“You see, this is for Mr. Yardley and there are no discharge papers here.”
“May I see?” Bertha eagerly reached for the file that could tell her more about her husband’s condition and his time spent here.
“No, I’m sorry.” Nurse Simmons hurriedly refiled the folder and slammed the drawer shut. “The files are restricted to staff. But at least we know for sure that Dr. Hillman wasn’t being truthful.”
“I wonder why?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, Miss Davish.” Nurse Simmons indicated for us to precede her out of the room. “He’s normally meticulous about everything. I can’t see him making such an important mistake.”
I was the first one through the doorway. I turned my head to ask Nurse Simmons another question when Bertha yelled, “Look out, Hattie!”
I twisted around and nearly collided with a stretcher carrying the remains of a deceased patient. I stopped less than an inch short of touching the pale, waxy arm that flopped out as the orderlies jerked the stretcher sideways to avoid me. The hallway tilted and spun as I grappled for something to hold.
“Hey, careful, lady,” one of the orderlies warned as the other carefully returned the arm to its place at the dead man’s side.
Ironically I’d seen several dead bodies of late and all in much more distressing positions, but the draping of the sheet, the rhythm of the orderlies’ feet as they carried their load past us, coupled with the smell of formaldehyde that I hadn’t noticed until now, was enough to unhinge me. I recalled seeing my father being carried out like that. For a moment I saw nothing but the tiny bumps in the whitewashed plaster wall. And then everything went black.
“Walter?” I said, slowly opening my eyes. I felt the warmth of someone’s body against me. But instead of Walter, I was looking up into the face of Nurse Simmons; I was lying partially in her lap. “Oh!” I gasped, and sat up with a jerk.
“Please move more slowly, Miss Davish.” I ignored the nurse and pushed myself up, making every effort to stand. I brushed my skirt off and glanced about me. The stretcher was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened?” I asked, readjusting my hat. It had slipped to the side of my head when I fell.
“You fainted, Hattie,” Bertha said.
“You’re extremely lucky I was able to catch you before you hit your head.”
“What? Yes, thank you, Nurse.” I was still a bit befuddled.
“I think you should lie down. You still look very pale.”
“No, thank you.” My heart throbbed and my fingers and toes were tingling, but I wasn’t about to let her believe I needed aid. I might not be allowed to leave.
“But you may be ill, Miss Davish. It would be for your own good. I’m sure we have an empty bed we can—”
Bertha placed her hand on my arm. “Thank you for your concern, Nurse, but Miss Davish is fine. We will be going now.” I gave Bertha a weak smile, grateful for her intervention, but I had no intention of leaving—yet.
“Actually, I think one more visit to Dr. Hillman’s office is in order, don’t you?” Bertha looked surprised, but then nodded. She followed as I pushed past Nurse Simmons before the nurse could object. “Aren’t you coming, Nurse Simmons? He lied to you too.”
After a moment of hesitation, the nurse followed as Bertha and I ascended the stairs. When we arrived at his office, I knocked several times with no response. Thinking my knocks were too timid, Bertha leaned over me and pounded on the door, causing the door to open of its own accord.
“Dr. Hillman?” I called as I pushed the door slightly to see more inside. Still no response.
“Dr. Hillman, you lied to us. Where’s my husband?” Bertha pushed the door open all the way, eager to step inside. She stopped a few feet past the threshold as the nurse pushed past both of us.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Hillman but—” Nurse Simmons stopped mid-sentence. I couldn’t see the doctor’s desk without peering over Bertha’s shoulder.
“What is it?” I suddenly pictured another office in Newport where a dead man lay sprawled out on the floor. “What’s wrong?” Bertha looked back at me, her lips pursed in frustration.
“The room’s empty,” she grumbled. “The liar’s gone!”
Despite the desire to confront Dr. Hillman, I’d never been so relieved to feel the sway of horses pulling a moving cab in my life. Feeling the fresh air on my face as I sat close to the open window, I no longer felt the nausea rise in my throat. My heart had settled back into a more peaceful rhythm and I could sit up without the fear of falling. I watched as the gargantuan building receded from sight.
