‘Has this house always been a hospital?’ I asked Mrs McDougal.
‘Oh, no. It used to be Dr Geisler’s family residence. When Dr Geisler and Bethany married, they decided to turn it into a hospital. Bethany is very passionate about helping people. She’s a nurse, you know. Dr Geisler wants to cure their minds. They are both very noble people.’
When we came to a stop at the sixth door, Mrs McDougal pulled a skeleton key out of her pocket, slid it into the lock, and pushed the door open. The boarding house where I had been staying had two or three beds crammed into tiny rooms no bigger than closets, and one bathroom, with no hope of hot water, shared by a gaggle of complaining women. This room was large enough to dance in, with floral wallpaper in pale shades of yellow. I walked across wool carpet the colour of sweet cream to the window that took up the entire wall, and pushed aside the heavy curtains.
Below me, San Francisco pulsed with its own life. A milk truck drove by, a woman pushed a baby carriage, the mailman passed her, nodding as he lifted his cap. I walked through another tall door into a bathroom with a claw-foot tub deep enough to float in. I wondered if there would be enough hot water to fill it.
‘The hot water heater is turned on at three o’clock every afternoon, so you can bathe after that time. We’ve plenty of hot water once the heater is turned on, so go ahead and fill your tub. You’ll have hot water until we wash up after dinner. If you require hot water before that, you’ll have to ask one of the girls to bring it up to you from the kitchen. I keep a kettle on the stove at all times.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine with the cold water,’ I said.
‘I’ve seen to the unpacking of your things. Once you decide where you’d like to hang your paintings, I’ll make arrangements to have them hung for you.’ Mrs McDougal took a gold watch from her pocket. ‘It’s nine o’clock. Would you like some breakfast? You look like you could use a good meal. We eat well here, despite the rationing and the shortage of meat. My sister keeps chickens and has a nice victory garden on her roof. She lets me plant what I need for the house there too. Even though I can’t, for the life of me, get meat, we do have plenty of fresh vegetables.’
‘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