small, and the two of them helped Preston to his feet. The nurse said, “Say good-bye to your family, Mr. Benedict.”

  Abruptly, Preston threw up his head to fix the nurse with a glance of such hatred that Mr. Small uttered a warning sound. The three of them turned toward the corridor and managed a few slow steps before Preston shuffled to a halt. He mumbled, “W-wait. Th-there’s something . . .” This time the
look he bent on the nurse was reminiscent of the old Preston, limpid eyes, persuasive angle of his head. Even as disfigured as he was, there was something there, some remnant of his personality.

  Dickson hurried to Preston, and Margot followed.

  The nurse said, “Sir, be careful—” but Dickson was already there, stepping past the orderly to stand in front of his son.

  “What is it, Preston? What can we do?”

  Margot watched her brother narrow his eyes, struggling against the drug-induced fog that slowed his mind and dragged at his speech. He looked at his father, then past him to Margot. There was life in his eyes at that moment, a flash of clarity, and with it the familiar look of malice.

  Preston leaned toward Dickson, as close as the orderly’s firm grip would allow him to. “It’s a child,” he said, enunciating with effort.

  Dickson said, “What? What child?”

  “My child,” Preston said. The life began to fade again from his eyes, and his head sagged to one side. He drew a noisy breath through his scarred throat. “I th-thought you should know.”

  Margot said, “Preston, this is cruel to Father. On top of everything else—”

  “ ’S true,” Preston said. “S-Seattle. S-somewhere.”

  The nurse said, “Dr. Benedict, our patients often make odd statements. They usually don’t mean anything.”

  “B-bitch,” Preston mumbled. “D-don’t s-speak for me, b-bitch, you—”

  Mr. Small gave Preston’s arm a jerk, forcing him forward. Preston gagged, as if the action caught him by surprise. Dickson and Margot had to move out of the way and watch as Preston was guided ungently back into his room and locked inside.

  They left the valise with the nurse, and Mr. Small escorted them back to the elevator and pushed the call button. The doors had just opened when they heard Preston’s hoarse voice from his cell. “It’s a bastard!” he cried. He must have been standing right beside the door, shouting through the screened window. “A Benedict bastard!” He fell into a spate of croaking laughter that ended in a fit of coughing.

  As the elevator doors closed, Dickson said, “My God. What does that mean, Margot?” He was white to the lips, and he trembled like a sapling in the wind. “Does it mean anything?”