Detective Sergeant Lorimer shakes both Spencer's and Martin's hand, giving each man his card and instructions to ring him or the front desk when or if they find any new information on the Roby murders.
All things considered, you're left with about an hour and a half before your interview with Dr. Trollope.
Martin nods and adds his thanks to Spencer's. "You've been of great help. Thank you for your time."
After bidding goodbye and leaving the building, Martin looks over at Spencer. "I must admit, I'm more curious than ever about this situation. It's a pity that Mr. Roby is not available to speak with directly. Perhaps Dr. Trollope will have some ideas as to why the family is so resistant to Alexander's release."
After a light lunch, the two gentlemen of leisure head for Long Acre and the home of Dr. Lionel Trollope. A middle aged housekeeper that introduces herself as Mrs. Hughes answers the door and politely shows you in, taking your coats and commenting on the chill outside. Martin and Spencer are shown into a large drawing room, high-ceilinged and comfortable with blue settees and a green Persian carpet. There are several objects d'arte in evidence: a white ivory tusk depicting the colonization of the African continent in a circular procession of figures carved around its length; a brass polar bear lazing on a crystal ice flow; Georgian china ladies and gentlemen playing billiards; a fine painting of a Springer Spaniel.
In short order, a smartly dressed man in late middle age with iron-gray hair and a neatly trimmed moustache enters the drawing room. He looks very pale and drawn.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Reeves, Mr. Poole. I'm Doctor Lionel Trollope; thank you so much for dropping in."
He shakes hands with each of you before taking a seat while Mrs. Hughes brings in the tea service.
Mrs. Vetch takes a sip of her tea.
"Mr. Grahame was at a function, as I recall. He's got quite a few of them- between the bank and his circle of friends, his evenings are always quite busy. Sure he was quite upset: that was his father and his sister all at once. Mr. Grahame's got a stiff upper lip, though- a proper Englishman. It all fell to him to settle the family business, what with Mr. Alexander bein' packed off, and he settled everything as was proper. That's when he brought me on at his own home."
"Ah, the siren call of the society function," Lucian says in a mock wise tone. "You say Mr. Grahame took care of all the business after Alexander was sent off - was Alexander the one usually in charge of such things before the incident?"
"Oh, no. Mr. Grahame was always... well..."
Mrs.Vetch thinks for a moment.
"Mr. Alex had trouble finding his focus, you could say. The only position he really held down was at the Foreign Office- and never quite took to it. He pursued his own interests- art, poetry and other things. Bit of a day dreamer, I suppose. Mr. H Roby despaired of him, I believe, and things weren't easy between the two of them. Mr. Grahame is far more straight laced, better focused. Really, it was quite natural for him to handle family matters after his father passed."
Martin nods and takes the offered seat, looking around at the lavish room. "Thank you for meeting with us, Doctor. This is quite a place you have here."
After the pleasantries have been exchanged, Martin gets to the point.
"As you know, we've been invited to look into the matter of Alexander Roby's current status in hospital. We're here to try to facilitate a dialogue between all involved parties to assist in coming to an amicable conclusion for everyone. Spencer and I have just returned from visiting Scotland Yard, at Mr. Roby's invitation, and we just wanted to hear from you your thoughts and opinions regarding Alexander's continued care in hospital."
"Oh, no. Mr. Grahame was always... well..."
Mrs.Vetch thinks for a moment.
"Mr. Alex had trouble finding his focus, you could say. The only position he really held down was at the Foreign Office- and never quite took to it. He pursued his own interests- art, poetry and other things. Bit of a day dreamer, I suppose. Mr. H Roby despaired of him, I believe, and things weren't easy between the two of them. Mr. Grahame is far more straight laced, better focused. Really, it was quite natural for him to handle family matters after his father passed."
By God, that's eerie, Lucian thinks as Mrs. Vetch describes the artsy brother's listlessness. I wonder what my servants say about me...
When she finishes, he purses his lips, considering his next question carefully. "Did Mr. Alex have any... strange changes before this whole incident happened? I'll be frank, he doesn't sound like quite the man to stomach a full serving of his family's blood, confession or no. But if he'd been acting strange, it may make for a more natural leap to believe him capable of such an act."
Martin nods and takes the offered seat, looking around at the lavish room. "Thank you for meeting with us, Doctor. This is quite a place you have here."
After the pleasantries have been exchanged, Martin gets to the point.
