by Joan Lambert
As she went down the hall, however, she almost ran into Dr. Bernstein himself. “Over here,” he hissed. “Come quickly. I must speak to you!”
Baffled, Laura followed him. Dr Bernstein grabbed her arm and pulled her into a recessed area behind some telephone booths. With a forceful shove, he pinned her body against the wall. Laura gasped. Was this lust or something more ominous?
She tried to push him away, but he outweighed her by fifty pounds or more, and he was unexpectedly strong. Twisting her arms behind her, he pressed his shiny round head into her windpipe, cutting off most of her air. His pudgy belly squirmed against her hips with the unbridled enthusiasm of a teenager, while his damp palms slid up and down her body in a travesty of an intimate caress, ranging like a demented massage machine from breast to belly to upper thighs and back again. Perspiration dripped from his face, and his eyes were glazed, almost manic. He reeked of garlic.
A choking sound came from Laura’s throat as he nibbled her neck with moist pink lips that crept ever closer to her mouth. If he got there she would throw up all over him…
At just that moment Lady Longtree came into the hall. Peering helplessly over Dr. Bernstein’s shoulder, Laura flashed a desperate appeal for help with her eyes.
To her dismay, Lady Longtree took one look and dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. Leaning heavily on her ever-present umbrella, she heaved and writhed with mirth, all without making a sound.
Furious, Laura kicked savagely in the direction of Dr. Bernstein’s shins. Her foot missed its mark, but her effort seemed to rouse Lady Longtree.
Uttering a discreet cough to disguise a chortle, she wandered toward the coat rack, tossing her umbrella to the ground with a thump as she went. “Now I wonder where I left those gloves,” she murmured absent-mindedly and rummaged in the pocket of her coat.
Dr. Bernstein froze; then he leaped away from Laura and headed for the men’s room at a trot, his backside bouncing with each step.
“Thanks a lot!” Laura exploded, picking up the fallen umbrella and handing it back to its owner.
“I did provide help eventually,” Lady Longtree protested mildly. “But I am sorry, my dear. Still, if you could have seen your face, and his very round bottom grinding away. It positively quivered…” She leaned on her umbrella, once again helpless with laughter.
“I suppose it was funny,” Laura conceded, and managed a smile. “If you’ll keep watch so he doesn’t waylay me again, I’ll go wash my hands - maybe even my neck,” she added. She shivered. “He really was pretty awful,” she confessed.
Lady Longtree sobered. “Yes, I imagine he was,” she agreed. “Actually, now that I’ve had time to consider the incident sensibly, Dr. Bernstein looked almost as if he were frisking you, if that’s the right word,” she mused unexpectedly.
“Frisking me?” Laura repeated in disbelief. “But why would he do that?”
“Presumably to find out if you have any weapons concealed beneath your girdle, which I strongly suspect he still thinks women wear since he hasn’t looked for himself for a very long time,” Lady Longtree replied.
“He wasn’t wearing a wig,” Laura said suddenly, as an image of Dr. Bernstein’s bald pate snuggling against her neck flashed into her mind. It had been damp with sweat, and surely no one could sweat right thorough a wig. “I mean a bald wig,” she explained.
“No, I don’t think he wears one,” Lady Longtree agreed. “It is too bad, don’t you think? He makes such a good villain.”
“Very much too bad,” Laura agreed, heading for the ladies room to wash off what she could of Dr. Bernstein’s amorous predations. Had he really been frisking her instead of feeling her up, as her daughter had called similar efforts on the part of teen-aged boys? Now that she thought about it, his hands had made a thorough survey of her body.
Preoccupied with these speculations, she almost collided with Mrs. Takara in front of the ladies room. Apologizing profusely, Mrs. Takara scuttled into a booth.
Margaret was still in there, and Violet was just leaving. Better not to mention her recent encounter with Dr. Bernstein to either of them, Laura decided. Both disliked the man sufficiently as it was. Instead, she told Margaret she agreed with her about nurses and admired her courage in speaking out.
