by Tamara Berry
I dash across the hall to my own room. I’d like to think that my intentions are honorable—that I’m bringing the doctor the poison so he can ascertain what it is and determine if it contributed to Birdie’s sudden death—but there’s an element of self-preservation in there, too.
Nicholas wasn’t wrong that day at the pool when he called me unsinkable. I will not be going down for poisoning Birdie.
The first bedside table I check is empty save for an ancient leaflet on the perils of chewing tobacco. Thinking I must have gotten the two confused, since they’re similar in design, I scramble over my bed to check the other. It’s even emptier than the first one. Pulling the drawers out and checking underneath them reveals nothing, nor does peeking behind them.
It’s not a very thorough search, and the lack of light means I might have easily overlooked something, but I know—in my heart of hearts—that no amount of searching will reveal that envelope.
Like the elusive hidden gold, it’s nowhere to be found.
I return to Birdie’s deathbed with slow, deliberate steps. A few minutes ago, I might, had I really put my mind to it, been able to convince myself that Birdie’s death was accidental. A wrong dose of the poison she self-administered, an overindulgence in breakfast fish, even that preexisting condition I hinted at to allay Elspeth’s fears—any of them could have been pinpointed as the culprit.
That missing envelope of poison tells a different story. A darker, more sinister one. One through which we must all tread carefully.
My own tread is so careful that my feet make almost no sound as I approach the bedroom door. Sneaking up and eavesdropping hadn’t been my intention, but the sound of voices causes me to pause before I head in.
“She’s not wrong,” the doctor says. “It is possible that this is nothing more than nature meandering on her usual course. Without knowing Ms. White’s full medical history, I can’t say for certain what carried her off.”
Elspeth’s voice is so soft that I’m unable to distinguish her reply.
“I know,” the doctor says gravely. “The similarities worry me, too.”
They don’t say more, but I don’t need them to. In a place where another man so recently died, similarities can only mean one thing.
“Sorry about that,” I say as I enter the room once again. It’s just as hushed and full of death as before, but Elspeth seems to have a better handle on herself. “What have we decided?”
The doctor clears his throat, his eyes shifting left and right. “I, ah, believe now might be a good time to notify Ms. Stewart.”
I bite back a groan. Rousing Sid and informing her that the curse has struck again is the last thing I want to do. Her hysterics will be immeasurable—as will the amount of work I’m going to have to do to allay them.
“She’s not going to take this well,” I warn.
“One can hardly blame her. Most people find sudden death alarming.”
I can only assume that Dr. Fulstead is referring to my own lack of alarm. I could very easily pander to him and adopt the air of a woman stricken with fear, but what’s the use? It’s not going to bring Birdie back, and it’s certainly not going to help us find who did this. What is going to help us is to discover what the doctor and Elspeth were talking about before I came in.
“You might want to find Nicholas first,” I suggest. “Sid will appreciate having him there when you break the news.”
Dr. Fulstead shows every sign of wishing to remain exactly where he is. I’m afraid he’s going to insist upon it, but his shoulders eventually drop in capitulation. “Don’t tamper with the body, if you please,” he says as he makes one last survey of the room, memorizing its contents and the exact placement thereof. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.”
He doesn’t, as I hope, shut the door behind him. For me to close it now would only be to draw attention to the fact that I want privacy with Elspeth, so I have to make do with dropping to my knees in front of her.
“Elspeth, I know you’re upset right now, and that you probably want a moment or two to collect your thoughts, but I need you to tell me what you and the doctor were talking about.”
She blinks down at me, moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. No tear escapes, but I can tell she’s close. “What we were talking about?” she echoes.
I scoot closer, my toes bumping hers. “The similarities the doctor mentioned. He was talking about Glenn, wasn’t he? Glenn and Birdie? The ways they died?”
She stiffens and sits up straighter, causing coffee to slosh over the edge of her mug. It spreads across the faded blue fabric of her dress like a bloodstain. Seeing it, she blanches and swallows. “Glenn never told me anything about feeling under the weather,” she says, a plea underscoring her voice. “Not a word—not a single complaint.”
