Curses Are for Cads

by Tamara Berry

  He realizes I’m not an eerie vision, but a woman of mysterious powers and persuasions, and blinks his recognition. “I’m afraid I don’t sleep as well as I used to,” he explains. “One of the vagaries of old age.”

  “A small price to pay for the wisdom that accompanies it. May I sit?”

  I wait only until the doctor’s head begins to bob before pulling a chair in front of the door and sitting in it.

  “I thought you were Gloriana,” he says as I settle the folds of the bedsheet more becomingly around me. “You looked so pale as you walked in.”

  “Gloriana isn’t a ghost,” I say, but with much less exasperation than every other time she’s been mentioned. Ghostly pallor is the exact impression I was hoping to give. “She’s an influence. She won’t manifest herself physically or start throwing objects around like a poltergeist. He powers are much more subtle . . . and dangerous.”

  He appears concerned but not surprised by this reading of the Stewart specter.

  “Please.” I gesture for him to resume his seated position. “Rest. Relax. I’m here for a friendly chat, that’s all. Something is troubling you.”

  He sits, but not in a way that signals rest or relaxation. “How can you tell?”

  Well, for starters, because literally everyone on this planet is troubled by something. It might be as big as murder or it might be as small as uncertainty about what to make for dinner, but no one is completely worry free.

  “Because you’re a doctor,” I announce, stating one of the only pieces of truth I have at my fingertips. “A healer. A bringer of comfort.”

  “I am?” He glances up at me and, seeing that I mean no harm, straightens in his seat. “I mean, I am.”

  “You dropped everything to come to this family’s aid when they needed you.”

  He nods, his head bobbing up and down like a buoy at sea.

  “You’ve always done that—watched over them, protected them. Even when they don’t realize they need you, you’re here.”

  He nods again, his shoulders returning to their squared, confident position. “That’s true,” he says, as if realizing it for the first time. “I protect people.”

  Things are progressing exactly as I hoped they would, and I feel a sudden pang that no one else is around to witness me at work. Birdie, for example, might appreciate the subtlety of my methods. Otis, too, could learn a thing or two from my tact. My best work always seems to be my least appreciated.

  “You do protect people,” I agree, sweeping up my arm and allowing the folds of the bedsheet to fall. In the semi-darkness, I have no doubt it looks very grand. “From illness and disease, from pain and despair. But the one thing you can’t protect them from is themselves. You couldn’t protect Glenn from himself, could you?” At the sudden flash in the doctor’s eyes, I’m emboldened to add, “That’s why you’re here. You want to atone.”

  “Who told you that?”

  You just did, I think but don’t say. “Had he already passed when you arrived?” I ask instead.

  He ducks his head in a gesture of affirmation. “There was nothing I could do. Not by the time I was called. The mischief had already been done.”

  Mischief could mean a lot of things, including that Glenn had fallen asleep or suffered from a minor condition that hastened his death. Then again, it might also mean that someone held him under the water by force.

  “He doesn’t hold you accountable for it,” I say, extending my hand in comfort. When Dr. Fulstead doesn’t reach back for me, I decide to take a leap. “Neither does Harvey Renault. There was nothing you could do by the time you reached him.”

  The doctor bolts upright, his spine straightening as though a rod has been shoved straight through it. “Harvey Renault?” he demands. “What do you know about him?”

  I toy with the idea of admitting that Birdie and I were on the train that day, drinking gin and tonics while Dr. Fulstead pared his nails, but I don’t. Birdie certainly wouldn’t resort to such a mundane thing as truth.

  “You went to him the moment help was needed.” I speak as though I’m seeing the event through a cloud rather than memory. “Without hesitation, and when no one else would go to the rescue.”

  “How do you—?”

  “The train car was red. He was wearing Oxford wing tips.”

  “You saw him?”

  I neither confirm nor deny this question since the truth is more complex than that. Besides, I’m less interested in my own experience of the events than I am in his. “Did he really suffer from a heart attack, or was it something more . . . mischievous?”

