Fear for Frances

by Veronica Heley

  Theo beckoned to her. ‘They say the agency nurse is unfit, so you will have to assist me. Find yourself an apron, or you may soil your dress.’

  ‘I know nothing of such things,’ said Frances, eyeing the sharp blades on the table near by. When Theo tested the edge of a small saw, she gasped, guessing it was intended for use during amputations.

  ‘You will not faint?’ said Theo.

  ‘Of course she won’t,’ said Lord Broome, doing his best to smile at her.

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ said Frances. Polly handed her an apron, and she put it on. Spilkins had appeared and was dispersing his staff about their normal duties, scolding as he did so. From the ante-room she could hear the rise and fall of the vicar’s voice in prayer.

  Theo hovered over his patient, rolling up the sleeve of his nightgown. ‘I’d like to give you an anaesthetic. Miss Chard can administer it.’

  ‘No,’ said Lord Broome. ‘I can stand pain, and I like to see what’s going on.’

  ‘Take the edge off it with brandy?’ suggested Theo.

  ‘No,’ said Lord Broome. ‘But have some yourself, by all means.’ He grinned at Theo. ‘I know just what you feel like. You’ll be all right once you start.’

  Theo rolled up his own shirt-sleeves, and pulled on an ancient apron, discoloured and encrusted with dried blood. Frances judged his nerves to be in a worse state than Lord Broome’s. Theo’s hands trembled as he positioned Lord Broome’s arm. Lord Broome said something to Theo which she did not catch, but whatever it was, the young doctor laughed, and this seemed to steady him.

  ‘No sense in hoping for a miracle,’ he said, setting to work. ‘No anaesthetic, no qualified assistance ... badly bruised ... badly cut ... I can see where the bullet went in, but where is it now, eh?’ He kneaded the arm, feeling for the bullet. Lord Broome, who had been lying with his head turned to the window and his eyes open, released his hold on the stopper. It fell off the improvised operating table and rolled between Frances’ feet. She remarked in a small voice that she rather thought their patient had fainted.

  ‘Just as well,’ grunted Theo. ‘This may be a long job. I think I can feel ... yes, I’m sure I felt it just then ... but getting it out without doing any further damage ... the very devil is in it ...’

  Frances could feel the eyes of the servants on her. She felt useless, standing there, doing nothing. One footman and one maid had been left at each end of the Gallery to await orders and keep visitors out. In spite of the chill of the Gallery, Theo’s face soon became red with exertion. Suddenly he began to fling orders at her. ‘Hand me this ... not that ... the next one along ...’ Leaning over to hand Theo a knife, she caught a whiff of sweat and blood which caused vomit to rise in her throat. She fought it down, clinging to the chest. Theo shouted, ‘Brandy!’ She lifted her head to repeat his request, thinking that at all costs she must stay on her feet, and saw Benson heaving his guts out into a bowl nearby. Polly lifted her hand in token that she had understood, and vanished. ‘Take it easy!’ said Theo. Her hands trembled. She dropped a knife Theo passed to her, and it fell to the floor. Her hands were smeared with blood. The brandy arrived. At Theo’s direction, Polly poured out a generous measure, and told Frances to drink it. After that, Frances’ stomach obeyed her, and her hands obeyed Theo.

  It seemed a long time before Theo drew a distorted bullet from Lord Broome’s arm, and began the task of repair. Frances’ fingers flew at the doctor’s command. He commended her. When Lord Broome stirred back into consciousness, Frances put the stopper back into his right hand and told him that they had nearly finished. His eyes were glazed with pain, but he neither moaned nor cried out. Finally Theo sounded his patient’s chest with his stethoscope, and stood back, motioning the footmen to carry Lord Broome back to bed. By that time both doctor and nurse were tired to the point of dropping. Their arms, their clothes and their faces were spattered with blood. Frances thought her dress was ruined, for she had not been able to afford good material, and it would shrink in the wash. Her mind dwelled alternately on the smile which Lord Broome had given her as he was borne away, and the fact that in his half-waking state that morning he had told her something of importance, that he had indeed dived into the water to rescue the drowning woman. “The weeds nearly got me, that time”, he had said. Whom had he thought he was speaking to, in his re-creation of the fatal moments in which Lilien Jervis had drowned? In his nightmare he had been speaking to someone, that was certain. When he had given evidence, Lord Broome had implied that he had been alone when Lilien fell into the river, but Frances was now sure that he had had company on that occasion. But if so, why had the other person not spoken up to support the story which Major Broome had told at the inquest?

