by Toombs, Jane
Martha sat in a lyre-backed chair with a plum velvet seat, while Louella sat across from her in an antique oak platform rocker. A child's spool rocker sat empty beside Louella.
“Sarah likes you,” Louella said.
“I like her, too,” Martha answered. “She's a—remarkable child.”
“She extremely intelligent and very sensible. Those two qualities are not often associated.”
Martha looked at the old woman, who sat quietly in her neat navy dress, hands folded in her lap. “I do think, though, that she ought to have friends her age to play with—at least occasionally,” Martha said.
“I quite agree. One of the gardeners brought his grandson several times, but unfortunately Natalie didn't approve. She can be snobbish—as if all that matters to a child. Jimmy Smithson is a bright boy and a good companion for Sarah at this age.”
Louella was responsible for getting Bill Wong's grandson to play with Sarah? Martha gazed at her with more respect. “I hope to find another playmate for Sarah soon,” the old woman said. “As you've mentioned, it is important. You're a sensible person yourself, as I've noted.”
`This was intended as a compliment, Martha knew. She smiled.
“So I've decided to tell you about Clara Eccles. There was a cord tied across the steps, near the top. She tripped over the cord and fell. I saw the cord myself, but we all dithered around after the accident, and when I went back up the stairs the cord was gone. I meant to tell Jules— Norman was too ill by then—but when I couldn't find a trace of what I'd seen, I said nothing.” She tightened her lips. “One of the curses of aging is that young people tend to treat you as senile.”
“So Miss Eccles was right when she said her fall was no accident?”
“Yes. I've visited her at St. Joseph's since the accident and she told me someone knocked on her door and when she opened it no one was there. But then someone called her name from downstairs, so she came to see who, and that's when she fell.”
“Who else knows about the cord?”
“You're the first person I've told, besides her,” Louella said. “Clara Eccles is safe enough at St. Joseph's. You, however, are at Black Tor and are not safe. Sarah tells me everything that goes on in the house, and she misses very little. I've heard about the picnic near the cliff. I've also heard of the car in which you were riding being forced off the road yesterday.”
“Josephine's the one who's not safe,” Martha said.
“I realize that. But she belongs here at Black Tor. You don't. You have the freedom to leave. I'm powerless to help either of you, except by warning you to leave.”
“But couldn't you tell Jules about the cord now?” Martha asked.
“No. I imagine you've heard how his wife, Cynthia, fell on those same stairs. He's brooded about her accident for years. He doesn't want any reminders of Clara Eccles's similar fall and would dismiss my story about a cord as being senile. I'll be quite frank. I have no money, no in-come of any kind. Norman, through Jules, supports me. Norman is dying. I don't mean to insinuate that Jules begrudges me a place in the house. But if I were too much of a burden, I feel I might be sent to a home for old people. I couldn't bear such a life. I am careful never to—intrude.”
“Does Jules handle all the money? I mean—his father is still alive....”
“Norman still signs the checks. He'll give up his hold on the money only in death. But he is dying. Jules makes the decisions.” Louella rose from her chair. “Don't count on Jules, my dear, for I don't believe he'll marry again.”
Martha rose, too, and stood facing the old woman. “Is Sarah Jules's child?” she asked.
“I've never been sure. Abel Garrard was a great womanizer, and he took years to remarry after Norman's mother died. Norman has two bastard half brothers in Victoria that I know of. There may have been others. It's possible that Sarah could be a grandchild of those men—the Garrard strain is very strong.”
“But why would Jules take her in?”
“He didn't. Norman did. That's why I've wondered.”
Martha walked to the door. “Thank you for asking me in,” she said. “I see you're concerned for Sarah, and I'm glad to know someone is. I—I won't be at Black Tor much longer. Jules is looking now for my replacement.”
“I’m sure the decision is best for you,” Louella said. “Goodbye, my dear.” She closed the door.
