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Not many other cars occupied the lot. Gregory looked around as they reached the door. “Are we sure she’s here today?”
“Yes. She said she doesn’t usually see patients on Friday. It’s open for administrative work, consultations, emergencies, and the like. Oh, thank you,” she added, as he opened the door for her.
His smile woke up the butterflies in her stomach. “Of course. It’s the least I can do.”
Quiet reigned in the reception area. No other patients waited in the chairs, just the assistant at the desk. “Miss Sparrow?” she asked.
“That’s me.”
“You’re right on time. The doctor said to bring you back when you arrived.” The woman smiled, stood, and took them through the door that led back into the clinic.
The place hovered between quaintly antiquated and thoroughly modern. Hanna could easily imagine factory workers or mothers with their children, all dressed in the attire popular around the time of the war, moving through the halls or waiting in the offices. Yet she could also see that the doctor had taken pains to stock the clinic with advanced equipment, not quite on the cutting edge but not far from it. Hanna found she liked the odd duality between the vintage aesthetic and the updated equipment.
Doctor Turner’s office walked the same tightrope between old and new. A hardwood desk built before the war held two large computer monitors. Impressive bookcases in a matching mahogany shade lined the walls, covered in thick medical tomes, a few older knick-knacks, and a digital picture frame displaying photos from exotic locales. A study in contrasts, and Hanna found herself at ease just looking at the space.
Behind the desk, keen green eyes fixed on the monitor, sat the doctor herself. She heard the knock at the door and looked up, then her expression shifted from intent to open and friendly. “Miss Sparrow? Please. Come sit down. And… Mister Sparrow?”
Hanna blushed. “Hanna is just fine. This is Gregory Pierce.”
“Just Gregory. It’s nice to meet you, Doctor Turner.”
“Gillian is more than plenty.” The dark-haired doctor, not far from Hanna’s age, gestured towards the comfortable chairs on the other side of her desk. “I admit, your call intrigued me, Hanna. It’s not often people call up to chat about my grandfather. I’m fascinated to hear what that old goat did to catch your attention.”
“Old goat?”
“That was what my father always called him. ‘The Old Goat’. He was a cantankerous man in his dotage.” Gillian chuckled. “Before then, too. Used to drive us both around the bend, in that way family does.”
Gregory snorted a chuckle. “I know that way a little too well.”
“Got a goat in your life, then?”
“Yes, and I can hardly wait to say that to her face when she tries to climb up in my business next time.”
Hanna tried not to choke on her own spit. She cleared her throat, then said, “We’re up in Greenhill Hall, and we’ve run across your grandfather’s name more than once in the place’s history.”
Gillian canted her head. “Greenhill? I’ll bet you have. My grandfather treated the family who lived up there during the war, at least for a while.”
“Did he ever talk about it? Tell stories?”
“No, and I always found that odd, because he told quite a number of stories about his work during wartime. Delivering a baby when he could hear bombs falling, treating those wounded in the Norwich Blitz…” Gillian rolled her hand to indicate the stories went on. “Nary a story about Greenhill, though, and you’d think he would have been full of them. Makes me wonder what he got up to.”
Guilt, perhaps?Hanna pursed her lips. “I might be able to explain that, but it may not be complimentary towards your grandfather.”
“Don’t worry about that. Like I said, I’ve had my suspicions he omitted some shady nonsense from his tales of doctorly adventures. My father may be helping obscure that nonsense, as well. So. What did the old goat do?” Gillian leaned forward.
“I think he might have helped cover up the suspicious deaths of several children.”
One of Gillian’s eyebrows shot up. “That old tosser. Why do you think that?”
Hanna dug into her purse for the printouts she’d prepared for the occasion. “I ran across a tag from Operation Pied Piper in the house. You’re familiar with it?”
“I am. I’ve read some of the studies that came from it.”
“There were studies?” Hanna asked, as much from curiosity as to kill time while she pulled out her papers.
“There were. Most namely, studies regarding the negative effects of children separated from parents, even with consent and in necessary circumstances.”
“I can only imagine.” Hanna unfolded the papers and laid them on Gillian’s desk. “The tenant of the house at the time, a woman named Marion Pritchard, took in a young boy named Stuart Marsh. Less than a year after he arrived, Stuart was listed as ‘sickened and died’, and the death declaration was signed by your grandfather.”
