The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest (19 page)
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Authors: Robin Hathaway
BOOK: The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest
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T
he first guest to arrive was the Reverend Oliver Osborne. He had come early because he was due back at the Rectory for a baptism at four. He was dressed in his clericals.
he first guest to arrive was the Reverend Oliver Osborne. He had come early because he was due back at the Rectory for a baptism at four. He was dressed in his clericals.
Mrs. Ashley appeared in a navy print dress, her gray hair neatly waved. In place of the glasses on a chain that habitually dangled around her neck, she wore a strand of pearls. All traces of her earlier anxiety had vanished, but Mrs. Doyle watched her uneasily nonetheless. There had been that episode of shortness of breath.
Gracefully, Mrs. Ashley extended her hand to the Reverend. “Welcome, sir.”
Gallantly, he kissed it. “Madam, you are a picture.”
“A picture, sir? Elaborate, please.”
Mrs. Doyle, feeling as if she had stepped into a bad Victorian novel, scanned the room for some refreshment. When the town of Winston wasn't being colonial, it was usually being Victorian. The only thing it seemed to never be was normal.
“ ⦠a picture of loveliness,” the Reverend finished.
How Mrs. Doyle longed for a cold beer. Fat chance of finding that in the Ashley household. Tea, tea, and more teaâwith maybe a dash of May wine in the spring and a touch of sherry in the fall.
But beer? Heaven forbid. That was strictly for the birds. Birds! At least she didn't have to look at one of them for a few hours. She wondered if Jenks had any beer stashed away somewhere. She would have to ask him.
But beer? Heaven forbid. That was strictly for the birds. Birds! At least she didn't have to look at one of them for a few hours. She wondered if Jenks had any beer stashed away somewhere. She would have to ask him.
The next guest to arrive was Miss Cunningham. She came in breathless and pushed some flowers at Lydia.
“How lovely,” she said. “Thank you, Alice.”
“Don't thank me. I picked them from your field on the way up.” As usual she was looking for a fight.
“No matter. You took the trouble to pick them.” Mrs. Ashley turned her off with her usual charm. “Come have some tea.” She led her to the refreshment table. “Help yourself, while I go find a vase for these.”
Agatha presided over the table, which was piled high with the delicacies she had spent the morning preparing. Besides the tea, there was punch in a cut glass bowl. In desperation, Mrs. Doyle poured herself a cup. Delicately laced with herbs, it slid down easily. The Reverend was sipping the same brew nearby.
“Reverend, I'd like to introduce myself. Kathleen Doyle, a houseguest. I've been wanting to meet you. Mrs. Ashley speaks so highly of you.”
“Does she?” He seemed pleased.
“I hear you have to leave early to baptize a little one.”
“That's true. Parents still seem to want their offspring dampened at an early age, Mrs. Doyle. Just a precaution, I imagine, such as getting their measles shotâin case all that religious stuff happens to be true.” He sighed.
“Well, I'm sure they're better off for it, Reverend. You can't be too careful when it comes to the life hereafter. It goes on for such a long time.”
“So I hear.” He grinned. “How long are you staying with us, Mrs. Doyle?”
“Not long. As a matter of fact, I may go back tomorrow. The doc ⦠er ⦠man I work for needs me.”
“And who might that be?”
“Oh, I doubt if youâ”
“Mrs. Doyle, I'll be expecting you next Tuesday at ten o'clock sharp,” Miss Cunningham interrupted in the nick of time, saving her from lying to a clergymanâand an afterlife full of fire and brimstone.
“I doubt if I'll still be here,” said Mrs. Doyle, “but thank you for thinking of me. Have you seen any good programs lately?” If she couldn't see television she could, at least, hear about it.
“There's an excellent series on Channel 12. A novel by Henry James. Do you like James?”
“Umm, yes.” (More lies.) “But I find him a little rough going,” she amended. (She had been forced to read
The Turn of the Screw
in high school, and thought the author knew very little about ghosts and next to nothing about children.)
The Turn of the Screw
in high school, and thought the author knew very little about ghosts and next to nothing about children.)
“How strange. Once you get into him, he's a delight. Such psychological insight ⦔
“I suppose ⦔ Right now, Mrs. Doyle was exercising her own psychological insight on Miss Cunningham. “I'll take a good mystery any day, how about you, Reverend?”
“Mysteries! Tch. The adult comic book,” pronounced Miss Cunningham.
“On the contrary,” said the Reverend, with a malicious twinkle. “There's nothing better than a good whodunit. My favorite authors are Dorothy Sayers and Margery Allingham. How about you, Mrs. Doyle?”
Margery Allingham? Her ears perked up. Allingham was the author the doctor was looking for. “Oh, give me the old standbys,” she said. “Agatha Christie and Ellery Queen ⦠.”
Miss Cunningham excused herself. The conversation had sunk too low for her taste. She moved toward the stairs. Mrs. Doyle assumed she was going to find the bathroom. The farmhouse had only one and it was on the second floor. Mrs. Ashley had told her it had been installed in 1910 and had never been remodeled. During the party a number of the guests disappeared upstairs. Tea and punch had much the same effect on the bladder as beer, Mrs.