"As you know, we've been invited to look into the matter of Alexander Roby's current status in hospital. We're here to try to facilitate a dialogue between all involved parties to assist in coming to an amicable conclusion for everyone. Spencer and I have just returned from visiting Scotland Yard, at Mr. Roby's invitation, and we just wanted to hear from you your thoughts and opinions regarding Alexander's continued care in hospital."
After Mrs. Hughes has departed Dr. Trollope clears his throat.
"Naturally, Mr. Poole, I must ask that this be kept entirely in your confidence except as pertains to Dr. Highsmith's decision on keeping Alexander committed."Following your assurances, he continues in a sad, tired voice.
"I've been the Roby family physician for over thirty years. I've known Alex, Grahame and dear Georgina since they were children. On the night when Herbert Roby and Georgina were murdered, I was called in shortly after the police had secured the crime scene. Since you've consulted the Yard, I'll spare you the details. I went upstairs to see Alex and he was hysterical with grief- swearing that he had killed his father and sister. Alex was quite close with Georgina; her fate hit him particularly hard. The police took him in for questioning, but even before that I couldn't equate him with such a brutal crime. Alex was a sensitive boy- at least, the man I knew wasn't capable of such an act and he didn't have any physical sign of struggle or exertion. The police only held him a short time. After that he seemed a broken man. Grahame and I agreed to commit him to St. Agnes' soon after."
Dr. Trollope sips his tea, then places the cup on his coffee table.
"I've gone to see Alex twice in the two years since and I've been left with the opinion that he isn't fit to leave. He's still wrecked by his father and sister's death- I couldn't say if he would hurt himself or someone else were he to be released. The only humane place for him is at St. Agnes' and I hope Dr. Highsmith will see that."
"Oh, no. Mr. Grahame was always... well..."
Mrs.Vetch thinks for a moment.
"Mr. Alex had trouble finding his focus, you could say. The only position he really held down was at the Foreign Office- and never quite took to it. He pursued his own interests- art, poetry and other things. Bit of a day dreamer, I suppose. Mr. H Roby despaired of him, I believe, and things weren't easy between the two of them. Mr. Grahame is far more straight laced, better focused. Really, it was quite natural for him to handle family matters after his father passed."By God, that's eerie, Lucian thinks as Mrs. Vetch describes the artsy brother's listlessness. I wonder what my servants say about me...
When she finishes, he purses his lips, considering his next question carefully. "Did Mr. Alex have any... strange changes before this whole incident happened? I'll be frank, he doesn't sound like quite the man to stomach a full serving of his family's blood, confession or no. But if he'd been acting strange, it may make for a more natural leap to believe him capable of such an act."
Mrs. Vetch shrugs. She looks rather sorry she hasn't got more to tell you.
"Well, Mr. McAllistair, it was difficult to keep track of Mr. Alex. He kept odd hours, sometimes he stayed up in his room. Never really brought anyone 'round. What might have been odd for another gennleman weren't so odd when Mr. Alex did it."She purses her lips thoughtfully.
"He did get in an awful row with his father, though. Practically couldn't be in the same room together without sparks flyin'. Poor Miss Georgina, she were his only real comfort at home."
Mrs. Vetch shakes head, looking into her cup.
"I had nuffin' but respect for Mr. Roby, but the saddest of all is that Miss Georgina passed so, in the flower of 'er youth. Just awful."
Lucian pats the cook's arm consolingly. "It sounds like the whole thing was just awful. Really quite the shocking affair, and to be close with the family during all of it... You're a strong woman, and brave to talk about it with me."
"Now I'll let you go about your business, with my sincere thanks - quite the talk, this was. You've given me lots to think of." He gives her a fond farewell, pressing a generous amount of money into her hand as he says his goodbyes, insisting on rewarding her for her time and candor. He then returns home to write down as much of what he remembers in a notebook, to keep the things he heard fresh.
"Well thank you for being so direct Doctor; could the man have been speaking more generally when he claimed responsibility, in that perhaps he had been involved with people of a less...refined...character, and they had come to exact revenge? Was he one that might have been involved with a criminal element perhaps? Gambling debts or the like? It's just that despite him being somewhat mentally imbalanced he almost seems not to have been involved in the carriage of a crime, and murder weapons or instruments weren't to be found."
"It's rather odd if you ask me, why claim you did something you did not, unless you were responsible but the actions weren't by your hand itself, as it were."
Dr. Trollope shakes his head.