  He doesn’t miss my meaning. With a nervous shake of his head, he says, “I wasn’t his official doctor, Madame Eleanor. It’s not my place to say.”

  “Perhaps not, but you’ve been in practice long enough to recognize the symptoms when you see them. Did you know that he was Glenn Stewart’s solicitor? That he, too, was tied to this family?”

  “What?” He visibly blanches, and he swivels his head as though looking for a quick means of escape. Since he’s in a room that overlooks the cliff, he’s not likely to find one. “No. It’s not possible.”

  “Not only is it possible, but it’s a fact.”

  He bolts up out of his chair, his pallor so pronounced that he matches my sheet. “I did everything I could for him.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “His attack was a severe one—and from what I understand, it wasn’t his first.”

  “So I heard.”

  “If you want to talk to anyone, it should be the woman I was called here to attend. She was on the train that day—did you know that? I saw her.”

  I hesitate, fearful that this recollection will lead to another of a similar nature—namely, that I, too, was present on that fateful trip—but he doesn’t appear to have noticed. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but she entered through the front of the car. She could have easily passed Harvey on the train—in fact, I know she did. She came down the center aisle where he was seated.”

  Dr. Fulstead isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know. There’s always been a suspicion that Birdie is more involved in this than mere chance allows—his confirmation only strengthens it. What I want him to tell me is whether or not Harvey’s death was a natural one or if it was brought on by, say, poison.

  Before I have a chance to continue my interrogation, Dr. Fulstead turns it on me. “Why have I been brought to this island?” he demands. “What do you want?”

  This ferocious turnabout takes me aback, but I answer with my usual calm. “You were called to attend a sick woman,” I say.

  “Yes, and I did that. My job is finished. You should have no further need of me.” His eyes narrow, and he takes in the sight of me—the full sight of me, bedsheets and scraggly hair and all—with sharp suspicion. “Wait a minute.”

  I wince, fairly certain I know what comes next.

  I’m not wrong. The doctor points his finger in accusation. “You were there, too. With the sick woman on the train.” He backs away, stumbling over his chair and sending it careering into the desk. The pages he’d been at such pains to hide flutter about like leaves caught in the wind. It looks to be a letter, though I have no idea who he’d be writing to—or why. It’s not as if the postman makes regular visits to Airgead Island. “You two are in this together.”

  Tempting as it is to deny this claim, I refrain. Like it or not, Birdie and I are in this together. She’s secretive and sneaky and is hiding something. She uses people and pretends to believe in ghosts for her own ends. She’s also smart as all get-out.

  “I didn’t kill Harvey Renault, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say.

  “N-no,” he stammers, his eyes growing wide. “I know that.”

  “And I’d never even heard of Glenn Stewart until I was summoned to this island. I have witnesses who can corroborate that.”

  “Of course, of course.” He bobs his head in a subservient, pandering way that showcases his
disbelief—and his fear. It’s that second one that hits me the hardest, especially when he pauses, and his voice drops almost to a whisper. “Wha—What are you going to do to me?”

  To him? Nothing. I have a few follow-up questions, obviously, and it would be nice if he didn’t think I was a murderess and a liar, but I’m not going to force the issue.

  “Your fate is not in my hands, I’m afraid. Birdie’s, however. . .” I shake my head in a move that isn’t wholly faked. I don’t know what Birdie’s fate is, but I doubt it’s going to be the one either of us has in mind. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Dr. Fulstead. It’s late, and you were obviously in the middle of something when I came in.”

  This quick apology does little to soothe him. He gulps and runs a hand across the bald crown of his head. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “I’m not what you think, you know,” I say with a grimace at my attire. Perhaps the sheet was a touch overdone. “I’m only trying to help this family, to bring them peace.”

  “Are you?” he returns.

  It’s not meant as a critique, I know, but I can’t help taking it that way. I might have come here with the expectation of being entertained, but somewhere in the past few days, the Stewart family problems have become my own.

