Frances pressed her hand to her forehead. ‘I don’t understand. You say you don’t believe in ghosts, and that the door was still locked, yet you put chairs under the knobs of both doors …?’
He glanced down the Gallery. Agnes had abandoned her game and run off. He beckoned Frances to the locked dressing-room door, and tried the handle. He indicated that Frances should do so, too. The door was still locked. Then Benson set his finger against the keyhole and brought it away smeared with some dark substance. Frances followed his example.
‘That’s oil, Miss. Someone’s oiled that lock and the hinges of the door, too. You could slip a key in and turn it as easily as if the lock were fitted yesterday. You could swing that door open without a whisper of sound. Ghosts don’t need to use oil on the locks of doors, do they?’
Frances smelt and tasted the stuff on her finger. Benson was right. It was oil.
‘I think someone’s got hold of the key to this door, Miss, and maybe he’s got the key to the bedroom door, too. I think someone came in by this dressing-room door last night, dressed up in some monkish gown or other. When that midwife saw them, they took fright, closed and locked the door and ran away.’
‘But why? What does it all mean?’
‘It means just what it’s supposed to mean, Miss. It means that the head of the House of Broome is in danger.’
A faint cry came from the sick-room.
‘Don’t forget to call him “Major”,’ said Benson again, as he followed Frances into the sick-room. Lord Broome was trying to raise himself from his pillows. He was not only conscious, but he knew who Benson was. He reached out his right hand to his batman, smiling, and trying to utter his name. The second time he got it right.
‘Why, Major!’ Benson’s voice was as indistinct as his master’s, but for a different reason. Frances busied herself with a rearrangement of the window curtains.
‘Home?’ said the sick man. His eyes went round the room. They stopped at Frances. He frowned, as if unsure where he’d seen her before. ‘Richard,’ he said. ‘Where’s Richard? This is his room ... his bed. Not here?’
‘He’s in London,’ gabbled Benson, giving the first excuse that came into his head. He picked up a basin of water but, made clumsy by emotion, spilt some on the coverlet. Frances took the basin and flannel off Benson and washed the sick man’s face and hands. Lord Broome’s eyes narrowed, observing her, but she did not speak, and neither did he. She knew that her colour was rising. She knew that she ought to say something — anything — make some commonplace remark about the weather, or ... anything to break the silence which was beginning to be significant. Yet she could think of nothing to say.
‘It’s Miss Chard, Major,’ said Benson. ‘She’s been put in charge, while you’re ill. Your aunt’s not feeling too good at the moment, and ...’
‘I remember you,’ said Lord Broome, speaking to Frances. ‘Nightmares ... and then you came.’ He frowned. Evidently his memory was still imperfect. ‘Singing?’ he asked, more in doubt that he had his facts right than as if he remembered what had happened exactly.
‘Are you hungry?’ said Frances, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. ‘Do you want anything? How do you feel?’
Before they could prevent him, Lord Broome had removed his left arm from the sling which Theo had put round his neck, and experimentally leaned on it. Gasping with pain, he fell back on his pillows. ‘As bad as ever,’ he said.
‘It would be, Major,’ said Benson, moving towards the door. ‘I’ll fetch Dr Kimpton. You’ve got a bullet in your arm that’s got to come out.’
Lord Broome raised his good hand. ‘Not that old woman. His hands shake. He’d hack me to death. Tell Richard. Telegraph him. A specialist from London.’
‘That will all take time,’ said Frances. ‘Benson, send for Dr Green. He can decide whether we should telegraph to London for a second opinion or not.’
‘I’d forgotten that Theo would be qualified by now.’ The sick man’s eyelids were sinking already. Frances held a glass of water to his lips and he drank. There was sweat on his forehead, and he breathed shallowly, trying to master the pain in his arm.
‘What shall I do?’ Benson hovered in the doorway.
‘Do as the Colonel says,’ instructed Lord Broome.
Frances laughed at Benson’s bewilderment. ‘He means me,’ she explained. ‘I’m the Colonel.’
‘Yes,’ said the sick man. ‘I remember you.’ And he smiled, too.