"Oh, no, no. Alex wasn't a gambler or even a drinker and certainly didn't mix with the... less refined of London's population. I believe the Yard would have surely come up with something had that been the case... I believe it must have been some phantasm of grief or guilt over his relationship with his father that lead to his outburst..."
The Doctor replaces his tea cup on the tray. He inhales and exhales with a deliberate mien... but then looks at his pocket watch.
"I'm afraid there's little else I can offer you, gentlemen. Might I take your cards, in case I think of something that warrants future correspondence?"
Psychology:
"Well thank you for your time, and here are my contact details. We will be out of your way, should you remember anything please feel most welcome to contact us. We only want whats best for those who carry havy burdens and suffer disquiet"
=
Martin removes a card from his coat but pauses a moment before handing it over. "If you'll pardon me Doctor...when was the last time you visited him? I've no doubt that you only want the best for the man and if he is not fit to be released then he shouldn't be. But Dr. Highsmith has indicated that Alexander has shown considerable signs of improvement. Isn't it possible Alexander has made a great deal of progress since your last visit?"
Dr. Trollope takes your cards, placing each in his front pocket.
"My last visit was around Christmas. He was heavily sedated and uncommunicative... Six months prior he could at least speak to me. I can't imagine what almost a year could do if that's progress. Perhaps I'm old fashioned, but I think Dr. Highsmith should focus more on keeping the madmen under his charge locked away from ordinary people than trying to find some sort of "cure". The best thing for Alex and his family is if he stays where he is- and I hope you'll see that when you meet him."
The doctor shakes both of your hands, wishing you a fine evening. As you walk to your auto, you exhale in visible clouds and you have to remind yourself that it's only late October, not late December.
"I see that I've upset you Mr. Hume. I apologize, that certainly wasn't my intent. I'll see myself out."
"If you'd rather not tell me on your own, maybe there is a file or two in that desk of yours.." Victor walks out of the directors office and looks around.
There are plenty of side rooms and closets you can access- though around Mr. Hume's office there are mostly other offices and a showroom for caskets and urns. A rear exit is another matter- there must be some sort of rear exit/car port area to get cadavers in and out besides the front door, but it isn't immediately apparent or labeled clearly for the general public.
Victor keeps his head down as he walks toward the rear of the building, attempting to look inconspicuous. Keeping his eyes open, he looks around for a nearby restroom.
With a bit of surrepticious wandering, Victor finds an employee water closet down the hall from the administrator's office.
Victor slips (hopefully unnoticed) into the into the bathroom and looks around for a few hand towels. upon he finding them, he stuffs a few deep down into the drain of the toilet (rolling up sleeves of course). Once it looks good and clogged, he takes the cover from the back of the toilet and removes the flap that holds the water back from flushing into the bowl.
Mech Repair if necessary
You manage to clog up the toilet, but not before some of the run-off splashes your pant-leg and shoes in a rather undignified fashion. Walking over to the restroom door, your shoes squeak against the marble tile floor.
Satisfied with the results, if not the style, Victor hastily wipes the bottoms of his feet with any remaining towel and leaves the water closet, careful to keep the door ajar. Quickly, Victor heads back toward the Directors office and ducks into the closet closest to Mr. Hume.
Mr Hume strikes me as a strict overseer, hopefully, he reacts the way I expect to a flood in his parlor.
Victor continues to wait and listen for a sign that Mr. Hume is drawn to the commotion in the restroom.
Sneak
Victor furtively exits the overflowing water closet only to collide with one of the other funeral employees- a bespectacled man in a black suit. He jumps a bit at the accident, then once more upon seeing Victor's face.
"Oh... OH! Erm, pardon me sir. Terribly sorry." he says, quickly dropping his voice to just above a whisper. As he takes a step around you, he notices the accumulating water under the restroom door, but says nothing of your sodden cuffs.
"Tut! My apologies, sir- the public rest room is much more reliable. So sorry for the inconvenience."
He walks briskly to a supply closet, pulling out a mop, a plunger and an "Out of Order" sign, which he hangs on the doorknob before braving the inside.
"Um, excuse me." The carpenter blushes a bit, puts his head down and makes a bee line for the front door.
This could be filed under both disaster and lost cause. Paddington Station, here I come..
30th October, 1928
On a grey, blustery morning you all convene in Paddington Station to meet with Dr. Highsmith. You find the doctor dressed in a long, warm coat and brogues, smoking his pipe. He is pleased and eager to meet Lucian and Victor for the first time and shakes your hands firmly upon your introduction.