Martha stood in the hall, frozen in position with the sudden thought that maybe a cord had been tied across the stairs twice, once for Cynthia, then for Clara Eccles. Then she shook her head and started down the hall. Why would anyone want to kill Jules's wife? She was growing paranoid.
But someone did want Josephine dead. Didn't Louella care at all? She seemed to know that Josephine was in danger. How could she do nothing?
What am I doing? Martha asked herself. Should I go to the police? Yet what proof did she have? They certainly wouldn't even listen to the story of an American nurse, a nobody, with an unfounded tale about one of the wealthiest families in Victoria.
“Martha!” Sarah's voice.
She whirled around.
“Martha—oh, Martha--”
The child ran toward her from the wing Martha had just left. When she reached her, Sarah clung to her, burying her face in Martha's side. “He's dead, not asleep at all—I touched him and he was cold. Oh, Martha— ”
Norman has died and Sarah found him, Martha thought. The poor child. “I'll go and look, Sarah. Let me go. I'll take you to Louella's room. Where's Simon? Did you see him?”
“But—but that's who—it's Simon. He's dead....”
“Simon?”
Martha detached Sarah and took her to Louella, then hurried to Norman Garrard's quarters. Simon was sprawled on his face in the doorway between the inner and outer rooms. She knelt beside him, but knew as she felt for a pulse that Sarah had reported accurately. Simon was cold. And dead.
Martha rose and went to Norman's bedside. His face was bluish. For a moment she thought that he, too, had died, but then she found the faint flicker of a pulse in his wrist. She missed something in the room, looked about her and realized that the oxygen wasn't bubbling in the water bottle attached to the tank. She pushed the intercom button to alert Francis down-stairs and then brought the spare oxygen tank from the corner by the closet. A wrench on a chain hung over the cap. She switched gauges and attached the bottle to the new tank. Soon oxygen flowed into Norman's lungs once again, and the mottled blueness of his face began to pink up.
Martha heard a sound and saw Francis standing short of the doorway on the other side of Simon's body, eyes wide and shocked. He looked from her to the body and back.
“Call the doctor! Get Jules! Hurry!” she commanded.
Martha checked over the array of medications on the dresser but was afraid to administer any of them until the doctor came. She watched Norman's face, her hand on his wrist.
“Good God!” Jules stepped over Simon's body and came to the side of the bed. “Is he...?”
“Your father's unconscious, but alive. Did Francis call the doctor?”
“Yes. He'll be out immediately.”
“He—your father—should be in a hospital.”
“No. I've promised him I would keep him at home.” He turned his head to look at the door. “Simon?”
“ Dead. I don’t know why. After I found him I came in here to see if your father was all right, and the oxygen tank was empty and I had to change it. I didn't look at Simon again.”
“Why were you in here?” Jules asked.
“Sarah found Simon and called me,” Martha said.
“Sarah?”
“She used to visit your father. I sent her in to Louella.”
Norman's eyelids fluttered.
Martha lowered her voice. “He may hear us.” She moved away from the bed and Jules followed her.
“Is there anything we can do for—him?” Jules said softly. He jerked his head toward Simon.
“No. I don't want to move him unti
l the doctor gets here and has a look at him.”
“You don't think he died naturally?” Jules asked.
“I don't know. Simon wouldn't let the oxygen tank go empty. Was he trying to come in and change it when he--?”
“.. .matter with you, Francis, I—” The unmistakable voice of Natalie sounded from the hall.
Jules hurried through the outer room and stopped her at the door. “You aren't to come in now, Aunt Natalie,” he said.
“I must see Norman,” she said.
“He's all right. Simon's dead. You can't come in here until the doctor's had a look at Simon.”
“Simon!”
“Please, Natalie....”
“I don't understand.”
“Neither do we. I'll tell you what I can later.” He shut the door before she could protest further and returned to Martha.
