Manor of Dying

by Kathleen Bridge

  I said, “Bless you.” Even if he killed me, like he’d done to Dr. Blake, I planned to go out like the lady my mother would’ve been proud of.

  “Thank you,” he answered.

  I couldn’t help but edge closer to him as he lifted the lid to the box. Inside were three black leather journals. The top one had the year 1949 etched in gold on the cover. Langston took it out, put it to the side, then picked up the one below. It read 1950.

  The year Arden Hunter had been murdered.

  “I know all about your great-aunt,” I whispered from behind. “And so do the police. In fact, Detective Shoner is here, waiting to talk to you.” Not exactly the truth. But close enough.

  “Fine,” he said, as calm as could be. He opened the journal and flipped through it. When he found something that caught his interest, he went to an old swivel desk chair in the corner of the room and sunk into it. It groaned under his weight, the seat tilting to one side. His eyes never left the page of the open journal.

  If I wanted to, I could run out the door and make it out of the gatehouse with no problem. But the curious gene, handed down from my cop father, kept me frozen in time. I really wanted to know what was in that journal.

  After a few minutes, which ticked by like hours, Langston looked up. He blinked as if noticing me for the first time. “It’s here. Just as she said.”

  “What’s there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice low, not wanting to break him out of his reverie.

  “He admits it was his fault. Not outright, but here it is. After Arden Hunter’s death it looks like he had his own mental collapse. No wonder he wasn’t heard from again. I have a feeling he spent the rest of his days here. In the gatehouse. The coward.”

  “Whose fault?”

  “Dr. Tobias Nightingale’s. The person who accused my great-aunt of murder and caused her to be imprisoned in a mental hospital for years. My grandmother and mother believed her, but the hospital never did.”

  “Is that why you murdered his grandson, sins of the father, and all that?” The words came out before I could stop them.

  A voice from the hallway said, “Yes, Mr. Reed, please enlighten us.” Arthur stepped inside the room and stood in front of Langston. He was followed by the officer from Southampton. Her gun wasn’t drawn, but her hand was on her holster.

  Saved in the nick of time.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter 26

  “I’ve already written most of the documentary in my mind. It will be a tell-all on what really happened the day Arden Hunter underwent her lobotomy. Dr. Tobias Nightingale must have screwed up the operation and accidently killed her,” Langston said, his eyes bright like he had a fever. “My great-aunt’s diary tells of how it really went down. She and Arden were meant to run away and take a train to Manhattan the night before Arden’s scheduled lobotomy. However, Dr. Nightingale moved the procedure up a day. A kind nurse named Mary told my great-aunt about the change of schedule and my great-aunt went to the basement to stop it. But it was too late. When she arrived, Arden was already dead on the operating table. My great-aunt got agitated, and rightly so. The doctor forced her to breathe in ether, put the ice pick in her hand, then gripped her wrist and shoved it into Arden’s heart. Afterward he gave her more medication. When the police finally arrived, she was in restraints and drugged senseless. The sanitorium was closed immediately. Soon after Dr. Nightingale all but disappeared. My grandmother even tried to get Arden’s body exhumed. Back then, because Shelter Island was so small, Dr. Tobias Nightingale was also the island’s sole medical examiner and he’d done the postmortem himself. There was even an underground holding area in the hospital’s basement for the bodies.”

  I shivered at that last statement.

  “All my grandmother’s efforts failed,” Langston said, “but now we have proof.”

  We were in the drawing room. Langston sat next to Arthur on one of the love seats that flanked the fireplace. I sat in the chair next to Langston. Elle and Felicity sat on the other love seat. Everything Langston said rang true and matched the rag doll with the train tickets inside, the letter in the attic and the kind nurse Arden had mentioned in her letter. Langston handed the journal from the gatehouse to Arthur, who handed it to Officer Hall.

  “You can see how deranged Tobias Nightingale was,” Langston said. “Look at the macabre drawings in the margins. And his handwriting.”

  The officer opened the journal but her face didn’t show any emotion. From where I was sitting I couldn’t see a thing.

  Langston kept talking. “My grandmother told my mother that right after her sister was sent to a state mental hospital, Nightingale Manor Sanitorium closed. Shortly after, my grandmother took a trip to Shelter Island to confront Dr. Nightingale, but the house was boarded up, and a groundskeeper who lived in the gatehouse shooed her away with a rifle and a threat of charging her with trespassing. She never heard about Dr. Tobias Nightingale again. After she read his obituary a few years later, my grandmother finally gave up.”

