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THEY STOOD BEFORE THE central entrance of the Westerholm Institution for Women late Monday morning.
Christena had taken her plainest brown skirt and cotton shirtwaist, wrinkled them up ferociously, smudged them with dirt, and dropped several random items of food on them, for the stains they would leave. Her normally lovely red hair looked like a shattered haystack. There was a cheap, scuffed silver ring on her left hand. In her right hand she gripped a Bible. Inside it were secreted the lock picks. She slumped and peered down at the dusty driveway.
Mary wore her theater costume, along with the fancy, broad-brimmed hat she had purchased, with its drawstring veil that would partly obscure her features. It rather lent her an air of mystery, she thought with a certain wry amusement. She also carried a leather suitcase, which contained the things “Mrs. Roy” might need during her brief stay at Westerholm.
Edmond, for his part, looked dapper in a new white suit and straw boater hat. He clearly had a bad case of nerves, but he assured his co-conspirators that he was up to the task at hand.
Two sad-looking women came tramping down the steps of the big brick building, gotten up in gray work shifts, battered sun hats, and worn boots. They both muttered helloes and headed off toward one of the barns.
“Well, ladies,” gulped Edmond, “the point of no return.”
“Indeed.” Christena sighed. “I do hope our little theatrical proves to be worth it.”
Mary’s feeling of guilt at putting her aunt through this ordeal—rather than herself—had not abated. But she knew the deed had to be done. At the very worst, they would fetch Christena on Wednesday, two days from now, and she would tell them, “Alas, no Mrs. Olcott in there.”
The trio climbed the granite steps and went through the double doors into a spacious lobby area with benches to the side and a low, dark oak desk in the center. Behind the desk sat a stout woman in a brown-and-white striped uniform. A white nurse’s cap perched atop her head and she was scribbling intently on a sheet of paper. She looked up at the new arrivals through pince-nez glasses.
“Good morning ladies, sir. How may I help you?”
Edmond drew in a deep breath and launched into his dramatic reading.
“We are here, miss, because...”
“It’s ‘ma’am,’” the nurse countered with a sour expression.
“Sorry, ma’am. We are here because my poor wife, Mrs. Roy...” He made a sideways nod in Christena’s direction. “...has been suffering from the worst bout of melancholia that a person could imagine. She has spent the last weeks in bed, sobbing uncontrollably at times.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” the nurse said, first surveying Christena with a cold professional eye, then Edmond. Mary imagined she was trying to estimate the age difference between the spouses.
Edmond forged ahead. “My secretary here, Miss Patrick, heard that Westerholm does wonders for ladies with melancholia.”
He gestured toward Mary, who flipped up her veil, and nodded at the nurse. Then she gave Edmond an adoring look, as they had planned.
It worked. A look of tired recognition showed in the nurse’s features—she had seen it before.
“And we came over from Ishpeming to find out if you could do something to fix up the missus,” Edmond continued. “Our own doctor’s no good with mental troubles.”
“So you would like to commit your wife permanently?” the nurse asked.
“Well, I don’t know about permanently,” Edmond said. “But for a little while anyway. See if you folks could bring her around. Miss Patrick and I are going down to Mackinac Island for a few days, on business.”
The nurse’s expression indicated that she doubted any business was going to be conducted, except in a bedroom.
“And we will check back in on our way home to Ishpeming, to see how Mabel here is doing.”
Mary was rather proud of her two thespians. Edmond, a little shaky with those first few words, now actually seemed the young, vital husband who had tired of his decrepit old wife. Christena had remained looking suitably down in the dumps.
“As you can well imagine,” the nurse said, “before we take anyone in, our superintendent or our assistant superintendent needs to see them and make an evaluation. Our superintendent, Dr. Stanley, is not here today, but Dr. Applegate is. If you’ll take a seat, I will go get him. Your full name and wife’s name, Mr. Roy?”
He told her and the three of them went to sit on one of the long oak benches.
