Ames occupied my bedroom for many days. I sent at once for Simon Hargreaves, and Ted Breen outdid himself in seeing that we obtained the best which Washington medicine could offer. One of his mother’s favorite charities happened to be the Grosvenor Private Hospital, and Dr. Damon Smedley, chief of that fashionable institution, headed our list of daily visitors. Simon, of course, stayed at Broad Acres.
The specialists who anxiously congregated every evening in my drawing room appeared to believe that Ames had strained his heart on the long, arduous drive, and pointed out that if he died his heart would be responsible and not his lungs. X-rays of the right lung showed that the lesion was healing, but as I knew that a heart cruelly overstrained and carrying the load of incipient tuberculosis could abandon its burden with abrupt and chilling finality, I failed to draw any comfort from discussions so technical and so abstruse. The discussions and the dozens of ghostly-looking X-ray plates became important only when Ames began to mend, for then it developed that after a summer given over to rest and relaxation he would be able to enter school in the fall. I was privately informed that for the remainder of his life my nephew must avoid any violent shock, and I remember my solemn assurances that, of course, he would. That absurd, that impossible promise of mine returns to me now, and I recall with a feeling almost approaching nausea the serene complacency with which I gave it.
A boy of twenty makes a troublesome and fretful invalid, and Ames Enlow was no exception to the rule. It required all our energies—even Marian’s—to keep him entertained and reasonably quiet. Fred Brierly, who I fancy had always desired a son of his own, took a shy man’s liking to the gaunt and querulous boy, and in the evenings was eager to exhibit his talent at checkers or double Canfield.
Jane was almost too interested in her cousin. One of her admirers once described my niece as “a good little sport,” and the term sticks in my mind. Jane was all of that. She was also a remarkably pretty girl, and before Ames arrived her active social life had been a family joke. She was always rushing somewhere, often with Ted and often with the lads to whom he had introduced her. But Ames had the romantic appeal of the invalid and Jane was then barely nineteen. She decided and gravely told me that her cousin was more mature than the other boys she knew, more worthwhile. With equal gravity I agreed. Ames was already studying for his fall examinations, which I considered foolish, if admirable.
“And...” Jane added jealously, “personally I like his ears.”
It was hard for me not to smile. Marian had gone rather thoroughly into the topic of Ames’ ears at breakfast, acidly remarking that they must be a legacy from Chal. It was true that Ames had not inherited a trace of my older sister’s dark good looks, that he was red-haired and freckled, and that his ears were somewhat prominent, but then I have always distrusted handsome men. I reassured Jane.
“Of course,” my niece said thoughtfully, “I suppose Ted is better looking.”
I gave her a sharp look. Marian had been complaining at Jane s constant presence in the sickroom, but I seldom listened to my sister’s complaints. Jane’s tone, however, momentarily disturbed me. I daresay my expression must have been revealing.
Jane began to laugh. “You’re as bad as Mother! I mention any male, and you think instantly of the altar. Believe me, darling, I don’t intend to marry for years and years.”
I decided not to worry about the state of Jane’s affections, to let her manage her own affairs, which she was bound to do in any case. Although her list of suitors was seriously curtailed, I observed that she continued her morning rides with Ted. Indeed, she often brought him in to lunch with Ames. Curiously enough, the two young men, so different in background and temperament, appeared to like each other. To both of them, of course, Jane was perfect.
Fred Brierly and I noticed what was going on and took it with an equal lack of seriousness. Marian, however, was greatly exercised. Ted Breen had won her heart completely, and she firmly intended that in the course of time he should win Jane’s heart, too. This absurd partisanship was not so apparent while Ames was still con-fined to bed, but when he began his convalescence Jane fell into the habit of taking him on long drives with the transparent excuse of showing her western cousin the East. Marian invariably made herself an unwelcome third on these excursions whereas she rather conspicuously contrived that Ted and Jane be left alone.
