Kitabı oku: «The House of Secrets», sayfa 2

‘Breakfast would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘I’ll leave you to freshen up. Can you find your way downstairs? Just follow the corridor to the back stairs and that will take you to the kitchen.’ Mrs McDougal paused at the door. ‘I know it’s none of my business, Miss Bennett, but you were so brave, the way you testified at the trial. Jack Bennett got away with murder, just as sure as the day is long, but never mind that. You’re here now, and that is all that matters.’

Hot blood rushed to my ears.

‘Oh, I’ve gone and embarrassed you. Forgive me.’

‘I’ve had a hard time getting settled—’

‘You’ve no reason to worry. You’re in good hands. Dr Geisler is very easy to work for. You come down to the kitchen, and I’ll have some food ready for you.’

I splashed icy cold water on my face and reached for one of the plush ivory towels, surprised to find that my hands shook.

‘Take a drop or two, Sarah. They won’t hurt you, and they will help you cope.’ I could hear Dr Upton’s voice. Enough of those thoughts. I had been given a new beginning. Hard work and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done would see me through.

With fresh resolve, I went to unpack, only to find that, true to her word, Mrs McDougal had already seen to it. My suitcase had been taken away and my meagre belongings had been arranged in the armoire that rose all the way to the ceiling. The seascapes I had taken when I fled Bennett House were now on top of the highboy, propped against the wall. One depicted the blue-green sea and the summer sky, while the other captured the dark blues and greys of the winter sea.

The books that I carried with me, Rebecca, The Murder at the Vicarage, and The Uninvited – last year’s best seller by Dorothy Macardle – had been placed in the small bookcase nestled in the corner of the room. I ran my fingers over the familiar worn spines, glad to have a touchstone from my past during this new phase of my life. A small writing desk rested in front of the window. I opened the drawer to it, and saw the pile of letters from Cynthia Forrester, held together with a white ribbon, all unopened.

Cynthia Forrester, the reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, had told my story after Jack Bennett’s trial with a cool, objective voice. I took a chance and trusted her. She now had a byline and a promising career as a feature writer, and the hours we spent together while she interviewed me had kindled a friendship between us. After the story was published, Cynthia had reached out as a friend, with phone calls and invitations to lunch and dinner, all of which I declined. She wrote several letters, which I never opened. One of these days, I promised myself, as I pushed the drawer shut.

Not ready to go downstairs yet, I moved over to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Below me, the traffic on Jackson Street moved along. I studied the houses across the street, noting the blue stars in the windows, the indication of how many sons and fathers were overseas fighting. Every day, mothers, sisters, and wives scoured the newspaper, hoping their loved ones would not make the list of fatalities. Every day, some of those same mothers, sisters, and wives would receive a visit from the Western Union boy, bearing dreaded news, and the blue stars that hung in the windows would be changed to gold.

I shook off thoughts of the injured and dead soldiers and watched as a diaper truck stopped in front of the house across the street. A white-coated deliveryman jumped out of the driver’s side, opened the back of the truck, and hoisted a bundle of clean diapers onto his shoulder. Just as he reached the porch, a woman in a starched maid’s uniform opened the door. She took the bundle from the driver, set it aside, and rushed into his open arms. They fell into a deep kiss. The woman broke their connection. The man kept reaching for her, but she smiled and pushed him away. She handed him a bulky laundry bag, then stepped into the house and closed the door behind her.

As the deliveryman climbed back into his truck, a young woman dressed in a stylish coat and matching hat pushed a buggy up to the front of the house. The maid stepped out to meet the woman, smoothing down her apron before taking the baby from the woman’s arms.

I wondered what the mistress of the house would think of her maid’s stolen kiss with the diaper deliveryman.

‘Excuse me.’ A woman stood in my doorway. Her eyes darted about my room. ‘Did you see a tall, dark-haired man pass by?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ She must be a patient, I realized.

She stepped into the room, surveying the opulent surroundings. ‘Your room is much nicer than mine. I’m an old friend of Matthew’s – Dr Geisler’s. I thought I saw … oh, never mind. My mind plays tricks on me. You must be the new secretary?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Minna Summerly. Nice to meet you.’ She extended her hand and stepped close to me, moving with the lithesome grace of a ballet dancer.

‘Sarah Bennett.’

‘Oh, I know who you are. I knew that you’d take the job. In fact, I told Matthew – Dr Geisler – you would agree to work here.’

