* * * *
Slowly, as the days went by, I grew stronger. When at last I felt able to walk a little, I asked Mary to assist me along the corridor to Nadine’s room.
She was lying back upon the pillows of her sofa, looking pale and wan, the little Pekingese in its customary place on her lap. When Nadine saw who it was, she tried to rally a little.
“Sarah, my dearest. What a dreadful, dreadful thing to have happened to us. It was two days before they told me that you also had been taken ill. Was it not almost beyond bearing—the pain, the vicious burning in one’s throat? I remember wishing that Dr. Bates would let me quietly slip away and die. Was it as bad for you?”
“It was very unpleasant,” I admitted.
“Oh, Sarah, you are braver than I, that is evident.” Her brow creased into a frown. “It is a complete mystery how the poison could have got into our tea. Jerome is moving heaven and earth to discover what happened, you can be sure of that. The culprit must be exposed.”
“The—the culprit?” I stammered.
“Yes, the wretch who was so careless in handling arsenic. Someone in the servant’s hall is to blame for what you and I have suffered.”
“So you believe it was an accident, Nadine?”
For a moment she seemed baffled by my remark. Then understanding came to her, and she looked appalled.
“Sarah, you aren’t seriously suggesting it might have been deliberate? Who would be mad enough to want to kill two perfectly innocent people? No, my dear, it can only be your state of depression that has given you such a monstrous idea. Dr. Bates warned me, as I imagined he warned you, too, that we must expect to be weak and in low spirits for some time yet.”
“But Nadine,” I began, and faltered to a stop. How could I possibly tell her that she, and she alone, had been the intended victim of poisoning? How could I possibly announce baldly that her husband had attempted to murder her?
* * * *
Ginny, I gathered, had been sent away on the day following the “accident,” it having been arranged for her to stay for a while with the rector and his wife at the parsonage.
One morning she was brought to Farracombe Court to visit the two invalids, and the moment she walked into my room I noticed the change in her. She seemed much less tense. I was deeply touched when she gave me an affectionate hug and expressed her heartfelt thanks that I was out of danger.
“Thank you, Ginny dear. And what about you? It looks as if you’re enjoying yourself at the parsonage.”
Her eyes shone. “Oh yes, I am. Mrs. Balfour has asked her niece Adele to stay while I am there, to be company for me. Adele is a nice girl, and she’s exactly the same age as me—just a few weeks older. Lucky girl, she has three brothers and two sisters, and they live over at Ilfracombe. Adele says she’ll invite me there for a visit, if I like.” A flicker of doubt crossed Ginny’s face. “Do you think Nadine will let me go, Sarah?”
“I’m quite sure she will,” I told her, thinking of the pact that Nadine and I had made.
But if Ginny looked more relaxed, Thirza’s state of anxiety seemed to be worse than ever. She would sit perched on the edge of the chair when she came to see me, her eyes darting about nervously but never meeting mine. More often than not, I caught the smell of brandy upon her breath. Oscar dropped in several times. He made an effort to be his usual flirtatious self, but somehow he didn’t quite succeed. Even Uncle Joshua made the painful journey to my room on one occasion, aided by Rudd. His inquiry about my progress was made grudgingly, and I knew he had come to see me purely from a sense of duty.
And Jerome came, too.
He came often. But observing that I did not wish to talk, he spoke little himself. He spent most of the time prowling slowly around the room, hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes looking deeply troubled.
Jerome was in love with me, I still believed that. But what a terrible, distorted kind of emotion it must be, I thought, which enabled him to scheme ruthlessly to murder the woman who stood between us. I shuddered, remembering that Jerome had also loved my sister once—until Felicity’s pregnancy had threatened his position and he had disposed of her.
Covertly, from beneath my lashes, I watched Jerome as he paced the crimson carpet. Despite everything, I could not forget those magical moments in his office when he had drawn me into his arms and my heart had soared with joy at the prospect of his kiss. I could not forget those taut, breathless minutes at the hunting lodge when all pretense had been wiped away, and we had suddenly faced the knowledge of our love for one another.
