Cate Campbell (19 page)

Carter gave a phlegmy laugh, and the smell of drink intensified. “Why doncha, then?”

“I told you. I don’t want the family disturbed.”

“I’m not leaving till I talk to Benedict. He’s expecting me.”

Blake glanced up at the darkened windows of the house. “It doesn’t look to me like anyone’s expecting company. Come on, let’s get out of the rain. I can take a message for Mr. Preston.” He pointed back toward the garage. Another distant rattle of thunder seemed to decide Carter, and he nodded.

Blake led the way through the door and into the shelter of the stairwell. He flicked on the light, and stood at the bottom of the stair with his arms folded, his stout stick of Carolina pine tucked securely under his arm.

Carter slurred, “Listen, mate, can’t you slip into the house? Get him up?”

“Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow,” Blake said stiffly. He tried to stifle his antagonism for the man. The scene was bizarre, the storm battering the roof, the fat man filling his little entryway with the smell of his wet army tunic and the reek of bad whisky.

Carter pulled off his cap and brushed it against his sleeve, spattering the floor with raindrops. “I need money,” he muttered. “I need it tonight.”

“Why do you need money? And what does that have to do with Mr. Preston?”

“I don’t see why I have to tell
you,
” Carter said sullenly, staring at his heavy boots.

Blake let a long moment pass before he drawled, “Who else are you going to tell, sir?”

Carter raised his head. His doughy features and small eyes gave him a porcine appearance. “I did some work,” he said sullenly. “And now I need to be paid. I have a few shillings, but no one will take ’em. I can’t pay my rent. I ain’t had anything to eat today.”

Blake pursed his lips. “I can probably find a few dollars for you,” he said. “But I want to know what the work was.”

Carter’s gaze shifted, and shifted again. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“Nevertheless.”

Carter shuffled his feet, then shrugged. “Preston wanted a word placed here and there, in the right ears. I been living down there, in the city, and I did it for ’im.”

“A word about what?” Suspicion kindled in Blake’s mind, but he kept his face impassive.

Carter hesitated a long time. Blake leaned against the wall, waiting. At last Carter said, “Look. I’m afraid if I tell you, Preston won’t pay me. I meant what I said—I got nothin’. I ain’t et all day. And I did the work, just like he wanted.”

Blake eyed him, thinking how remarkably unintelligent the man looked. He suspected he had eaten pigs that were smarter than this pale-haired, pink-skinned creature. With a sigh, he straightened, and gestured at the stairs. “Come upstairs, Mr. Carter. I have some eggs and bread, and a hot plate. I’ll give you something to eat. You can sober up a bit, and then you can tell me all about it.”

 

Watching the fat man eat made Blake feel a bit nauseous. He had scrambled four eggs with a bit of butter in the cast-iron skillet he had kept in his room since the children were little. He had made them camp toast sometimes, or poached eggs. He sliced some bread, and gave Carter the wire frame for toasting it over the hot plate. He had half a jar of blackberry jam in his single cupboard, and Carter finished that, along with most of the crock of butter the milkman had delivered the day before. He got butter on his fingers and his chin, and dripped jam on his shirtfront. When Blake handed him a napkin, he took it without apology, and mopped his chest.

When he had finished, he sat back with his hands over his big stomach. “Pretty good,” he said. Blake said nothing. Carter scrubbed the butter from his fingers with the napkin, and looked around him at the simple furnishings. “Servant’s quarters, eh? Bigger than most, I expect.”

“Are they?”

Carter gave a generous burp. “Sure. My place in London was like a shoebox.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were in service.”

“Right-ho, mate. I never was. Me own man, I was, till I went into the army. I was a drayman, had me own cart and everything. There wasn’t nobody in the city could lift as much as me.” He rubbed his belly, and laughed. “I was a bit younger then, of course.”

“So,” Blake said slowly. “You don’t lift anymore. You . . . what was it you said? Place a word here and there?”

Carter looked a little abashed. “Well, look, mate, it’s hard getting work these days. A bloke has to take what he can get.”

“I see.”

Carter squinted at him briefly, then glanced away again. Rain dripped down the windows, glistening under the raw light of the bare fixture above the table. Blake could feel the man softening, soothed by food, comforted by being out of the rain.