“So far, so good,” Mary whispered to her compatriots after the nurse trotted out of the lobby. “I shall have to keep my mouth shut tight. The doctor might recognize my voice. And I’m glad I wore this veil.”
“Is it too late for a change of plan?” Edmond asked.
A panic seized Mary. What was he talking about?
“We could still commit Mary. What do you say, Christena?”
Mary’s aunt gave a grim chuckle. “Frankly, Edmond, I think all three of us ought to be tossed into the madhouse.”
Steps came echoing from the corridor where the nurse had disappeared and Mary abruptly pulled down her veil.
“Now it’s in the laps of the gods,” whispered Christena.
Not two seconds later, Dr. Joseph Applegate strode energetically into the lobby, with the nurse clattering along behind him on the terrazzo floor. He stopped and regarded the threesome with a concerned look.
“Mr. and Mrs. Roy, welcome to Westerholm,” he said warmly. “Nurse Gillis tells me that you may have need of our help with regard to a nasty bout of melancholia.”
The man seemed quite sincere and charming, and Mary suddenly felt a tinge of doubt about her suspicions. Could he really be in league with such a shifty character as Merton Olcott?
“That is why we have come,” said Edmond, standing and shaking hands with the doctor. “It is my earnest hope that Mrs. Roy here may be cured of this condition, however long it may take, and whatever the cost.”
Mary could have sworn Dr. Applegate’s eyes twinkled behind the lenses of his spectacles when he heard those last three words.
“Westerholm was founded to comfort the afflicted and, God willing, bring them back to normalcy,” he pronounced. “Now why don’t you follow me to my office.” He started to turn, but stopped. “And the other lady would be?”
“My secretary,” Edmond replied. “Miss Martha Patrick. She has been such a help during this trying time. I’d like her to come with us, if you don’t mind.”
All during this brief conversation, Mary observed that Dr. Applegate didn’t direct a single word to the “afflicted” woman. Clearly in the doctor’s mind, any decisions to be made would be made by the poor, encumbered husband, not the burdensome wife.
“Certainly,” the doctor said. “Your secretary may join us. Now come with me and let’s find out what’s been going on.”
Her eyes downcast, Christena shuffled after the doctor, followed by her handsome young “husband.” Mary brought up the rear, pulling a notepad out of her purse to take notes, as any proper secretary would. Christena and Edmond sat in straight chairs before the doctor’s desk, with Mary seated off to their left, notepad in hand.
She had to give her aunt full credit for a fine performance. Her sniffling and mumbling were quite convincing.
At the doctor’s behest, Edmond was recounting his wife’s history—as it had been feverishly concocted in the hotel room on Mackinac Island. “People warned me against taking up with a spinster so much my senior,” he said with a gloomy countenance. “But I came to like the old girl, and she me.”
“What were your ages when you met?” the doctor asked, jotting his notes on a tablet of paper.
“I was twenty-four and Mabel was thirty-six. I was able to take her inheritance and parlay it into considerably more by careful investments in the stock market. And so we can now live quite comfortably in a big house with a maid and a secretary. And things were fine for a time, until the last year.”
“Is that when Mrs. Roy began to suffer from her melancholia?” Dr. Applegate asked.
“I would say so,” Edmond answered, as Christena brushed away a tear and nodded in agreement.
“And can you identify any precipitating event or series of events?”
Edmond squared his shoulders and sniffed. “I think when it become clear after a few years that we were not to have children.”
Christena, her chin quivering, reached for Edmond’s hand, but he shook her off.
“I wanted children, too,” she blubbered. “You know I did.”
Edmond didn’t even look at his “wife.”
Dr. Applegate glanced from Edmond to Christena and back again, then shot a knowing glance in Mary’s direction. “Surely you could have adopted a motherless baby, then. There are always foundlings and orphans that need homes.”
“I have no interest in raising another man’s child,” Edmond said coldly. “I made myself quite clear on that point, didn’t I, Mabel?”
Christena nodded once with a downcast look.
Mary nearly burst into applause. These two were both such good actors that she almost felt sorry for poor, barren Mabel, and angry at hard-hearted Edmond.
