A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Phoebe exchanged a glance with her sister, and Amelia whispered, “What would she be doing in the conservatory?”

  Phoebe shrugged. She took Amelia’s hand and together they crept along the rear wall. They reached the first of the infirmary windows and came to an abrupt halt. Jane and Nurse Delacy were visible inside.

  Is this where Jane had been coming, not only during her stay at Foxwood Hall, but all the times she had been tardy to her lessons here at school? How could it be otherwise? Jane had broken from the cover of the chapel garden and with singular purpose rushed straight here. The conservatory door had been unlocked, as if Nurse Delacy had been expecting her.

  Nurse Delacy, who perhaps had killed a man. No matter how much she might have ended a man’s suffering— and indeed his suffering must have been unimaginable—if the woman had taken matters into her own hands, she had acted contrary to the purpose and principles of a nurse, whose job it was to help heal, to provide comfort, and to carry out a doctor’s orders. Perhaps in her mind she had acted out of good intentions and not malice, but that didn’t change the fact that Nurse Delacy surely must have snapped if she held a pillow to a man’s face until he would never breathe again. And what about the day Lilyanne slashed her knee on the tennis court, and again when Miss Finch died? True, the nurse could not have altered the outcome of Miss Finch’s poisoning, but she did not know that when Amelia ran to fetch her.

  Surely her delay in reaching the dining hall had been the result of her tumultuous state of mind. But had she delayed intentionally? Had her diseased mind led her to plant cyanide where Zara—or Lilyanne, it turned out—would find it and use it in the Madeira cake? Perhaps just enough for the cake and no other recipe?

  Whatever reasons had brought Jane here, she could have no idea the potential danger she put herself in. As Phoebe had learned only months ago, one could never predict how and when a troubled individual might snap again.

  Inside the infirmary, a single desk lamp emitted a dull yellow pool of light. However, it was enough for Phoebe to make out the scene. Jane and Nurse Delacy sat together, not at the desk, but on one of the iron-framed beds. They had their arms around each other, with Olivia Delacy’s resting on Jane’s shoulder. Most astonishing of all, Jane rocked gently back and forth while the notes of a lullaby crooned in her smooth soprano were just audible through the glass.

  “What on earth?” Amelia whispered.

  Phoebe merely shook her head to silence her sister. Jane’s back was to her, but she could make out enough of the nurse’s face to see that her eyes were open. More than open, they gaped like hollow wells of darkness and fear, staring into some point Phoebe judged to be far beyond the walls of the infirmary. What did Nurse Delacy see that etched such horror into the lines and planes of her face, holding them as taut as a death mask surrounded by the frazzled cloud of her strawlike hair?

  Amelia saw it, too, for she murmured in a strangled voice, “Phoebe, look at her.”

  Phoebe wrapped an arm around her sister. Transfixed, she continued to watch Jane and the nurse.

  Jane’s singing continued for several minutes, until the distant dread faded from Nurse Delacy’s eyes. That awful grip on her features relaxed, and her focus shifted to the room around her. Phoebe instinctively knew she had returned to the present. Slowly, she and Jane pulled apart. Jane spoke, albeit too low for Phoebe to hear. The nurse nodded, and they quickly embraced again.

  Both woman rose. Amelia tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Jane will be coming out now. Let’s go.”

  “No. Not this time.” Phoebe pushed to her feet and helped Amelia up beside her. She led her sister to the conservatory and the unlocked French door. Jane reached it at almost the same time, was only a few feet away on the other side of the glass when she spotted Phoebe and Amelia. She pulled up short as if she’d nearly hit a wall.

  Phoebe opened the door and stepped in. “So this is where you’ve been going, Jane.”

  Surprise held the girl silent. Nurse Delacy came into the conservatory. She must have seen Phoebe and Amelia outside the infirmary. She approached the door and calmly said, “Come in, Lady Phoebe. Lady Amelia.”