Just what sort of turn this uncomfortable and ridiculous situation might have taken I am not prepared to say, for it was about then that two things happened. Ted’s mother gave up the idea of aiding indigent musicians in favor of a Bermuda summer, and Ted abruptly left Washington to join his family. Marian was both mystified and desolate. Perhaps because I made no effort to question Jane, it was I to whom she confided something that Marian would have given a great deal to know. Ted had proposed, and my niece had turned him down.
“But don’t tell Mother. Mother,” said Jane dispassionately, “would probably cable him to come straight back to Washington. He’ll be back anyway this fall.”
I ventured a careful question. “Then you didn’t give him a definite answer.”
“I thought,” said Jane candidly, “I did. But Ted insisted I spend the summer thinking.”
“You,” I said slowly, “you aren’t thinking about Ames, my dear. He isn’t well, he—”
“I’m not thinking,” said Jane, “of anyone.” She leaned to kiss me. “When I begin to think, Aunt Margaret, I’ll tell you first. But I won’t promise you can change my mind.”
Two days after this conversation, and while Marian was still lamenting Ted’s departure, I came down with the six weeks’ illness which was to complete the demoralization of that ill-starred summer. First Ames and then myself, and if his illness had a logical excuse, mine had none at all. After typhoid fever had virtually disappeared from medical experience I managed to pick it up.
Dr. Damon Smedley, who had hardly left the house before he returned to it, had actually seen so little typhoid fever, that, misled by my blinding headache, fluttering pulse and erratic temperature, he treated me for influenza. Then, luckily enough, on the eleventh day I broke out in the characteristic rose spots, and thereafter, what with the boiling of every drop of water consumed on the place, my own hourly baths, the constant sterilization and changing of my bedding, we went into a state of siege. I had sent for Verity even before I was ill enough to be confined to bed, and thereafter, in those conscious flashes which were interspersed between my hours of raving and delirium, I was heartily glad I had. The sight of her old sensible face, beneath the ridiculous cap she had worn since I remembered her, was a comfort in itself.
Perhaps, like most people who have recovered from a serious illness, I have been guilty of discussing it in too great detail. I hasten to add that my illness plays a definite part in my story, for it gave Marian the excuse to bring Dorothy Fithian into the house. Dorothy Fithian was a trained nurse, who like Dr. Smedley came from Grosvenor Private Hospital, and she came highly recommended by the Breens. It was Dorothy Fithian’s violent and mysterious death which led off our crimes.
But that was not until late September, and in the interim I grew to know her as well as Dorothy chose that I should know her. She was a dark, sulky creature past her first youth and I gathered that she had been recently widowed, although she requested that we address her as “Miss.” I gathered also that her husband had never supported her, and I couldn’t feel that she particularly lamented his loss, although I do recall the mournful pride with which she confided the rather surprising amount she had spent upon the funeral. I learned the cost of the headstone, and its approximate size. Any conversation with Dorothy turned inevitably to money—she was a “have-not” and wanted her status clearly understood. I wasn’t fond of Dorothy Fithian, but I must admit that she was efficient enough in a sickroom. I can see her now, quietly raising or lowering the shades, rearranging my pillows or marking up my temperature chart with the professional impersonality which was so much a part of her.
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p; She tried to be pleasant, I know, but her surface amiability—the sweet, automatic smile, the lilting inquiry as to how “we are feeling today”—only served to irritate me, for it could not conceal her profound indifference as to whether I survived or not. Perhaps I was not entirely fair; I have the small-town distrust of trained nurses, a distrust which my own father instilled in me, and when Dr. Smedley very early in my illness requested that a day nurse be put on the case I balked. His arguments failed to move me. I had the obstinate irrationality of the sick, and in my condition I couldn’t face the type of paid care which Dorothy was later to give to me. I wanted Verity’s love and sympathy, and such assistance as the immediate members of my family were prepared to offer, voluntarily, freely and because I was one of their own.
This attitude was, of course, ridiculous.
I was delirious when Marian brought in Dorothy Fithian, and Dr. Smedley tells me that if she had not been there to carry out his orders I would not be writing this account today.