I wish I could let her off the hook, or even take more time to build a sense of comfort before plunging in, but I doubt I’ll get another opportunity like this one. Birdie’s death has knocked Elspeth out, emotionally speaking, like a bomb going off and flattening everything in its path. There’s never a more ideal time to get the truth out of someone than when all the pieces are scattered.
“He didn’t have to tell you, did he?” I urge. “You knew. You always knew. No one understood Glenn Stewart like you did.”
A small sob racks her body but is stifled almost as quickly as it escapes. “He wasn’t a man who liked having his wounds touched,” she explains.
I nod my understanding, finding this easy to believe. Otis is cut of the same cloth. I imagine it’s why he’s so willing to embrace the pirate look and pirate profession, making a game of the scars he wears on the outside. It’s the only way to keep people from poking at the very real and very painful scars that haven’t yet had a chance to heal on the inside.
“What were his symptoms?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine in a stricken bid for sympathy. “Nausea, night sweats, fatigue. I could tell from his sheets. But he was on the mend, Madame Eleanor, I know he was. He ate a good breakfast that morning, had his usual walk down to the dock, and then . . .”
“And then decided to take a nice, warm bath?” I suggest.
She ducks her head. It’s not an absolute confirmation of what I’m suggesting, but it’s close enough. And the story fits. Oh, how it fits. A slight illness preceding death is a great way to allay suspicion, especially since Glenn was an old man who lived in an isolated place. Even something as trifling as the flu could have carried him off.
Birdie White, however, was a woman in her prime. And what ailed her was no viral infection.
Unfortunately, there’s no way I can tell Elspeth about the poison Birdie ingested without putting myself at risk. Even if I did still have it in my possession, what on earth could I say to explain it? That a dead woman gave it to me? That Birdie willingly ingested a toxic substance that would lead to her death less than twenty-four hours later?
Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she gave it to me on purpose, knowing full well that I’d end up being blamed for her murder.
That would have been something, wouldn’t it?
The sound of Birdie’s voice causes me to whirl around. Crouched as I am near Elspeth’s feet, I have very little balance to begin with. There’s nothing but the dangling edge of Birdie’s death sheet to catch myself on, and I don’t dare make a grab for it. The result is that I topple over, narrowly avoiding a collision between my skull and the side of the bed.
Elspeth’s housekeeping is up to such high standards that there’s nary a speck of dust underneath the mahogany bedstead. Nor, since the castle closets number in the dozens, is there the usual household clutter of clothing, photographs, or other stored keepsakes.
There is, however, a suitcase. No—I’m sorry—four suitcases, three of which are battered and well-known to me, and one of which looks suspiciously like a floral-patterned carpetbag. I have to fight a strong urge to yank those bags out from under the bed and dive into the glory o
f clean underclothes and my favorite white shawl—and to tell Birdie’s inanimate form exactly what I think of it.
“This should have been the first place I looked,” I mutter. I knew it was suspicious that Birdie’s eyebrows remained immaculate this entire time. She had to have been touching them up to keep them looking so sharp.
“What’s that, dear?” Elspeth is up and out of the chair, a look of maternal concern on her face as she helps me back to my feet. “Is everything all right?”
No, everything is not all right. My nemesis and the only real lead I have in this case is dead. She’s had access to our luggage this entire time, and through means that are just as mysterious as everything else that’s been happening since I boarded that train.
And to top it all off, I’m almost certain I just heard her speaking to me.
“I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for everything,” I say, more to comfort myself than Elspeth.
It doesn’t appear to work on either of us. Mostly because rational explanation, in this case, means someone running around this castle and killing people at will. Strange as it seems, I almost wish we were dealing with a curse instead.
“I don’t believe it.” Sid’s voice carries down the hallway in a shrill vibrato that pierces through the walls. “I won’t believe it. Not until I see her with my own eyes.”
