by Alice Duncan
I have no idea when Harold and Dr. Weatherfield showed up again or how long they’d been knocking when I finally awoke. Their battering at the door had somehow become mingled with a bad dream I was having, in which I was being sold to the highest bidder at a slave auction—I didn’t fetch a very high price, which was moderately discouraging. It wasn’t until Harold cried, “Daisy! Answer me! Good God, Doctor, do you think she’s suffered a relapse? She couldn’t possibly have died, could she? Daisy! Daisy!”
Oh, dear. That’s right. I’d locked the door. Feeling like an utter fool, as well as a sick one, I fell out of bed, threw on a robe and hurried as fast as I could to the door—my stomach still had a tendency to cramp painfully, so I was almost bent double—and opened it. “I’m so sorry. I was asleep.”
“You scared me to death, Daisy Majesty,” Harold said. He sounded honestly peeved, which is, I think, the usual reaction one has after having been frightened for another person’s safety. He was quite gentle when he led me through the sitting room and back to the bed, so I guess he wasn’t too mad at me.
“I’m sorry. Your knocks got entangled in a dream I was having.”
Dr. Weatherfield smiled kindly at me. “I’m glad you were able to sleep, Missus Majesty. Sleep is probably the best medicine for you, after the powders. Pretty soon, you can start on the apples.”
“Uhhh.” I said.
He chuckled as he took my temperature, asked about my cramps and the general state of my insides. He seemed pleased to know I hadn’t thrown up once since he’d seen me last, and that I’d . . . well, never mind what, but I’d only had to use the bathroom for the purpose two or three times. His chuckle annoyed me a bit. I mean, did it make him happy to see people suffer? But no. His chuckle was probably only part of what people call a doctor’s “bedside manner.” I longed for Dr. Benjamin, our kindly old physician back in Pasadena. He never chuckled when someone was in pain.
“What you need to do is drink plenty of liquids to replace the water you’ve lost due to your illness,” he said after noting that my fever had gone down to under a hundred degrees.
God bless whoever invented aspirin.
“So she’s getting better?” Harold sounded worried
“Oh, yes. I’ll know more tomorrow, after I see how she’s progressed overnight. The main thing you need to do, Missus Majesty, is drink lots of liquids. “We must guard against dehydration, which is the main worry in cases of dysentery.”
“But you think she’ll be better? I don’t want a corpse on my hands, Doctor Weatherfield. If Daisy dies, I won’t be able to go home again. Both my family and hers will kill me.”
“Harold!” cried I, appalled both at his question and the fact that, while he posed it in a joking manner, I sensed he’d really meant it.
The doctor glanced between us curiously, and it occurred to me that he didn’t understand Harold’s reference to his family and mine, since we were supposed to be brother and sister. Too bad. I didn’t feel like explaining something that was none of his business in the first place.
“Well, dash it, Daisy, Doctor Weatherfield said people can die of this stuff. I don’t want you dying on me.”
“Modern medicine is a wonderful thing, Mister Kincaid,” said Dr. Weatherfield. “Missus Majesty won’t die. She’ll be laid up for a few days, but she definitely is on the mend.”
“Thank God.”
I do believe that had been an honest prayer on Harold’s part. Hmph. Probably the first one he’d uttered in years. He’d told me more than once that he didn’t think much of religion and that his partner in life, Del Farrington, who was quite devout, went to a church called “Our Lady of Perpetual Misery” in Pasadena. He meant that Del, a fine gentleman even if he was a Roman Catholic—a species despised by my aunt Vi almost as much as Baptists—attended St. Andrews Catholic Church.
“I’m going to leave a bromide for you to take before you retire for the night, Missus Majesty,” said Dr. Weatherfield, ignoring Harold’s heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving. “The bromide will help you sleep soundly. I expect you still feel pretty wretched.”
I nodded.
“When you believe you’re ready to go to bed for the night, take another dose of the powders I left earlier, and stir this packet of bromide into boiled water and drink it down, too. Remember to drink lots of fluids. I see a crate of ginger ale in the corner. That’s good. It’s best not to drink the local water unless you boil it first, and one can never quite be sure it’s been boiled unless one boils it oneself.”