That was too close, I thought. If the nurse had truly known how distressed I’d been, I might never have been allowed to leave. If I never saw State Lunatic Asylum Number Two again, I wouldn’t mind.
And then I caught a glance of Bertha. Her head hung low as she wrung her hands over and over in her lap. Our quest had been only partially successful and we’d uncovered more questions than answers. Bertha’s husband might have indeed been the escaped patient, but where was he now? I pulled out my notebook and pencil.
1. Where is Levi Yardley?
2. Was that him I saw in the buggy on Lover’s Lane?
3. If so, why hasn’t he contacted his wife?
4. Could he be injured and mistaken for Frank Hayward?
5. Or was Frank Hayward the inmate mistaken for Levi Yardley?
6. Either way, where is Frank Hayward?
7. Who’s buried in Frank Hayward’s grave?
8. Why did Dr. Hillman lie?
“I hope we don’t ever have to go back there again,” Bertha whispered, as I put my notebook away.
“Don’t worry, Bertha. We won’t.” Even as I said the words and took the woman’s hands in mine, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I was lying and I knew it. Someone was going to have to confront Dr. Hillman and find out the whole truth.
We didn’t speak again until we reached the St. Charles Hotel. I offered her money to pay for the cab, but she refused. Instead, Bertha flung her arms around me.
“Thank you so much for helping me, Hattie.”
“You’re welcome, Bertha, but I’m afraid I haven’t helped very much. I wish I could’ve done more.” The driver opened the door and offered me his hand. I gladly took his help and alighted from the cab. I turned to face Bertha, huddled in the darkness of the cab.
“At least we know something about Levi. It’s a start and I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Here, take this.” She leaned out the window and thrust the photograph of her husband into my hand.
“But—”
Before I could say another word, she tapped on the roof of the cab and it drove into the flow of traffic. I looked at the photograph in my hand. One of the edges had bent and a crease cut across the top of the man’s head. I was struck again by Mr. Yardley’s resemblance to Frank Hayward.
Where are you? I wondered, not knowing myself which man I referred to. And then instead of returning to my room, I headed for the nearest streetcar stop.
“I’m sorry, Miss Davish, Miss Hayward isn’t at home,” the housekeeper said, shaking her head. I’d returned to Ginny’s house hoping to learn whether her father had spent any time recently at the asylum. I knew I couldn’t rest until I confirmed, without a doubt, that it was Levi Yardley who had escaped that dreadful institution and not a case of mistaken identity.
“In my day, a daughter wouldn’t leave the house this soon after a father died. If I remember right, you stayed in for weeks after your father passed.” I winced at her comparing my mourning to Ginny’s, but chose not to comment.
“That’s all right. Maybe you can help me, Mrs. Curbow.”
“If you think I can.”
“Do you know if Mr. Hayward had been away at all in the days before his death?”
The housekeeper shook her head and stared for a moment at the band of black crape around her arm. “No, bless his soul, dear man. He was as reliable as the sun, going every mo
rning but Sunday to Mrs. Chaplin’s school and coming home every night on time for dinner. Well, every night except . . .” I waited, but she didn’t say more.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said. “Did a doctor visit recently?”
“No, as far as I knew that man was as healthy as a horse. Oh!” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, appalled by her slip of the tongue. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. One moment he was here and the next he was gone.” She leaned toward me a bit. “I saw him the morning of his death, you know.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I handed him the lunch I’d packed for him. It was probably his last meal: cold boiled beef, bread, butter, pickles, and a few lemon jumbles. If I’d known, I would’ve packed him a meal Grover Cleveland would’ve envied.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Curbow.” My suspicions were confirmed; Levi Yardley must’ve been the asylum patient and not Frank Hayward. “You’ve been a big help.”