“Everything’s different since the war,” Carter said. It seemed an irrelevant thing to say. Blake waited. The thunder had moved on. The late hour and the patter of the rain made the room feel isolated, an oasis in time for two unlikely travelers.

Carter went on. “Nobody needs a drayman now.” His eyes fixed on the dark window, following the raindrops’ meandering path down the glass. “There’s vans, even war-surplus trucks to haul things. Nobody knows what they’re supposed to do. At home, half the men got killed, and the women take their jobs.” He rubbed his stomach with the flat of his hand. “It was better out there. Out East. A man knew what to do every day.”

“Follow orders,” Blake said.

Carter nodded, and his little eyes glistened in the light. “Right-ho,” he said heavily. “That’s what a man like me does. Follows orders.”

“So Preston gave you orders.”

“He gave me orders, and I followed ’em. And now I need my money.”

“Tell me what your orders were.”

The little eyes flicked from side to side. “Can’t tell you. Preston wouldn’t like it.”

“No. Probably not.” Blake cleared his throat, and stood up, straightening his dressing gown. He had hung his jacket on its peg again, but kept the marble-headed cane leaning against his chair. “Well, then, Mr. Carter. If you’ve finished your meal . . .”

Carter gave him an aggrieved glance. “You said you might have a few dollars!”

“I said I believed I could find some money if you told me what you’ve done.”

“Aw, come on, mate. You know how Preston can be, doncha?”

“How is that, Mr. Carter? How can he be?”

Carter lumbered to his feet, hitching his trousers with both hands. “Well, you know. If he loses his temper.”

“What happens if he loses his temper?”

Carter was shaking his head. “It’s bad. It’s real bad.”

Blake indicated the stairwell with his head. “I’ll say good night now.”

“Aw, come on,” Carter pleaded. It was unpleasant, a big man whining. “Come on, mate, just a few bucks.”

Blake shook his head. “You chose your company, sir. I can’t help you.”

Carter’s fists curled, and his little eyes narrowed, almost disappearing into the folds of his cheeks. Blake put his hand on the cane. It had been a long time since Chatham County Convict Camp, but Abraham Blake had not forgotten how to defend himself.

When he lifted the cane, its marble lion’s head shone faintly in the muted light. The fat man reared back like a frightened horse. His pale eyebrows rose, and the flesh of his neck quivered. “Better watch yerself, mate,” he said in his reedy voice. “Preston wouldn’t like it if you hurt me.”

“I believe I have four dollars in my wallet. Let’s make our exchange, and you can find someplace to sleep tonight.”

“Four?” Carter looked hopeful.

“As I recall. I don’t carry cash as a rule.”

“You won’t tell Preston?”

Blake considered, pursing his lips. “Let us say that I will not tell him where I learned—whatever it is.”

Carter squinted his pale eyes through the gloom. “Five, maybe?”

Blake took a firmer grip on the cane. “Let me see what I have. Stay here.”

It took only a moment to go into his bedroom. He made a show of bringing his wallet out to show Carter he had no more money than he had claimed.

“Nice wallet,” Carter said.

“Yes, it is. A gift from Mr. Benedict last Christmas.” He opened it, and shook out the bills. There were, as he had expected, only four dollars. He dug inside the change compartment, and found seventy-five cents. “That’s all there is, Mr. Carter.” He laid it all on the table with one hand. He kept the cane firmly gripped in the other, but Carter, eyes glittering at the sight of the money, had given in. He leaned close to Blake, and whispered his secret as if some midnight listener might overhear him.

Blake nodded, unsurprised, but saddened. He said, “No more spreading rumors, Mr. Carter. Or I will report you.”

Carter scooped up the money and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and lumbered down the stairs, sober now, fed, but a sorry sight nonetheless. At the bottom he threw Blake a strange look. “I can’t figure you,” he said.

“No,” Blake said tiredly. “I don’t suppose you can.” When Carter had gone out into the wet night, Blake went down the stairs, still carrying the cane. He took care in locking the door. He turned out the light in the stairwell, and stood there for a long time, watching the quiet house across the yard. When he finally trudged up the stairs for the third time that night, the burden of Carter’s secret bowed his shoulders and dragged at his steps.