  “I shall come in, Nurse, but my sister will not be joining us—” A quick protest from Amelia prompted Phoebe to gesture with a terse motion behind her. “Nor will Jane remain here. You girls are both to go straight home. You can return the way Jane came, the way she has been using for days now.” She shook her head, not knowing whether to be disgusted with the girl’s subterfuge, or vastly relieved no harm had come to her because of it. “Jane, you and I shall speak of this when I get home.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Lady Phoebe.” The girl moved to the nurse’s side. “You don’t understand. I am needed here.”

  Phoebe breathed through a wave of frustration. She wanted both girls gone, wanted them safe. Nurse Delacy stood as placidly as you please, but who knew? She spoke to Jane, but kept her eyes on the nurse. “If you were needed so badly, Jane, you might have explained yourself to us rather than go sneaking about behind our backs.”

  “If you’re staying, Phoebe,” Amelia said, “I’m staying, too.”

  “No, you are not. Nurse and I will talk. Whatever explanations there are for Jane to be here, she can enlighten me.”

  “You don’t understand,” Jane repeated. Her voice rose, and she clenched her fists at her sides. “This is all none of your business. Olivia and I—”

  “Jane, go.” Nurse Delacy touched Jane’s shoulder. “It’s all right. Lady Phoebe and I will talk. You and her sister needn’t be here.”

  An agony of indecision written clearly on her face, Jane turned to face her. “But . . . I understand you. They don’t. They never can.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Once Jane and Amelia were gone, Nurse Delacy led Phoebe back into the infirmary. She sat at her desk, still calm for all appearances, except she snatched up a pen and began tapping it against the desktop in an erratic beat that grated on Phoebe’s nerves. The clicking of the woman’s heel against the floor provided a counter rhythm that further irritated her. Phoebe hesitated. She would have felt more comfortable closer to the outside door. Then she realized they were not alone here at Haverleigh. If she needed help, she didn’t doubt her ability to rouse the staff to action.

  She dragged a chair to the opposite side of the desk.

  The irksome tattoo continued. The nurse’s pale eyebrows climbed her furrowed brow. “Well, Lady Phoebe, don’t you fear being left alone with me?”

  Phoebe heard the sardonic tone but chose to ignore it. “Actually, yes, a little. Why shouldn’t I be?” She placed the flats of her palms on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m not the only person who is indecisive about having you about.”

  “Ah, yes. You visited my parents, didn’t you? My father drove to the next village and telephoned me that very afternoon. To warn me. And to apologize. It seems he and Mum felt rather remorseful for some of the things they said to you.”

  “I can assure you, they said nothing damning. In fact, they expressed a great deal of pride in you.”

  “But you sensed their hesitancy all the same.”

  “Yes.” Phoebe straightened and leaned back in her chair. She did not, however, fully relax. “Why has Jane been coming here?”

  “Because as she said, my lady, she understands. She has an older brother at home who is not the same man who went to war over three years ago. Not the same by any means. Just as I am not the same woman who traveled to France to do her bit for king and country.”

  “You’re saying—”

  The tapping abruptly ceased. With a slap to the desktop that made Phoebe wince, Nurse Delacy sprang to her feet. “I am saying we witnessed horrors you could never imagine in your most terrifying nightmares. While you, Lady Phoebe, were safe in your bed at night, men like Jane’s brother and women like me found ourselves surrounded by bloody limbs and burned bodies, by soldiers shot apart, screaming and begging for death. By hopelessness and despair. Can yo
u imagine it, Lady Phoebe? Can you even begin to imagine it?”

  Phoebe found herself pressing back against her chair in an effort to put distance between herself and this avenging battlefield apparition with its wild hair and fierce eyes and fiery complexion. True fear slithered up her spine.

  And yet, she had been asked a question, and not to answer, to sit there gawking and cowering, would be to deny the very existence of the horrors lodging in Nurse Delacy’s mind. She had served in the war and had suffered for her pains, and she deserved acknowledgment for her sacrifices.

  “No.” Phoebe thought briefly of the one dismembered, bloody digit she had seen last winter. Shocking for someone in her sheltered world, perhaps, but nothing compared to the things Nurse Delacy had witnessed. “I could never imagine it.”