  “But how did you end up choosing Nightingale Manor for Mr. & Mrs. Winslow?” I asked.

  “Months ago, when we were in the beginning stages of scoping out the area for the miniseries, I saw an ad in the East Hampton Star. I felt it was a sign from the universe. I’ve always been curious about the story. After we signed the contract for Nightingale Manor, I went to visit my great-aunt. She’s still distraught over the death of her infant, along with what went down with Arden Hunter, plus she’s had dementia for quite a few years. Even though she’s ninety-five she seemed quite lucid when she told me the story of her ‘dear friend Arden.’ Then she handed me a box filled with notebooks where she’d written her own story, all claiming her innocence. The ramblings of the unwell, the doctors had told my grandmother year after year when she tried to get her sister Marian cleared of all charges.”

  Everyone was silent for a few minutes, digesting what we’d just heard.

  Finally, Langston asked Arthur, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I’m not in charge of the investigation,” he answered. “But I’m pretty certain you will need to answer some questions either from Suffolk County or Southampton. Only someone who knew ahead of time about how this actress Arden Hunter died would be able to stage a copycat murder.”

  “Well, I might have known, but so did Sabrina, Dr. Lewis and even Willa. It was everywhere in the papers when it happened, not impossible to research. Willa is the one who confided to me that Dr. Blake had told her the gatehouse was where his grandfather, Dr. Tobias Nightingale, spent the remainder of his years. And of course, Sabrina was privy to the story. After I let Blake know I knew about the old murder of Arden Hunter, he told Sabrina. On the night Blake was murdered, Sabrina begged me to keep the production at Nightingale Manor, worried that between the Bungled lawsuit and the lapsed malpractice insurance her husband’s family skeletons might come prancing out of the closet. Sabrina gave me the key to the gatehouse and I was there all night until the power came back on. I returned at daylight. I promised Sabrina a walk-on part, but it was well worth it to find that journal.”

  “Why didn’t you say all this in your statement to the police?” Officer Hall asked. It was the first time she’d spoken since we’d come back from the gatehouse. She wasn’t one for small talk. An admirable quality.

  Langston drew in a long breath, then exhaled, seeming to center himself. “I wasn’t done searching the gatehouse. When the power went out I hadn’t even a flashlight, just the one on my phone, which soon died. I needed to come back. Today was the first time I was able. But I didn’t kill Dr. Blake in revenge. He had nothing to do with his grandfather’s actions. I’m not a murderer.”

  “I believe you,” I said, trying to lift the heavy cloud of malaise with my upbeat voice. I wanted to tell him that I had proof back at my cottage that what his great-aunt said was true. I held back, knowing things were still uncertain on who did kill Dr. Blake.

  Felicity added her own vote of confidence. “S
o do I.”

  There was still doubt in Arthur’s eyes, along with Officer Hall’s.

  A phone buzzed. Officer Hall took hers from her pocket and looked down. “It’s a message from Chief Pell. He wants me to ask Mr. Reed if he wouldn’t mind meeting him at the Southampton station.” She nodded toward Langston. “We can leave now for the ferry.”

  Langston stood tall, putting both his arms in front of him, like he was waiting to be cuffed. Officer Hall also stood. She was a lot shorter than Langston, but the way she held herself made her appear an equal match.

  “I just planned on doing a movie that would vindicate my great-aunt,” Langston said. “That was all.”

  “No need for cuffs, Mr. Reed,” Officer Hall said in a steady voice with a slight New York accent. “Chief Pell was very clear about that.”

  After they left the room, Elle said, “We need to catch the ferry too. I don’t like the look of that gloomy sky. Plus, if Langston isn’t the killer, that leaves Willa, Dr. Lewis, and Sabrina. Dr. Lewis and Willa are here, right now. Maybe they killed Dr. Blake together. Remember, Meg, what you told me about finding them together?”

  Arthur raised his furry eyebrows and pursed his lips, as if holding back from calling me Ms. Barrett, and reading me the Detective Shoner Act for not telling him about the Willa and Dr. Lewis connection. Then I recalled that I had put their liaison on the paper I handed Arthur at Home and Hearth yesterday. He mustn’t have given it a second glance.

  “Dr. Lewis is here?” I asked incredulously.