As one, Elspeth and I dash for the door, doing our best to prevent our hostess from viewing the spectacle of Birdie’s prostrate form. No good can come of it; even if Sid weren’t emotionally overwrought, there’s something grisly about the entire household shuffling in and peering at Birdie as though she’s an exhibit at a zoo.
“Madame Eleanor, is it true?” Sid demands as soon as she catches sight of me in the doorway. Both Nicholas and the doctor have escorted Sid down the hall, one on each side of her like supporting columns. “Is she in there? Is she . . . gone?”
I nod at Elspeth, who quietly shuts the door behind her. Since that room is now an active crime scene, it should probably be locked, but there doesn’t seem to be a key.
“There now, Ms. Stewart.” Elspeth draws forward with a soothing cluck. “Why don’t you let Madame Eleanor and Mr. Hartford take you somewhere you can be comfortable? There’s naught you can do for our guest now.”
Sid visibly blanches. “So it is true?”
My eyes catch Nicholas’s, which are as troubled and surprised as I expect to find them. I imagine he’s thinking of the poison.
Either that, or he’s noticed my floral trousers.
“I’m afraid it is true,” I say, and prepare to catch Sid as she inevitably swoons.
Strangely enough, my words only cause her to draw a deep breath and straighten her stance. She’s as pale as the white satin pajamas she’s wearing, and I can see that this news has come as a severe blow, but she remains standing.
“That’s it,” she announces. Withdrawing her arm from Nicholas’s, she turns to the doctor and issues instructions with the ease and rapidity of a woman accustomed to dealing with unexpected corpses. “Rouse the rest of the house—with the exception of the boys, of course—and ask everyone to convene in the gilded salon.”
“The gilded salon?” Dr. Fulstead echoes.
“It’s as good a place as any to break the news,” Sid says. “Father always sat there when he had the chance. Birdie liked it, too. She said it reminded her of Versailles. Elspeth, would it be asking too much for you to bring some refreshments? Nothing heavy, but coffee, perhaps, and some Danish?”
It seems the height of cruelty to ask the poor woman to go rustle up breakfast after what she’s just been through, but Sid’s words act like a balm. With a nod of approval at being given something concrete to do, Elspeth agrees.
“I know just the thing,” she says. To the doctor, she adds, “Ashley will still be abed, but Otis is likely to be down by the docks. He should be easy enough to find.”
At her most efficient, Elspeth is almost impossible to ignore. This moment is no exception. With a duck of his head, Dr. Fulstead goes off to do her bidding.
“Now, Madame Eleanor, show me Birdie, if you please,” Sid says, still with that air of calm authority. I can’t decide if I’m more impressed or alarmed by it until she adds, “I promise not to go off in a swoon, so you and Nicholas needn’t look at me like that. I never got a chance to see Father. It’s one of my biggest regrets.”
I don’t know what good it’s going to do her to look at the corporeal remains of a woman she knew less than a week, but I don’t know what harm it can do, either. Stepping aside, I snick open the bedroom door and allow Sid to enter.
“Ellie . . .” Nicholas says the moment we’re left alone in the hallway. His use of my nickname says everything he doesn’t—namely, that we’re crammed together inside a tight spot with no means of escape.
“I know,” I say, grimacing. “And this isn’t even the worst part. There’s more.”
There’s no opportunity for me to tell him how much worse things are about to get. The information that the poison is missing and that Glenn and Birdie died under similarly questionable circumstances is going to have to wait. Sid emerges from the bedroom, ashen but intact.
“I think I’d like the support of your arm,” she says as she presses a handkerchief to her forehead. I assume she’s talking to Nicholas, but I’m the one she reaches for. “Thank you for giving me a moment alone with her. She seemed rather peaceful, don’t you think? The doctor said my father looked peaceful.”