The truth was that I loved him still. What use to deny it, when my deepest instincts insisted otherwise? If Jerome were to come and fold me into his arms at this very moment, I had no confidence that I could steel myself to resist him.
Hating my weakness, I decided that I was almost as despicable a creature as Jerome himself.
The days went drifting slowly by. I clung to the sanctuary of my room long after I was strong enough to leave it, knowing in my heart that I was postponing the need to take some positive action about the attempt on Nadine’s life. When the restriction of staying in one room bore too heavily upon me, I took to wandering the upstairs corridors. One afternoon I paused by the upper staircase, gazing at the curtained archway which led up to the Long Gallery. I felt a curious compulsion to go up there. It was almost as if I were being urged on by some unseen hand.
I had not realized quite how weak I was still. The effort of climbing the stairs made my legs tremble and they almost buckled beneath me. But I reached the Long Gallery safely, and sank thankfully into the nearest chair.
As I recovered a little, I became aware of the deep silence. It was always quiet up here, but today there seemed to be an atmosphere of breathless hush. Through one of the alcove windows I saw a solitary raven fly past with slow and powerful wingbeats, its glossy black plumage glistening in the sunlight.
I stood up and began to wander around, recalling the happy times of the past in an effort to thrust back the grim, frightening present. With my fingertips I lightly stroked the tall walnut-cased clock which during my childhood had ticked loudly and ponderously, chiming out each quarter-hour. But it was silent now. I wondered when anyone had last troubled to wind it. On top of the spinet stood an ivory and ebony casket. I lifted the lid and took out one of the chess pieces— the red king. He looked fierce and warlike, his features delicately carved by some unknown Chinese craftsman centuries ago.
Wandering on, I drew back the tapestry curtain concealing the cupboards which held all the paraphernalia of our childhood—dressing-up clothes for charades, toys and games, drawing books and paints and colored chalks ... Everything was stacked away neatly. Finchy had always insisted on tidiness, claiming that it bred an orderly mind.
At random I drew out a sketch pad, and recognized it as one of Felicity’s. She had been clever with her pencil, and her drawings impressed me as much now as they had done in the past. Ginny as a saucy-eyed little girl of about four, a caricature of Finchy with her finger upraised reprovingly. A sketch of me, looking rather solemn. I put the sketchbook back on the shelf, because looking at it had brought a lump to my throat.
There were dolls galore, some of them expensive and beautiful, then the grubby, well-worn, cuddly toys that had received our deepest devotion. I spotted one of my own favorites—Leo, an amiable-looking lion with most of his whiskers missing. Reaching up to the highest shelf of all, I found a bagatelle board, a Noah’s Ark, and a peep show which I remembered making with Felicity one wet afternoon. I peered through the small circular hole at one end, and magically there was a realistic woodland scene, with little fairy people dancing among the trees.
As I was replacing the peep show, I saw another box pushed to the back of the shelf. I had to balance on tiptoe to reach it and my fingers clumsily caught the edge so that it suddenly uptilted, falling toward me. I was at once cascaded with dozens of tiny colored balls which bounced and skittered on the floorboards, rolling here, th
ere, and everywhere.
Of course, my mosaic set! It had been a birthday present from my mother when I was ten—or was it eleven? I had spent countless hours playing with it, devising intricate and colorful patterns on the perforated frame. Now I was faced with the task of gathering up all the spilled balls, or the set would be incomplete. Not that it really mattered, I supposed. Was it likely that there would ever be children again at Farracombe Court to play up here in the Long Gallery? No, I thought bleakly, not until all the Lefevres were dead and gone.
Even so, I began to collect the mosaic balls, carefully dropping them back into the partitions of the box. But I soon found that the simple effort of bending was exhausting me. I sat down at the table to get my breath back, and idly stirred the little balls with my finger. It was odd, but I did not recall there had been any black ones in the set. Yellow and red and blue and green and purple—but surely not black?
