Victoria House - Part 3 of 9

Rosie showed no interest in the story, and despite thirty minutes of persistence, her agitation was palpable. Mrs. Tapscott kept asking what was wrong, and each time, Rosie glanced at the bearded man, almost as if seeking permission to speak. She’d adjust her sitting position and temporarily stop scanning the room. This pattern repeated itself. I noticed Mrs. Tapscott shooting disapproving looks at the man, who remained absorbed in Rosie. The encounter was unsettling — as if all three were waiting on some unspoken action that never came. Eventually, realising the futility of continuing to read, the bearded man stood and announced there had been enough excitement for the morning. He led Rosie away, crossing the hall and disappearing through a bottle green door.

I returned The Hobbit to the shelf when a worn book, perched atop a row of leather-bound encyclopaedias, caught my eye. The book, titled Summonitores Libro, looked ancient, its thick, yellowed pages loose and fluttering to the floor as I opened it. As I bent down to gather them, Mrs. Tapscott suggested we meet some of the other residents. I tucked the book into the back of my trousers as we walked toward the bottle green door.

Before we reached it, a man accompanied by a uniformed police officer entered the hall. The bearded man, lost in thought, flung the door open just as we were about to pass through, nearly knocking Mrs. Tapscott off balance. He paid us no attention and made a direct line for the suited man.

I overheard the man introduce himself as Detective Inspector Broad. The female officer with him glanced our way, tilting her head in acknowledgment before walking over. She called me by name, explaining that my father, Derek, had shown her a photograph of me and my sister on holiday in Great Yarmouth. To my surprise, she said my mother used to babysit her as a child.

The mood shifted quickly; I was suddenly under scrutiny for why I was at Victoria House. Mrs. Tapscott stepped in, subtly guiding the officer away to talk in private.

I had been wondering the same thing. What was I doing there? Why me and not Ben? Mrs. Tapscott knew me well and couldn’t possibly have believed I said those things. And my father showing photographs? He could barely stand to be in the same house as me, let alone show pride. The sentimentality didn’t add up.

I tried to eavesdrop on the bearded man and D.I. Broad. From what I caught, a resident was missing. Something about needing a statement. Voices were raised. The bearded man looked pale. Broad, though slim, was sweating heavily, dabbing his brow with a beige handkerchief.

As the bearded man left through the main entrance, the officer broke from Mrs. Tapscott and returned to D.I. Broad. They whispered behind hands. Broad looked over and took a few steps toward me.

“Keep your eyes peeled, son,” he said, already turning away.

As they headed to the exit, the man in the purple shirt shouted, “He fed Gilly to a worm.”

Both officers turned, trying to spot the speaker. They exchanged a confused look, then left.

I walked over to the windows. Outside, the officers stood beside an unmarked black car. In the back seat, I spotted a large figure. Smoke poured from the driver’s door as someone exhaled through a cigarette. As Broad entered the car, I stared at the man in the back. He looked familiar. All my father’s colleagues were big men — it seemed like a prerequisite for 1970s police recruitment: size for intimidation. As the car pulled away, my stomach dropped.

After lunch, Mrs. Tapscott announced that our field trip was being cut short. She arranged for Mr. Column to return. From the hall windows, I saw dark clouds building — darker than I’d seen since the 1987 hurricane. They didn’t look real, more like they’d been painted onto the sky. They rushed toward Victoria House with a howling gale that sent pot plants flying and bent the bushes and newly planted trees in the surrounding fields. Within minutes, the light dimmed. It felt like dusk.

The thunder began to roll — deep and constant, like drums in the distance. I imagined an army descending on horseback. Then the rain came, so heavy I could barely see past the shingle driveway. I wasn’t sure it was wise for Mr. Column to be driving in this, and I certainly didn’t want to be in a car during a storm. My mind spiraled into grim scenarios about the drive home. More than a few involved vomit.

My father often told me — usually while reviewing my schoolwork — that if something sounds or looks important, it probably is. His rule, born of twenty years in the police, was simple: write everything down. And if you can’t, repeat it until you can recite it backward. I could feel his influence — for a moment, I could feel his hands on my shoulders. It felt like pressure to speak up.

I needed to understand what I was doing there.

My gaze left the chaos outside and swept the hall. Mrs. Tapscott stood beside the bearded man, who was now wearing a coat. I heard him say, “I’ll be back soon,” before stepping out the door.

I had questions. But I didn’t know how to ask them in a way that would get answers. I wasn’t exactly a talker.

I ran through my observations.

One. Aside from the bearded man, I’d counted only four staff members during introductions. That seemed too few for seventy residents. It wasn’t surprising someone had gone missing.

Two. Mrs. Tapscott seemed to know the bearded man well — too well. That needed explaining.

Three. The man in the purple shirt was still in the same chair, arms folded. Two hours had passed. Despite his calm, that felt cruel.

Four. The information booklet said people with Down Syndrome frustrate easily. Yet here he sat, motionless, patient. I’d have lost my mind.

Five. Where were the other residents? I’d only seen a few in the hall. Of the seventy, not one had come in from the flower beds. No one had returned to the building.

I was about to walk over to Mrs. Tapscott when I heard a tap at the window.

It was Mr. Column.

Maybe none of my questions would need answering after all.