by Tamara Berry
As much as I’d like to hold Birdie accountable for this one, there’s no denying that she’s been almost entirely in my company since the train ride up here. Unless she shopped early, hopped on a plane, and then got on the train with me somewhere south of the Scottish border, she couldn’t have bought those generators without my knowing about it.
“It has been awfully stormy,” I suggest. “Perhaps the lightning is taking out the electricity in lots of people’s houses.”
Otis’s response to this is a disbelieving snort. “And I wear this eyepatch because I like the way it makes children run screaming in the opposite direction.”
I ignore the obvious implications of this. “So there won’t be any electricity for the foreseeable future?” I ask. “The old generator is absolutely unfixable? Because of . . . lightning?”
He doesn’t miss my meaning. “Yes, it is absolutely unfixable. As to whether or not lightning caused it, I’ll leave that up to someone as all-seeing as you. Something caused the short and fried the control board. I’m no expert, but it would have had to have been a particularly vengeful god who shot a bolt that strong down from the heavens.”
I nod my understanding, careful not to let any of my feelings show. What he means is that it would have to be a particularly vengeful god or a curse working overtime. Or, as is much more likely, someone who wanted to make sure the atmosphere here is as gloomy and sinister as possible.
By this time, the doctor has completed his examination of Birdie. He wraps his stethoscope around his neck and calls us back into the room with an air of suppressed agitation. “It’s exactly as I suspected,” he announces. “This woman has been poisoned.”
Not surprisingly, this bit of information acts on the room like a five-alarm fire. There are shrieks, squeals, poetry on the inevitability of death . . . and, in Otis’s case, a low, muttered outburst before he stalks angrily from the room. I’m tempted to follow him. The last thing I want to do right now is calm a bunch of hysterical fools who are rapidly eroding my last nerve.
Of everyone, Birdie takes the news the best. She rests against her pillows as one resigned, even going so far as to cross her hands over her chest in an approximation of her final interment.
Nicholas clears his throat and, in his usual careful and methodical way, asks the question foremost in both our minds. “When you say she’s been poisoned, would you like us to understand that she was purposefully given something to cause her harm?”
The doctor doesn’t, as I hope, adopt the matter-of-fact approach I’d hoped to get out of him. Instead, he smooths the straggling strands of his hair and adopts a lofty tone. “This woman is suffering from intestinal and digestive upset related to the ingestion of toxins. As to the intent behind it, I’m sure you know that better than I.”
I won’t do it. I won’t say her name.
The doctor does it for me. “It isn’t Gloriana’s usual method, as I understand it, but I’m not an expert in her ways. I prefer to leave such speculation to you.”
“Is she going to recover, at least?”
“Oh, yes. A little rest, plenty of fluids, and she’ll be as good as new.”
A wash of relief moves over me, disproportionately large for a woman I care for as little as Birdie. As much as I might deplore her tactics and playacting, I don’t want her to suffer for real. “And are there precautions we should take to ensure our own safety?” I ask. Not unhopefully, I add, “As in, evacuate the island? All of us—even the children?”
The doctor has the audacity to chuckle. “My poor dear. You have nothing to fear. Just stay away from the kippers, and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Kippers?” I echo. “You mean it’s food poisoning? I was right all along? She was poisoned by her breakfast?”
His eyes shift uneasily. “I can’t say for sure, mind you, but that does seem to be the most likely cause of her gastric distress. Between you and me, I’ve never cared for Elspeth’s way with a fish.”
I can only stare, openmouthed, as I contemplate the doctor. There’s no doubt in my mind that he did this on purpose—setting us all in upheaval, making it seem as though there’s a malicious poisoner skulking in our midst.
In other words, he’s just as bad as everyone else. Eight years of medical training overturned by the mention of one stupid curse.
“Bad fish?” Birdie says, disappointment rendering her normally low voice a little high.
“At breakfast?” Sid adds.
“‘Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly-arranged and well-provisioned breakfast-table,’ ” quotes Ashley.
Taking control of the room after this is no easy task. I accomplish it not through kindness and sympathy, but by informing the Stewarts that the only way for Birdie to heal is with rest, relaxation, and complete silence for the remainder of the day—and that I will enforce this plan if it means I have to curse them in a way that rivals that of all the vengeful queens of Britain’s past. Birdie opens her mouth to argue, but she catches sight of my fulminating gaze and snaps her lips closed again. So, too, does the doctor. As soon as he sees how close I am to losing it, he murmurs something about going to find Elspeth and having a room readied for the night.
“An excellent idea,” Nicholas murmurs as he gathers up the rest of the assembled crowd. “You don’t know Madame Eleanor well enough yet, Sid, but her curses are exceptionally frightening. I’ve known grown men to cross the street whenever she happens to pass.”
This playful sally does much to restore my equilibrium—and to clear the room, which is even better.
“I like that doctor,” Birdie says as soon as we’re left alone in the room together. Without all the people bustling about, it feels much darker than before. The corners are shrouded in shadows, the flickering candles doing little to dispel the gloom. “He seems to know what he’s about, wouldn’t you say?”