Marian liked Dorothy from the beginning. She was taken in by an air of studied demureness, a manner of subtle deference, and she was too impressed by Dorothy’s tales of intimacy with the Breens to wonder at the possible significance of those bold, hard eyes. Ted might be absent, but he wasn’t missing from Marian’s thoughts. One of Dorothy’s favorite stories—I heard it frequently—dealt with Ted’s acute appendicitis, and how she had pulled him through it. To hear her talk, only nursing care had saved the young man’s life.
Fred Brierly also appeared to like the nurse. But Fred was male, and far more unworldly than the average man. His own feelings toward Dorothy were confused and complicated by his stubborn conviction that she was a young, inexperienced girl struggling valiantly to keep afloat in an uncertain world. Dorothy Fithian was well past thirty when he reached this remarkable conclusion.
The children, Jane and Ames, had a much better understanding of Dorothy’s true character. They sided enthusiastically with me, when, during my convalescence, I announced my intention of letting the nurse go. So did Verity. But then Verity disliked and distrusted any young woman not related to her by blood. There are several reasons, none of which seem particularly valid now, why Dorothy Fithian remained in my home after I was up and around. For one thing Dr. Smedley insisted that in typhoid there was always the danger of a subsequent relapse, and he didn’t appear to feel that I possessed sufficient wit to detect the initial stages of a second attack.
“Miss Fithian,” he said, “should stay on here through September anyway. You’ve been a very sick woman, and at your age—” he coughed and corrected himself, “or at any other age, it’s foolish to take unnecessary risks where an infectious disease is concerned. Naturally, the final decision must rest with you.”
Both Marian and Fred Brierly stood solidly with the physician. Indeed, Fred became quite angry.
“You aren’t the easiest person in the world to take care of, Margaret,” he said. “The poor girl’s worn herself to skin and bone, and now when it’s going to be easier sledding I call it a shame that you should politely toss her out.”
The upshot of these various conversations was that Dorothy Fithian remained. Gradually, and more and more, as I grew stronger, she subtly deprived me of her services and transferred them to Marian. Her allegiance had always been in that quarter. Dorothy took my temperature but she mended Marian’s clothes, displaying a nice talent in needlework. If she wanted a few extra hours off, it was my sister to whom she appealed. If there were letters which Marian hadn’t time to write; Dorothy was glad to get them off. My own correspondence was never mentioned, and my un-mended clothes were left to Verity.
Marian, deeply flattered, treated the girl as a member of the family. I must say it was in this light that Dorothy appeared to consider herself. She thought nothing of raiding the ice box at any hour, she took it upon herself to rearrange the furniture in the library, she enraged the gardener by cutting his choicest flowers. These she placed in Marian’s room.
Early in September, when college opened, it became necessary for Ames to move in to Washington. Ames was to spend his weekends with us, but on that first evening of his absence the house did seem appallingly empty. Jane wandered around, as restless as a ghost, and snapped at everyone who spoke to her. Fred Brierly seemed lost without the customary game of checkers. As for me I I wondered whether, in a racketing fraternity house, my nephew would obtain sufficient sleep.
“Of course he will,” said Marian unsympathetically. “Maybe now he’s gone, Jane can get some, too. I, for one, I am glad to see them separated.”
Dorothy was seated near us, sewing snaps on one of Marian’s frocks. She looked up from the task. Briefly her eyes and my sister’s met in a look of mutual triumph. I realized then that the two were allies in my sister Marian’s plans for Jane.
I almost reached my boiling point. I checked myself by the reflection that Dorothy Fithian would leave us on October 1st.
She was murdered on the night of September 27th.
3
September 27th was a cold, rainy, unseasonable day. It started disagreeably. My cousin Verity woke up in one of her officious moods, and made such trouble in the kitchen that for a while it appeared the whole staff would walk out. Our servants were colored, and Verity’s grievance had something to do with the disappearance of half a ham which I had planned to serve at luncheon. No one knew what had become of the ham. The denials were general, but Verity’s cross-examination was so outraged and so thorough that I feared we would have no lunch at all, unless we cooked it ourselves.