  “Good.” Nurse Delacy, suddenly calm again, resumed her seat. Whether her reply of good had been because Phoebe could not imagine such horrors, or because she had simply answered the question, Phoebe couldn’t say. “Jane understands. She understood what was happening to me better than I did myself. When her brother came home, he shook constantly, flinched at everything that moved, and awakened in the night screaming in terror. Jane helped him simply by holding him and singing to him. She was able to reach inside him when nothing and no one else could. You heard her singing to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “She helps me when the memories creep too close. Miss Finch’s death . . .” Nurse Delacy squeezed her eyes shut, her pale lashes disappearing into the deep creases that formed. Then she opened her eyes and stretched her arms out on the desktop. One by one she pushed her sleeves up, slowly, pointedly, and turned her forearms upward. Puzzled, Phoebe merely waited.

  “Look into the crooks of my elbows.”

  Phoebe craned slightly forward. “What am I supposed . . .” She fell silent as tiny pink marks on Nurse Delacy’s skin took shape in the dim light. On both arms, those blemishes, the size of pinpricks, created a telltale pattern. Her stomach sank. During the war years, she had heard vague stories about doctors and nurses using their access to medications to dull their own horrors. Feeling queasy, she glanced up, meeting the nurse’s pale eyes.

  The woman nodded. “Yes, my lady. I believe you understand. Before Jane, I had morphia. Not all the time, mind you, not enough to become dependent, but whenever I could no longer stand the images flashing behind my eyes.”

  “I . . .”

  “You needn’t say anything. I’m through with it. Of that much I can assure you. I wouldn’t have shown you otherwise.”

  “I’m glad. There is hope, then, isn’t there?”

  “For me?” The nurse shrugged. “I should have rushed to the dining hall that day, but when your sister came for me, I couldn’t move. Simply could not move. Because I knew I’d be useless. So damnably useless.”

  Phoebe agreed, but admitting as much wouldn’t help matters now. “As it happened, there was nothing you could have done.”

  “Perhaps not.” The nurse stared at Phoebe for several long moments, until Phoebe’s defensive instincts rose, as if she were being interrogated, instead of the other way around. “Do you think I killed her? Miss Finch, I mean. That I snapped and decided Miss Finch needed to die?”

  Though it hadn’t been mentioned, the ghost of the soldier who had perhaps died by the nurse’s hand hovered between them. Phoebe once again felt compelled to be honest. “I have considered it as a possibility.” She swallowed audibly. “Did you kill her?”

  Once again the nurse took her time in answering, drawing out the moments as if for dramatic effect. “No. Can you believe that?”

  “I’d like to.”

  Nurse Delacy looked away. “Perhaps you should go, Lady Phoebe. We have reached an impasse and it isn’t likely to be solved today. You needn’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. But do understand, Miss Finch hired me knowing full well what I am. Don’t look so surprised. She knew and she gave me a chance. You’re probably thinking she shouldn’t have.”

  Phoebe couldn’t deny questioning the wisdom of a headmistress hiring a woman who couldn’t be fully trusted, much less around children. “Why do you continue nursing if it’s so difficult for you? If it brings back such horrific memories?”

  She treated Phoebe to mirthless smile. “Haven’t you heard? I’m what the newspapers are terming a surplus woman. Most of my generation are. With so many men gone, our chances of marrying are practically nil. There is nothing left but to work and makes one’s own way in the world. And quite frankly, nursing is all I know how to do.”

  “Surplus women,” Phoebe repeated. She understood the disproportion the war had created between men and women, especially those in their twenties and thirties, but she hadn’t heard it put quite that way before. “What a dreadful way to label an entire generation of women, as if they were nothing more than the remnants of last year’s harvest taking up space in a warehouse.”

  “That’s correct, my lady, remnants of a pre-War harvest. I am certainly one. And so might you be, too, if you haven’t already got yourself a man. If you do, I suggest you hold on to to him tightly, for others will soon be trying to wrest him from your grasp. Gentlewomen certainly aren’t immune, for we lost as many officers as enlisted men. More, by some estimates.”