"A fine morning to you, gentlemen. We're off on the 10:20 to Hereford. There's a change in Bristol and we'll be meeting a car at the station to take us from Hereford to Weobley. I found it a relaxing ride on the trip to London- though it is a tad bit long."
You take your seats in a private box after having your luggage checked. The train picks up steam as it leaves London, the great tower and palace left behind grey and indistinct in your wake. You pass north for miles through vast green countryside. The train is a local and while Dr. Highsmith is an affable and courteous fellow his conversation is rather limited: his passions include the latest theories of psychoanalysis and medical practices. Anything out of this range elicits limited involvement from the Doctor. The train ride begins to seem rather long indeed.
"Well Doctor, we will no doubt have a few curious moments once we get to our destination, how well do you know the fellows in charge? Are they likely to become prickly at us asking too many questions or second guessing opinions?"
"Not at all! I'm the Director of St. Agnes', after all. The rest of the staff will abide by my decision."
He points at you with the stem of his pipe- not forcefully, more to emphasize certain points off-hand.
"The very reason I've asked you to come is to ask questions- it is the antithesis of scientific inquiry to shut ones' eyes to disagreement and to refuse a challenge to one's point of view. When you conduct your interview, in fact, I plan on not being in the room- this way, Mr. Roby can speak to new faces without any fear of censorship."
"Well I am certainly happy to hear that Doctor, I just know that almost all fellows are happy to hear the opinions of others, though far less are happy if those opinions differ to their own, and the more weighty they hold their opinions the less happy they are at that. In this case though it should be an interesting experience to form our conclusions and then perhaps share notes."
Martin sits back as comfortably as he can in the seat and idly watches the landscape pass by. "We did as you suggested, Doctor, and spoke with Dr. Trollope and tried to contact Mr. Robys' family. Dr. Trollope seemed to be of the opinion that Alexander had not shown much improvement when he saw him last, but that was reportedly 6 months ago. Was it your experience that the patience showed a great deal of rapid improvement?"
"It was an unfortunate matter of timing, Dr. Trollope's last visit. During active periods of Alexander's scotophobia he must be prescribed a strong sleeping draught- which unfortunately means he grows less active and less communicative. At other times there is no need for medication and he functions quite well. It is my hope that, with the care of a supportive family, we can extend his high-functioning periods and reduce his reliance on the medication."
Lucian sits quietly during the talk of psychoanalysis, looking out the window but still listening intently.
Your train stops in Bristol and you all alight in the early afternoon, grabbing a quick lunch before catching your connecting train to take you to Hereford station.
Victor is happy to just absorb info for now and probably won't have any real questions until we meet Mr. Roby.
Martin nods. "It's unfortunate we could not meet with Mr. Robys. I could not get any sense of how he feels about Alexander at this point. If they are not willing to be supporting..." he shrugs.
"I'll look forward to arriving in Hereford and meeting Alexander for ourselves."
You alight for the final time at Hereford Station in the late afternoon to be met by a driver from the Asylum. During the twenty mile drive to Weobley, Dr. Highsmith offers what he terms "regrettably spartan" accommodations at St. Agnes'. Or there are likely rooms available at one of Weobley's pubs, the Wheatsheaf.
You drive northwest from Hereford until reaching Weobley, which is about twenty miles east of the Welsh border. Most of the trees are starting to lose their foliage, odd leaves flying off with the wind out of Wales. You spot orchards and pastures, farmers ushering cattle into barns for the night. Fields freshly harvested stretch out around the road, looking strangely barren in the waning light. From what you can see of the village, there is little there beyond several homes, two pubs (the Red Lion being the other), a farm supply company and a post office/general store.
St. Agnes' Asylum sits on a hill a mile east of the village. It is reached by an unpaved, rutted track running between broad dry-stone walls. The main building is a longish, three-story gray brick building with barred windows and a steep slate roof. Beside that stands an administration building similar in appearance but smaller and without bars on the windows. The two structures sit on a hillside bare of tree and brush- like a pointless and lonely fortification.
The auto pulls up to the building and the driver opens the doors for you . Dr. Highsmith leads you through a small alley between the patient building and the administration building. There, he takes a right and leads you into the administration building. Past a sterile-looking receiving room furnished in oak, you follow the doctor into his office. The administrators and white-clad orderlies you pass in the hall gaze at you sullenly.
