It was only when I was back in my room and beginning to recover from my ordeal with the madwoman that I became aware of a pain in my hand and then remembered how I had burned it. Luckily the burn was small and it was my left hand anyway and even a greater injury wouldn’t have affected me too badly. Being right-handed, I would still have been able to write up my patients’ notes. I poured a little cold water into my basin and was just bathing the burn when I had a eureka moment, not in the bath like Archimedes, perhaps, but at least while bathing.
Drying my hands quickly, I rushed over to my desk, took out paper and pen and began to write. I put the address of the hospital at the top of the page.
My Dear Caroline,
Thank you for your letter, which has only just reached me. I am sorry for not writing before but …
As I wrote, though, something in the back of my mind niggled me. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t think what. And then it hit me. It was all too neat and would never convince. I screwed up the paper, tossed it into the wastebasket, took a fresh sheet, transferred the pen to my left hand, wrote out the hospital’s address once more and began again, writing with great difficulty, for I was not accustomed to using that hand anyway and now every letter hurt because my fingers were sore from the burn.
My Dear Caroline
Thank you for your letter, which reached me today. I am sorry not to have been able to write before. As you feared, I was on the train involved in the wreck and I was indeed injured. Before you become alarmed at this, let me assure you that none of my injuries is serious, life-threatening or permanently disabling. The main damage was to my hands. My right hand suffered some broken bones and is in a plaster cast, so will be of no use for some time. The left incurred severe bruising and a sprain to the thumb. It is only today that the bandages have been removed, enabling me to use it to write you. This will explain to you the unfamiliar script. It is deuced difficult to write with the wrong hand anyway and the bruising makes it well nigh impossible, but I wanted to ease your fears.
I have to go now; the pain is too intense to continue longer.
At this point I paused. I had no idea how to sign off. Would Shepherd have put his full name? Unlikely. ‘John’ alone seemed most probable but I couldn’t be certain. And what if he employed some pet name, or some secret symbol shared only between the two of them? In the end I decided on a simple ‘J’. The writing in the letter had grown increasingly shaky and illegible, partly deliberately, as an excuse for keeping it short, since the more I wrote the more I was likely to give myself away, but also because it was painful writing with my wounded left hand, increasingly so the longer I went on.
I read the thing through once more and had almost decided it would do when it hit me like a freight train. A catastrophic error, nothing short of a complete giveaway. It was entirely possible that Shepherd had been left-handed. I could not believe my stupidity at not having thought of this, and could only put it down to all that I had been through this night and my fatigue. In spite of the pain, I made myself copy out the whole letter again, but substituting ‘my writing hand’ for ‘my right hand’ and ‘the other’ for ‘left’. When I’d finally done, and read it through, this seemed a bit stilted, but not enough to be odd to anyone who didn’t already suspect some deception.
As far as I could see, there wasn’t anything more in the letter to arouse anyone’s suspicions. I had made the writing as much like printing as I could, devoid of any individual style. If nothing else, it would keep Caroline Adams off my back for a while and buy me some time, perhaps until I was ready to make my escape to the west, although that seemed unlikely, but if not, then at least until I could figure out what to do about her.
Wanting to get the thing out of the way and not to have to think about it any more, and still being so enervated by the events of the last couple of hours, I decided I would take the letter down to the hall and put it into the mailbox. I screwed up the first two versions and tossed them in my wastebasket, put the finished letter in an envelope and addressed it. Dawn was well on its way and I figured I could manage the trip downstairs without a candle.
I was at the top of the main stairs when I heard voices below. A man and a woman were arguing. Creeping slowly down the first flight of stairs, I made them out to belong to Morgan and O’Reilly. I had seen Morgan annoyed before, when I had seemed to criticise his therapeutic regime, but although he had been short with me then, he had never raised his voice. He was a man who liked to maintain control, not just of others and his environment, but also of himself. Why, on one occasion, he had gone off into his office especially to prevent himself giving vent to his anger, to put himself out of my presence until he cooled off. Now, though, he was positively yelling. What was even more surprising was that O’Reilly was giving as good as she got and yelling back.
I tiptoed down to the first floor to try to find out what it was about.
‘It’s not what I pay you a fortune for,’ came Morgan’s voice.
‘I sometimes think there’s no amount of money could make it worth it,’ was O’Reilly’s reply.
‘Oh, well, if that’s your way, then I’m sure there are plenty who would disagree.’
‘That’s as maybe. But would they keep their tongues to themselves too?’
At this Morgan grunted and then there was silence. Guessing the conversation was drawing to a close, I scuttled down the gloomy passage that led to the library and secreted myself in the dark recess of a doorway.
I heard Morgan’s voice again. It was quieter now and I couldn’t make out the words, but all the anger had gone from his tone and he sounded resigned. A moment later I heard the door of his office open and close, and I watched from the shadows as O’Reilly headed for the staircase. I waited a little while, not daring to move in case Morgan came out too and caught me, which might make him wonder how much I had heard. After ten minutes he emerged and went up the stairs, with a weary tread not at all like his usual smart step. I waited a couple of minutes more until I was quite sure he was out of the way, then crept from my hiding place, posted my letter and went to bed myself, knowing even as I undressed that I had a rough night in store. I knew I would dream again of the chicken farm, as I always did when I was agitated, and of Caroline Adams, and without doubt, before I woke, I would feel the grip of the crazy woman’s fingers around my throat.