  Those words sent a shock through Phoebe, though perhaps not for the reason Nurse Delacy would have thought. Did Phoebe have a man? Did she want one?

  Her thoughts turned to Owen—handsome, confident, and always somewhat larger than life. At times he seemed to show an interest in her, and she couldn’t deny an interest in him. Even if she tried to deny it, those infernal blushes that she only recently had begun to master in his presence would have painted her a liar. But although Owen had kissed her at Christmas and now seemed intent on hanging about to keep an eye on her, he never said a word about his intentions. Did he have any? Was this merely a flirtation on his part? Or perhaps merely brotherly concern. She didn’t know.

  Grams wanted Julia married as soon as possible, and then it would be Phoebe’s turn. She had always considered this obligation an annoyance, and while many young women her age poured their efforts into securing an appropriate husband, Phoebe thus far hadn’t felt the urge to do so. Except now . . . now the notion unsettled her that someone else might reach for Owen before she’d had a chance to make up her mind.

  She became aware of the nurse watching her with an indulgent air, as if she could read Phoebe’s thoughts. Then the woman came to her feet, briskly, as though she had work to do and a schedule to maintain. Never mind that her infirmary stood vacant. “Is there anything else at present, my lady? I suppose you’ll have some harsh words for Jane when you see her again. Do remember she is a good girl. She means well.”

  Phoebe rose and gathered her coat around her. “She should not have gone sneaking about.”

  “She did that for me, my lady. Can you blame her for wishing to protect my position and my privacy? There are those who would regard people like me, and Jane’s brother, as incompetent and no longer of any use to society. But now that you know the truth, I suppose it’s for you to decide if I am to be of any use to this school in future.”

  Phoebe made no reply. The nurse spoke true. Phoebe understood more of the facts now, but the question of whether Olivia Delacy should remain at Haverleigh had yet to be answered to her satisfaction. Obviously, the governing board had no inkling of the woman’s true history. Was it right to keep the information from them? However much Miss Finch had trusted and sympathized with Nurse Delacy, she had hired her under false pretenses. Phoebe wasn’t entirely convinced Miss Finch hadn’t paid a heavy price for her actions.

  She almost left the way she had arrived—through the French windows. But no, she would not exit the building like a thief. Her reasons for coming here were justified. She strode from the infirmary into the main corridor that led to the front of the house. Though she heard a few far-off voices from the upstairs, all lay quiet on the ground floor.

  She got
as far as the headmistress’s office. The door stood halfway open, and not a sound issued from within. Odd. She couldn’t resist peeking in. She saw no sign of Miss Sedgewick, but her perfume hung over the room as if she had been there recently. The sight that greeted her sent her across the threshold. The candlestick telephone lay on its side on the desk, the ear trumpet having been tossed down inches from its cradle. The buzzing of a broken connection filled the air. A crumpled bit of paper littered the floor near a leg of the desk, as if someone had missed the wastebasket—except the bin sat at the other side of the desk.

  Upon closer inspection she discovered one of the desk drawers yawning so wide, it nearly fell from its brackets. The desk chair had been left at an awkward angle. What could have precipitated such disorder in Miss Sedgewick’s office? Was there a break-in, as she and Eva had broken into the filing cabinet days ago?

  She bent to scoop up the crumpled paper and smoothed it open on the blotter. Phoebe’s eyes went wide. The Haverleigh governing body’s letterhead emblazoned the top of the page above a short letter addressed to Miss Sedgewick. They advised her a new headmistress would soon be chosen, and she herself would retain the position of assistant.

  Did Grams know about this? Holding the letter, Phoebe backed away from the desk and lowered herself into the chair. She wondered when the missive had arrived. It was early yet for the post, but perhaps it came in the day before and Miss Sedgewick only opened it this morning. The contents had obviously angered her—even enraged her. Only a burst of extreme emotion could have prompted a well-bred gentlewoman to toss paper to the floor, knock over a telephone, and leave her office in such pell-mell fashion.