Cashelmara (101 page)

He explained he could have studied clinical pathology in London, but he preferred to come to America—“Because after all I’m half American, just as you are,” he said, “and when it occurred to me the other day that I was almost thirty and knew next to nothing about my mother’s country I thought now would be as good an opportunity as any to find out more. It was David’s wedding that finally made me decide to come. I realized I must spend my year in America while I’m still a bachelor and have the freedom to do as I please.”

“Will you go to New York?” I asked, thinking of my estranged Uncle Charles, who was his cousin. I had been toying with the idea of making peace with Uncle Charles, but I knew such a move would infuriate my mother, so I had never communicated with him.

“Yes, I intend to go down in the spring to see the Marriotts. Will you still be here then?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “We must be back in Ireland by that time because of Kerry’s health.” And I told him about the baby.

After he had made the usual kind remarks he said, “You’ll need money more than ever now, Ned. We’ll have to do something about Drummond, you know. It’s absurd that you have to go around borrowing from your relatives while Drummond and your mother live in such style in your own home.”

“When I’m twenty-one—”

“Can you really afford to wait till then? God only knows what sort of a wreck Drummond and your mother will have made of Cashelmara by the time you’re twenty-one! I think I’ll write to David and see what he suggests. I have no desire whatsoever to go to court, but—”

“No litigation,” I said a shade too loudly. “I must wait till I’m twenty-one.”

“Ned, you keep repeating that phrase as if it were a magic incantation, but what exactly are you going to do when you’re twenty-one?”

“Dismiss Drummond and tell my mother she must move to Clonagh Court.”

“And if she refuses to go? Are you sure you won’t wind up going to court anyway in order to get rid of Drummond?”

“I… I’ll think about that later. When the time comes.”

“Ned,” said Uncle Thomas gently, “the time has come. The time is now.”

I shook my head violently and said nothing.

“Ned, what is it? What’s the matter? You’re scared stiff of Drummond, aren’t you? Why? You surely don’t still suspect him of murdering your father?”

“I know he murdered him,” I said, fighting a terrible desire to cry, and told him how I had obtained the consent for my marriage.

He was so appalled he couldn’t speak.

“So I can’t do anything,” I said. “I’m too afraid of harming my mother. He’ll drag her down with him, I know he will, and I can’t have that. My own mother …” I couldn’t go on.

At last he managed to say, “I should have insisted on an autopsy, but … well, I couldn’t believe Madeleine would have made a mistake and she was so certain—so absolutely certain—”

“It
is
difficult to believe that Aunt Madeleine can be imperfect enough to make a mistake occasionally,” I agreed. My voice was calm again, far calmer than his.

“And there would have been such a scandal even if the autopsy had merely confirmed the diagnosis. I suppose I deliberately chose to look the other way.”

He still sounded so appalled that I said hastily, “You didn’t look the other way, Uncle Thomas. You considered the possibility of poison and rejected it. That’s not the same thing at all.”

“No, it’s worse,” he said grimly. “It all goes to prove that doctors aren’t to be trusted when they apply their knowledge to their own families. They’re swayed by all kinds of preconceived notions and prejudices which distort their judgment. My God, how could I have been so unprofessional? I should have insisted on a proper inquiry instead of listening to David’s Borgia theories and accepting unquestioningly the diagnosis of a woman who has had no formal education in medicine.”

“Well, thank God you didn’t insist on an autopsy,” I said, “for where would my mother be now if you had?”

“Yes, but … Ned, something must be done. If we can’t force the issue publicly in court, we must do it privately, by threats.”

“There’s no way in which we can do that,” I said. “I’ve thought about it day after day, and there’s no solution. We have no lever with Drummond. I was able to threaten him about my marriage because I made him believe I would do anything to marry Kerry, even ruin my mother. But those were exceptional circumstances. He knows that normally I’d do nothing to harm her.”

“Then there must be something else we can do.” He began to pace up and down the room, and the winter sunlight, shining palely into the room, flashed rhythmically on his thick glasses. “We must prove Drummond’s guilt and your mother’s innocence,” he said at last. “We must be quite certain before we go to the police that they won’t make a mistake.”