She noticed my bewildered expression.

‘Oh, I’m psychic. It’s a gift and a curse, if you want the truth. That’s why I’m here. Dr Geisler is trying to prove that mediums exist. I happen to be one. Truth be told, all of us here are big fans of yours. We followed the trial, you see. Everyone in the house has been cheering you on. I can’t imagine what it must have been like, testifying like that, being called mad by the toughest defence attorney in San Francisco. The newspapers were relentless, weren’t they? I swear those journalists would do anything for a story.’ She rattled on, impervious to my discomfort. ‘It’s going to be nice having someone young here. Dr Geisler and Bethany are good company, but they are a little focused on their work. Were you going downstairs?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mrs McDougal has promised me breakfast.’

‘Allow me to show you the way.’ Minna tucked her arm in mine, and together we made our way along the corridor to the back staircase, which led to the kitchen. ‘I’m glad you are going to help Matthew. He’s a good man who cares deeply for those he treats. He needs someone to help him, so he can be free to pursue his other interest.’

‘Other interest?’

We came to a rest on a landing with two corridors leading off it. A man stood in the foyer, dressed in a cardigan with leather patches at the elbows. His glasses had slid down his nose, so he tilted his head back to look at us.

‘Mr Collins, do the nurses know you’re roaming around?’

‘You have light coming off you.’ Mr Collins spoke in a reverential whisper.

‘This is Sarah Bennett, Mr Collins. She is going to be working here.’

‘I know. She has light coming off her.’ Mr Collins turned and shuffled away, staring at his feet as he went.

‘He’s harmless,’ Minna said, as if she could read my thoughts. ‘Just pretend you’re speaking to a 2-year-old. Ask him to leave you alone, and he will. There’s no need to be afraid of him.’

‘I know. I’m just not used to …’

Not used to what? Having a job? A roof over my head? Having one single person say that they appreciate and understand the toll Jack Bennett’s murder trial has taken on me?

‘You’ll be fine here, Sarah. We’re all glad to have you. We’re going to be friends, I’m sure of it.’ When my stomach rumbled, Minna laughed. ‘If you go that way, you’ll find the kitchen. I’ll see you later.’

She walked down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving me to find my way to the kitchen.

* * *

I followed the enticing aroma of cinnamon and coffee and wound up in a large, modern kitchen. One entire wall consisted of tall windows, with French doors leading into a courtyard – a nice surprise for a house in the city. On a bright sunny morning these east-facing windows would fill the kitchen with morning light. A chopping block big enough for several people to work on stood in the centre of the room. A young girl, dressed in a grey cotton uniform with a white apron tied around her waist, kneaded dough under the watchful eyes of Mrs McDougal. When the girl saw me, she smiled.

‘Pay attention, Alice. Don’t work it too hard, my girl, or the dough won’t rise.’

‘Yes, Mrs McDougal,’ Alice said.

‘Miss Bennett, come in.’ Mrs McDougal beckoned me to sit at the refectory table in the corner, where a place had been laid for me. ‘I didn’t know if you like tea or coffee, so I made both.’

Indeed there were two pots by my place. I sat down and poured out coffee, just as Mrs McDougal took a plate out of the oven and put it down before me. Two eggs, browned toast, and a piece of bacon graced my plate. Real bacon. I could have wept.

‘However did you get bacon?’ I asked in awe, reluctant to touch it. California’s meat shortage had been in the headlines for weeks now, with no relief in sight, despite promises from the meat rationing board. Although sacrifices were necessary for the troops who fought overseas, I craved bacon and beef just as much as the next person.

‘It’s the last piece,’ Mrs McDougal said. ‘I just read that the food shortage is going to get worse. I can’t imagine it.’

‘They need farmers,’ Alice said. ‘My momma says that all the men who harvest the food have gone off to war.’

‘Pretty soon the women will be working in the fields,’ Mrs McDougal said.

‘Unless they join the WACS or the WAVES,’ Alice said. ‘My sister tried to volunteer, but they wouldn’t take her. She has bad vision.’

Mrs McDougal and Alice chatted while I ate. Every now and then Mrs McDougal would look at me, nodding in approval as I cleaned my plate. I hadn’t eaten this well since I left Bennett Cove. Dr Geisler came into the kitchen just as I finished my meal and reached for the pot to pour another a cup of coffee.