“Thank you.” Margaret blushed, almost painfully, and Laura wondered if anyone had ever praised her before. To relieve her from saying anything further, Laura turned to Violet and asked if she was coming to the Cathedral.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Violet replied, rummaging through the huge bag she always carried on one shoulder. It was almost the size of a small suitcase, and Laura wondered what on earth Violet kept in its depths. “But don’t be surprised if I leave early,” Violet added as she closed the bag and went toward the door. “I’m a bit allergic to long stays in Cathedrals, and I like choral music, but only so much of it.”
Laura smiled sympathetically. “I feel that way about sermons and lengthy services, but I love choral music, so I’ll probably stay for all of that.”
Violet flashed a grin and sauntered out, her long legs taking the sort of elastic strides Laura could only dream of. Shoving her envy aside, she tackled her neck with soggy paper towels that dribbled cooling water down her unprotected back. She tossed the towels into the wastebasket and wished she could toss them straight into Dr. Bernstein’s perspiring face instead.
When she emerged Lady Longtree was still there as promised, and so was Alan, ready to escort them to the Cathedral. There was no sign of Dr. Bernstein.
Laura forced herself to focus on her surroundings. Wells was the smallest city in England, she remembered the guidebook telling her, and was renowned for its medieval walled precinct which enclosed the twelfth century Cathedral and the Bishop’s Palace. A moat with a small curved bridge led to Vicar’s Close, which was the last known home of a famous cross found in Arthur’s grave, as well as being the oldest continuously used street in the country. Laura decided to look for it after the performance.
The Wells Cathedral stood in glorious isolation on an expanse of lawn, and the sight of its magnificent statue-covered façade erased any lingering revulsion left by her encounter with Dr. Bernstein. The inside of the building was equally impressive. Alan pointed out its most salient characteristics: the ancient clock that struck each quarter hour as jousting knights paraded in and out, and the unique “scissor arches” that had saved the building from collapse. The arch above the nave came together in the center, and then curved out again in another longer arch that rested on the floor. One arch right side up, the other upside down, Laura thought, in layman’s terms. It was a simple and beautiful design, as well as a practical one.
The clock struck and they watched in delight as the knights jousted on schedule, then an usher told them they should take seats. Laura noticed that when Amy entered a pew she dropped to her knees, looking troubled and uncertain. Margaret sat stiffly beside her, but she didn’t look at Amy or touch her. Actually, Laura thought, she had never seen Margaret touch anyone, except to shake hands. How very sad.
The singing began, transporting Laura into a realm of pure pleasure. The voices were rich and strong; they rose into the arched spaces of the Cathedral, seeming to linger around the listeners like invisible clouds. Laura sat entranced until the rehearsal was over. Then, with a deep sigh of repletion, she headed for the doors. The others were still sitting, digesting the music, except for the Takaras, who hurried toward the altar, cameras at the ready, probably hoping for photos of the choristers. Violet had left too.
Laura’s attention was riveted by Dr. Bernstein. He rose from his seat and seemed poised to intercept her. Ducking across a pew, she darted out the other end and hurried to the door at the fastest pace she could manage without breaking into an undignified run. Outside, she sprinted for the nearest refuge, a large pedestal with a statue, and hid behind it. Dr. Bernstein stepped outside, looking perplexed by her sudden disappearance. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went in again.
<
br /> Relieved, Laura walked across the little bridge over the moat to Vicar’s Close. The small streets were twisty and full of shadows. She tried to imagine the black-gowned figures of the medieval choristers, for whom the Close had been built, hurrying back to their Spartan stone dwellings. How cold they must have been in winter!
She was aware suddenly of footsteps behind her. Had Dr. Bernstein managed to follow her despite her caution? Laura ducked into an alley to let the person pass so she could see who it was, but the footsteps stopped. Anger, unexpected and sharp, surged in her. She decided to foil the man. If he was Dr. Bernstein she would give him a piece of her mind; if he was the man who had followed her in Glastonbury who was trying out jeans instead of his trench coat, she would confront him and maybe even get rid of him. If he was the father…Well, she would deal with that if it happened.
