“According to her notes, she went into his study and looked through his files. And she found records of Nils’s and his son’s bodies being removed from Portis House and cremated.”
“But nothing about Mrs. Gersbach or Anna.”
Jack shook his head.
“If Nils killed Mikael,” I said slowly, figuring it through, “it’s possible he killed the others, too. And the bodies weren’t recovered.”
“Or they’re alive,” Jack said. “Who killed Nils?”
Alive. The girl we’d seen in the trees. Was it Anna? Where had she come from? Where was she, that she couldn’t contact her best friend?
“And why has no one heard of this?” I asked Jack. “Why was everything covered up?”
“As to that,” Jack said slowly, “if Deighton was interested in the property for a hospital, and he was willing to cut in the local authorities . . .”
“Maisey’s father,” I said. “If there was a cover-up for profit, he must have been part of it. He told his daughter he didn’t want her looking into Anna’s disappearance, that it was probably nothing. He’s been lying to her. No wonder she was so distraught when she came here with the letters.”
“Are you certain this is the right closet?” he said.
I looked down at the keys in my hand. “No.” I began trying them in the lock, a welcome distraction from thinking about the execution that had taken place on the grass outside the library. Kneel, he says . . . “But I think it is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know Matron,” I said. I held up a finger. “First, she would take the keeping of the patients’ personal belongings very seriously. Second, she would keep them meticulously organized, labeled, and stored somewhere locked. But not in her office, because she does not need to access them every day. So in a closet nearby. And she would keep the key herself, without giving a copy to Boney, because she would see it as her responsibility alone. Each man’s things will have an itemized and dated list included. I’ll wager it now.”
He was watching my face. He always knew what I was thinking. “She’ll be all right,” he told me gently. “You’ll see.”
“Yes, well.” I swallowed my worry.
“There was nothing in those papers about you, you know.”
I looked up at him. “What?”
“The envelope you gave me. The incident reports you asked me to read for you. I did. And there was nothing in there about you.”
“What are you talking about? My brother—”
“Is not mentioned. There is an incident report stating that a visitor arrived on a day not set for visiting and created a commotion. It says the nurses tried to eject him and the patients became disturbed. That was her word, ‘disturbed.’ It states that the orderlies were late in arriving, and by the time the visitor was shown off the grounds, the patients were very upset. She claims full responsibility for the incident. Kitty, you’re never mentioned at all, and neither are the other nurses.”
“What about the other incident reports?” I said. “The one in which I went to your room without clearance. And the second time, the night Roger told on me. And the night when Archie attacked me.”
“There’s one about the attack. I suppose she had to write that one. But it’s brief and carefully worded. Matron seems to be an expert in writing a report that doesn’t give much away. I have to admire it.”
“And the others?”
Jack shook his head. “Nothing. Just those two reports. Nothing else.”
My stubborn brain wouldn’t take it in. “That can’t be right, Jack. She told me she was writing incident reports. She told me Mr. Deighton would read them, and there was nothing she could do. Are you saying she was lying?” My face felt hot and tingling. “Oh, my God. She was trying to frighten me all along. She never meant to have me dismissed. When I see her again, I’ll kill her myself. I’ve barely slept, I was so worried.”
Jack’s voice was thoughtful. “I’m starting to think, perhaps, that Matron puts on quite a good show of being frightening. But a show is what it is.”
“She’s practical,” I replied. “She can’t afford to lose a nurse, that’s all. It certainly wasn’t out of affection for me.”
“You may be wrong about that,” Jack said.
I shook my head. I know her, I was about to say again, but then I remembered that Matron had had a husband, and a son, and I had never guessed. Perhaps I didn’t know her as well as I’d thought.
“Fine,” I said finally. “We’ll leave it. But I know I’m right about this closet.”
I was. One of the keys worked, and the door swung open to reveal neatly kept shelves. There were a few small suitcases, and boxes tied with string; there were also a few parcels wrapped simply in brown paper. I realized that these were the belongings each man had come here with, the things of his own life he had surrendered. Some men had come with suitcases, others with a box of beloved items. And some men had come with nothing.
Each item had a paper tag attached to it, with Matron’s large, looped handwriting. SOMERSHAM, WILLIAM. D.O.B.: 16 APRIL 1898. ADMITTANCE DATE: 7 JANUARY 1919.
I studied the tags one by one. Jack was silent next to me, looking over my shoulder. It seemed he couldn’t find words for those few long moments, as if the sight of that closet had temporarily robbed him. I finally put a hand on the brown paper parcel with his name on it.
I slid it off the shelf, held it in my hands for a moment. It weighed nearly nothing; Jack had come here, it seemed, with the clothes on his back and little else. I turned to him, the small parcel between us, and the ceremonial pose of it, I with an item in both my hands, presenting it to him, struck me with deep truth.
I raised my eyes and looked into his. I could not fathom what I saw there, could not truly understand what this moment would mean to a person who had suffered what he had. He didn’t speak; it seemed he couldn’t. And yet he put his hand on the parcel and took it from me, and then he ducked down and kissed me swiftly on the lips, his touch telling me more than words ever could.
He stood back and untied the string. The paper fell open to reveal a folded shirt and trousers, a pair of suspenders, a watch, a wallet, a wool jacket. When Jack Yates had checked into Portis House, wishing to kill himself, he had not even worn a tie.
He let out a sigh, a great whoosh of air as if a weight had been lifted from him. He picked a piece of paper from the top of the stack of folded clothes and held it up to me with a half smile. “You should have wagered money,” he said.
It was Matron’s list of items in the parcel, of course. I smiled back at him.
Jack released the parcel and it dropped to the floor. I blinked in surprise, but before I could recover, he grabbed the bottom hem of his hospital top and wrenched it off over his head in one quick movement. I was left gaping at his bare chest, unexpected and utterly fascinating.
“What are you doing?” I managed.
“These are my clothes,” he said simply. He sounded almost happy. He kicked off his shoes. “I’m putting them on.”