'Actualy, it feels more as if I'm doing it for John himself and, less creditably, my own curiosity. But it's certainly because of Mary's suspicions about how the place was run. Eleanor Bolitho, too—she was pretty damning about these set-ups. Not that I can do a thing about it anyway.'
Charles was concentrating on tamping his pipe.
Laurence went on, 'It sounds terribly worthy, doesn't it? I realy just want to get a look at these people.'
'You need to keep an open mind, that's al,' Charles said, slowly. 'Not because I personaly doubt for a minute that things go on that would make your hair stand on end. In fact, from what I've heard, quite literaly there's electric stuff and so on. Wouldn't be alowed on a chap in Wormwood Scrubs, yet their families empty their coffers for it.' He reached for the pickle jar. 'But what realy bothers me is that you're not a very good actor. Never were. Seriously, old chap. Think you're so British, sang-froid and so on, when realy your face is an open book. When you go in and meet Dr Caligari, you've got to be believing they might help Reginald.'
'Robert.'
'Just testing you.' Charles continued, unperturbed, 'Take the embarrassment of the unhinged Bertie Bartram off your hands. Possibly even make him better.
Return him to the bosom of his relieved family. Or keep him safely out of it. You've got to look as if you hope they can work miracles, not as if you suspect them of negligence at best and atrocities at worst. You've got to forget everything those girls told you. I mean you're dealing with mind doctors. They'l be on to you in a minute.
Wel, half an hour, certainly. Probably charge you two guineas to boot.'
'Thank you,' Laurence said simply.
'Stil,' Charles said after a moment's pause while he sawed an inch-thick slice of bread off the loaf, 'they're not entirely popular in Fairford by al accounts.'
'The landlord?' Laurence guessed.
'Wel, I only had a brief chat. Explained we were down here to find a place for your brother, stricken war hero and al that. Turns out he—our landlord—was at Mons same time as my lot, and lost a nephew in the Glosters. Main gripe seems to be that Master Caligari—what is the man's name?'
'If you mean the son, it's George Chilvers.'
'Yes, wel, young Chilvers didn't fight. He had been a keen cricketer, so was apparently healthy, and he's not a medic himself, so no reserved status. Bad feeling al round especialy as most of the lads in these parts fought together and took a drubbing in '17.'
'But that doesn't mean that Holmwood itself is suspect,' Laurence said.
'No,' Charles conceded. 'Apparently one of the older attendants who made it back lost an arm. Worked at Holmwood before the war, when it was a place for mad gentlefolk—men and women. Came home, hero's welcome, medal, expected to get his place back as Dr C had promised, but young Chilvers laid him off three months later while Pa was away. Said he couldn't pul his weight. He—the ex-employee—believes he was got rid of because he didn't approve of young Chilvers'
marriage.'
'But why on earth should a warder have an opinion, or anyone care if he did, about his employer's marriage plans?'
'Because, old chap, it seems that Chilvers married a wealthy heiress.'
And so?' There was obviously more to come.
And she had been a patient at Holmwood. That's how Chilvers Junior met her. She'd tried to kil herself.' Charles couldn't keep a triumphant note out of his voice. Laurence was astonished that he'd managed to keep this juicy morsel of gossip to himself for so long.
'Wel, you were obviously a lot more alert after our drive than I was.'
'I'm hoping to find out more tomorrow. Our man, the disgruntled warder, usualy comes in for a drink on Wednesday lunchtime. He's bringing a friend who stil works there. So I plan to be in the bar with a generous walet while you are interrogating the Chilverses.'
Despite sleeping so deeply before dinner, Laurence was pleasantly tired when he got back to his room. A smal fire was burning and the thin curtains had been drawn, the water bowl emptied and his bed straightened. He opened the window a little, slipped between the cold sheets and slept until morning when he woke with an aching bladder and, loath to use the chamber pot, went briskly downstairs, the linoleum cold under his feet. On the way back up he crossed with Charles going downstairs with equal urgency.
Half an hour later after a agreeably silent meal of thick bacon, dark-yolked eggs and blood-pudding, they planned Laurence's day.
'Got the wind up yet?' asked Charles hopefuly.
'Not realy. Either I get some information or at least a general feel for the place or I make a complete fool of myself, get away quickly and never have to see them again.'
'Or they could take you for a maniac and strap you into a straitjacket,' Charles said benignly. 'But although the locals may grumble, the place is quite wel thought of by the nobs. Landlord, the wonderfuly named Cyril Trusty, by the way, tels me that they've had various scions of the great and good tucked up in there.
Lord Verey's heir for a start, and the son of a bishop, though Trusty can't remember which one. Not much of a man for matters theological, our landlord.'
'And where do al these pilars of the establishment stand on shel-shock, then?'
'Wel, I don't think Verey's been giving speeches in the Lords,' Charles said. 'Probably not too keen for the world to know the heir's of unsound mind.'
Laurence decided to walk up to Holmwood. It lay on the edge of the smal town, the landlord had told them, sketching out a pencil map.
'You'l know it when you see it,' said Cyril Trusty. 'High wals and spikes on top. To stop them scarpering. Impale 'em instead. Doesn't look as old as it is. Bits added on. Solid. Paid a fortune to instal proper asylum locks just before the war. Had to get a man from London. Ordinary locks won't do for lunatics. Ingenious type, your madman, they say.'
Chapter Fourteen
Laurence's appointment was at eleven and he set off along the riverbank with a quarter of an hour to spare. Where the path reached some water meadows he looked back to see the fine church standing on higher ground. It reminded him that the churchyard at Fairford was the last place anyone had admitted to seeing John Emmett.
Which way had he gone then, Laurence wondered? Not across the meadows, obviously, as that would have led him straight back towards Holmwood, the direction he was taking now. Not due east, as he could see a wide river and no sign of a bridge. And if he'd turned down into the market place, along the main road and towards the station, surely he would have been identified, if not as himself, certainly as an outsider: a patient. Beyond the church lay farmland as far as Laurence could see, with a few stands of beech and a Dutch barn right on the horizon. John must have headed that way.
Presumably the main service on Christmas Day was Matins. John's disappearance could have been discovered no later than midday, once the church party got back to Holmwood at the latest, though the youth he'd stunned in order to escape must surely have raised the alert before then. That left three to four hours or so of decent daylight to look for him. But it also meant that John would soon have needed shelter.
Could he have known anyone in the area? Could someone have come to fetch him? It would have needed a car. Branch-line trains ran a reduced service on Christmas Day and, anyway, he was sure the police and Holmwood people would have checked at the station. But in concentrating on how, he was no nearer knowing why. Where was John going so determinedly and who could he have persuaded to help him if that was what he'd done? And why hadn't that person come forward?
He had a sense that he was almost on to something when the sight of what he guessed were the closed gates of Holmwood distracted him. A large iron bel pul was set in the wal beside a smal nameplate. He couldn't see Cyril Trusty's promised spikes but he noticed that the smal upper windows, at least, were barred like a prison. The rooms up there must be dark, he thought. The building he was approaching was tal and square, its roof shalow and, unusualy for the area, he noted, of slate rather than Cotswold stone. That added to its slightly sombre appearance but the man who opened one gate a minute or so later had a perfectly pleasant expression on his face.