“Death is peaceful,” I assure her as we begin our slow and laborious descent down the stairs. Sid wasn’t joking about wanting my arm to support her—she’s pressing down with what feels like her full body weight. “I know you have a somewhat tempestuous relationship with death as of late, but it’s not always a bad thing, I promise.”
Nicholas clears his throat, forcing me realize what I’ve just said—and how I’ve said it.
“Losing Birdie is terrible, of course,” I hasten to add. “A tragedy for us all. I only meant in the general way of things.”
Since the conversational burden seems to be mine and mine alone, I take a moment to add, “Thank you for the clothes, by the way. That velvet dress of mine was starting to become downright rancid.”
“Clothes?” Sid pauses to blink at me, taking in the sight of my new apparel as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh. I didn’t notice. Did Elspeth finally find your bags?”
Now it’s my turn to blink in bewilderment. I stick a finger in the ruffles and give the shirt a tug. The neckband is suddenly feeling awfully tight. “These aren’t yours?”
Sid’s trill of laughter is genuine, if a little forced. “I ought to have offered you something of mine days ago, but with one thing and another, I kept forgetting.” She pauses and looks at me anew. “Now that I think about it, those might have been my mother’s. Are they Laura Ashley? That’s how my brother got his name, you know. My mother adored her clothes.”
“You didn’t leave these on the foot of my bed?” I think of the similar stack of clothes at Birdie’s feet and suppress a shudder. It’s possible that Elspeth was the one who brought us both something to wear, but it’s equally likely—if not more—that the murderer was looking for a good excuse to slip in and out of our rooms.
“No, but I’d be happy to see if there’s anything else of my mother’s that might fit you. She was almost exactly your size.”
I thank her for the offer and leave it at that. Nicholas is watching me with the keen scrutiny of a man who knows I’m onto something, but he leaves it at that, too. As much as I’d like to rip these clothes off and dive into the bags under Birdie’s bed, I don’t dare.
Not until I have some answers.
And not until I get some of that coffee from Elspeth, either.
* * *
Everyone is gathered in the gilded salon when we arrive. Candles have been lit in their holders and the lamps set out, illuminating the room enough for us to hold a rational conversation. There’s
something about the warm, yellowing light of it that brings solace at a time when we need it most.
The entire party is present, with the sole exception of Elspeth, who is most likely putting together the breakfast requested by Sid.
“Ms. White will have to be taken to the mainland,” the doctor says by way of initiating the conversation. He stands in front of the fireplace with his hands behind his back, looking as authoritative and capable as he had that day on the train. There’s something about an emergency situation that brings out the best in him. “We can’t leave her here, and I imagine the coroner will want to perform an autopsy.”
“But didn’t you say she had food poisoning?” Sid asks from her perch on the arm of an overstuffed leather davenport. Her brother is on the seat next to her, the pair of them holding hands in a way that makes my heart wrench. Whatever else might be said about those two, loss has been a very real and painful thing in their lives. “Food poisoning could kill a person if it was bad enough, couldn’t it?”
Dr. Fulstead coughs lightly. “That’s what the autopsy will tell us. The sooner we get her to the mainland, the sooner we’ll all have the answers we seek.” His gaze moves across the room as he speaks, landing on each face as he does. There’s something ominous about the way he does it, as though each of us is being marked. It’s almost as if he knows that one of us is a murderer—that one of us could very easily murder again.
“I’ll prep my boat as soon as we’re done here,” Otis says. “I assume you’ll be coming, Dr. Fulstead?”
“Of course. I can be of no use to the poor woman now.”
Otis signals his agreement with a short nod. “Sid, I think you and Ashley should pack your things and join us.” At Sid’s wince, he draws close and pats her shoulder, allowing his hand to linger. “I know it’s not ideal. But you won’t be able to tell that she’s on the boat with you, and you can hardly wish to stay here any longer. It’s not . . .”
Several words spring to mind to complete that sentence: ideal, safe, sane. Even if Birdie’s death is nothing more than yet another coincidence in an impossible lineup of them, a few more days of this will have all of us foaming at the mouth.