  ‘Well, I’ve done what I can,’ said Theo, as he removed his apron and began to put his knives away. ‘If that wound becomes infected, he’s likely to die, anyway. He must be watched, night and day. He mustn’t be left alone, whatever happens. His heart and lungs are sound. With luck, he may pull through, but we don’t want any more interference, do we? You do understand what I’m talking about?’

  The servants were already clearing away the evidence of the operation under Spilkins’s direction. The butler was agitated. The young ladies wished to return to their rooms ... luncheon was going to be late ... hurry, girl! Theo took her elbow and walked her to the far end of the Gallery, where there were no servants to overhear them.

  ‘I’ll be back this evening to have another look at him. If he is going to pull through, he’ll make a rapid recovery. But if the fever returns, or if ... am I imagining things, Frances?’

  She thought of monkish visitors and missing keys, and shook her head.

  ‘I promise he’ll be watched round the clock. Which reminds me; you ought to see the agency nurse before you go. She really has been very ill.’

  ‘Yes. Do you think that her sickness ...? No, it couldn’t be the same, could it? Frances.’ He hesitated. ‘You don’t object to my calling you Frances?’

  ‘No, Theo. I don’t object.’

  His ugly face split in a grin. And you’ll remember what we spoke of earlier? You will not forget?’

  ‘I am not likely to forget anything that has happened this morning, but I am not likely to change my mind about marrying you, either.’ She put her hand on his arm to soften her refusal, but her eyes were steady.

  *

  By the time Theo came to make his report to Hugo, he had begun to doubt his recollections of what he had actually said on the subject of sending for his old chief. Could he be absolutely sure that he had asked for the telegram to be sent to Sir Stanley Ellis? Had he perhaps mumbled the name, in his preoccupation with his own troubles?

  Thus it was that the doctor answered the questions put to him by Hugo and Mr Manning somewhat at random. They put his abstraction down to worry about his patient, and assured Theo that they knew he had done his best.

  After the doctor had gone, Hugo said to his uncle that he supposed the operation had been necessary, although personally he would have allowed the poor beggar to die in peace. Doctors were all alike, said Hugo. Never happy unless they were cutting you up.

  ‘A more important question,’ said Mr Manning, ‘is what we are to do about Miss Chard. Her aunt’s telegram made it clear that she lied to Mrs Broome about the length of time she was teaching in Bath. Shall you telegraph this woman, Mrs Palfrey, for details?’

  ‘Yes, I think I must. There may be nothing in it, but we cannot be too careful when the education of the young is at stake.’

  ‘Young Doctor Green seems to think highly of her. By the way, if that new Will hasn’t been sent off to the solicitors yet, I’d be glad of another look at it.’

  Hugo’s hand went to a certain drawer in the bureau while his fingers sought for the key on his key-ring. The drawer, which ought to have been locked, opened under his hand. He rose from his chair, and looked inside the drawer. ‘It’s not there,’ he said. And then, ‘But it must be! You saw me put the W
ill in there, didn’t you? And I’m sure I locked the drawer, afterwards.’

  He ransacked the bureau, but the Will, like the money which had been left there by Richard, had disappeared. The bell was rung and Spilkins, who had been on the point of announcing luncheon, was cross-questioned instead about visitors to the gun-room. Spilkins declared that he knew nothing about the new Will, and neither — or so they said — did any of the servants when they were questioned by Hugo. What did emerge from the enquiry was that a spare key to the bureau was usually kept in a tobacco jar on the mantelpiece in the gun-room, and that everyone knew of it. It had been put there because Master Richard had once lost the key to the bureau, with all his papers locked up inside it. As to visitors to the gun-room, it was impossible to tell. The servants would pass its door a dozen times a day on their way to the Great Hall and the dining-room. As for the family, Spilkins could not — or would not — be drawn.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Mr Manning to Hugo, in an undertone. ‘We cannot ask the servants to inform on their employers. We must ask the family ourselves.’