‘Ah, Sarah. Your timing is perfect,’ said Dr Geisler. He nodded at Alice. ‘Mrs McDougal, would you please bring another pot of coffee into the office for Sarah and me?’ He rubbed his hands together, eager as a schoolboy. ‘Come along. We’ve much to do.’

* * *

We walked through the foyer and up the staircase opposite that which led to my room. I gasped when we entered the room, not because of the view of the San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz, which was stunning. My fascination lay with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered every wall, all of the shelves filled to the brim with books of all sorts.

‘May I?’ I gestured at the shelves.

‘Please.’ Dr Geisler nodded his approval.

Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, a well-worn edition of Balzac in its original French, James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell, and a series of blue leather books that were too big to fit on the shelves were stacked on a library table.

Books. Books. Everywhere books. There were leather-bound tomes with golden letters on the spine, classics, some so old they should have been in a museum. There were medical textbooks, music books, art books, books about birds, and architecture, and cooking. A small section of one shelf held a stack of paperbacks by Mary Roberts Rinehart, Margery Allingham, and Lina Ethel White.

‘The mysteries belong to my wife. She has her own library upstairs, too.’ He came to stand next to me. ‘Books are my indulgence. I love to be surrounded by them.’

‘You have a remarkable collection,’ I said.

‘Consider my books at your disposal, Miss Bennett.’

I sat in the chair opposite him. Alice brought in a tray of coffee. Dr Geisler poured us each a cup.

‘I’ve arranged the handwritten notes for you to type into sections and put them in folders on your desk. You can work at your own pace, but I hope you can finish at least one of the folders, approximately five pages, each day. After you have typed up the pages, if you could handwrite a short summary of what you’ve typed, that will be helpful. Does that make sense?’

‘I think so,’ I said.

‘I think I’ll just let you get to it. If you have any questions or difficulties reading my handwriting, you can let me know. You need to be mindful of my spelling, as it is not my forte. There’s a Latin dictionary and a medical dictionary on that shelf.’ He pointed to two books on the credenza. ‘Does that arrangement suit?’

‘Of course.’

‘Follow me, please.’

Dr Geisler walked over to the corner of the office, where another door was nestled between two bookcases. He opened it and led me into the small room, with its own bookcase, but unlike the shelves in Dr Geisler’s office, these shelves were jammed full of files, stacks of paper, and scientific journals, all in a state of chaos. My desk sat under a large mullioned window. In the middle of it sat a new Underwood typewriter. The promised handwritten notes lay next to it, anchored in place with a bronze dragonfly. A fountain pen, a bottle of ink, and a brand-new steno pad lay next to the notes. Dr Geisler flicked on one of the lamps.

‘Is this all right? I thought you might want some privacy, and I’ve always liked this room.’ He eyed the chaotic shelves. ‘Once you’ve settled in, I’ll get someone to deal with this mess.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I sat down at the desk.

‘Well, I’ll let you get to work then,’ he said.

‘Dr Geisler,’ I called out to him before he left the room. ‘Thank you.’

‘I believe we are going to help each other a great deal, Miss Bennett.’

‘Call me Sarah, please.’

‘Very well. And you may call me Matthew.’

He nodded and closed the door behind him.

And so I spent my first day at the Geisler Institute. The work proved interesting. Dr Geisler’s handwriting wasn’t schoolroom perfect, but I managed. The new typewriter was exquisite, especially in comparison to the rattle-trap machines at Miss Macky’s. Those relics had many keys that were stuck or missing and ribbons that were often as dry as a bone. A student had to type fifty words a minute before they were allowed access to the precious ink bottles that would bring the desiccated ribbons back to some semblance of life.

On this machine, the keys were smooth and well oiled, the ink crisp and black on the page. I started to work and fell into a routine. I would type three pages, proofread them, write a short summary, and move on. At two-thirty, when my stomach growled, I had finished eleven pages and felt very proud indeed. I pushed away from my desk, stood up, and started to stretch out my arms and neck, when Bethany came into the room.

‘I see you’ve settled in.’ She hovered around my desk. ‘Is everything to your liking? I wasn’t sure what sort of a chair you’d want. We’ve many to choose from, so if you aren’t comfortable, I hope you’ll speak up.’

‘Everything is fine,’ I said.

‘We’ll be going out for dinner this evening, so you can either have a tray in your room or eat in the kitchen with Mrs McDougal. Just let her know your preference.’