Margot startled awake in the darkness, wondering what was wrong. She lay on her pillow, listening. The house was quiet, and she realized, after several moments, that it was the silence that had wakened her. The thunder had stopped. Even the rain had ceased, though water dripped noisily from the gutters. Faint gray light showed through the opening of the curtains. She rolled over to look at the brass dial clock on her bedside stand, and lay a moment longer, debating whether five o’clock was too early to get up. She thought about what awaited her at the hospital this morning, and her heart began to flutter. Sleep would not return.

She threw back her covers and swung her feet to the floor, expecting the shock of cold on her bare soles. When she felt the relative warmth of the wood, she remembered. It was June, nearly summer. The days were growing long.

Margot was startled to hear, as she crept down the stairs with her shoes in her hand, the percolator bubbling in the kitchen. She smelled eggs and bacon frying. She stopped in the kitchen doorway to put on her shoes. “Blake. What are you doing up at this hour?”

“Dr. Margot,” he said with an ironic smile. “What are
you
doing up?”

She sighed, and reached for the mug of coffee he handed her. “I’m going to the hospital.”

He moved to the stove to turn the simmering bacon. “You’re having breakfast first.”

Margot pulled out a chair, and sat down. “I will, thank you. I don’t think I ate last night.”

“You’re worried.” He dished up the eggs and bacon, and set them in front of her. He took a fork and knife from a drawer, and set those beside the plate.

Margot set her coffee down to pick up the fork. “There’s nothing I can do for her now but be there.”

He sat opposite her with his own coffee. “I’m sure you’ve done all you can.”

“That was precious little.” She heard the knife edge in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. It was a relief not to worry about her tone. Blake would understand how she felt, and why. He understood all of it.

She took a bite of egg, and followed it with half of a strip of bacon. She had been afraid she couldn’t eat, but anxious though she was, her body welcomed the food. She finished the eggs in a few bites, and picked up her coffee again. “Whoever did this to Loena,” she said, “wasn’t a doctor. Not only was the procedure a mess, but there couldn’t have been any antiseptic measures. The infection took hold too quickly.”

“Dr. Margot,” Blake began.

She drained the coffee, and stood up. “Sorry, Blake. I’m thinking out loud.”

He stood up, too, slowly, leaning on the table.

“Your back hurts again.”

He shook his head. “Let’s not worry about that now.”

“What then?” He smoothed his white apron. She read indecision in his eyes, and worry. “Is there something else wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He picked up the plate and flatware, but stood holding them, staring at the remnants of her breakfast. “Last night, that man—Carter—was here, trying to see Mr. Preston.”

“Is that the Carter Preston mentioned?”

“The same. He was Mr. Preston’s batman, out in the East. His army servant.”

“I can see you don’t approve of this person, Blake.”

“I certainly don’t approve of his coming to Benedict Hall in the middle of the night.”

“What did he want?”

“Money.” Blake gestured with the dirty plate. “He said he did some work for Mr. Preston, and needed his pay.”

Margot felt the familiar wave of unease. “Preston said Carter arranged Loena’s abortion.”

“More than that. He said Preston wanted a word placed in certain ears. Here and there, he said.”

“A word.” Margot patted her lips with a napkin and laid it on the table. “You have an idea about this, I gather.”

“I don’t like to believe it of Mr. Preston. And I hate to speak of it in case this Carter made it all up.”

Margot snorted, and turned to fetch her coat. “It’s probably something to do with that scandal rag he writes for. Nothing to do with us.”

“Do you read his column?”

“Not since he printed that ghastly photo of me. I’m afraid of what I might see.”

He came after her into the hall, and helped her into her coat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?”

“No. It’s a beautiful morning.” She put on her hat and gloves. “There’s something else I have to worry about, Blake.” He cocked his head, and raised his gray eyebrows. “It’s Dr. Whitely, Leonard Whitely. He claims I performed Loena’s abortion. And that I’ve been doing others, at my clinic. He’s threatening to revoke my hospital privileges.”