  The Broome family were waiting in the Great Hall for lunch to be announced. The vicar and his curate had suspended their prayers to join them. Mr Manning broke the news to them of the Will’s disappearance, while Hugo chewed on an unlit cigar. Mrs Broome cried out, and reached for her salts. Lady Amelia’s jaw dropped, and she blinked. Isabella wondered aloud if she would be restored to her previous position as heiress.

  Maud sprang to her feet and stared at Hugo. She wanted to know if he intended this development to make any difference to his conduct towards her. Was she as desirable to him without her inheritance? Hugo seemed unable to answer. For the first time since his arrival at the Court, he was less than composed. Whether or no he intended to repulse her, Maud evidently thought that he did. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth and screamed. Such a breach of good manners was bad, but what followed was worse. Her skirts swinging, Maud leaped upon Isabella and, seizing her by the shoulders, began to shake her.

  ‘You! You stole it!’ she panted. ‘You thieving snake! You ...!’ She pulled Isabella out of her seat. ‘Give it back!’

  A red mark appeared on Isabella’s cheek and her hair tumbled down as Maud slapped her. Isabella began to weep. She begged Maud to let her go. Maud did not hear her. Twining her fingers in her cousin’s curls, Maud threw Isabella to the floor and began to beat her head against the floor. All was uproar. The vicar was calling upon Maud to desist, Mr Manning was trying to seize one of Maud’s hands.

  ‘I’ll tear it out of you! Tell me where you put it! You ...’

  It took the combined efforts of Mr Manning, the vicar and the curate to pull Maud off Isabella, and by that time the poor girl was a shivering wreck of her former self. As soon as she found herself physically restrained, Maud commanded herself sufficiently to stand still.

  ‘Send for the police,’ she said. ‘Search her room. Look in the writing desk that she uses. Strip her bed. Strip her. Maybe she’s got it on her at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, Maud!’ cried Mrs Broome, in tears. ‘How could you!’

  Isabella hobbled to her godmother, and sank in tears at her feet. Lady Amelia, white-faced, helped the trembling girl to her feet and announced that if someone would be so kind as to summon their maid, she thought they had better retire to their rooms. They would naturally be leaving the Court as soon as their things had been packed. Mr Manning made as if to help Lady Amelia, who was trembling almost as much as her granddaughter, but the old lady refused his assistance as she led Isabella from the room.

  ‘I shall go for the police myself if you don’t send for them,’ said Maud. ‘I do not intend to be defrauded of my rights by that — that whey-faced chit. If none of you are men enough to protect me, I must take steps to protect myself.’ And here she looked at Hugo, who had taken no part in the scuffle, but was standing in his usual place on the hearth-rug.

  ‘No police,’ said Mr Manning. ‘We can settle this without a scandal. I think I can persuade Amelia to stay, and to agree that a search is made of their rooms, provided that we also agree to a search being made of our own rooms. You may start with mine, if you wish. Hugo ...?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugo heavily. ‘That’s a good idea. If only it hasn’t been destroyed already. I can see no other reason why it should have been taken.’

  ‘If you please, sir,’ said Spilkins. He had been an interested but unnoticed spectator of the scene. ‘Would this solve your problem?’ He proffered a silver salver on which lay a folded sheet of paper. ‘I found this note in the pocket of my coat just now. Someone must have put it there while it was hanging on its peg in the pantry. Or perhaps it’s been there since last night. I didn’t look in the pocket until just now, when I wanted a pencil. It seems to explain everything.’

  Hugo took the note and read it to himself. He exclaimed, ‘Gracious Heavens!’