I took up a black one and studied it closely. It didn’t look as shiny as the others and at one point there was a flaw in the smooth surface. Puzzled, I slipped a pin from my hair and prodded the rough spot. A chalky substance began to powder away till I had picked a thin hole clean through the center to the other side. It appeared to be some sort of bead.
Thoughtfully, I moistened my fingertip and rubbed at the black surface. The color came off where I touched, revealing a creamy, pearly sheen.
Pearly!
In a fever, I took out my handkerchief and began to rub vigorously. A moment later the little ball was revealed in its full splendor—a beautiful opalescent sphere, perfect in every detail. One of a necklet of pearls.
Two more of the black colored balls I discovered to be just the same. Forgetting about being tired, I began to search the floor until I was certain I had gathered up every single one to be found. Wrapping them in my handkerchief, I hastened downstairs to my room. I crossed to the washstand, poured a little water into the hand basin, and dropped in the blackened pearls. I rubbed them with my face flannel, rinsed them in fresh water, and dried them gently on a towel. Then, taking up one pearl at a time, I started to pick out the chalky white substance with which the holes had been filled.
When my task was complete I arranged the pearls carefully on the top of my dressing table, forming them into a ring the size and shape of the necklet I remembered. Here at long last was the proof I had been seeking. My sister was innocent of the theft for which she stood condemned.
But in clearing Felicity’s name I had uncovered a new and deeper mystery. Who had removed the pearl necklet from my uncle’s room? And for what motive? For what reason had the pearls been hidden away in a toy cupboard in the Long Gallery, blackened and disguised to look like the pieces in a child’s mosaic set?
Despite the golden sunlight outside my window, the room seemed to have gone dark and cold. Though I felt infinitely relieved on Felicity’s behalf, I was gripped by a sense of foreboding, a feeling of evil about to be revealed.
* * *
Chapter 13
“Mary tells me that you want to see me,” said Thirza, peering around my door uncertainly. “She says it’s very urgent.”
“It is, Aunt Thirza. Come in and shut the door, will you? I want you to look at something I have here.”
She came padding across the room, and I indicated the pearls laid out on my dressing table.
“They’re very beautiful, Sarah,” she said in a puzzled voice. “They look like real pearls to me.”
“Oh yes, they’re certainly real! At one time they were strung into a magnificent necklet with a silver clasp. These are the pearls my sister is supposed to have stolen.”
Thirza gasped, taking an unsteady backward step.
“Are you sure of that, Sarah? But where have they been all this time? Where did you find them?”
As briefly as possible, I told her how it had happened.
“It was almost—almost as if I were meant to find them,” I added. “I cannot explain. A kind of compulsion took me up to the Long Gallery and made me look through the things in the toy cupboards. Even so, I would probably not have noticed these painted-over pearls if I’d not spilled the mosaic set all over the floor.” I took a deep breath. “You realize what this means, don’t you, Aunt Thirza?”
She didn’t answer me. Her eyes as they met mine were huge and dark with fear.
“It means,” I continued, “that Felicity did not steal the pearls from Uncle Joshua. I never could believe that she did, and this proves I was right. Someone else removed them and hid them in the Long Gallery.”
“Who? Do you know who?”
I shook my head unhappily.
“Have you spoken to anyone about this, Sarah?”
“No, not yet. As soon as I had the pearls cleaned up, I summoned Mary and asked her to fetch you.”
Thirza nodded, deep in thought. I had a curious feeling that despite the shock of hearing about my discovery, she was somehow more in command of herself than for a long time past.
“What made you decide to speak to me about this?” she asked at length. “Why me?”
“I had to tell someone.”
“I believe that you suspect one of the others, don’t you, Sarah? Which one?”
It had seemed a simple matter to send for Thirza and share with her the burden of my discovery. Now that she was here, however, what was I to tell her?