“They’re bound to think she had knowledge of the murder after the fact.”

“‘After the fact’ is a very different matter to ‘before the fact’ And there are mitigating circumstances—her infatuation with Drummond—any good counsel could get her off scot-free.” He snapped his fingers and spun around to face me. “Of course! David’s the answer! God, I never thought I’d be grateful that David has a monumental imagination and a passion for detective stories! We’ll send him to Cashelmara and he can make a secret investigation of all the circumstances surrounding your father’s death. If he can prove that the poison was administered after your mother left Clonagh Court that day—”

“But supposing Drummond poisoned the food she took to Papa?” I said. “Mama took some blackberry cordial and a cake to Clonagh Court as gifts. She wanted to be pleasant to him so they could discuss the custody question without quarreling.”

“Perhaps David can find a servant who can testify that the cake and cordial were never touched. That would mean the poison came from another source which with any luck we can link to Drummond exclusively. It’s an idea worth trying anyway, and if anyone is well suited to such an investigation it’s David.”

I did try to share his optimism, but I was too frightened. I should have felt better after unburdening all the fears I had kept to myself for so long, but I felt worse. I felt I no longer had any control over the future, and that night I dreamt that Cashelmara had been razed to the ground and that Drummond was walking from the burning ruins to destroy me.

In panic I turned all my attention to Kerry. It was time to go home before her pregnancy entered the last critical months, but before we finally sailed at the beginning of April I had postponed our departure twice on the excuse that the Atlantic would still be swept by winter storms, and Mrs. Gallagher said if I postponed it a third time Kerry would have to remain in Boston until after the baby arrived.

The last thing I wanted to do was endanger Kerry’s health, and I was anxious for my son to be born at Cashelmara. Screwing up all my courage, I faced the ordeal of going home.

Uncle David had written to say he had arranged to visit Cashelmara in mid-March, but I heard nothing further from him before we sailed.

“All will be well,” said Uncle Thomas, embracing me before I left, but although I wanted desperately to believe him I couldn’t.

I was certain all wouldn’t be well. I didn’t see how it could be.

And I was terrified.

I hadn’t told my mother Kerry was pregnant and had asked Aunt Madeleine to keep the news a secret. I wouldn’t have told Aunt Madeleine except that Kerry had been so anxious that she should know.

“Why don’t you want your mother to find out about the baby?” Kerry had demanded, but I had merely said that I had wanted to tell her such exciting news in person.

That satisfied Kerry, but in fact I had no idea why I should have felt so reticent. However, I found out soon enough when we stepped at last into the hall at Cashelmara and my mother came quickly downstairs to greet us. One glance at the expression on her face as she saw Kerry’s figure was enough to confirm my instinct that the news would be unwelcome to her.

“I suppose it was only to be expected,” she said, “but I must say I do think you’re both ridiculously young to be parents.”

It was Drummond who saved the situation. He kissed Kerry and said he was sure everyone was going to be very pleased. He was wise enough not to offer me his hand to shake, but he congratulated me with a smile, and fortunately before my mother could speak again John and the girls came racing downstairs for a succession of joyous reunions. Kerry was diverted, and turning once more to my mother, I opened my mouth to tell her what I thought of her welcome.

It was only then that I noticed she was wearing black. It didn’t suit her. The color made her skin look sallow.

“Ned, how lovely to see you again!” cried Eleanor, taking me by surprise as she flung her arms around me.

I hugged her. I had just realized that she too was wearing black when Jane danced up to me.

“Neddy, do you know what happened? Ozymandias and Percival had another family, and I’ve christened the kittens after the colors in my paintbox. Their names are Azure, Cobalt and Lapis-Lazuli, and they’re all white with orange paws.”

Jane wore a little black smocked dress, and as she jumped up and down in front of me I saw her petticoats fluttering above her black stockings.

Everyone was wearing black.

“Ned dearest,” said my mother, “come into the morning room for a moment. There’s something I must say to you alone.”