  He held up his hand to attract everyone’s attention. ‘Listen to this, everyone. I’ll read it out to you. “Are you so stupid that you can’t see what’s under your nose? Benson is carrying the stolen gold on him, in a body belt. Nothing went wrong till he arrived, and he’s been at the bottom of everything that’s gone wrong since. Can’t you see that he made up that story about two men getting into the carriage at Lewes? Can’t you see that it was he who attacked and robbed his master?” There’s no date on it, and it’s signed “A Friend”.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The idea of searching the Court was abandoned. A message was sent up by two of the footmen to the sick-room, to ask Benson to present himself forthwith in the Great Hall. Frances was not there; worn out, she had given Polly her stained dress and lain down on her bed to sleep. The agency nurse was not there; although recovering, she was still in her room. Lord Broome was fast asleep; he had not moved since he was laid back in his bed, and he was so deeply asleep that he did not even hear the altercation over his head.

  ‘I don’t care what Mr Hugo wants me for,’ said Benson. ‘I’m not leaving the Major alone.’

  One of the footmen volunteered to take a turn at the bedside. Benson scrutinised him from head to toe, and demanded to know his name. It was Abel, the lad who had been suspected of dressing up as a monk the other night. Benson hummed and hawed and said all right, he supposed Abel would do for a while, and that if the Major stirred, someone must go for Miss Chard at once.

  In the Great Hall the family were still waiting for their luncheon. Lady Amelia and Isabella had been called back to witness the confrontation with Benson, and a good many of the servants had managed to crowd into the doorway to hear and see what they could.

  Mr Manning read the anonymous note out to Benson, and asked if he had anything to say.

  ‘No,’ said Benson, more annoyed at being taken from his post than afraid. ‘Except it’s obviously a load of nonsense. What would I want to harm the Major for?’

  ‘For the legacy he’d left you in his first Will. When you found out he’d made another Will you were very upset, weren’t you?’

  ‘Well, I did wonder what was going on. It wasn’t like him to change his mind without telling me.’

  ‘So you stole the second Will from the bureau, as you’d previously stolen your master’s money, and the money Lord Richard had left there.’

  ‘What the blazes ...?’ demanded Benson.

  ‘If you are innocent, you won’t object to being searched, will you?’

  ‘Stop!’ cried Benson, as hands were laid on him. ‘Of course I’ve got his money on me. I don’t mind showing you, if you keep your hands off!’

  ‘You admit it, then?’

  ‘He gave it me to carry for him when we landed ...’

  ‘A likely tale!’

  Benson pulled up his shirt and took off a body belt that was girt around him. In silence, Hugo Broome took the belt off the batman, and counted out twenty-seven gold sovereigns from the belt on to the table.

  ‘Where is Mrs Broome’s bracelet?’ he asked. ‘And the re
st of the money you stole from the gun-room? This is only part of it. And where is the missing Will? Have you destroyed it already? Confess, or it will be the worse for you.’

  ‘I have nothing to confess. And give that money back. It’s not yours, it’s the Major’s.’

  ‘We are very well aware of that. All right,’ to the footmen. ‘Take him away. Lock him up in some secure place — one of the store-rooms in the old part of the house will do. And send Arling to fetch the police from Lewes.’

  Only then did Benson realise the danger of his position. He did not go quietly when they laid hands on him, and his shouts and the sound of the blows he gave and received echoed round the Great Hall. Unfortunately for him, the Court was solidly built, and the noise did not penetrate to the schoolroom, or to the State Bedroom. Those who might have defended him were sound asleep.

  Over lunch, Hugo summed up the position.

  ‘So, now we have the evidence to prove that Benson attacked his master, and that he made up that story about two men entering the compartment at Lewes. I must say it is a relief to have that business cleared up. But we don’t have my aunt’s bracelet, the balance of the money from the gun-room, or the missing Will.’

  ‘Meakins told me that Benson has been seen playing cards in the village with a bad type of man. Perhaps he’s lost the rest of Richard’s money, gambling. And maybe Mama’s bracelet went the same way.’

  ‘And he would have destroyed the second Will,’ said Mr Manning. ‘Knowing that it cut him out of any share of Gavin’s money. I wonder what he did to cause Gavin to disinherit him. Perhaps if Gavin had learned that his batman was addicted to gambling ...?’

  ‘What about the Will?’ Maud asked the question which was in all their minds. ‘Does Isabella inherit? Doesn’t the fact that we all know there was a second Will and can testify to it in court, mean that the second Will should stand?’