Doyle noted. But Miss Cunningham was the first to succumb. She looked like the sort to have a small bladder, the nurse diagnosed. Mrs. Doyle sometimes played a little guessing game with herself to relieve the monotony of waiting in lines at supermarkets, banks, and post offices (or standing around at tea parties). The object of the game was to match her companions-in-line with some suitable ailment. Never anything serious. Just minor afflictions such as headache, bursitis, or hemorrhoids. Mr. Barnes probably suffered from the latter, she decided. At the beginning of the party he had planted himself on the love seat under the stairs and his expression was troubled. Having established that the Reverend was a mystery fan and Miss Cunningham was definitely not, she decided to continue to follow Dr. Fenimore's instructions and explore Mr. Barnes's literary tastes. She took the seat next to him.
Doyle noted. But Miss Cunningham was the first to succumb. She looked like the sort to have a small bladder, the nurse diagnosed. Mrs. Doyle sometimes played a little guessing game with herself to relieve the monotony of waiting in lines at supermarkets, banks, and post offices (or standing around at tea parties). The object of the game was to match her companions-in-line with some suitable ailment. Never anything serious. Just minor afflictions such as headache, bursitis, or hemorrhoids. Mr. Barnes probably suffered from the latter, she decided. At the beginning of the party he had planted himself on the love seat under the stairs and his expression was troubled. Having established that the Reverend was a mystery fan and Miss Cunningham was definitely not, she decided to continue to follow Dr. Fenimore's instructions and explore Mr. Barnes's literary tastes. She took the seat next to him.
“Enjoying the party, Mr. Barnes?”
“Umm.”
“Mrs. Ashley is such a good hostess.”
A nod.
“And Agatha is such a wonderful cook.”
Another nod, barely perceptible this time.
“May I get you some tea or punch?”
“No, thank you.”
Where was the ebullient man she had met earlier? Vanished into thin air. “The Reverend and I have just discovered we have a taste in common. We both enjoy a good mystery. Do you like mysteries, Mr. Barnes?”
“Yes.” He brightened. “As a matter of fact, when I was a boy in Iowa, I read all of Agatha Christie.”
Mrs. Doyle congratulated herself on finding another mystery fan, but her diagnosis of hemorrhoids was way off base; Mr. Barnes was suffering from homesickness.
She chatted a little longer before she returned to the refreshment table. It was centrally located and provided an excellent view of all the guests. She noticed a new arrival. Tom Winston. She
had seen him a number of timesâworking with Susan around the farm, and that one time in town, when she had interrupted their heated argument. Tom's idea of tea party attire was a pair of clean jeans and a sports shirt. He had also exchanged his usual work boots for a pair of loafers. He looked around in an obvious way for Susan. When he failed to find her, he slouched in a chair and scowled at the scene before him. Guessing his malady, Mrs. Doyle felt sorry for him and went over to talk to him. A difficult task. Trying a variety of openersâthe weather, cranberries, whodunitsâshe was met with little more than a grunt. He did admit to preferring seed catalogs to mysteries. Like Agatha and her cookbooks, Tom was happy in his work and had no need for escapist literature. Lucky pair. It wasn't until, by chance, she mentioned Susan, that his face took on a whole new aspect. “Where is she, Mrs. Doyle?”
had seen him a number of timesâworking with Susan around the farm, and that one time in town, when she had interrupted their heated argument. Tom's idea of tea party attire was a pair of clean jeans and a sports shirt. He had also exchanged his usual work boots for a pair of loafers. He looked around in an obvious way for Susan. When he failed to find her, he slouched in a chair and scowled at the scene before him. Guessing his malady, Mrs. Doyle felt sorry for him and went over to talk to him. A difficult task. Trying a variety of openersâthe weather, cranberries, whodunitsâshe was met with little more than a grunt. He did admit to preferring seed catalogs to mysteries. Like Agatha and her cookbooks, Tom was happy in his work and had no need for escapist literature. Lucky pair. It wasn't until, by chance, she mentioned Susan, that his face took on a whole new aspect. “Where is she, Mrs. Doyle?”
“She's ⦠out.” Something made Mrs. Doyle pause and not reveal where Susan had been or who she was with. “She should be here any minute.”
Miraculously, Susan came in just then, followed closely by Peter. Like Tom, they were also casually dressed. After appeasing their appetites at the refreshment table, they came over to Mrs. Doyle. Susan was holding something in her hand.
“Gold sovereigns?” asked Mrs. Doyle.
Susan and Peter both laughed. Peter seemed to have forgiven her for this morning's spying episode.
“No such luck,” said Susan. “But we found this.” She held out a worn copper disk, about the size of a fifty-cent piece. Some of the guests looked curiously their way.
As the nurse examined it, Amory came forward. “Let me see.” He took the disk from her and carried it over to the light. “Interesting. An early âlarge cent.' Where did you find this?”
“It was caught on a piece of driftwood near the old wharf. I noticed it as I was diving ⦠.” Susan's back was turned to Tom and she was unaware of his changing expressionâfrom curiosity, to shock, to fury. Mrs. Doyle noted it. She also noticed the room
had become unnaturally quiet. Everyone seemed to be listening to Susan.
had become unnaturally quiet. Everyone seemed to be listening to Susan.