We went into the morning room. I was quite calm. When I asked her where Uncle David was my voice was steady and untroubled.

“Oh, Ned …” Her face crumpled. Harsh ugly lines disfigured her features as her eyes filled with tears.

“Where is he?” I repeated, still perfectly calm. “What’s happened to him?”

“Ned, he … he …” But she couldn’t say it

“He died.” I looked around the room as if I expected to find an explanation written on the walls. When I found none I looked at her again, but there was nothing in her face except grief.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, he died.” And then she clung to me as if she had no one else to turn to and wept as if the grief were beyond all her powers to endure.

MY MOTHER BEGAN TO
talk in a low, uneven voice.

“He arrived two weeks ago and complained of feeling unwell almost at once—an intestinal disorder. Well, you know David’s digestion has always been weak. I thought nothing of it, and then he said he was better. But a day later he fell ill again—a pain in his right side, he told me. Unfortunately, Dr. Cahill was away—he had left the previous day for Dublin—but Madeleine came. When I told her the symptoms she said it sounded like peritonitis, a severe infection resulting from inflammation of the appendix. Dr. Cahill confirmed the diagnosis later. David had had one or two previous attacks, apparently, and a London specialist had even recommended an operation, but of course operations are always so unpleasant and risky. David had decided that he would try a prescribed diet before resorting to an operation.”

I asked about the funeral.

“It was last Monday. The body was taken back to Surrey and Madeleine left to be with his wife. We sent a telegram to Thomas. It was too late to send one to you because you’d already left. We were going to wait till you came home, but … his wife didn’t want the funeral delayed, too much strain and sadness. I said you would understand. I wanted to go myself, but the shock … It made me ill. I kept thinking of Marguerite. I still think of her day and night. She was so very fond of David. He was such a dear little boy.”

“There was no doubt at all about the diagnosis?”

“No, darling. None at all.”

“There was no doubt about the diagnosis, was there, Aunt Madeleine?”

“No, my dear,” said Aunt Madeleine, who had just returned from Surrey. “None at all. I told Dr. Cahill there had been a recent history of illness that had been diagnosed as an inflammation of the appendix.”

“Did Uncle David actually mention this to you himself, Aunt Madeleine?”

She hesitated for one full second. But no more. Her eyes were very light and clear and blue. “Yes, dear, he did.”

“I see. Forgive me. It was only that it seemed something of a coincidence, my father and Uncle David dying of somewhat similar symptoms.”

“No, one can’t compare the two cases. They were quite different.”

There was a silence. Aunt Madeleine’s eyes never changed their expression.

“Aunt Madeleine …”

“Yes, Ned?”

“Did Dr. Cahill suggest an autopsy?”

“No, dear. In the circumstances I told him I really didn’t think it was necessary. Of course, when Thomas comes home he may insist upon one. I don’t know. But that must be his decision, not mine.”

“But—”

“We must wait till Thomas comes home,” said Aunt Madeleine. “I have written to him to suggest he return immediately. Now, my dear, there’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about. Thomas and I will attend to everything as soon as he comes back, and until then there’s nothing further that either of us can do.”

After a moment I said, “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what? My dear child, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about! I only know that it’s no concern of yours. There’s no need for you to worry. All will be well in time.”

“Aunt Madeleine, there’s no need to treat me as if I was still in the nursery!”

“Ned, I’m treating you as a very dear nephew who is only seventeen years old, yet has all kinds of worries and responsibilities that most seventeen-year-olds either don’t have or haven’t even heard of. You have enough to cope with. Leave this, please, to me and Thomas.”

“But—”

“There is nothing else to say.”

“I want to talk to you, Aunt Madeleine.”

“Later, dear. When Thomas is home. But not now.”

I went away.

As soon as I arrived home from Clonareen I shut myself in my room and wrote to Uncle Thomas.

“Please ignore Aunt Madeleine’s letter,” I said. “There’s no need for you to return home prematurely. I am quite convinced that Uncle David died a natural death—
even Dr. Cahill
thought an autopsy was unnecessary—and you know that I’d be the first to tell you if I thought Uncle David had been murdered.”