*
It was a dead hour in the day. In the gun-room Hugo and his uncle were puzzling over the dates on Miss Chard’s references. Maud was going through her wardrobe with her maid Meakins. Isabella was writing a letter to her curate while her grandmother slept. Agnes was sorting out a collection of things for Nurse to pack, ready for her visit to the Armstrongs.
The butler dozed at his post in the pantry. This was at the foot of the servants’ staircase, at the side of the gun-room. From this vantage point Spilkins was supposed to be able to keep an eye on everything that happened at the Court, and, to give him his due, he usually did know where every member of the family might happen to be at any given time. Benson found him in his usual chair, and asked that someone be sent to the village for Dr Green, urgently.
‘The doctor’s in with Mrs Broome,’ said Spilkins. ‘She’s had another attack. Glauber’s salts, that’s what she ought to take. Mrs Spilkins swore by them, when she was alive.’ He rang a bell, and Polly appeared. ‘The doctor’s wanted in the State Bedroom. Wait for him outside Mrs Broome’s apartments, and tell him when he comes out.’
The access to the tower apartments was through an ante-room at the junction of the Oak Gallery and the music-room, so back went Benson, with Polly chattering at his side.
‘I hope the doctor’s won’t be long,’ said Polly. ‘There’s company coming for tea. The Armstrongs are coming to fetch Miss Agnes and Nurse away, and the vicar is coming because he wants to see Lord Broome, and Dr Green is coming back to fetch Dr Kimpton because the old man’s not fit to ride in this weather.’
‘But Dr Green is with Mrs Broome now, isn’t he?’
‘Not he! She wouldn’t have him at any price. He won’t waste time buttering her up, that’s why.’
Benson was beginning to explain that he didn’t want to see Dr Kimpton when the latter appeared, with Mrs Broome on his arm.
‘Ah, Polly,’ said Mrs Broome. ‘Will you find Meakins for me at once?’ Meakins acted as maid to both mother and daughter. ‘I have mislaid my diamond bracelet, the one dear Richard gave me to mark his engagement to Maud. The catch was loose, I know. You haven’t seen it, by any chance?’
‘No, Ma’am. Meakins is with Miss Maud, Ma’am. I’ll fetch her. And please, Ma’am, the doctor’s wanted in the sick-room.’
‘My poor nephew,’ said Mrs Broome. ‘Worse, is he? Doctor, you will join us for tea in the hall when you have seen Gavin? I did mean to drop in on him this morning, but my head ...’
Rapid footsteps announced the approach of Theo Green, come to fetch his uncle. He bowed to Mrs Broome. ‘Mrs Broome, I’ve just heard in the village about Mrs Peach. I’m afraid I can’t persuade her to return. Would you like us to telegraph for another nurse from the agency in Lewes?’
‘I leave all that sort of thing to Miss Chard. She will know what to do for the best. Dear Dr Kimpton; your arm as far as the hall? I feel I would be happier with someone to lean on, after that attack ... and you really ought to take something for that cold of yours.’
The elder doctor was leaning against the panelling, trying to smother a cough. ‘Delighted ... tea would be delightful ... Theo, one minute ... his lordship has to be visited ...’
Benson pulled on Theo’s sleeves. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. It’s you that’s wanted to see the Major, but the servants thought your uncle ...’
‘That’s right. He’s in charge of the case. Uncle, you should be in bed. I brought the trap for you.’
Polly whispered in Benson’s ea
r that perhaps Miss Chard could persuade the young doctor to take the case since everyone knew that Dr Green was sweet on the governess.
‘Is he, now?’ said Benson to himself.
‘My bracelet ...’ said Mrs Broome, distractedly. She gave a ladylike little cough. ‘Gracious, but it is cold out here. There should be a good fire in the Great Hall. Doctor, your arm? Positively, you must stay for tea. I won’t take “no” for an answer. You can always see Gavin afterwards. I am sure there can’t be the least hurry in the matter. Sinking fast, I believe. Very sad. Polly, tell Meakins to look for my bracelet. Dr Green, I suppose you will take a cup of tea with us while you are waiting for your uncle?’