Blake hesitated for a long moment, as if he were trying to decide something. Finally, when she bent to pick up her bag, he cleared his throat. “Dr. Margot. You should speak to Mr. Dickson. He can have a word with the directors.”

“Father would probably think it served me right. You know how he feels about the clinic.”

“Let me speak to him, then.”

“No, Blake, but thank you. I have to fight my own battles, don’t I?”

“You don’t have to fight them alone.”

She gave him an affectionate smile before she went out into the cool sunshine and walked quickly down the hill toward the streetcar. The storm had left the lawns green and the air sparkling. The fresh air cleared her head. She tried to enjoy the quiet of the early morning streets, and not to think too much about what she would find when she went into Loena’s ward.

But she knew, just as Cardwell had known. It was a deathwatch. There was nothing in her power that could change it.

 

Preston dressed carefully in a vested suit. He smoothed his tie and took his hat from the shelf above his wardrobe. It was surprising, really, how much he enjoyed writing his column, hearing the bit of buzz around the newsroom as people leafed through the paper. The latest one, in particular, had been a swell bit of fun.

The scents of griddle cakes and bacon floated up the stairs, drawing him down to the dining room. Griddle cakes were one thing Hattie did well. Her bacon tended to be limp and greasy, but the crisp edges of her griddle cakes made up for that.

He was seated at the table with his coffee when Hattie carried in the breakfast tray. As she arranged the platters in front of him, he glanced up. “Where’s Leona?”

Hattie’s eyes were swollen, and her lips trembled. She plucked at the pinafore of her apron as he served himself two griddle cakes and the crispest rashers he could find. She said in a teary voice, “Leona’s at the hospital, Mr. Preston. Loena’s real bad, she says.”

Preston repressed a flare of irritation. He made himself lay down his fork, though the griddle cakes were cooling on his plate. “I thought she was going to be all better, once she got to the hospital. Margot—”

“Miss Margot sat with her almost all day, Leona says. Then she got a nurse to sit with her all night.” Hattie stepped back from the table, and flapped a hand at him. “Eat, Mr. Preston. Have all you want. Hardly anybody here for breakfast.”

“Mother?”

“I took Mrs. Edith a tray, and Miss Margot left before anyone else was up.”

Preston reached for the pitcher of warm maple syrup, but he didn’t pour it yet. He held it in his hand, as if his appetite had disappeared. “I should go to the hospital, shouldn’t I, Hattie?” he said sadly. “Take Loena some flowers.”

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, that’s sweet, Mr. Preston. That’s just so sweet of you. That poor girl!” A sob broke from her throat, and she hurried from the dining room, sniveling as she crossed the hall to the kitchen.

Preston poured syrup over his griddle cakes, and ate two rashers of bacon as it soaked into them. The griddle cakes were delicious. He sat back when they were finished, and sipped the strong black coffee to counteract the sweet taste in his mouth. He put his hand over his breastbone, pursing his lips as he thought about his mother’s lecture and Hattie’s grief. Then, with a decisive motion, he pushed his plate away, set his cup down, and rose.

His father came into the dining room just as he was on his way out. Dick was walking down the stairs at the same moment. “Leaving already, Preston?” Dickson said.

“Early day,” Preston said. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Father.”

His father nodded. Dick, behind him, said, “Quite the busy bee, aren’t you?”

Preston flashed him a grin, then remembered, and pulled his lips into a grave expression. “Well,” he said, “work goes on, despite domestic crises.”

“That’s right,” Dickson said heavily. “Nothing we can do but carry on.” He nodded, mostly to himself, as he went on into the dining room.

Dick stood where he was, one hand on the knob of the dining room door, as Preston made his way to the coatrack. As he adjusted his fedora, Preston glanced back at his brother. “Something to say, old man?”

Dick’s face had the same hard look Margot’s so often wore. “Mother and Ramona are both terribly upset, Preston,” he said stiffly. “I fully expect there to be no more shenanigans.”

Preston opened the front door, letting a rush of rain-washed air into the hallway. “Shenanigans,” he mused, just loud enough for Dick to hear him. “Shenanigans. Is
that
what they are?” He gave a silent laugh as he went out into the sparkling morning.