She nodded sadly, still thinking of the inadequacy of the leftover beef. “Should I let Miss Hayward know you came by?”
“No, you needn’t trouble her. I’ll send her my good-byes.”
“Oh, here.” The housekeeper reached for a plate on the table covered with a linen cloth. “If I remember right, you used to eat nothing but sweets. We have too much; Miss Ginny could never eat it all.” I took the plate and peeked under the cloth. There were several pieces each of apple pie and squash pie. I caught my breath.
“Thank you, Mrs. Curbow. That’s . . . very thoughtful.” I struggled to maintain my composure. The old woman’s kindness had startled me.
Far kinder than Ginny has been, I thought.
“Good-bye then to you, Miss Davish. I wish your return had been for a happier occasion.”
“So do I.”
I walked the distance to my hotel, hoping the brisk walk would help me shake the melancholy I’d begun to feel the moment Mrs. Curbow closed her door. Instead of thinking about Ginny and her inexplicable reversal of feelings toward me, I concentrated on the questions still buzzing in my head. True, I’d confirmed that Levi Yardley was the escaped patient, but we still didn’t know where he was. And sadly, it wasn’t my business to find him. I pulled the photograph of him from my bag as I walked up the hotel steps. The resemblance to Frank Hayward was still unnerving. I’d accompanied Bertha Yardley and helped her with her inquiries out of a sense that Frank Hayward might’ve been involved, or so I told myself. Yet Ginny had expressly asked me to stop questioning her father’s death. So why did I help Bertha? Why did I subject myself to such distress for the sake of a stranger? An image of the dead body being carried out on the stretcher flashed through my mind.
“These arrived for you, Miss Davish.” Mr. Putney’s announcement interrupted my morbid thoughts. He thrust two hand-delivered cards toward me. I took them and frowned. Again I didn’t recognize the handwriting.
Now what? I thought. Who else could possibly want something from me? At least it wasn’t another one of those anonymous letters.
I pulled the first card from its envelope and immediately regretted my uncharitable thought. It was signed by several of the instructors from Mrs. Chaplin’s school, inviting me to a luncheon tomorrow to speak with their best pupils. Since I wasn’t able to leave town until Sir Arthur was satisfied with the research I’d done, I could gladly accept. Helping one student find her way in the world would go far in redeeming my otherwise ill-fated trip back home.
I looked up at Mr. Putney and smiled as I pulled the second card from its envelope. He smiled back, leaning forward over the edge of the desk.
“Good news?”
“Happily, yes.” I opened the second envelope and then groaned.
“Spoke too soon?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” The second was from Nate Boone, inviting me to dine with him. I glanced at the tall, oak clock against the wall. Luckily it was already too late to respond.
“Thank you, Mr. Putney,” I said, folding the cards up. “Could you arrange to have coffee, cold meat pie, and toast sent to my room?”
“In for the night then, Miss Davish?”
“I am.”
I hardheartedly visualized the vexation on Nate Boone’s face when he realized I wasn’t coming. “Thank you, Sir Arthur,” I said under my breath. Writing up what I’d learned about General Thompson was the cure I needed after an unnerving afternoon and I had a good excuse to stay in.
“I have much work to do, Mr. Putney. Do you have a typewriter I could borrow?”
CHAPTER 15
“Gus, is that you?”
Unable to find a typewriter I could use at the hotel, my plans to stay in for the night changed. After a quick telephone call to Mrs. Chaplin and a short streetcar ride to the school, I’d happily settled myself at one of the student typewriters in Miss Gilbert’s classroom, a square room with white walls, highly polished oak floors, and two dozen desks perfectly lined up in three rows. The night watchman Gus, a silent, broad-shouldered man who wore his cap low over his eyes, had let me in before continuing with his rounds. Simply being surrounded by the sturdy machines put my mind at ease and for several hours I’d heard nothing but the reassuring rhythmic tapping of the keys as I worked. It was the most peaceful I’d felt since I’d arrived. And then I heard footsteps. I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning.