  “I am,” I say, though by this time, it’s more for my benefit than Dr. Fulstead’s. “You have my word that everyone is going to make it off this island alive.”

  Chapter 14

  When I wake up in the morning, it’s to find a pair of floral-patterned trousers, a ruffled silk blouse, and a pair of pantyhose sitting at the foot of my bed. They’re accompanied by a note stating that they’re all that could be found to fit me.

  They do fit, but they also make me look like a piece of 1970s outdoor furniture. Since I’m a clean piece of 1970s outdoor furniture, I decide to run with it. I wasn’t looking forward to another day in that velvet dress.

  While my appearance has taken a turn for the better, my brain is just as befuddled as it was when I went to bed last night. Rest has brought no clarity or comfort; my dreams, if I had any, have been lost to the night.

  I poke my head out of my room and make a quick survey of the dark hallway, trying to decide where to begin today’s adventure. My stomach tells me to start with breakfast, but my cat directs me otherwhere. Although Freddie is nowhere to be seen, Beast is sitting outside Birdie’s bedroom, standing guard like a sphinx half-buried in sand. The cat shows no sign of pleasure as I draw closer, but her eyes shift and she allows herself to indulge in a regal yawn.

  “Some familiar you’ve been so far,” I mutter as I draw closer. “I thought Birdie brought you here to help.”

  Beast’s only reply is a twitch of her whiskers.

  I knock lightly on the door so as to avoid rousing the entire household. “Birdie?” I call. “Birdie, are you awake yet?”

  There’s no answer.

  “Hello?” I call again, a little louder this time. When I still receive no reply, I try the doorknob.

  I feel a quick pang of guilt as I step inside. There’s a hush about the space, the heavy quiet of deep slumber. Considering that Birdie poisoned herself yesterday, sleep seems like a valid way to spend the morning. The decent thing to do would be to wait until she’s had some time to recover before I pounce, but I’m hoping that the early hours will catch her off guard.

  I tiptoe closer to the bed. The first thing I notice is another pile of clothing at her feet, though hers doesn’t have an accompanying note.

  “Come on, Sleeping Beauty.” I poke at the lump huddled under the blankets. “I know the doctor prescribed rest, but it’ll have to wait. You can sleep when you’re dead.”

  When she doesn’t respond, I move to the window and pull the curtains open. It would be too much to say that beams of sunlight fill the room, but the watery gray sky is less ominous than it has been in days past.

  “I had a chat with the doctor last night,” I say, placing myself in the light of the window much the way my cats do. “Not a very forthcoming chat, unfortunately, but an interesting one. He knows we were on that train with Harvey, and it scares him. That’s something, right? He wouldn’t be scared if it was just a heart attack that had carried him off.”

  Birdie doesn’t reply to that, either.

  “Weren’t you yammering at me just the other day for having a lie-in?” I ask, poking her a little harder this time. “Who’s the lazy houseguest now?”

  When I’m greeted once again by nothing but silence, alarm grips me by the throat. That alarm turns to a panic that crushes my windpipe when I realize that Birdie hasn’t moved—not even to breathe—since I entered the room.

  “No.” My hand is shaking as I yank the bedspread down, but I force it to keep moving. Some of the talcum powder from last night lingers, giving my skin an eerie translucence. “It can’t be. She isn’t.”

  But it can be, and she is.

  Death isn’t a new concept to a woman like me. I’ve managed to build an entire career around it. I’ve stood over my sister’s grave and heard her to speak to me from somewhere beyond it. I’ve faced it head-on and emerged triumphant.

  In that moment, looking at the body of Bridget Wimpole-White lying cold in her bed, I fear it for the first time.

  Gloriana did this, I think. And then, no.

  Before I can fully give way to my sense of terror, I check Birdie for signs of life—breath, pulse, a twitch of an eyelid—but to no avail. All are extinguished and, if my quick assessment is any indication, have been for quite some time.

  As it just so happens that we have a doctor currently residing under our roof, summoning him seems like the best first step. I’m strangely loath to leave Birdie alone in this room, so I stand on the threshold and call his name. He appears sleepily in his doorway a few seconds later.