After a few minutes, I grabbed my purse and stepped into the now empty office. Remembering Dr Geisler’s offer to use his library, I perused the books on offer and had almost reached for Middlemarch, but settled instead on The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie. I tucked the book under my arm, ready to head to my room for a few hours of reading time.

‘Hello, Sarah.’

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Zeke sat in one of the chairs that angled towards the window. A thin scar, shiny as a new penny and thin as the edge of a razor, ran from his cheekbone down to the edge of his full lips. I wondered who had sliced him so. His right arm was bandaged and held close to his body by a sling. A wooden cane leaned against his chair. A smattering of new grey hairs had come in around his temples, making him even more handsome.

‘I know. I look horrible. I didn’t mean to surprise you, but I get the distinct impression that you’re avoiding me.’

I sat down in the chair opposite him. ‘No, it’s not that.’

‘You don’t have to say anything. Just sit with me. We can figure out what to say to each other later.’ He reached over and took my hand in his. The heat of him came over me in waves, knocking me off guard.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

‘I know.’ My words were but a whisper. I couldn’t find my voice. ‘I know that I got the job because of you. I’ll repay you somehow,’ I said.

A look of hurt flashed in his eyes. ‘You owe me nothing, Sarah.’

I nodded at him, mumbled some feeble excuse, and fled to the safety of my own room.

* * *

I spent the afternoon with the Agatha Christie mystery, trying without much success to push thoughts of Zeke to the back of my mind. When the clock struck five, I filled my claw-foot tub to the brim with piping hot water, and soaked until my skin wrinkled and the water turned tepid.

I spent a quiet evening with Mrs McDougal. We ate our meal together – potatoes au gratin, salad with green goddess dressing, and green beans – chatting like old friends, while various nurses and orderlies who worked the night shift came into the kitchen for tea or coffee.

Mrs McDougal didn’t ask prying questions, but every now and then I caught her staring with an inquisitive look. We both liked Inner Sanctum Mysteries, and after dinner we retired to the cosy sitting room where Mrs McDougal spent her free time. We listened to the show together on the new Philco radio with a mahogany cabinet, a gift from Dr Geisler.

Back in my bedroom, I made quick work of my evening ablutions. I took the drops of morphine and crawled into bed exhausted from my long day, confident that the tincture would continue to stave off the merciless sobbing.

I dreamed that Zeke had recovered from his injuries. In my dream we were on a picnic in Golden Gate Park. Zeke put his sandwich down and reached out his hand to touch my face. ‘I’ll never leave you, Sarah,’ he whispered to me. He morphed into someone different, someone who stroked my face, saying strange words I did not understand. I awoke, disoriented, not sure where I was.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, the shape of a man standing near my bed came into focus. This was no dream. A flesh-and-blood man stood at the end of my bed. When he moved close to me and reached out to touch my face, I screamed.

Chapter Two

My scream pierced the silence. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I recognized Mr Collins as he scurried crablike to the corner of my bedroom. He squatted there, shielding his face with his hands, rocking back and forth.

A nurse stood in my bedroom doorway, the light from the hallway forming a halo behind her. She took one look at Mr Collins and at me and called out. ‘Staff, please.’ When no one responded she said, ‘Now.’

Soon another nurse with mousy brown hair joined us.

‘Miss Joffey, please see if you can get him settled down.’

The nurse who arrived first stood aside to let the woman into the room. She motioned for the two orderlies who stood in the corridor to wait outside. When she turned on the lamp, I saw her red hair, the smattering of freckles across the nose. The nametag on her chest said Eunice Martin. She grabbed my robe from the chair where I had thrown it the previous night and wrapped it around my shoulders. Miss Joffey knelt next to Mr Collins. She spoke to him in a soothing voice until his breathing quieted and the rocking motion stopped. Mr Collins took his hands away from his face and gazed at us, a befuddled look on his face.

‘What’s going on?’ Bethany hurried into the room. She had wrapped a flannel dressing gown over her pyjamas. In her haste, she hadn’t noticed that the dressing gown was inside out.

‘It’s Mr Collins,’ Eunice Martin said. ‘He’s been wandering again.’

‘Mr Collins, you need to go back to your room now.’ Bethany spoke with a sure authority. ‘Let Nurse Martin and Nurse Joffey take you back to bed. It’s time to go back to sleep.’