Straightening out this difficulty, placating Verity on the one hand and the servants on the other, occupied my morning. In the afternoon I had a second blow. Simon Hargreaves had accepted an invitation from Dr. Smedley and had come down to Washington to attend a medical convention. He was staying with us. I had hoped he would spend a week and he had half agreed, but in the afternoon he received a wire recalling him to Vermont. I was both vexed and hurt; I had enjoyed his short visit and thought, perhaps illogically, that if he had really desired to lengthen it he could have managed.
We were a gloomy group at dinner. Verity was sulking, obviously to pay me off for not dismissing the “thieves who stole my substance”—her own phrase, by the way. Simon’s thoughts, or so I imagined, were already in Vermont, and he was very silent. Marian and Fred were going to the theater, so the meal was served early. Marian was preoccupied with whether they would catch the rising curtain, and Fred, who detested the theater, was plainly hoping that they wouldn’t. Jane, too, seemed in poor spirits.
Of what Dorothy Fithian was thinking I have no idea. She was not a talkative young woman, and so far as I can recollect she didn’t utter a word during that last meal of hers.
After dinner we scattered. Marian and Fred went upstairs to dress. Simon, with a wry, apologetic smile at me, went up to pack. Verity noisily clumped off to bed. Jane and Dorothy Fithian also disappeared.
I was left alone in the drawing room. I felt weary and dispirited. Simon’s imminent departure depressed me more than I cared to admit. He was a link with a simpler, less complicated life, and an easier person for me to please and understand than the members of my, own family.
Dorothy Fithian came downstairs first. It was exactly quarter past six when she appeared in the large, oak-beamed reception room which adjoined the drawing room. The heavy draperies which separated the two rooms in the winter-time were not yet up, and I could see her clearly.
I called, “Are you going out, Dorothy?”
“If you don’t mind,” she replied coolly.
What possible .difference my minding would have made I don’t know, for she was already dressed for the street. She was indeed wearing a wine-red military cape with a matching beret which I had bought for Jane the spring previous.
I said a trifle sharply, “Did Jane give you the cape?”
“Your sister did.” There was a long silence. Then Dorothy came slowly into the drawing room. Her face
was quite pale. “I know you don’t like me, Miss Tilbury, and I suppose you don’t like my having the coat. That’s what you meant, isn’t it? Sometimes, you’ll never know how often, I wish that I were rich enough to give it back. To give back all the many, many things I’ve taken because I had to.”
It was her closest approach to frankness. I felt, or I think now that I felt, the meretricious appeal in it, but in my astonishment and embarrassment I came nearer to liking her than I had ever come before. I said something confusedly about the becomingness of the cape, and I believe I attempted to convince her that the acidulous tone she had discerned in my voice was only surprise. I had, I said, intended to give her a similar garment as a parting gift.
Dorothy Fithian was not stupid. “Don’t bother, Miss Tilbury,” she said with a half-contemptuous smile. “I know what you think of me—what your niece and nephew think. As it happens I’ve heard the three of you discussing me. More than once. It doesn’t matter really. I won’t be around much longer.”
With which she sauntered to the window, looked out and remarked that it was a lousy evening, an observation in which I was happy to concur. My own embarrassment did not appear to have affected her. She hummed a little tune, and seemed obscurely pleased with herself. Beneath one arm she carried a large flat envelope purse. Turning from the window, she opened the purse, removed a small gilt vanity case—it was an unusual hexagonal shape—and began to daub powder on an already thickly powdered face.
She laid the open purse on a chair, and I glimpsed its untidy interior. A squashed package of cigarettes, a clinical thermometer, a lipstick and a box of aspirin, a thick bundle of envelopes—which I recognized as household stationery—held together by a rubber band.
The Strawstack Murders Page 2