“Jules,” she said, “something's terribly wrong at Black Tor. I think the doctor will find that Simon didn't die naturally, that he was murdered. I don't know why someone wanted to kill him, but it must be part of the other— Josephine's nearly dying three times and not of her own doing, Miss Eccles tripping over a cord and falling on the stairs and me being drugged at the cliffside. Then yesterday....”
“What’s this about a cord and Miss Eccles? ”
“ Louella told me,” Martha said. “She's afraid you wouldn't believe her and might turn her out. But she saw a cord the night Miss Eccles fell. Then someone removed it before she could tell you.”
Jules appeared stunned.
Is he thinking of Cynthia's fall? Martha wondered.
“Louella should have told me,” he said at last. “What were you saying about yesterday?”
“Bran's car was nearly sideswiped by a truck. Fortunately his brakes are good and he was able to stop, so we didn't have an accident. But I can't help thinking we were meant to. Josephine, Sarah and me. And Bran, of course, though I don't think anyone's after him. Perhaps not Sarah, either.” She shuddered. “I can't imagine the mind of anyone who would involve the other three of us just to do away with Josephine.”
Jules put his arm around her. “It could have been just a random accident—-trucks do run cars off the road, after all.” Martha shook her head and gave way to the impulse to lean against Jules. His arm tightened, she felt his mouth on her temple, and she longed to turn her face up to his.
Instead, she pulled away and went to Norman's bedside. His pulse was stronger and his color improved.
“How is he?” Jules said in a half whisper.
“Holding his own.”
“You won't be able to leave as soon as I had planned.” Jules frowned. “I'll need to find someone to care for my father, another nurse. Would you take care of him until I do? You'll have to sleep in here, I'm afraid.”
“Of course I'll stay with him,” she said. “He does need full-time nursing. You really ought to have more than one nurse for relief, you know. And he—your father—prefers women.”
Jules smiled. “Yes, I know he does. I'll make sure he has his preference.” The smile faded. “For the time he has left,” he said.
There was a knock at the door.
“That must be Will,” Jules said. “Dr. Hansen.”
But it was Francis. Martha watched Jules talk to him at the outer door, and when he came back to her his face was grim.
“The doctor was delayed,” he said. “There's been an accident on the grounds. Henry had just run up to the house to call for help when the doctor drove up. He's attending to Bill now.”
“Bill Wong?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Francis said Bill was shot.”
Chapter Nineteen
The doctor was a tall and sandy-haired man, and as Martha watched his competent examination of Norman Garrard, she wondered if he'd been summoned to Black Tor for the other accidents—Cynthia, Clara Eccles. Should she talk to him about what was going on? Jules had called him by his first name—were they close friends?
Norman was semiconscious, rousing when someone moved him, but he couldn't speak. Dr. Hansen turned from the bed at last and knelt beside Simon's body. “Have you called the police?” he asked. “I must report your gardener's gunshot wound, you know.”
“Yes,” Jules told him. “They're on the way.”
Dr. Hansen rose. “I wouldn't be able to determine a cause of death here without an autopsy, since I've never attended this young man. Do you know if he saw a doctor recently?”
Jules shook his head. “I don't have any idea.”
The three of them regarded Simon's motionless body.
“Best to leave him as he is, since the police are coming,” Dr. Hansen said. He turned back to Norman's bed and looked at Martha. “You're a registered nurse?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Dr. Hansen motioned Martha and Jules toward a window, where he spoke in low tones. “There's to be no heroics, Miss—” He paused.
“Jamison,” Martha said after glancing at Jules. “Martha Jamison.”
Dr. Hansen gave a quick nod. “I've promised your father, as you know, Jules. No hospital, no heroics.” The doctor spoke in a half whisper. “He is dying. A matter of hours or days—but soon. We'll try to keep him comfortable. You do understand, Miss Jamison?”
She nodded. “I understand.”
Dr. Hansen's eyes held hers, and he looked at her closely for several moments. “Very good,” he said at last. “I'll come anytime you call me. Although…” He shrugged, then added, “There's really nothing more I can do for Norman except leave him in peace. I'll speak to the police about the need for a decent amount of haste in getting their business finished so we won't disturb him any more than necessary.” He stepped over Simon's body and strode to the outer door. Jules followed.