“And we don’t have a stove handy,” said Harold.
“Exactly.” Dr. Weatherfield beamed at Harold, who’d sounded kind of sarcastic to me, but as a hotel doctor, perhaps the Weatherfield was accustomed to treating snippy tourists. “I have given instructions to the kitchen staff regarding Missus Majesty’s needs, however, so I think you’ll be safe eating and drinking anything they bring up to you.”
“I don’t want to eat anything,” I said, revolted at the notion.
“Not yet,” said he, still smiling and friendly, “but eventually you’ll get hungry again.”
“We can always hope so, anyway,” muttered Harold. “She hasn’t been hungry for nearly three months now.”
Although the doctor peered at him questioningly, neither of us told Dr. Weatherfield about my recent weight loss. Still and all, I guess this wasn’t the absolutely best time for me to be stricken with a case of the stomach flu. I’d probably lost even more weight and now weighed less than I had when we’d begun this voyage. Ma and Pa would be really upset if I returned home to Pasadena even skinner than I’d left it. Nuts.
“I’m going to send up a chambermaid to change your sheets, Missus Majesty,” said Dr. Weatherfield. “You’ll probably want to sleep on clean sheets tonight. This illness causes people to perspire, due to the fever attached to it. That will help you feel better, too.”
“Oh, boy, you said it! Thank you, Doctor.”
He smiled at me.
After a bit more chitchat, Dr. Weatherfield left, and Harold stared at me critically. “You look absolutely awful, Daisy. Do you really think you’re getting better? If you want me to, I’m sure I can find another doctor somewhere. Isn’t modern medicine supposed to have had its roots in some Arabic country?”
“I have no idea. Billy never read me any articles about Arabic medicine. But yes. I still feel horrible, but I don’t feel quite as awful as I did before the doctor came to see me, so I think the stuff is passing. At home, it usually doesn’t last too much longer than twenty-four hours, although this is, I think, the sickest I’ve ever been with it.”
“Please don’t give it to me.”
“I’ll try not to. But why don’t you go to your room. Or go downstairs to the saloon and see if you can find someone to talk to or play cards with or something? I’m well enough that as soon as the chambermaid comes to change the sheets, I’m going to get out of this sweaty old nightie and take a soothing bath. I think I’ll feel better after that.”
“Are you sure you should bathe? Won’t the water give you a chill or something?”
I didn’t even bother answering that question. I only stared at Harold for a minute or so.
At last he shrugged and lifted a hand in a gesture of defeat. “You’re right, of course. The weather’s too hot for anyone to get a chill.”
“Exactly. And I know I’ll feel better if I have a nice, hot soak to soothe my aching bones. I bought some lovely bath salts when we were in France. I was going to give them to Aunt Vi, but I think I’ll use some of them now and replace them for her later.”
“Good idea.” Then Harold slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand and said, “Dammit!”
Before I could wonder if he’d managed to get himself possessed by one of his mother’s pharaonic spirits and gone insane, he said, “I forgot to tell you I stopped by the front desk. There’s some mail that’s been forwarded to us from Egypt. Here are your letters.” And darned if he didn’t come to the b
ed where I sat and hand me three envelopes.
“How nice,” I said, genuinely happy for the first time all day. Oddly enough, I was primarily hoping there would be another letter from Sam, even if he’d probably scold me about something or other. Which made me think of his last letter. “By the way, Harold, while you were out, somebody knocked on the door. When I asked who was there, whoever it was went away again. That happened twice and it made me uncomfortable, so I locked the door. That’s why it was locked when you and the doctor came by.”
“I wondered why the door was locked. Actually, what I wondered about was why you didn’t answer our knock. I thought you’d died while I was gone.”
“I’m sorry to have frightened you,” I said, contrite.
