The Secret of Kolney Hatch Read Free

wardrobe to see if he looked acceptable. Everyone said that he looked so much like his mother; he had her large green eyes, her sharp distinguished nose with a subtle bump on the bridge, and her definitive jaw that housed a large white smile.
    He still had a headache from the brandy, and the nightmare had left him tired and unsettled as he hurried down the stairs and through the long hall corridor into the small kitchen.
    Yellowish-gold fleur wallpaper adorned the walls, and two oak cupboards sat on each side of a tall stone fireplace. A small and tattered red carpet with fringe rested in front of the fireplace, and against the back wall by the window was an oak table with matching chairs neatly tucked underneath. Paul noticed two freshly prepared eggs, a fruit bun, a glass of milk, and a note on the table.
            Paul picked up the slightly-yellowed notepaper and read it.
            
    Eat. You look peaky. I’ve gone to the baker and then to the fishmonger’s.
    -Eda
     
    Eda was his housemaid, but Paul considered her family. A cheery, plump woman who had been fair-haired before her gray hair set in, Eda had been with the Watson family since Paul was a young boy. Now, she was the only family left.
    He picked up the pen lying next to the note—it was his father’s safety pen from the war. Paul liked it because it didn’t leak ink. He wrote on the bottom of the notepaper.
    Thank you. I don’t like you going out alone with a murderer on the loose.
    -Paul
     
    Then he quickly ate the food, grabbed his hat, and hurried out the door to catch the train to Mayfair.
    Sometime later, Paul stood on the stone step of Richard Baker’s townhouse, trying to focus on anything other than the murder in Regent Park. Everyone on the train had been talking about it though, and every time someone mentioned the gruesome details, Paul winced. But what made him most uncomfortable was when they referenced his mother.
    “Reminds me of the Watson murder,” one woman said to another.
    “What a gruesome murder that was,” the second woman answered. “Shot with that pistol, her body dumped in the Thames. Such a pity.”
    “Did they ever find the murderer?” The first woman asked.
    “No,” the second woman answered shaking her head. “In fact…”
    Paul was unable to listen to another word. The image of his mother’s maimed face surfaced from his subconscious, and he moved away from the women on the train to sit next to an old, unkempt gentleman who seemed engrossed in a book.
    A drop of rain grazed Paul’s hand now, and he focused his attention upward to the sky. The clouds had their usual feel—thick and suffocating with a threat of an angry rain.  
    A gregarious Fieldfare fluttered by him and landed on the top of a laurel topiary tree to the left of the Baker’s front porch. The little bird looked curiously at Paul for a moment, cocking its little brown head to one side, and then it flew off into the grayness. Paul knew the bird would leave London soon and return to its original home; perhaps the rest of its flock had already left.  
    Paul often thought of leaving London himself. He was tired of the dreary, crowded city. Mostly though, he was tired of feeling sad. And with yesterday’s murder, Paul’s heart felt as heavy as London’s smothering gray clouds.
    Paul knocked firmly on the tall six-paneled door and, after waiting for a few long moments, was about to knock again when he heard a rustling noise coming from behind it. When the door opened seconds later, Paul’s eyes widened, and his breath nearly stopped, for it was not Richard that stood in the doorway.
     
     
    three A FRIENDLY VISIT
    This was not the first time Claire had taken his breath away. She stood in the doorway, with her brilliant smile and sparkling blue eyes, and Paul felt his heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird, an uneasy, yet pleasant, feeling. The pink rose-colored silk crepe dress she wore rested delicately just past her knee.