Doors along the Gallery were opening to disgorge members of the family, ready for the ritual of tea. They went off together, doctors and all. The ghostly cross chalked on the floorboards by Agnes earlier that day reminded Benson of the “monk’s” visit. He shivered. What with the indifference of the Broome family to his lordship’s sufferings, and the apathy of the servants, he felt as if he were shouting for help in a foreign language which no one understood.
Miss Chard came out of the sick-room. He told her what had happened. He saw that she thought he had not tried hard enough to get the young doctor. He felt defeated. ‘It’s a matter of etiquette,’ he tried to excuse himself and Theo. ‘He can’t take on his uncle’s case.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Chard. ‘You men are all the same. Etiquette, indeed! I’ll give him etiquette, when I see him.’
‘If you would have a word with him, Miss?’
Meakins, the black-clad ladies’ maid, interrupted them. With her pinched features and flat body, she was not a prepossessing figure, but she was devoted to Maud and, to a lesser extent, also to Mrs Broome.
‘Madam has mislaid her diamond bracelet,’ said Meakins to Miss Chard. ‘Have you seen it anywhere, Miss Chard?’ Her manner verged on the insolent, as if she were implying that the governess had stolen the bracelet. Miss Chard shook her head and said the bracelet would probably turn up. Meakins hesitated as if she would like to say something else, and then turned on her heel and walked off. She had a curious, gliding walk, which made it appear as if she moved on wheels.
‘Good riddance,’ said Benson, more or less under his breath as Meakins disappeared. ‘I can’t abide that woman. She’s probably stolen it herself. And the money that’s missing from the gun-room. Did you hear about that, Miss? They’re full of it, in the servants’ hall. Though from what I’ve seen of this place, the money could have gone at any time since Mr Richard was killed. They’re a careless lot around here. I asked if anyone had seen anything of our monkish visitor. Several of them said they had, but not since Mr Richard died. They seemed to think Mrs Peach saw one of the footmen who is courting Polly Dowding, because he was out of his quarters last night, late. He says he went to fetch some apples from the winter store for her, and that though he went through the cloisters, he didn’t go anywhere near the Gallery. Spilkins ought to have stopped the lad. The discipline here is terrible.’
‘Abel wouldn’t lie,’ said someone in a small voice behind them. It was Polly, and her cheeks were suspiciously red. ‘Really he wouldn’t, Miss Chard!’
‘I believe you,’ said Frances. ‘Run along and fetch Dr Green for me, will you, Polly? He’ll be having tea in the hall with the others. You needn’t let them know what I want him for.’
*
Theo was enjoying himself. When not exercising his calling, he liked to watch other people, and try to guess at the motives which lay behind their behaviour. To him, Mrs Broome was an uninteresting, selfish woman, who neglected her intelligent but gawky younger daughter to lavish attention on Maud. Of course Miss Broome was beautiful, but she was also proud and hard. At this very moment Mrs Broome was trying unsuccessfully to attract Maud’s attention, while Maud had eyes for no one but Hugo, and was refusing to heed the signals her mother was sending her. Now what was that all about?
Lady Amelia was stonewalling Mrs Armstrong’s questions about how long “dear Gavin” might be expected to last. The Armstrongs were worth a study in themselves; the General so upright, so distinguished, and so very much under the thumb of his diminutive lady. Mrs Armstrong was the uncrowned queen of the county and very conscious of her position. It was she who had been responsible for Gavin Broome’s ostracism after the inquest on Lilien Jervis, and it was she who was now loudest in condemning the police because they had so far failed to find the men who attacked him on the train.
Mr Manning and Isabella were sitting close together on the far side of the fire. It looked to Theo as if the girl had been crying. Mr Manning seemed to be trying to protect the girl from the prying eyes of the rest of the company. Why?
Polly slipped into the hall and stopped at Theo’s elbow. Could he spare a moment to speak with Miss Chard? It was urgent. Yes, Theo could always spare a moment to speak with Miss Chard. He abandoned his study of human nature to follow Polly to the Gallery.