Mr Collins allowed the nurses to help him to his feet.

‘You know it’s not polite to go into anyone else’s bedroom without permission.’ Bethany spoke in the same tone she would use to speak to a child.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Bethany. I just wanted to touch the fire in her hair.’

‘Mr Collins, you mustn’t sneak into other people’s rooms, no matter the reason. You owe Miss Bennett an apology.’

‘I’m sorry, but the light—’

‘That’s all right, Mr Collins. But I would prefer if you would knock before you enter my room.’

He grabbed Eunice’s arm and pointed to me. ‘Can you see the light?’

‘You may take him,’ Bethany said.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Miss Joffey put her arm around Mr Collins and led him away.

He followed like an obedient puppy.

‘Sarah, are you okay to go back to sleep? I can give you something, if you need it,’ Bethany said.

‘No thank you.’

‘I’m sorry if you were frightened. Mr Collins should not have entered your room. He’s never done anything like that before. I can’t imagine what has got into him.’

‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

‘Good night then.’

‘Good night,’ I said.

After Bethany shut the door behind her, I opened the window. I took the chair from the writing desk and dragged it over to the door, where I wedged it underneath the knob. Only then, secure in the knowledge that no one else could get in, was I able to sleep.

* * *

When I awoke the next morning, a shroud of fog had settled over the city. The wind blew against my windows, rattling them like a witch’s curse, causing the grey mist to swirl like waves. I dressed and headed downstairs, anxious to begin my day. In the foyer, two maids swept the marble floor. Chloe, the young woman who answered the door for me yesterday, had her head bent over some sort of ledger, copying numbers from a pile of receipts. She nodded at me as I passed her desk.

Once again, I followed the smell of coffee and cinnamon to the kitchen, where Alice laboured over something that smelled like heaven. She rolled out dough onto the section of the chopping block that had been covered in flour. Mrs McDougal stood near her, arms across her chest, supervising the girl’s efforts. Both women nodded at me when I came into the room.

The young woman twisted the dough and with expert fingers, dusted it with cinnamon and sugar from the bowl that rested near her elbow. She then placed the twisted dough onto a cookie sheet, waiting its turn in the oven.

‘There are cinnamon rolls, toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee.’ Mrs McDougal nodded to the table, where a breakfast buffet had been laid out. ‘We won’t have butter until tomorrow, so you’ll have to use jam.’ I grabbed a mug, filled it with coffee, took two pieces of toast, and sat down to watch the women tend to the baking.

Under Mrs McDougal’s watchful eye, the young girl went to the oven and took out a cookie sheet laden with half a dozen cinnamon rolls. She set these on a cooling rack, slid the sheet of uncooked rolls into the oven, shut the door, and set the timer.

‘Those look beautiful,’ Mrs McDougal said with pride. ‘Now glaze them with the icing, and I bet Miss Bennett will volunteer to taste one for you.’

‘Two for me, please. I’m famished.’ Dr Geisler burst into the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and loaded a plate up with toast, scrambled eggs, and two of the cinnamon rolls – a surprising amount of food for a man so slight of build. He sat down across from me, put his linen napkin on his lap, and dug into his breakfast.

‘You’re probably wondering why we eat in the kitchen. The dining room has been converted to a visiting area. I’m hopeful that when our beds are full, the patients’ families will come to visit them. There’s something warm and cosy about eating in the kitchen, don’t you think?’

He didn’t give me a chance to answer.

‘We dine formally in the alcove across the hall. We can seat eight people, and that is sufficient for our needs.’ He picked up the newspaper that lay folded on the table near his plate. ‘I’m sorry about Mr Collins. You’ll have a key to your room by lunchtime. I should have had the foresight to give you one when you first arrived. Did you sleep well after your interruption?’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Although I confess I wedged a chair under the doorknob.’

‘Mr Collins is quite taken with you, Sarah. I assure you he’s harmless, so if you come across him just know that he will not hurt you.’

‘What do you do with patients like Mr Collins? Has he always been like that? Can you cure him?’

‘Mr Collins used to be a prodigious piano player, a respected professional. He suffered a horrible tragedy, which pushed him over the edge. He hasn’t played the piano since.’ Dr Geisler set his fork down and used his toast to mop up the last of his eggs. He didn’t speak until he finished chewing and dabbed his mouth once again with his napkin.