She imagined that my only concern was with the theft of the pearls and my sister’s proven innocence, but there was so much more involved. The enormity of it all seemed to overwhelm me suddenly. I covered my face with my hands and it was all I could do not to sob.
After a moment I felt the gentle pressure of Thirza’s arm about my shoulders.
“Come, my dear, you must tell me everything. Do not be afraid of speaking out. You can trust me, you know, and together we can decide what is to be done.”
I dropped my hands and looked at her, blinking back my tears.
“I think—oh, it sounds dreadful, but I believe that it might be Jerome! Please tell me I’m wrong, Aunt Thirza. Tell me that it is impossible.”
She seemed astonished. “But why Jerome? What makes you think it could possibly be Jerome? What would he have had to gain by taking his father’s pearls and hiding them away? They would eventually have become his, in any case.”
“I don’t know why—except to try and bring discredit on Felicity. You see, I think she must have been expecting a baby.”
Thirza gave a startled cry, and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh no, not that.”
She groped her way to the bed and sank down upon it, her face drained of color. Then slowly she lifted her head, looking puzzled. “If this is true about your sister, do you mean that you believe Jerome was the father?”
I felt too numbed to make any response. I just stood there gazing at her helplessly. Thirza jumped to her feet again in a kind of fever, and clutched my arm with a bruising grip.
“Sarah, answer me. What reason have you for thinking that Jerome was the father?”
At that moment there came a tap on the door, freezing us both into stillness. Then, quickly, Thirza crossed to the dressing table, swept up the pearls, and dropped them out of sight into one of the little drawers.
“You had better see who it is, Sarah.”
I went and opened the door. Nadine’s maid Phelps stood there.
“Is Mrs. Sellick with you, Miss Sarah? Madam is asking for her.”
“Yes—yes, she’s here.” I turned to Thirza. “Nadine wants you.”
“Then I had better go to her.” Thirza had regained control of herself. She glanced in the looking glass of my dressing table, and stroked back a wisp of straying hair. Then, straightening her cuffs, she walked to the door. “I will come back later, Sarah, and we will resume our conversation. Meanwhile, I suggest that you do nothing—about what we’ve been discussing.”
I was only too thankful to follow Thirza’s advice, and do nothing. In any case, I didn’t know what to do. I felt incredibly tir
ed suddenly, drained of all energy. I lay down on my bed with the intention of resting for a little while, and fell asleep almost at once.
* * * *
I was awakened by a scream, a high-pitched, piercing scream from somewhere close at hand. Then shouting voices and running footsteps. I sprang up quickly from my bed—too quickly, for my head spun and I had to steady myself for a moment or two before hurrying to the door.
Rudd and one of the footmen were standing in the doorway of Nadine’s room, and I saw the horror-struck expressions on their faces. I ran up and pushed my way between them. Nadine lay on the floor at the foot of her sofa in a crumpled heap. Phelps was crouched over her, sobbing hysterically.
“Oh, Miss Sarah,” she gasped. “It’s dreadful. I think Madam is dead.”
“Oh, no,” I cried.
I knelt down and took Nadine’s hand. It was limp and lifeless, and I could detect no sign of a pulse at her wrist. I shrank from looking at her face, for her lovely features were distorted as though she had suffered fearful agony. Her legs were twisted grotesquely beneath her body.
“I came in just now to fetch little Foo-foo for her evening exercise,” Phelps said brokenly, “and I found Madam like this. Oh, poor Madam. Why didn’t she ring for help when she was took bad?”
Instinctively, we both of us turned to look at the bellrope, which was normally looped over a hook so that Nadine could easily reach it from her sofa. But it had dropped from its fixture—or had been deliberately unhooked, I thought, with an extra jab of horror—and now it hung close against the wall, too far away for Nadine to stretch across, however desperately she tried.
There was no doubt in my mind what had caused Nadine’s death. I had been near to death myself from the same poison. By the same hand. I felt consumed by a terrible sense of guilt. If only I had spoken out in time, instead of skulking like a coward in my room, I might have prevented this tragedy.
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