Martha hesitated, then went back to the bedside. Norman's eyes were closed, and although his lips were fairly pink, a pallor circled his mouth. She looked at his fingernails and saw the bluish tinge that meant his damaged heart was unable to pump enough oxygen to the tissues, despite the extra oxygen flowing into his lungs from the green cylinder.
As she touched his wrist to check his pulse, he opened his eyes. His lips formed a word, though no sound came from them. “Simon.”
“I'm taking care of you now, Mr. Garrard,” Martha said, keeping her voice calm and clear. “Simon is—ill.”
To her alarm, Norman struggled to raise his head so that he could see the rest of the room. She urged him back against the pillows.
“Rest,” she told him. “Don't exert yourself.”
“Dead,” gasped Norman. “I know.” He stared into her eyes and she saw that his pupils were dilated. “Have to—” Once again he strove to raise himself. “I know who...” he said quite clearly as he levered himself and turned toward the door.
He can see Simon's body, she thought. Norman's face mottled with the effort, and she grasped at his wrist. “Please lie back,” she said. “There's nothing you can do for Simon. Dr. Hansen—”
“Dead,” Norman repeated, and fell back onto the pillows.
Under her fingers his pulse flickered and faded. His mouth opened and she heard his breathing change.
“Doctor!” she called. But Dr. Hansen had gone with Jules.
Norman was dying. Not in hours or days, but that moment. His pulse was almost gone, his breathing was shallower and the rales in his chest were ever more obvious—the rattle of dying lungs.
Martha had schooled herself not to fear death, and she knew she could do nothing more for Norman Garrard. If she went for the doctor, Norman would be dead when she returned. Still, her neck prickled with apprehension. Simon's body lay between her and the outside door, and now Norman's breathing had stopped. She felt trapped inside the death-filled room.
A stethoscope lay on the nightstand, and she fitted the earpieces in, then bent over to listen to Norman's chest. There was no sound. She removed the stethoscope and shut off the oxygen.
I mustn't let
this affect me, she told herself. I've been away from nursing too long, that's what's wrong. But she glanced around her with terror, as though death might be visible after all.
Johann had been lying in his own blood when she'd found him, but his skin was still warm. If she'd come out a few seconds earlier, could she have saved him? She made a sound of protest and the small noise in the silent room startled her into awareness.
I must find Dr. Hansen, she thought. And Jules.
But as she stepped over Simon's body, the outer door opened and Jules was there with two strange men, one in uniform.
The police.
Martha hurried to Jules. “Your father just died,” she said. “Where's Dr. Hansen?”
Jules stood for a moment without speaking.
“Your father, sir?” one of the men said.
“The doctor's in the library,” Jules said to Martha. “With Bill Wong. Waiting for the ambulance.” He glanced toward Norman's bed and back at Martha. “I can't quite—”
“I'll get Dr. Hansen,” Martha said, moving past the three men and hurrying down the corridor toward the stairs. Before she started down, she saw a stretcher with a blanketed figure being pushed across the foyer toward the front door by two attendants. Dr. Hansen followed behind, but he stopped when she called to him. She met him halfway down the stairs and explained what had happened.
Later, when the hearse had come and gone, Martha went in search of Josephine and found her in the tower.
“The black remover's van,” Josephine said to her.
Martha stared at her.
“Don't you read Auden?” Josephine asked. “That's from one of his poems.” Tears glittered in her eyes.
“Josephine—”
“I didn't love him, I didn't!” Josephine voice rose. “Why do I feel so bad?”
Martha sat next to her on the window seat and put an arm around her. “Your father was an old man,” she said. “He was sick and uncomfortable— ”
Josephine turned away and put her hands over her face. “I know,” she said. “But he didn't want to die—no one wants to die!”