Darting out of the alley, she walked rapidly back, giving her follower no time to get away. Not Dr. Bernstein, she realized. This man was younger, huskier. Nor was he the trench coat man, who was tall and slender. Or the father, thank goodness.
Unable to escape, he stared at her impassively; then he turned into a side street. Laura stared after him. He wasn’t a distinctive man, just an ordinary one, rather swarthy, but she was certain she had seen him before. She looked again at his retreating back. She had seen him walk away from her before, too…
Of course! The man in the teashop in Bath! The one she and Violet and Lady Longtree and William had retreated to after Joe had been run down. The man had sat studying a racing form and then gone into a back room to phone in his bet, or so she had assumed as she watched his retreating back.
How crazy! Or was it? Maybe horse racing hadn’t been the man’s real interest; maybe he had been watching her, phoning in a report on her. In fact, she could have been under surveillance by this man, maybe the trench coat and a blue jeans man as well, ever since she had found the baby in the Baths. Maybe the trench coat man had even been searching her room just before she had run into him. She remembered the mess in her closet, the unpleasant smell of disinfectant. Fingerprinting?
Laura frowned. Something nagged at her, as if she hadn’t got the man’s identity quite right. She turned into the narrow street her pursuer had taken, hoping for another look at him. It led her to a second bridge, a bigger one. She started across but ducked quickly behind a stone bulwark when she spotted three people huddled on the far side, talking softly. One of them was the man she had just seen. But who were the others?
The Takaras, she saw in astonishment. She had thought they were taking pictures in the Cathedral. And why were they talking to the man who had been following her? It made no sense at all.
The three moved off, and Laura turned to go back. Footsteps sounded again, not behind her this time, but running away from her. That was a welcome change.
Too curious to resist, Laura followed, and rounded a sharp turn just in time to see the person duck down another alley and disappear. She gasped in shock. Violet! The long legs, the elastic stride and tall figure, the short red hair couldn’t be mistaken.
Except she wasn’t Violet, not really. The person she had seen looked like Violet, but she, or he, was a man.
CHAPTER TEN
Nursing her anger at Violet for deceiving her and at herself for being so easily deceived, Laura stormed into the bathroom to get ready for bed. She would confront Violet tonight, she decided, before her erstwhile friend had a chance to avoid her. Then she remembered that Violet had her own room for tonight and wouldn’t be here.
Frustrated anew, Laura grabbed her toothbrush and scrubbed with unnecessary force at her teeth. An image in the wide mirror caught her eye, and for a moment she almost stopped breathing. A small form lay crumpled in the bathtub behind her; two plump legs stuck out from it at unnatural angles….
Laura turned slowly, not wanting to see, not wanting even to think the object could be what she suspected it was. But it was. A baby, another baby, almost exactly the same size as the baby she had found in the Baths, only this one still hadn’t moved, didn’t look as if it could move. It was all wrong, too crumpled, too still…
Heart pounding, she crept closer. The small feet were enclosed in pink slippers, the little fists were tightly clenched; the head was turned to one side, so that the round cheek was pressed upwards…
Laura leaned over the bathtub, stared for a few seconds and then gasped with the shock of relief. A doll, a life-sized doll. It was only a doll.
She clung to the edge of the tub, feeling faint and sick to her stomach. The sensation passed, and anger took its place. What a dastardly trick! Why would anyone do such a thing?
A crude message written in heavy black ink on the doll’s dress made that obvious. It was only a big circle with an “X” inside it, but the meaning was clear. Someone who wanted her to stop interfering and asking questions had left the doll. But who?
Violet was the most likely culprit, Laura thought bitterly, since she was the only other person who had a key to the room. That oversized bag of hers could be a clue, too. It would easily hold a doll, as well as clothes and other props that turned Violet into a man, or a woman, on demand.
Another thought intruded. Could Violet really be a man? She always waited politely to use the bathroom so they didn’t have to share, and always undressed in there. British prudery or a more ominous sign? Violet was almost six feet tall and had a deep, gruff voice. But could a beard be disguised that well?