“Gus?” I called again, and rose from my chair.
There was no answer. I walked to the open doorway and peered into the dark hall, lit only by the sharp electric light streaming from the classroom. A figure, a woman dressed in dark clothing, was disappearing around a corner. I looked up and down the hall and saw no one else. Leaving my work in the classroom, I followed her. Having some experience before, I knew how to step lightly and keep my presence unknown. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark hallway, but when I caught up to her not far from Mr. Upchurch’s office, I could easily see by the dim light of her lantern. I hid in the deeper shadows of a doorway as the woman stopped outside an office a few doors down. She glanced about her before entering the room. I couldn’t clearly see her face, she’d pulled the veil from her hat down over her eyes, but from the feather plume that fluttered as she walked to the row of buttons on her kid gloves, everything she wore was black.
Ginny?
I slipped down the hall, stopping shy of the door. All the doors in the school were ornamented with a brass plate, but as the woman had taken the lantern with her, I couldn’t read it in the darkened hallway. Only the slices of light beneath the door and through the crack where she’d left the door slightly ajar seeped across the floor. I felt around for the plate on the door and traced the engraved letters with my finger, F. HAYWARD. Why would Ginny sneak into her father’s office at night? I peered through the gap as the figure moved about frantically from desk to bookshelf to filing cabinet, pulling open drawers, turning over papers, and rifling through books. For a moment the figure’s fingers lingered over a pasteboard pencil box left on the desk. She slid it open. Two of the gray slate pencils were missing.
What is she looking for?
And then she looked up. It wasn’t Ginny. I jerked my head back, flattening myself against the wall, and held my breath.
“Un, deux, trois.” I counted silently, hoping she hadn’t seen me. When I reached ten, I dared to let out my breath. Since she hadn’t called out or come to the door to investigate, I assumed she hadn’t caught me spying. Yet I still didn’t move. Instead, I listened as she continued her search. And then I heard another set of footsteps heading in my direction from down the hall. These were much heavier and steadier than those made by the woman inside the office. A thin light glowed from the same direction.
Gus.
In response, I heard the distinct sound of breath blowing out the lantern and footsteps approaching the door. The woman’s ragged breath was inches from me as she peered into the hall. Could she hear me breathing? What would she do if she found me here? Why didn’
t I confront her? She slowly pulled the door closed and the moment was lost. Soon Gus would find me hovering outside Frank Hayward’s door. I felt my way to the nearest door—luckily it was unlocked—and slipped inside. We waited, in our respective rooms, the woman and I, for several minutes as the heavy footfalls of the night watchman grew louder. The approaching light illuminated dust particles floating through the open transom as Gus passed by. And then the light and the sound of Gus’s steps grew fainter until there was silence and darkness again.
He doesn’t even know we are here, I mused. No wonder the incidences keep occurring. But why had I hidden from Gus instead of making him aware of the intruder’s presence?
I cracked open my door and waited but a few moments more before I heard more than saw the woman streak by me, her boots clacking against the wooden floor, as she ran in the opposite direction from Gus. I stepped into the hall and listened to her hasty retreat before finding my way back to the blinding light of Miss Gilbert’s classroom. I sat behind the typewriter once again, but unlike before, couldn’t bring myself to work. My hands hovered over the keyboard until my fingers ached. I stared at the letters between them, DFGHJK, wondering what Miss Woodruff was doing in Frank Hayward’s office.
“If you could, perhaps, maybe, give the girls one piece of advice, Miss Davish, what would it be?” Miss Corcoran, the English instructor, asked, stabbing a stewed tomato from her plate. “That is, if you’d be so kind?”
After returning from Mrs. Chaplin’s school in the early morning hours, I managed a few hours’ sleep. I awoke well after sunrise and had to forgo any leisurely hike. After a light breakfast of coffee, toast, and butter, I telegraphed Sir Arthur, packaged the research I’d finished typing up last night, and made my way to the post office.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 10