 

There was a little flurry of activity in the hospital corridors as breakfast trays were being delivered. Preston wrinkled his nose at the smell of medicine and disinfectant mixed with the odors of fried ham and oatmeal. He had to ask directions once or twice before he found his way to Loena’s ward. He peered around the doorway.

The girl lay still as death, the spare shape of her body barely visible beneath the stiff white coverlet. A gray-haired nurse in a long apron bent over her, sponging her forehead. On her other side sat Leona, pale and nearly as still as her sister. She had Loena’s hand in hers, stroking it over and over. It looked as if she had been making the same gesture for hours.

Preston gave a slight, warning cough, and walked into the ward. The nurse glanced over her shoulder to scowl at him. When Leona looked up, she seemed to go even paler, a phenomenon Preston could have enjoyed under other circumstances. For now, he needed both of them to leave the ward. He put a finger to his lips, and tiptoed across the gray linoleum. He had a slender spray of pink tulips in one hand, bought at the street corner, and he held them out as he came close.

Leona began to reach for them, but the nurse said sternly, “No men allowed in this ward.”

Preston stopped where he was, the ridiculous bunch of flowers in his left hand, his right hand pressed to his breast, the perfect gesture of sincerity and concern. “Oh,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m family, really. Preston Benedict.”

He kept his right hand where it was, pressing the stone, as he watched the nurse’s expression change. “Benedict? Are you Dr. Benedict’s brother?”

His belly gave a twinge of fury. “I am,” he said. “I came to see how our girl is doing.”

“Well,” the nurse said. She had a beaky, sharp face, like a crow. “I suppose you can come in for just a moment.”

As he drew closer to the white iron bed, Leona reached again for the flowers, but Preston held them out to the nurse. “I know it isn’t much,” he said sadly. “But do you have a vase somewhere? When she wakes up, a spot of color might cheer her up, don’t you think?”

He flattened his free hand against the stone. The nurse’s wrinkled lips pinched, making her look even more crowlike, but she took the flowers. “I’ll see,” she said primly, and bustled away, her long apron fluttering. “I’ll be right back.”

Leona said, “Dr. Margot just left. She had another patient to see.”

Preston ordered, “Go help the nurse, Leona.”

At the change in his tone, two little spots of color flared in her cheeks. “Yes, Mr. Preston,” she whispered, and fled.

Loena lay unmoving beneath the bleached coverlet, her freckled nose pointing at the ceiling, her white lips a little open. She was more than pale, he thought. She was—waxen, was the word. He liked thinking that. Thinking like a writer, he reflected, not that he would write about this. The girl was a wax image of herself, nearly lifeless. No, bloodless. He wondered for an instant just how much blood she had lost. She looked, in a way, as if she were already dead.

He watched her as he undid one button of his shirtfront with quick fingers. Her breath moved, ever so slightly. And she was so hot! He could feel the heat of her as he leaned close. She moaned, startling him. Still alive. He wondered if, left to her own devices, she might make it. It didn’t look like it to him, but then, he wasn’t a medical man.

He glanced swiftly over his shoulder, but there was no one about. He pulled the stiff coverlet back to expose Loena’s small body in a flimsy nightgown. There was a pungent smell about her, a foul smell, as if something was rotting. His nose twitched, but he bent over her, pulling the silver chain from inside his shirt.

He pressed the sapphire to her chest, between her two small breasts. They had been delightful, those breasts, firm and pink, with nipples like new pennies. Now they seemed flaccid, flat. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t want to see them again.

In truth, he thought, he would be just as happy not to see the girl herself ever again. But his mother—and Hattie—

He closed his eyes, and let the stone sing its ancient song through his fingers, a long-buried song of power. The girl’s eyelids trembled, and lifted. Her eyes opened, and a jolt of energy shook her slight frame when she saw him.

“Preston!”

Startled, Preston palmed the sapphire, and thrust it into his shirtfront even as he took a step back, away from the bed, and from the girl looking up at him with glassy, frightened eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here!” There was no mistaking the authority in Margot’s voice nor the suspicion in her eyes. Her shirtwaist was creased and limp beneath her white coat. Her stethoscope looked like a tired brown snake hanging around her neck.