Pulling the shower curtain across the tub, Laura staggered out of the bathroom and collapsed on the bed. What should she do now? Probably she ought to tell someone about the doll. But who?
Reluctantly, Laura decided Alan was the best choice. He was the manager of the tour so it was his job. Sighing with tiredness, she got up again and went down the hall toward Alan’s room.
Footsteps at the end of the corridor made her whirl. Laura ducked behind a door that led to the stairs. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief. This was like a replay! Coming down the hall at a run was the tall woman with the long red hair. But this time she held a child under each arm, each about the same size as the one in the bathtub and the one in the Baths. These two were clearly alive and well. Two sets of chubby legs kicked mightily, and both babies looked as if they were on the verge of a tantrum.
The woman rapped desperately at Alan’s door with one free finger. It opened promptly and Alan peered out. He stared at her, astounded. Then, seeming to recollect himself, he grabbed one of the babies just as it let out its first howl. As soon as the woman and the other baby were inside, he closed the door hastily. Laura heard another howl, muffled now, and then there was silence.
Had they gagged the poor little creature or just dashed into the bathroom with it and closed that door too? Laura waited, unsure what to do next. Half of her wanted to barge into Alan’s room and demand explanations, the other half urged caution.
Another muted cry emerged, quickly stifled. Envisioning gags or worse, Laura emerged from the stairwell to rescue the babies. When she got closer to Alan’s room she heard chortles and noisy slurping, the reassuring sound of hungry babies sucking at their bottles. She relaxed. It didn’t sound as if the children were in imminent danger.
She returned to her room and was about to close the door when Lady Longtree’s opened. Surely, the venerable lady wasn’t going to appear with another baby in tow?
To her astonishment, Hans emerged. Lady Longtree was out of sight, but Laura heard her voice bidding him a fond good night. Laura gaped. Hans making a nocturnal visit to Lady Longtree?
Hans cast a lingering look at Lady Longtree; then he tiptoed down the hall to his room. His face changed when Lady Longtree’s door closed. He looked as if he were gloating now, Laura saw, like a man who had scored a victory. She cringed. Hans as a self-satisfied lothario held no appeal, and the idea of Lady Longtree indulging in a secret affair in the dead of night was simply preposterous, not because of her age but because she was Lady Longtree. It felt all wrong.
Unfortunately, her brain didn’t agree and her sleep was filled with nightmares about babies and doors that kept opening and closing. It was also short. At six-thirty in the morning, a loud knock interrupted her uneasy slumber.
“Sorry, pet,” a voice with a strong cockney accent said from the other side. “You’ve had a change of plan. Off to the Safari Park at Longleat, I hear, so I’ve got to rouse all of you early. Mr. Mansfield will explain at breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Laura mumbled, aware that she sounded exceedingly grumpy.
“Make yourself a good cuppa, that’s the thing,” the voice advised.
“Guess I’d better,” Laura replied, and stumbled over to the tray that held an automatic pot, tea bags and all else that was required for the ubiquitous cup of tea. She had flipped the switch on the pot and headed into the bathroom for a shower before she remembered the doll. Her steps slowed.
The closed shower curtain was a relief. Deciding a shower wasn’t essential and she didn’t have time anyway, Laura made her tea and drank it gratefully as she dressed, and then headed downstairs. She would decide what to do with the doll after breakfast. She didn’t want the maid to find it – that could cause all sorts of talk, and give the poor woman a terrible shock as well.
Alan appeared as soon as all of them had arrived in the lovely garden room used for breakfast. Laura regarded him curiously. He didn’t look as weary as she felt, despite the interruption last evening. She wondered where the babies were now, and the red-haired woman. Had they left again?
“We’ve had a change of plan,” Alan told them. “We will go to the Safari Park at Longleat today instead of Stourhead Gardens. He went on to explain that Stourhead was bathed in dense fog that was expected to lift tomorrow, when they could try again, and that the Safari Park at Longleat was less crowded on a weekday. In addition, he had been able to arrange an early entrance if they could arrive by eight o’clock.