I give the pillow underneath Birdie’s head a liberal thump. “No. I think he’s at least six eggs short of a dozen.”
“So obliging of him to have come out on a moment’s notice, too. I can’t imagine it’s comfortable, getting hauled out here without any warning, but I understand that the family has come to depend on him for such things.”
I hesitate, mistrusting her tone.
“Why, he came out just last month when Glenn had his accident. Dr. Fulstead, I believe he said his name was.”
At mention of the doctor’s name, I can only stare at her, mouth agog, my heart thumping so much it’s like there’s someone inside it, frantic to get out. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know she’s only doing this to get a reaction out of me—playing her games, dipping into her bag of tricks. Unfortunately, as much as I wish I could pretend not to be affected, I can’t.
If what she’s saying is true, then the doctor wasn’t just the last man to see Harvey Renault alive; he was the last to see Glenn Stewart, too.
And he’s been hand-delivered to this island. To me.
“The weather being what it is, there’s no saying when he’ll be able to return to Barra. Why, we could have him with us for the duration of our stay.”
“Birdie!” I drop my hands and blink down at her. Although there’s no denying that she looks like a woman currently suffering from food poisoning, there’s none of her moaning or thrashing, no signs that she’s about to succumb to the beckoning of her old friend Death. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”
She closes her eyes and settles more comfortably into her pillow. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Madame Eleanor.”
That Madame Eleanor isn’t lost on me. She’s careful never to use the name when we’re in the company of other people. When the Stewarts are around, it’s always dear Ella this and dear Ella that, a transparent—if effective—way of putting me in my place. When we’re alone together, she has no qualms about using my real name.
“You knew I wanted to talk to the doctor,” I insist. “You knew there was something suspicious about the w
ay Glenn died, and that the only way we’d get any answers is if we talked to the person who was called in when it happened.”
Birdie neither confirms nor denies this, which is as good as a signed confession. I’m emboldened to continue.
“He’s the same doctor from the train, the one who rushed to Harvey’s aid. Did you know that, too? Did you know he had ties to both men?”
She doesn’t answer me. She merely holds out her hand, keeping it level until I place my palm against hers. I’m not sure what it’s for until a small envelope falls out of her sleeve and into my hand. Birdie’s movements are so subtle, so practiced, that I honestly have no idea how she manages it.
Not that it matters when she says, “Dispose of that for me, would you? There’s no telling what might happen if it falls into the wrong hands.”
I turn the envelope over, but it’s unmarked and unremarkable save for a slight bulge that indicates some kind of powdery substance inside.
Poison.
“It’s a pity about the fish,” she murmurs without opening her eyes. “Herring, I think. It was quite delicious, but I doubt Elspeth will have the nerve to serve it again after this.”
I know, without realizing why, that nothing I say or do will extract the truth out of Birdie now. She plans to maintain the pretense of her role as medium at all costs—even if it means giving herself a violent stomachache in the process. Not even to me, and not even when we’re alone in a room together, will she admit that she finds everything about this case just as suspicious and dangerous as I do.
What I don’t understand, however, is what it’s all for. Everything Birdie has said and done on this island is grounded in science, in fact, in reality. She puts on a good show, yes, and knows more about this family and its inner workings than mere research could account for, but she’s just a woman. Like me. She’s just trying to find the gold. Like me.
But if she knows that Glenn and/or Harvey was murdered, why isn’t she saying so? Why is she here, putting herself in harm’s way, when she should be calling in the entire Scotland Yard? Why is she feeding me inside information only to retreat behind her mystical veil when I start to get close to an actual answer?
It’s almost as if she’s hiding something. Protecting someone. But who?
“I’ll get rid of it,” I promise, closing my fist over the poison. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? I’d like to have a chat with Dr. Fulstead, but I don’t want to leave you if you need anything.”
She waves her free hand at me. “I’ll be fine. Elspeth promised to bring me a bit of hot wine before bed to settle my stomach and boost my energy for the trials ahead. You run along and do what you need. Our doctor friend should be nice and uneasy now that he knows Gloriana walks amongst us. I’m sure he’ll be very receptive to whatever you have planned.”
In this, as in all things, she’s absolutely right. Loath as I am to admit it, Dr. Fulstead will be easier for me to handle if he’s on edge. There are so many things I want to say to her, not the least of which is a heartfelt thank you.
“Oh, and Eleanor?” she adds before I have the chance. “Proceed with caution. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that truth has an uncomfortable way of making the spirits restless.”
Chapter 13
“I’m not sure I follow.” Nicholas steps back and surveys his handiwork, his eyes narrowed in shrewd appraisal. “Why are we dressing you up as a Halloween ghost?”
I glance down at myself. True, the white bedsheet I’ve wrapped around my body is a little more obvious than I’d have liked, but I’m not in a position to cavil. I’m running out of time—and supplies.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shake out my hair until it flows in long waves to my waist. Combined with the sheet and the dark rings that are starting to take natural shape under my eyes, the overall effect is close to what I’d been hoping for. “I’m not a Halloween ghost. Halloween ghosts are silly. I’m mystical and effervescent.”
