The House of Secrets. Terry Thomas Lynn
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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,