  “Please come quickly. It’s Birdie. She’s not breathing. She’s not moving. She’s—”

  I don’t need to say more. With an alacrity I can’t help but admire, the doctor dashes across the hall to come to my aid. He doesn’t seem to mind that he’s wearing nothing but a nightshirt, his legs like white sticks protruding from the hem.

  “What’s this?” he asks as he pushes me aside. “Has she taken ill again?”

  “No, not ill. Dead.”

  He doesn’t believe me. That much is obvious from the way he makes a tutting sound and goes to Birdie’s bedside, prepared to find a woman prostrate but not debilitated by her condition. It doesn’t take him long to come to the same conclusion as me. He goes so far as to attempt chest compressions, but it only takes a few before he realizes it’s an effort in futility.

  “I’m afraid she’s gone,” he says as he steps back from the bedside. There’s a sense of finality about that step, especially when he accompanies it with a theatrical gesture that Birdie would have been the first to applaud. Lifting the sheet covering the lower half of her body, he brings it to rest over her face. “We’re too late. There’s nothing we can do to save her now.”

  I open my mouth and close it again, at a loss for words for what might be the first time in my life.

  “We should notify the household,” he says when I’m unable to supply him with anything but the ineffective movements of my jaw. “Sid, or—”

  I shake my head with a vehemence that sets the strands of my hair fluttering. “No,” I say, my voice croaking but operational. “Don’t do that.”

  The doctor’s eyes narrow, and he looks at me with the sharp appraisal of a man who recently heard me claim that no one else in this house was going to die. There’s nothing I can say and even less I can do to convince him that I have any authority here, so I don’t make the attempt.

  “Sid will only be upset by this latest . . . development,” I explain somewhat feebly. “Who we want in this situation is—”

  “Elspeth!”

  Actually, I was going to suggest that Nicholas would be the most helpful person at this point in time, but the doctor’s idea isn’t without merit. “Ye
s, perhaps,” I agree, but that’s as far as I get. Dr. Fulstead wasn’t making a suggestion so much as an exclamation. I turn to find Elspeth standing in the doorway to Birdie’s room. She’s bearing a tray that holds a pitcher of water and a decanter that smells strongly of coffee. Without waiting to fully assess her condition, I rush forward and take the tray from her.

  And a good thing, too, because the moment Elspeth takes in the sight of Birdie lying motionless under a sheet, her knees begin to buckle.

  “Dr. Fulstead—” I say, but he’s already on the case. He rushes to the older woman’s side and helps her as she staggers to a nearby chair. Her face is as white as Birdie’s sheet, and her hands, now empty of the tray, shake.

  I pour some of the coffee into the mug provided on the tray and hold it out.

  “Drink this,” I suggest. “It’ll put some heart in you.”

  She accepts the mug but doesn’t drink, her attention too fixed on the bed. “Not again,” she moans in what is rapidly becoming the mantra for this particular case. “Not like this. Is she—?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I say, interpreting her sudden sob as an inability to say the word aloud. Dead. Gone. Yet another victim of the curse.

  Or, you know, of the murderer.

  “The doctor and I came in and found her like this.” I touch the bottom of the mug and tilt it up. “Take a sip and you’ll feel much better. If you brought it for Birdie, I’m sure it’s strong enough to do the trick.”

  Elspeth manages a smile and even swallows a mouthful of the potent black brew, but it doesn’t do much to restore her color.

  “This isn’t your fault, Elspeth. Birdie was ill—we knew that. Maybe her ailment was worse than we thought. Maybe she had a preexisting condition. It’s important that we don’t jump to conclusions.”

  I pause, recalling that Birdie’s particular ailment had been self-inflicted. I have no idea what kind of poison was in that envelope, but I do know that it’s currently sitting in the top drawer of my bedside table.

  “Um, would you two excuse me a moment?” I ask. The doctor doesn’t look too eager to let me out of his sight, but he’s also too wary to put up a protest. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”