The Gladstone Bag (18 page)

Anyway, she sincerely hoped Uncle Franklin could be got out here fairly soon to have a look at the child. If not, Sandy would have to be sent ashore in the lobster boat as soon as she was able to travel. A head injury severe enough to have stunned her this badly was nothing to be trifled with. Vincent must know at once. She picked the scattered dishes up off the carpet, set them on the tray, and carried them to the kitchen. Then she stepped outside and rang the big ship’s bell beside the door.

Naturally she got more of a response than she’d bargained for. Bubbles was first, chugging up the path from the cottages, carrying what had presumably been Mrs. Fath’s breakfast tray.

“What’th the matter, Mithith Kelling? We’re not therving lunch in the houthe today.”

“I know. I have to get hold of Vincent. He told me to ring the bell if ever I needed him in a hurry. Ah, here he comes now.”

And here he came indeed on the dead run, with Neil and Ted close behind him. “What’s the matter?” he panted.

“It’s all right, Vincent, we’ve found Sandy. She apparently gave her head a whack on a closet door while she was picking up Mrs. Brooks’s breakfast tray. She was down on the floor behind the bed, still dazed. It looked to me as though she may actually have been unconscious for a while. That would explain why she didn’t respond when Bernice came looking for her. We’ve put her to bed in Mrs. Sabine’s room. Mrs. Brooks is with her now, but I do think we ought to get the doctor’s opinion before we let her up. One can’t be too careful about a head injury, you know.”

“My God, what next?” groaned the father. “All right, boys, you might as well go back an’ finish clearin’ away them broken limbs. For God’s sake, be careful with the chain saw. We got trouble enough already. Come on, Bubbles, you better take a look at Sandy.”

By now others were gathering to see what the commotion was about, and Emma was regretting her impromptu performance on the gong. She had to stay and keep explaining to startled cottagers and a dithering Bernice when she’d much rather be upstairs trying to find out whether an attempt had been made to open the safe. How she’d manage that without letting Vincent and Bubbles in on the secret Adelaide Sabine had kept, or at least thought she’d kept, all these years was something Emma hadn’t yet figured out.

Yet it had to be done, for her own peace of mind if nothing more. Why couldn’t she have left that necklace where she’d found it? Then the man who wasn’t Polydore Pence might have lived to carry it away from Pocapuk, and Sandy would have escaped a knock on the head. Or not, as the case might be.

Emma was not used to crying over spilled milk, mainly because she’d never spilled any to speak of. She’d often acted on impulse, but she’d always known pretty much who’d be holding the net when she jumped. There’d been darling Bed and the unflappable Heatherstones, there’d been the Kelling clan, her many friends and neighbors, and latterly her own grown-up children to support her in whatever scheme happened to grab her fancy. She was used to being the general but not to having to operate without her army. Theonia was a capable woman, but was Theonia enough?

Emma suddenly remembered that Theonia still hadn’t had a chance to tell her who the man in the shed really was. She must find out, for whatever good the information might do her. She ought also to be questioning cottagers, getting a line on which of them might have been lurking inside Adelaide’s wardrobe when Sandy tried to sneak a peek at Theonia’s elegant nightwear.

What made her think they were going to tell her? And what kind of sense would it make to let them know she suspected Sandy’s bang on the head was no accident? She was reassuring Black John Sendick that the house wasn’t on fire and nobody needed to be rescued when Vincent came downstairs with his daughter in his arms.

“She’s stayin’ down here where I can keep an eye on ’er,” he told Emma. He wasn’t bothering to be amiable about it, and Emma couldn’t blame him.

“Certainly, Vincent. If Sandy were my child, I shouldn’t trust her to strangers either. I expect Bubbles and Bernice can manage between them till the doctor gets here. My cousin and I’ll be on call if we’re needed. Bubbles, were you planning to serve lunch in a while, or shall I fix something for Mrs. Brooks and myself?”

The cook was openly horrified. “Oh no, Mithith Kelling, you muthn’t! I alwayth therve Mithith Thabine at half-patht twelve on the thun porch. Ith that all right for you?”

“That will be fine.” Emma had quite forgotten there was one, a small glassed-in veranda off the dining room. She’d been too fagged to go out there the afternoon she arrived and yesterday had hardly been sun-porch weather. Now that she’d been put in her place, she might as well not rock the boat. At least, with Sandy out of the upstairs bedroom, she was free to go and check out the wall safe.

No, she wasn’t. Here came Count Radunov at a gentle canter.