“Has Mrs. Roy shown any suicidal tendencies?” asked the doctor.
Edmond pondered this and shook his head. “Well, we have a gun in the house, but she’s never shown any inclination to blow her brains out.”
Dr. Applegate seemed a bit surprised at the crude response. “What I would propose, then, is to keep Mrs. Roy under observation here at Westerholm for a few weeks. And with any luck, we will find some way to bring her back to her senses. We’ll get her busy working and stop her feeling so sorry for herself. How does that sound, Mr. Roy?”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” said Edmond, stroking his beard. “She can keep her Bible, can’t she? It seems to be one of the few things anymore that gives her comfort.”
“Yes, please, Dr. Applegate,” murmured Christena.
“And we brought some of her things in that suitcase,” Edmond continued. “I’d like her to have those, too.”
“Of course,” the doctor said.
Edmond gave Christena a pitying glance, then looked back at the doctor. “Just one more thing, Dr. Applegate. I do want your assurance that if I change my mind, I can come back and get the old girl. That you will release her immediately upon my request.”
“That should be no problem,” Dr. Applegate confirmed. “Now with regard to Mrs. Roy’s time with us, I would recommend placement in our special ward on the second floor, where we treat ladies of means. Meals are of a better quality, patients have their own rooms, and they can continue to wear their own clothing. The cost runs to one hundred dollars per month.”
“Sounds fine,” Edmond agreed. “For however long it takes.”
Dr. Applegate got to his feet. “Very good, Mr. Roy. You may leave your first payment with Nurse Gillis at the front desk and she will provide you with a statement. Now I’m going to find an attendant to take Mrs. Roy and prepare her for her stay with us. Be back in a few minutes.”
All of a sudden, Mary felt almost queasy. Her scheme was about to enter its most dangerous phase and her aunt had to bear the brunt of it. She darted over behind Christena and whispered in her ear.
“We can still hotfoot it out of here, if you want to change your mind. It’s not too late.”
Christena shook her head. “No. We’ve come this far. In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“All right then,” Mary said. “But Edmond and I will come back in two days, on Wednesday. And no matter what you’ve found out—or not found out—we are taking you with us. Westerholm shouldn’t mind, since we’ll insist they keep the unused balance of what we’re paying. A nice little profit for them.”
Mary could hear Dr. Applegate approaching in the hallway, talking to someone. He strode into the room and right after him came none other than Olive Handy, all six feet of her. Fortunately, Mary still had her veil down, or certainly the big woman would have recognized her.
“Olive here will take Mrs. Roy and deposit her with one of our matrons, who’ll settle her in,” explained the doctor. “I’ll let you say your goodbyes.”
It was all Mary could do to restrain herself from hugging Christena. But that would have been a bit peculiar for the husband’s secretary. So Edmond did just what they had rehearsed back on Mackinac.
He offered his hand and his “wife” shook it.
“I wish you well, Mabel,” he said. “Hope we can get your head back on straight.”
“Thank you, husband,” Christena muttered, looking down—now, finally, seeming genuinely fearful.
Olive took Christena by the arm and gently led her away.
Edmond and Mary left the book-lined office, made the payment, and headed out.
“Act one went very well,” Mary said, as Edmond grabbed the brass handle of one of the asylum’s front doors and held it open for her. Going out, she nearly bumped into a tall man in an attendant’s uniform who was coming in through the door. He had a bony face with a long, sharp jaw and a muscular build.
“Careful, Willis,” came a voice behind him. “You don’t want to knock the lady over.”
Mary recognized the name Willis from her visit with Olive Handy. He was the strong attendant who dealt with the hard-to-manage patients. Unfortunately, she also recognized his companion, coming up right behind him. And her heart stopped ever so briefly when she did.
It was Merton Olcott, mounting the bottom steps.
He looked at her veil-covered face as Mary lowered her glance.
“Good morning, miss,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Good morning, sir,” Mary replied, as she quickly went past him.
