Rebel with a Heart

To call Mrs. Goodhew a nurse was like calling a grade-schooler a professor. From what he had learned, she was there for appearances only. Well, also to keep Dr. Merlot entertained of an evening.

Ah, here came the good doctor now, tiptoeing toward the snoring Mrs. Goodhew and touching her where a gentleman shouldn’t.

Spy time was over; if Trace didn’t get inside now, he might be shivering on the porch until they finished their tawdry business.

He rapped on the door. When a few moments later Nurse Goodhew opened it, she was wearing her shoes and a sour-looking smile. Dr. Merlot was nowhere to be seen.

“Good evening, Mrs. Goodhew. I’ve come with a delivery of books.” He stepped inside, then stomped the snow from his feet. He took off his hat and thumped it against his thigh.

“Mr. Clarkly! Really, this floor was spotless. Who do you think will clean it now?”

“Why?” Trace lifted his spectacles an inch off his nose and peered at the floor through the broken glass. “I do beg your pardon, Nurse Goodhew. I didn’t mean to create a mess.”

He shook his head, adding a few more splatters to the floor.

“You must be a madman, coming out in this weather to bring books to people who can’t even understand a word on the page.”

“Yes, but I’m certain they will enjoy the pictures.” He pulled the book on top of the stack from under his arm, opened it and extended it for her to see. “Look, we’ve got animals of every kind, frolicking in water.” He turned the page. “Or nibbling grass.”

“Give them here, then.” Nurse Goodhew took the stack. “I’ll see them delivered first thing in the morning.”

She wouldn’t, of course. She never did.

“Thank you. I’m sure your patients will be grateful for your kindness.” Trace shook his shoulders, dropping more globs of melting snow on the floor. “Oh my, beg pardon again. If you’ll allow me, I’ll clean this up before I go. It’ll just take an instant.”

“See that it does. That water will leave a mark if you’re not quick about it.”

“To be sure, Mrs. Goodhew.”

“I’ll be back with cleaning rags.” She frowned at him authoritatively. “Don’t move from that spot.”

“Oh no, not an inch, I swear it.”

Half a second after she stepped out of the room, Trace slipped off his boots and coat. He hurried to the desk where the key to the back door of the inmates’ cells was kept. The second drawer down, he recalled, under a bottle of whiskey.

Tonight, there was only the bottle of whiskey.

He hurried back, stepped into his boots and put on his coat, and waited two full minutes for the nurse to return with her cleaning rags.

She shoved them at him with another frown. He made quick work of drying the floor. He’d lose some time now, having to figure a new way into the patients’ wing.

He walked toward the gate in case anyone was watching, then followed the brick wall around the back of the building.

His first stop was the woodpile. He shoved his useless glasses in his pocket. He loaded his arms with firewood, then made trip after trip to a window that he knew had a broken latch.

The trouble was, the window was eight feet off the ground. The snow was only a foot high. While scaling something seven feet tall wouldn’t be hard, scaling and opening at the same time would be impossible.

The only thing to do was stack the wood under the window, climb the pile, then open the window. After that, he could go in and open the back door and bring the wood in that way, or he could avoid all those steps by tossing the wood through the open window, then climbing in after it. Tossing and climbing would take more effort, but going though the door would take more time.

Since the folks inside were probably shivering, he decided on tossing.

In all it took twenty minutes, but he didn’t fear being discovered. Inmate care was more of an afterthought here, especially at night, with only Goodhew and Merlot in attendance. From Trace’s experience, they tended to disappear from their shifts between the hours of seven and nine.

It was now seven-ten, giving Trace the time he needed.

He scooped up a load of wood and carried it to old Mrs. Murphy’s room. There was a bolt on the outside of the door to insure she did not get out.

He slid it open and stepped into her room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murphy.” The old woman lay on her bed, curled up and shivering under a thin, dirty blanket.

Anger burned hot in him to see her treated so carelessly. Because she was frail and forgetful, her family paid Alden Hanispree a huge amount every month to keep her here. Chances were they were not aware of her meager conditions.

His research had uncovered a miserable truth. Visits by family and friends were by appointment only. An hour before the call the patient would be transferred to a luxurious suite for the duration of the visit. If a few patients did complain to a visitor, well, they were mentally ill. Who would believe their word over a doctor’s?

Lies and secrets were the shadows darkening these halls. Soon Trace would have all the evidence he needed and the truth about Hanispree would be told.

Trace lit a fire in the old woman’s fireplace, then watched to make sure it burned good and hot.

“Good night, Mrs. Murphy. I’ll see you again soon.”

The gray head nodded under her cover. “You are quite considerate for a ghost, young man. I’m sorry you passed before your time.”

He had told her many times that he wasn’t a ghost, but it was just as well that she didn’t remember. The lighting of unexplained fires and the appearance of extra food were easily blamed on the supernatural.

In under an hour he had brought warmth to every room but one. That door didn’t have a bolt. A heavy lock made it impossible to get inside.

The investigator in him wanted to know what was in there. He’d heard stories of other institutions where the inmates were actually tortured in the name of research. One of these days he’d find a way into that second-story room.

Having done everything he could for the inmates, he went outside. He stepped beside his own footprints going away, thinking that it was a good thing for the old ghost stories. A spirit would be credited with all manner of strange happenings.

* * *

Had she not been homeless, freezing and responsible for two children, Lilleth would feel quite pleased.

Dinner at the hotel could not have gone better. In the end they had been kicked out of the restaurant, but she and the children had caused a bucketload of complaints to be served up to Mr. Hotel Owner.

Mary, having been confined to Lilleth’s arms for much of the day, wanted to crawl about on the floor. She wailed and carried on because she was not allowed to do so.

Jess accidentally spilled his milk on the tablecloth three times. Naturally, Lilleth had insisted on fresh linen with each accident.

And, by the saints, why could the kitchen not prepare her steak correctly? The waiter had to return it several times before it was cooked just so.

As annoyed as the other patrons were at her little family, they were aghast when the owner, with his own hands, escorted them out into the elements with orders not to return. Surely the fellow deserved every frown cast his way.

But what to do now? It was not that Lilleth couldn’t afford a room, there simply were none to be had. Perhaps the livery would have a stall, but wouldn’t that cause a stir? It might be fodder for gossip from one end of town to another. Poor frazzled mother of two, denied rooms at both the hotel and the brothel, ending up in a pile of straw?

She had slept in worse places than a clean pile of straw before, but she couldn’t afford the attention that it would draw to her. She needed to remain in the shadows.