“Mrs. Kelling, may I have the boldness to inquire whether the bell has tolled for me?”

“Why not?” she replied. “Everyone else has. What took you so long?”

“My advanced state of decrepitude and the fact that I have actually begun to outline my magnum opus. I was pondering whether to allow Grigori Rasputin a brief flirtation with Queen Victoria.”

“Do you think he was really her type?”

Radunov shrugged. “There were Disraeli and John Brown. One born Jewish, one Protestant; therefore we may assume her tastes were somewhat catholic. Getting back to the subject of the bell—”

“I merely wanted to get hold of Vincent in a hurry and the bell seemed the fastest way. I’ll know better next time. Though I hope to goodness there won’t be a next time.”

He didn’t ask why there had been need for haste this time. Such restraint deserved its reward, Emma decided.

“His daughter got a bad bang on her head and I thought he’d better know.”

“But of course. He is, one observes, a devoted father. I hope the child is not seriously hurt.”

“So do I. Sandy’s such a darling.”

“Is she? That, I confess, I had not observed. I prefer my darlings to be more mature.”

He spoke with some empressement, Emma couldn’t tell whether he was trying to flirt with her. Perhaps he was envisioning himself as Rasputin and her as Victoria Regina and seizing the chance to get in a spot of literary research. More likely it was just that Theonia had now joined them on the doorstep.

“O
H, THEONIA,” SAID EMMA
, “may I present Count Alexei Radunov, one of our cottagers? Count Radunov, this is Mrs. Brooks Kelling, my cousin’s wife. Mrs. Brooks has just arrived unexpectedly for a short visit.”

“And how glad I am to be here.” Theonia extended a shapely hand, which the count, quite naturally, kissed. “How do you do, Count Radunov? Emma tells me you’re here to write a novel. Are you making satisfactory progress?”

“I find it satisfactory to be in the presence of two so beautiful ladies, Mrs. Brooks. As to my novel, one can but hope. And how, if I may ask, did you get to Pocapuk? Not by the ferry, I surmise, for I heard no hoot. Not in your own yacht, by chance? If so, I must warn you that our zealous Professor Wont will attempt to commandeer the vessel for his treasure hunt.”

Theonia’s laugh was like the ringing of tiny silver bells. She favored the gallant Russian with a short peal, causing him to reel slightly and lose his grip on the hand he’d been reluctant to let go. “Professor Wont is in for a sad disappointment then. I merely hitched a ride with an old friend of my husband’s who was flying up to look at the puffins. You don’t happen to know Tweeters Arbuthnot, by chance? He lives on that long, winding road over near the Kittiwakes.”

Count Radunov didn’t seem to recognize the name, though he was a trifle slow in shaking his head. “I regret that I have not the pleasure of Mr. Arbuthnot’s acquaintance. But how fortunate for you and for us that he was able to fly you directly to Pocapuk. How ever did he manage to land on so small an island? Was he flying a helicopter? Or did you jump out with a parachute, as your intrepid cousin would no doubt have done?”

“I’m not that intrepid,” said Emma.

“Nor I,” Theonia obliged with another argent chuckle. “Tweeters flies a seaplane, of course. He landed on the water and taxied me up to the dock.”

The count struck his brow with a fine melodramatic flourish. “Ah, how disappointingly prosaic! Instead of a death-defying leap, you merely entrusted your invaluable life to the ill-tempered ocean out there. Brhh! Rather you than I, madam. Did you take a horrible bouncing around?”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried. Tweeters is always setting down in impossible places and never gets into the tiniest bit of trouble. My husband flies with him quite often; Brooks wouldn’t have let me come if he’d thought there was any risk.”

Brooks had let Theonia come because he wasn’t around to stop her, Emma amended silently. Did Radunov have to keep ogling her quite so blatantly? He was shaking his head from side to side now, putting on a show of bemusement.

“Your husband flies off with this Tweeters to look at puffins when he might otherwise stay home and look at you? Truly, I find the ways of American men strange and wonderful.”

“All men are strange, though not always wonderful.” Emma decided she’d been left out of this conversation quite long enough. “Shall we walk you back to your cottage, Count Radunov? We’re about to pay a sympathy call on Mrs. Fath.”

“Ah, I am reminded. Mrs. Fath has sent a message. As I passed her cottage just now, she called out to me, ‘Ask my guardian angel to bring me some orange juice.’ She didn’t explain who her guardian angel might be, so I thought I might as well just get some from the cook and take it to her myself.”

