“Let me just get the keys,” she said and I watched with interest as she pressed a finger to the scanner of a small safe mounted behind the desk. I recognized it from a blog post I had read a couple of months before. The site was run by a locksmith and was devoted to showcasing ridiculous design flaws in commercial locks and safes. She took a bunch of keys from the safe, closed it, and turned back to me. “Yes,” she continued, picking up a shoulder bag, and rounding the desk. “It was a hospital but was closed back in the eighties. All of the land was part of the hospital grounds. This is the only original building remaining. The plan is to lease part of it out as office space, some flats, and some community space. I’m Angela James.” She offered a hand and I took it.
“Dustin Cruz,” I said. It was an alias I had used off and on in the past. I had a full set of documents for Mr. Cruz with my photo on them. I never liked using a fake name but sometimes it seemed prudent.
We left the building and she led me across the lot and up the street. The plantings around the houses were obviously very new, the sod cut precisely to follow curving beds. A few shallow puddles still remained from the earlier rain. Angela James stepped around them carefully, keeping her suede pumps dry. At the third driveway she turned and beckoned me to follow. The door had one of those combination lock boxes with a key inside. I watched her open it and memorized the combination by habit.
The house was just what I expected inside. I didn’t really want to see the houses. I wanted to see the old asylum building. But I let her lead me around and show me a couple of floor plans.
“Would it be possible to see one of the flats in the old hospital building?” I asked as we were walking back.
“Yes. We have several options there too. I can show you a loft studio, a two bedroom and a three bedroom.”
She led me through the building, up a set of stairs, and into a corridor that seemed to run the length of one of the wings. The place was depressingly anonymous but here and there I saw a flash of the original building—an exposed brick wall, an antique door.
“All of our flats are on this side,” she said over her shoulder, leading me down the hallway.
“It feels a little eerie here with no people around. It’s too quiet.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely! I can’t wait until we start selling the units. It gives me the creeps.”
“Have you ever met Morgan Jutting?” I asked on an impulse. “He owns Greenbriar doesn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s the owner and CEO. He did come here once to tour the building and the model houses. It was a little bizarre. They sent a cleaning crew through that morning. Even though everything was brand new and never lived in by anyone. He came in a big car with bodyguards. I only saw him from a distance. He was wearing gloves and a hat and sunglasses.”
“Interesting. I’ve heard he’s a germophobe.”
“Yes. Even weirder though, did you know his father was the last director of the asylum?”
“No, I had no idea.”
“Yes. He was in charge when it was finally closed down. Mr. Jutting must have spent time around here when he was little. He would have been finishing his A Levels when it closed if my math is right.”
“Fascinating coincidence that he owns it now. Or maybe not a coincidence. Maybe he had some kind of nostalgia. Can I see the community space?” I asked as we descended the stairs, heading back toward the lobby.
“Sure. We have the old recreation room and the chapel.” She turned down a different hallway that ran along the outside of the building. A wall of windows along one side looked out on bucolic, sun-drenched farm land in shades of emerald. “This is the recreation area,” she said, turning through a wide arched doorway into a large room with a double height ceiling, wood floor, and yellow columns down the center supporting the floors above. Part of the space was devoted to exercise machines and weights and the rest was set up as a studio for fitness classes.
I nodded and turned back to Angela. “And the chapel?”
“This way. It’s at the rear of the building.”
We continued down the hallway and came to a door at the end. She pulled it open and gestured for me to enter. I walked a few feet in and stopped, gazing around the airy expanse. Finally, I was seeing and feeling what I had hoped for. The chapel must have been forty feet high at the center beam. Cross beams painted white supported a ceiling of dark wood. High, arched windows ran down both sides of the nave. On the right side, sunlight slanted in and pooled on the original floorboards. There was no transept, just a raised area two steps up where the altar would have been and a small, half-circular apse behind it. In the silence of the chapel, watching dust motes swim in the light, I had an inkling of what the place must have felt like back in Elgar’s day. I imagined him rehearsing his little orchestra down the hall in the recreation room. I could almost hear the music. I spent a few minutes wandering around the chapel then returned to Angela James who stood near the door scrolling through something on her phone.
“Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ve seen the whole place now.”
Chapter 15
Regency Anomie
July 3: London
Jutting’s personal assistant called me as I was driving back from Powick. I was listening to the Enigma Variations again and thinking about the Worcester County Pauper and Lunatic Asylum. Despite the remodel which had carefully hidden any trace of the building’s original purpose, somehow