“Hmm.”
“And don’t make judgmental sounds like you’re atop some high and mighty steed over there. You and Otis seemed to get mighty friendly over the course of a single day. Did you forget the part where I was attacked on board his boat?”
He has the decency to look abashed. A slight tinge of color touches his cheekbones, his lips quirked in a rueful smile. “Yes, well. You did tell me to get close to the suspects.”
I lift one hand—rendered eerily pale by the liberal application of decades-old talcum powder I scrounged out from underneath a bathroom sink—and point at him. “I told you to get close to Birdie.”
“I thought you’d be pleased at my show of initiative.”
“You don’t think he’s guilty.”
Nicholas pauses and considers his next words. He’d like to flatly deny my accusation, but he knows better than to lie. Sniffing out deceit is my second-greatest skill.
Sniffing out murderers is my first.
“How can you tell?” he asks.
I tilt my head and study him, unsure how to explain it in a way that he can understand. The reality is that Nicholas is a difficult man to read. He’s careful to keep his emotions on a tight rein. He’s always polite, always charming, always correct—and until you’ve reached the inner circle of his heart, you can never really know him.
But I do. It’s my gift and my curse—to see people, to understand them, to know them.
“It’s why you sent me here in the first place,” I say. “Not, as you’d like me to believe, because you thought I’d enjoy this vacation more than Malta, but because you’re genuinely worried about your friend. Sid loves her cousin—more than anyone else in her family, at any rate—and you’re afraid that if he’s the guilty one, it would break her heart.”
“It would break her heart.”
I know it would. I also know that this sentiment—while it does Nicholas justice—gives him a blind spot. It’s the same blind spot that brought me into his life in the first place. When his own house was plagued by ghosts, he hired me not because he wanted to, but because he had to. It was the only way he could gain perspective—a harsh, abrasive, realistic perspective.
My harsh, abrasive, realistic perspective.
“He has the most motive, Nicholas. He also has the means, the temperament, and the intelligence to pull it off.”
A frown tugs at his lips. “I know.”
“And despite what Elspeth says, I don’t believe Jaime and Ferguson were playing a trick on me yesterday. They got that gold coin from Otis’s boat, and they genuinely thought I would find the rest of the treasure on board.”
His frown deepens. “I know that, too.”
I place my palm on his cheek and hold it there. As a romantic gesture, it’s not much, but it’s all I have. I’m not soft and clinging, and I never will be.
And there’s the truth in a nutshell. I’m not one of the Sid Stewarts of the world. I’m a Birdie White. I’m a scary talking puppet, a plague on this household, a cheating and manipulative liar who will stop at nothing to get her way. Although there are times when I’m sure Nicholas knows this—admires it, even—I can’t help thinking that he won’t always view it as something positive.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s on your mind?”
He sighs and brings my hand down until it’s gripped tightly in his. “I’m wishing I’d whisked you away to Malta while I had the chance, that’s all. I don’t like this.”
I know exactly how he feels. In fact, it’s why I’m wearing this ridiculous getup in the first place. It’s the only way—the only safe way—to proceed with my investigation. If Birdie’s actions have proven anything, it’s that there is someone weaving a malicious spell over this family—not a long-dead monarch or a malicious spiritual entity, but a living, breathing person who’s capable of irreparable harm. She wouldn’t have summoned the doctor otherwise, wouldn’t have risked her own health to try and get real answers.
It says a lot about Nicholas that he doesn’t evince more than the mildest show of surprise. “Should I ask?”
“I didn’t give it to her, if that’s what you’re thinking. On the contrary, she gave it to me. She thought I might want a private chat with the doctor and felt that a sudden and violent indisposition was the best way to go about it.”
He blinks—slowly at first and then gaining speed, almost like a butterfly taking flight. “I see.”
“You don’t, but that’s okay.” I fold up the envelope and stow it in my bedside table. “I’m not a hundred percent sure what Birdie’s game is yet, but I’m not going to waste this opportunity. I need to talk to Dr. Fulstead and discover what he knows about the nature of those deaths. For all we know, we might be dealing with nothing more than a series of interconnected coincidences, and the gold will turn up in some box at the bottom of a wardrobe somewhere.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in interconnected coincidences,” he says.
“And I thought you didn’t believe in mediums,” I counter before giving my sheet an ominous waggle. “But you have to admit I make a convincing show.”
* * *
I don’t bother knocking on the doctor’s door. Stealth and surprise are my best allies, and I intend to make the most of them. Stepping silently into the guest room, I find the doctor seated at a desk in the corner, his fingers busy with a paper and pen. He leaps to his feet at the sound of my entrance.
“Good God!” His fright is genuine; the scrambling way he conceals the scrawled pages behind him is not.
“Hello, Dr. Fulstead,” I say as I glide into the room. I keep my voice pitched low, almost deep enough to match Birdie’s. It’s too bad I didn’t think to grab her white feather and thread it in my hair. The added touch would have helped. “I’m glad to find that you haven’t yet retired.”