“That was kind of you. I expect she was in fact referring to the cook. Bubbles has been plying Mrs. Fath with invalid goodies, Vincent tells me. We’ll tend to the juice; you’d better nip on back to Queen Victoria while the fires of inspiration are still blazing nicely.”

Emma hoped she’d managed to jog Radunov’s memory. Cottagers were supposed to stay clear of the kitchen and not bother the cook. She could hardly have said so point-blank when he’d come on an errand of mercy. Anyway, it was a relief to hear that Alding Fath was awake and clamoring for nourishment.

Theonia, always adept at covering small awkwardnesses, stepped out on the path to show Radunov a brown creeper that was making its industrious way up and down a tree trunk, poking its curved beak into bark crevices like an avian Everard Wont searching for hidden treasure. The bird, at least, appeared to be having some success. Emma turned her attention to the orange juice. Would she be flying in the face of protocol if she simply opened the fridge and took some out? Apparently she would. She wasn’t halfway across the kitchen before Bubbles charged in from the ell.

“Thomething I can do for you, Mithith Kelling?”

“Yes, thank you, Bubbles. Count Radunov has stopped by to say that Mrs. Fath wants some orange juice. If you’ll get it out, I’ll take it to her. Mrs. Brooks and I were just on our way there anyway.”

“But I took her a whole pitcherful thith morning with her breakfatht,” Bubbles protested. “She can’t pothibly have drunk it all up tho thoon.”

“Maybe she upset the pitcher.”

Or maybe she was pining for another visit from her guardian angel. Emma wouldn’t have dreamed of saying so in front of him.

Bubbles didn’t see how Mrs. Fath could have spilled the juice. He’d put it into a plastic container with a screw-on lid and a lever you had to hold your thumb on when you poured. He’d shown her how to work the lever; she must have forgotten. He’d better go himself and show her again.

This small errand was turning into a major project. Emma was not about to have a wrangling match with Adelaide Sabine’s cook.

“Very well then, Bubbles, if you think best. But you’re not going to leave Sandy alone, surely? I know Vincent’s depending on you to look after her.”

“Bernithe ith with Thandy. She’ll be all right for a few minuteth.”

“If you’re quite sure then.”

Emma didn’t suggest to the cook that they walk to the cottage together, that was surely not the way things had always been done. She merely nodded and went ahead to join Theonia. The count, to her surprise, had taken her suggestion and gone back to his writing, so she and her cousin-in-law went by themselves after all.

Emma was itching to ask Theonia who the man in the pony shed really was but prudence forbade. It was entirely possible there might be something besides a brown creeper lurking among the pines. Theonia would tell her soon enough. For the moment, it was safer to stick to the beauties of nature.

When they got to Mrs. Fath’s cottage, they found the seeress lying in bed sound asleep, with a half-full glass of orange juice sitting on the bamboo nightstand beside her. One of those complicated plastic thermos jugs that turn up in expensive mail-order catalogs stood nearby.

Emma picked up the jug and sloshed it around. “It feels to be about half-full,” she said. “Theonia, what do you make of this?”

Instead of replying, Theonia picked up the glass, sniffed at it, and took a tiny, careful sip. She then took a small plastic container with a bright red lid out of the straw tote bag she was carrying, poured about a third of the juice into it, made sure the red top was secured, and stashed it away in her bag. She did the same with a blue-topped container and some juice straight out of the pitcher. For a moment, Emma thought Theonia must have lost her mind, then she caught on.

“Theonia, do you actually believe—”

“Sh-h!”

Bubbles was coming up the porch steps with a duplicate plastic jug in his hand. Emma stepped to the cottage door.

“Mrs. Fath’s sound asleep again, Bubbles, she must have gone back to bed after she spoke with Count Radunov. And look, there’s juice in her glass and still some in the pitcher. She must have been confused when she asked for more. You don’t suppose she’s taking something?”

The man’s friendly blue eyes narrowed to unamiable slits. “Thuch ath what?”

Emma shrugged. “Not liquor, or we’d smell it on her. Pills of some kind, wouldn’t you think?”

Bubbles shook his head so hard that his fat cheeks flip-flopped. “Mithith Fath would never take pillth! She thayth they dithturb the vibrational. There’th nothing the matter with her. It’th jutht the thea air. It affecth thome people that way when they firtht come, they thleep and thleep. A thenthitive perthon like her ith naturally more thutheptible than the otherth.”