‘At last,’ said Miss Chard. ‘Your bag! Where is it? You brought it with you?’
‘In the trap, but ...’
Frances sent Polly for the doctor’s bag, and explained rapidly but concisely why she had sent for him. Theo protested that he could not possibly offend his uncle by taking over Lord Broome’s case. She insisted that Lord Broome did not wish to see Dr Kimpton, and had asked for Theo by name.
‘You could always manage your uncle, if you chose,’ said Miss Chard. ‘He is not at all well, I understand. You could say you wished to save him the trouble of a routine call, just as you did last night. Or, if you prefer it, lay all the blame on me.’
‘I could not blame you for anything,’ said Theo. He took her hand. She looked startled, and the quick colour rushed into her face. She withdrew her hand, with a sharp movement which he interpreted as a rebuff. Theo had not until that moment realised that he loved Miss Chard. He went over his financial position in his mind; if his uncle were to retire, he could afford to marry quite soon. If Polly had not at that moment come running with his bag, he might have proposed to Frances, then and there.
‘You will remember not to call him by his title?’ said the object of his affections, her hand on the bedroom door. ‘He appears to be getting stronger all the time, but I am sure he is not yet ready to bear the shock of his brother’s death. All the servants have been warned ... but I am so afraid that a momentary lapse on the part of one of them might tell him the truth.’
There was a rustle of cloth somewhere behind them, and a door closed softly. Frances exchanged glances with Theo, and they went into the sick-room. There was no privacy in that house.
‘Theo!’ Lord Broome sat up and extended his good hand, smiling.
‘Why, old fellow — here’s a thing!’ A rush of affection made Theo cling to his patient’s hand even as his doctor’s reflexes absorbed the fact that his patient’s temperature was slightly up, and his eye too bright for perfect health. The agency nurse was sitting, sewing, by the window. Theo signed to her to assist him in making an examination, but Frances was there already, drawing back the bed-covers.
‘I came in last night to see how you were,’ said Theo, but you were asleep.’
‘I seem to have missed a lot,’ observed Lord Broome. ‘The nurse tells me it is Palm Sunday, and yet that’s snow falling outside, if I’m not mistaken. The last thing I remember clearly is the bad weather in the Bay of Biscay.’
‘You don’t remember how you came by the bullet in your arm, or those bumps on the head?’ Theo lifted his head to ask the nurse to bring a lamp, and there was Frances, already lighting one for him.
‘Won’t you enlighten me?’
It was Frances who replied, saying that he had been attacked and robbed coming home in the train from Lewes. His lordship frowned.
‘Did the police get anyone for it?’
‘No, not yet. You don’t remember your assailants?’
‘Trying to remember makes my head ache.’
The
o diverted him by asking for a full account of how he had come by the original injury to his arm. The nurse unwound the bandages, but it was Frances who helped the sick man move to one side of the bed so that Theo could inspect his injuries.
‘There’s been a truce since, hasn’t there?’ said Lord Broome. ‘Yes, of course. I tell you, if ever we’re forced to fight against the Boers again, we’ll be up against it. We have nothing as good as their rifles, and you can’t see them in their dun-coloured farm clothes; we’re sitting ducks in scarlet. It was at Majuba. January 29th. We had to charge up the hill at them. They picked off the officers, or went for our horses. Good strategy. My horse was hit and as I felt him begin to go down, Summers swerved across my path. He’d been hit, too. We went down in a heap, me swearing, the horses lashing out ... I felt the pain in my forearm, and I thought: What luck! To be struck by my own horse ... sharp as a razor, across the inside of my arm. I can remember thinking that I’d better get a tourniquet on it quickly, or I’d bleed to death ... then ... I can’t remember ... they say I walked back to camp, carrying Summers ... He died, poor fellow ... more died of fever than from their wounds ...’
His breath hissed softly between his teeth as Theo turned the mutilated arm this way and that. After a minute or two, he went on.
‘When I came to myself again, I was on board ship, with my arm in splints. They said I’d got to see some quack or other in London about my arm, because it wasn’t right. The bone was broken. They set it, but ...’
Fear for Frances Page 6