‘I have no idea if I can do anything for him at this point. He seems to be a different person when he is under hypnosis. But when I bring him back, he regresses. When Mr Collins’s brother brought him here, he mentioned that he had no idea what to do with his brother’s piano. I suggested he bring it here, just in case it might trigger a memory. Music is great therapy.

‘But to answer your question, I’ll just say that I remain hopeful. You’ll learn more about his story when you transcribe my notes. I read what you did yesterday. Commendable job.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, pleased with myself for a job well done.

‘I’ve left a pile of handwritten pages on your desk. You will find the date they were written in the upper right-hand corner. If you would organize them chronologically, current date on top, that is the order I would like them in when you type them up. They aren’t going to be included in the book, but I need them typed today.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m glad you’re here, Sarah. I will see you later. I must check on my patients. Oh, and get you a key.’

Dr Geisler thanked Mrs McDougal for breakfast and left me sitting at the table with the San Francisco Examiner. The headlines RAF Rips at Berlin: Fires Rage and Jap Fleet Nears New Guinea jumped out at me.

Here I was, worried about mundane matters, while our soldiers faced the ravages of war and, somewhere in this city, someone’s wife, mother, or daughter was receiving a dreaded visit from a Western Union man.

* * *

Someone had left a flower arrangement on the desk in my office, a simple Mason jar filled with yellow roses, white tulips, and a spray of baby’s breath. There was no card, and I wondered if they were from Zeke. They brightened the room, a singular attempt to override the endless grey outside my window.

The promised pile of notes lay on my desk, waiting for me to sort them. I opened the curtains and the window, turned on the banker’s lamp, and set about my task.

I couldn’t help but read the notes as I organized them. They were written accounts of Dr Geisler’s hypnotherapy sessions dating as far back as 1938. I read of patients who had lost weight, controlled pain, and overcame chronic phobias. Dr Geisler had even cured two children of bedwetting.

I had just settled into a routine, sorting by year, then month, when Bethany came into the room.

‘I’ve come to see how you’re doing today,’ she said. She eyed the pile of papers on my desk and the vase of flowers.

I stretched my neck and flexed my fingers, using the exercises that Miss Macky had taught us to treat the inevitable cramps that arose after long hours of typewriting.

‘Beautiful flowers,’ Bethany said.

‘I don’t know who they’re from. I used to grow roses at my house in Bennett Cove.’

‘Do you miss it there?’ Bethany sat down in the chair next to my desk.

‘No. My memories of Bennett Cove are not good. But I love the beach.’

‘Sometimes it’s difficult to leave the past behind.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll see you at lunchtime.’ She left my office, closing the door behind her.

Through my window, I could hear her enter Dr Geisler’s office. The conversation between them latched on to the spring breeze and flowed into my office, allowing me to hear it as though I were in the same room.

‘Did you buy Sarah flowers?’ Bethany asked.

‘I did. The poor girl deserved a little something. She’s alone in the world, and Jack Bennett’s trial has taken a horrible toll on her. She’s upset over Zeke. You can tell by looking at her.’

‘She’s doing a good job of avoiding him. They met yesterday in the library. They were very intimate at first. There’s no denying they are in love. You can see it between them. But Sarah’s jumpy. I wonder if she knows her own mind, Matthew. She’s at least ten years younger than he.’

‘Sarah’s 26 and Zeke is 34, but Sarah’s an old soul. I think they are good for each other. There’s no need for you to watch her every move, darling. Let’s try to make her feel at home. We must get her a key—’

‘Matthew, don’t try to placate me. We need to finish our conversation. As I told you last night, I’m concerned that you would turn away paying patients, when we are so low on funds. There are patients ready to check in to this hospital and pay us to be here. In order to make the hospital pay for itself, we need to have patients in the beds.’

‘But I don’t have the time to give to them, not now. Can you not see that?’

‘Because you’re off on these séances with Minna? Matthew, darling, please. I love you, but I am so worried. You’ve become obsessed with Alysse, and for some strange reason you think that Sarah Bennett is connected to her. Don’t you realize how absurd you sound? Alysse is dead. This obsession of yours is not healthy.’

I heard the sound of a chair moving on the wood floor. In my mind’s eye, I saw Dr Geisler moving around the desk to sit next to his wife.

‘I can’t explain what I saw at the trial, darling. And as crazy as it sounds, Alysse was there. I know it.’