“That’s all right.” He sat on the bed next to me. He popped up again a second later. “Do you think you’re contagious?” He began brushing at his sleeves and trousers, as if by doing so he could rid himself of any germs that might have attacked him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I got this stuff. If it was from the local water, I doubt I’m contagious. If it’s the regular old stomach flu, it’s probably already too late for you to begin worrying. That stuff spreads like wildfire.”
“Wonderful. Maybe we’ll just spend the rest of our time on holiday in Constantinople being sick.”
“Well, I’m sorry I got sick, but I honestly didn’t do it on purpose to, you know.”
“I’m not blaming you, sweetie. I’ve never seen anybody so ill.” He shuddered. Harold was what one might call a sensitive plant. I was actually kind of surprised he was being such a good nurse. “Just get better, will you? I’m going to go down to the bar and see if I can kill any germs you might have given me with alcohol.”
“When I get better, maybe we can see more of Istanbul. It’s supposed to be a really interesting city.”
“That’s all right by me. It’s still hotter than Hades, though, so I don’t expect you’ll feel up to walking much any time soon.”
“Probably not.” I sighed dolefully. My one and only opportunity to see the world, and not only was I in no emotional state to appreciate it, but now I was sick as well. I think God likes to play with us lowly creatures here on earth sometimes just to let us know how little real control we have over anything.
A timid knock came upon the door at that point and after Harold and I exchanged a glance of curiosity, he went to the door and opened it. A swarthy chambermaid in a white uniform and with a sort of snood-like thing on her head stood there, looking nervous and holding a stack of sheets and pillowcases. I was so happy to see her, I darned near cried again.
“Come in, come in,” I said from the bed, out of which I slowly crawled. Then I made my way to a chair in the sitting room and collapsed into it.
The maid glanced between Harold and me as if she thought we might be devils in disguise, but she scurried in and did her duty. As she was leaving, Harold handed her a whole bunch of coins, and she nearly dropped the dirty sheets. Her thanks were profuse and long, and I think she was still thanking Harold when he closed the door on her.
“There. At least you’ll have clean sheets to sleep on.”
“Yes. I’m so glad the doctor thought of the chambermaid. I never would have, you know, not being accustomed to having chambermaids at my beck and call.”
“You can get used to anything,” said Harold in a relatively sarcastic tone.
“I don’t think I’d mind getting used to being waited on.”
“It’s not bad,” agreed Harold. “Well, I’m off now, Daisy. I’m sure the doctor will want to see you again in the morning, but I won’t bother you again tonight unless you call for me.”
“Thanks, Harold. Just don’t forget that I’m locking the door.”
“I promise I won’t forget. Have a nice bath.”
“I plan to. Thanks.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, I locked it. Then I glanced through the envelopes he’d given me. Ma. Flossie Buckingham. Sam Rotondo. My heart gave a little jump, which made no sense at all. I chalked it up to my being so sick.
Before I opened any of the letters, I did exactly as I’d told Harold I’d do: stripped off the nightgown in which I’d been so miserable, found a clean one in a drawer—when you’re rich, you see, maids in hotels unpack your stuff for you. As I’d told Harold, it’s actually kind of nice not to have to do anything for yourself, although it might get boring after a while—and set it, another robe, the letters and a hand towel on a marble stand in the bathroom near the tub. Then I found the bath salts I’d bought for Aunt Vi, turned on the tap and sprinkled some of the salts in the water. The fragrance of lavender was heavenly when I stepped into the tub and lowered my aching body into the water.
I’m pretty sure I slept again for a while, because when I next opened my eyes, the water had gone tepid, and I’d sunk so low into it, I was in danger of drowning. My aches didn’t ache so much, though, so I pulled the plug to let some of the lukewarm water out, refilled the tub with more hot water, leaned back, and reached first for my hand towel and then for my mail. It pays to be organized.
Ma’s letter was full of news from home. Pudge Wilson had broken his arm falling from a tree, but Dr. Benjamin fixed him up, and now he wore his cast proudly. Pudge missed me. She missed me. Pa missed me. Aunt Vi missed me. Spike missed me. I admit to shedding a few tears into my bath, since I missed all of them, too.