Dr. Highsmith pulls off his coat, hanging it on a rack near the door and inviting you all to do the same if you prefer.
"A bit past tea time, but I for one could certainly use a strong cup after that long train ride. Mr. Reeves! Oh, not you sir-", he says to Spencer, a bit embarrassed,"My secretary is also Mr. Reeves. Perhaps a distant relation; wouldn't that be something!"
A man in a tweed suit and spectacles leans into the room- the other Mr. Reeves.
"Would you mind bringing us a pot of tea please? I'll also need you to take some dictation for these gentlemen later. There's a good man, thank you."
You can see from the window behind Dr. Highsmith that it's rapidly growing darker. The sky is clear, however.
"As I said on the train, I will excuse myself from the interview since I'd like you to draw your own conclusions without any influence from me. But there are several points of procedure I would like you to observe- Mr. Roby isn't dangerous, but I still must insist that no hat pins or other sharp objects be carried in when you meet with him. Additionally, I will send Price, one my orderlies, to be present with you in the cell at all times. Mr. Reeves- my secretary- will take notes in shorthand of Mr. Roby's responses and transcribe them for you and for my own file. Alexander shouldn't be given news of the outside world and he may say little . What he does say may have little relevance to questions asked or the subject at hand; he has had little contact with others here at St. Agnes'."
After agreeing to the doctor's procedural points, Dr. Highsmith summons Price- a large man with deep-set features. The secretary joins you shortly before you exit the administration building and Dr. Highsmith escorts you across the empty courtyard to the main building through the encroaching twilight. You pass through heavy wooden doors to the main corridor. A nurse stops, hand still on the nearest cell's door handle. He's about to say something, but Dr. Highsmith cuts him off.
"Not now, Evans.", he says and the nurse is quiet. Dr. Highsmith takes his leave from you shortly thereafter.
The sound of footsteps and muted sobbing echoes back off bare stone corridors as Price leads you to Roby's cell. He unlocks it and leads you in. At your entrance, what must be Alexander Roby looks up.
"Delia?", he asks, before hunching over and looking down into his lap.
Alexander is a man of little more than medium height and is quite thin, with arresting hazel eyes (though they appear a bit glassy at the moment) and disheveled straw blond hair. He is dressed in a white canvas tunic and trousers. Despite yourself, you feel a bit maudlin yourself just being in his presence: like the quiet here should be respected and maintained. The room is tiny, dim and chilly. There is a bed, table, and two chairs and no possessions except for a stack of a dozen or so books on the table. A barred window gives a view of the sky.
Price takes up a position near the door and Mr. Reeves opens his pad.
Spencer has sensibly complied with the request to leave all sharp objects and the like well out of reach and in the appropriate place provided.
He sits down and simply watches Mr Roby for a moment, taking in the mans features, waiting to see him speak so he can closely observe the mannerisms and small inflections in tone and body language.
Martin makes arrangements to stay at the Wheatsheaf, preferring a comfortable room over any that might be offered at the hospital, thereby leaving his luggage in the auto boot.
As requested, he ensures that all his sharp implements are left behind, including hat pin and cigar slicer. He examines the hospital corridors and hallways closely as they move through it, surprised at how foreboding it feels.
He's also curious by what was left unsaid by the nurse and studies the way the Doctor shut him down, making a mental note to ask about that later.
As he makes his way into the cell, Martin looks at the books stacked on the table, trying to catch the titles.
Finally he looks to Alexander.
"Mr. Roby? My name is Martin Poole. My companions and I have been asked to speak to you. How are you doing today, sir?"
Roby continues to stare into his lap, giving no indication that he's heard you.
The books on his table are all poetry: From Our Ghostly Enemy by Robert Graves, The Freaks: An Idyll of Suburbia by Pinero, Poems 1918-1921 by Ezra Pound and Collected Poems and The Man Who Died Twice, both by Edward Arlington Robinson.
"Would you mind if I might read some of your fine collection here Mr Roby?"
Spencer indicates to the pile, checking the mans mood before reaching for a book... From Our Ghostly Enemy the first he looks to pick up and peruse.
Martin nods toward the books. "Poetry, eh? I'm something of a Burns fan, myself, though I also quite enjoy T.S. Eliot, to speak more of modern day artists. Ezra Pound is quite the poet as well. Some of these that you have here I'm not so familiar with."