Tom stormed over to Mrs. Ashley. “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “Letting Susan dive at the old wharf. You know how dangerous it is!”
Mrs. Ashley staggered backward. “I didn't ⦔ Pale to begin with, she turned an alarming gray.
“Here, here,” The Reverend was at her side. “What's this all about, Tom?”
Mrs. Ashley reached for Oliver's arm.
“My dear, what is it?” he asked.
“I feel a little woozy ⦠.”
Tom was forgotten. “Let me find you a chair.”
Lydia alarmed everyone. She allowed the clergyman to lead her across the room while leaning against him.
Mrs. Doyle went to her. “Mrs. Ashley, did you check your medicines like I asked you to?”
She nodded. “I found I'd forgotten my morning medicine, so I doubled the dose.”
Of course. What could be more natural? It was Mrs. Doyle's turn to become pale.
“Oh, I can never remember their names,” Mrs. Ashley said irritably. “There's the little pill I take for my heart once a day. Then there's the big Doplex pills for my blood pressure. I take two twice a day. Such a nuisance. They're so hard to swallow. I took two of those this afternoon to make up for the ones I missed this morning.”
“Where are they?” Mrs. Doyle's tone was sharper than she intended.
“On my bureau.”
The nurse half ran up the stairs, almost colliding with Fred Jenks who was on his way down. Fleetingly, she wondered what he was doing in the house in his work clothes (smelling of fish) during a tea party? When she reached Mrs. Ashley's room, she went straight to the bureau and began scanning the rows of medicine
bottles. Some of the medicines were outdated by more than a year! At the end of the front row she located one of the two bottles she was searching for. It was labeled “digoxin.” She dumped some of the pills into her palm. Small, white, standard digoxin tablets. “The little pills.” Next to that bottle there was a gap in the row, as if a bottle had been removed. After carefully examining all the bottles, she failed to find the Doplex medicine. “The big pills.” All the pills on the bureau were standard size and would not be difficult to swallow. The blood pressure pills were missing!
bottles. Some of the medicines were outdated by more than a year! At the end of the front row she located one of the two bottles she was searching for. It was labeled “digoxin.” She dumped some of the pills into her palm. Small, white, standard digoxin tablets. “The little pills.” Next to that bottle there was a gap in the row, as if a bottle had been removed. After carefully examining all the bottles, she failed to find the Doplex medicine. “The big pills.” All the pills on the bureau were standard size and would not be difficult to swallow. The blood pressure pills were missing!
She went to the phone by Mrs. Ashley's bed and punched in the doctor's pager number. While waiting for him to return her call, she noticed a copy of
Nine Tailors
by Dorothy Sayers on the bedside table. There was more than one mystery fan in the house. After ten minutes had passed with no call, she decided she had better rejoin the party. On her way out of the room, she passed the window and noticed Jenks below in the garden. He had a shovel and seemed to be burying something. The wavy, antique glass made it impossible for her to see what it was. As she strained to see, she heard cries from the living room. She rushed to the head of the stairs and looked down. Mrs. Ashley was crumpled on the floor beside her chair. From Mrs. Doyle's bird's-eye view, everyone looked small and squatâmidgets darting to and fro among dollhouse furniture. She froze. Then her nursing instincts took over and she walked briskly down the stairs.
Nine Tailors
by Dorothy Sayers on the bedside table. There was more than one mystery fan in the house. After ten minutes had passed with no call, she decided she had better rejoin the party. On her way out of the room, she passed the window and noticed Jenks below in the garden. He had a shovel and seemed to be burying something. The wavy, antique glass made it impossible for her to see what it was. As she strained to see, she heard cries from the living room. She rushed to the head of the stairs and looked down. Mrs. Ashley was crumpled on the floor beside her chair. From Mrs. Doyle's bird's-eye view, everyone looked small and squatâmidgets darting to and fro among dollhouse furniture. She froze. Then her nursing instincts took over and she walked briskly down the stairs.
After checking Mrs. Ashley's pulse, she sent Peter Jordan to call an ambulance. Susan knelt beside her grandmother, stroking her hand. Tom Winston hovered nearby, looking desperate. He must have felt that his angry outburst had caused Lydia's attack. Mrs. Doyle took pity on him. “Tom, bring me some ice and a damp cloth.” He was off like a shot, pathetically grateful for something to do. When he returned, Mrs. Doyle gently rubbed Mrs. Ashley's wrists and temples with the ice and applied the damp towel to her forehead.
The other guests spoke in whispers, while they all strained to
hear the ambulance siren. When it finally came, although faint and far away, there was a collective sign of relief. Suddenly Mrs. Doyle remembered something. To everyone but Mrs. Ashley and Susan, she was supposed to be a secretary, not a nurse. But no one seemed to question her authority.
hear the ambulance siren. When it finally came, although faint and far away, there was a collective sign of relief. Suddenly Mrs. Doyle remembered something. To everyone but Mrs. Ashley and Susan, she was supposed to be a secretary, not a nurse. But no one seemed to question her authority.
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