Setting that letter aside, I opened the one from Flossie. She was fine. Johnny was fine. Their Salvation Army flock was fine. Dr. Benjamin had given her a clean bill of health, and the baby seemed to be progressing quite well in Flossie’s nice, warm womb. Lucky kid, to have two great parents like Flossie and Johnny. I admit to shedding another tear or two, mainly because—as I’ve mentioned probably too many times before—Billy and I had been unable to have children, thanks to the blasted Kaiser’s foul bullets and mustard gas.
I set Flossie’s letter aside too, and steeled myself before opening the letter from Sam. I was glad I’d done so before I’d finished reading the first paragraph.
Chapter Seventeen
Dear Daisy,
I’m really uncomfortable about you traveling the world with Harold Kincaid. I know he’s a good friend of yours, but even you have to admit he wouldn’t be much good if you got into a jam, and you’re always getting into jams.
“Darn you, Sam Rotondo! How dare you!” Not only had he insulted Harold, who was a wonderful friend, but he’d also insulted me. I was not always getting into jams! Just because he had a bee in his bonnet about criminal gangs and drug smugglers and white slavers . . . Oh, wait. The drug smugglers were my idea. Still . . .
I remembered the two knocks on my door while Harold had been away and frowned.
No. It was too absurd to think that the instant Sam had mentioned criminal gangs targeting tourists, a gang of criminals had miraculously appeared in my life. The world didn’t work like that. Furious with Sam, I read on:
You’re probably steamed at me for telling the truth, but I swear to God, Daisy, I’ve never met anyone else in my life who manages to get herself into trouble with the ease and frequency you do. You used to drive Billy crazy with your shenanigans and, damn it, he asked me to look out for you after he died, and I’m not going to let him down now. Watch yourself. If you notice some stranger hanging around you and Harold, call the police. Oh, hell, I don’t even know if there are police in some of the places you’re staying. Just try to be careful, will you?
Darn it all, I was being careful! I’d locked the stupid door, hadn’t I? And Sam had no business saying I was always getting into trouble. I wasn’t, either!
True, Jacques Futrelle had just happened to appear in Istanbul when we did, after we’d surprised Mr. Stackville by leaving Egypt early. And a person with a French accent had knocked on my door while Harold was away.
But that was stupid. I was sick. That’s why I was connecting Sam’s insane suppositions with Stackville and Futrelle. The
y were probably both nice gentlemen who were . . . merely a little pushy. And who just happened to be traveling in the same places we were. Hmm . . .
Someone had been in my room at Shepheards while was away from it. I hadn’t found anything missing, but had something been added? Drugs or something? Added where? No, it was too absurd.
“Fiddlesticks!” I read on.
I’m worried about the gangs I told you about in my earlier letter. According to the bulletins we keep getting at the department, tourists are their primary targets—and don’t ask me for what, because I don’t know. I’ve heard rumors of white slavers, antiquities thieves, drug smugglers, political spies, and even illegal liquor sources. Pick your poison. Since the two of you decided to go to Egypt in the middle of the summer when nobody else in his or her right mind would want to go there, you’re probably among the very few people the bad guys can choose from. So be careful, will you? I know that’s kind of like telling the earth to stop in its orbit, but do it for Billy, if you won’t do it for your parents or me.
I’ve decided to take the vacation days I’ve earned and come after you. I know you won’t want me around, but I can’t stand knowing you’re all alone in the world with no protection except Harold Kincaid, with gangs of vicious criminals running around everywhere. Knowing you, you’ll decide to befriend an entire gang. I’ve got lots of vacation time accrued since I never go anywhere or do anything, so I’ll see you wherever you are when I get there. If you get there. Damn it, I’m worried about you!
“Good God.” The words left my lips in a whisper. Sam was coming after us? Because he was sure I was going to befriend a gang of . . . something or other? The man was out of his mind!
A knock came at the door, and I darned near dropped Sam’s letter into my delightfully scented water.
“Yes?” I called from the bathroom.
No answer.
“Who is it?” I called, louder than before.
Nothing.
“Blast and heck, Sam Rotondo! Now you’ve got me worrying!”