  Elle brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her right eye. “Yes. He came to the door looking for Sabrina when you were in the gatehouse. She was supposed to show up this morning at nine in Southampton to meet with him and a solicitor about Blake’s will and the future of the practice, Southampton Aesthetics. She never showed up.”

  I recalled Willa saying Sabrina had been out bright and early.

  Felicity stood, and Elle and I followed suit. “Now that Langston has left,” Felicity said, “I need to cancel the truck. I hope it’s not too late. Something keeps stopping us. This whole project seems doomed to failure.”

  Elle looked nervously at her fiancé. “Maybe this place is haunted and has a mind of its own.”

  Arthur stood. “Stuff and nonsense. Let’s stick to our plan for the four o’clock ferry to Sag Harbor. First, I want to have a word with Ms. Sullivan and the doctor. I’ll meet you in five minutes.” He turned to go, then turned back. “Felicity, I want you to leave with us. You can follow us to the ferry. We still don’t know who killed the doctor.”

  Elle blew him an air kiss. He winked then left the room.

  “So,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “It seems things are progressing along. At least Langston’s ties with Arden Hunter and Marian Fortune are out in the open. For once, I agree with Detective . . . Arthur. Until they find out who killed Dr. Blake, we stay away from this place. Do you agree, Felicity?”

  “Wholeheartedly,” she answered, glancing wistfully around at the cartons in the room. “Any chance we could load some of these in your pickup, Elle?”

  “We took Arthur’s Lexus. There isn’t much room, but between our car and your rental we should be able to bring a few cartons back to the mainland. We can store them in the carriage house for the time being.”

  “Great, let’s get going,” I said.

  “Before it’s too late,” Elle added.

  Her statement hung in the air and I felt a chill even though I was standing in front of a roaring fire.

  Chapter 27

  The caravan left Nightingale Manor. Arthur hadn’t been too happy that the backseat next to Elle was filled with boxes, making it hard to see out the back window. Not to mention his full trunk. He’d better get used to it. Because once they married, Elle, like me, was prone to rescue things curbside, or stop at an estate or garage sale, or two or three, without warning. Felicity’s rental car was also packed. She followed closely behind. We passed the gatehouse and I breathed a sigh of relief. At least everything having to do with the old murder was out in the open. I turned to Arthur and reminded him that when Sabrina showed up they needed to confirm Langston’s story that he’d spent the night at the gatehouse. I believed Langston’s version of the events. Making a movie made more sense as a way of vindicating his great-aunt. My gut said he wasn’t a killer. Which left us with Willa, Dr. Lewis and Sabrina.

  Light snow started falling, swirling in the blustery air and making me feel like I was inside a snow globe that someone had just shaken. The water beyond the estate’s stone wall was softened by the haze of snow, and glancing to my left at the thicket of pine trees, I saw, again, how beautiful the grounds were. I took a mental snapshot to replace the one of Dr. Blake strapped to the bed in the basement. I forced my thoughts back to earlier in the day when Duke and Duke Jr. brought in the nineteenth-century apothecary cabinet Elle had brought for me as a housewarming gift. Elle had known about my obsession with apothecary cabinets. I looked to my left, daydreaming on what I could put on the cabinet’s shelves and in the clear glass drawers.

  Something out the window caught my eye after we passed through the stone pillars. “Stop!” I yelled loud enough to cause feedback in my hearing aids. Arthur put his foot on the brake and we skidded to a stop.

  “What the heck, Meg!” Elle shouted. I looked back and saw two boxes had tumbled onto her lap, hiding her upper torso.

  “Look over there!” I said, pointing. Felicity must have seen what I’d seen because she’d gotten out of her car and was running toward a large bush. On the other side of the bush, a car had plowed nose-first into the low stone wall that followed the perimeter of the Nightingale estate.

  “Oh, my,” I heard Elle say as both Arthur and I bounded from the car and followed Felicity.

  When we were a short distance from a silver Mercedes, we saw the front driver’s side door was open.

  When we reached the car, we bent and looked inside.

  “It’s Sabrina,” Felicity said. “She’s unconscious but alive. I don’t know how long she’s been out here, but she’s really pale. She might have hyperthermia. And she’s really wedged in there.”

  Arthur said, “Felicity, get in the passenger’s seat and try to pull her torso toward you so I can free her legs.”

  I stepped out of the way. Sabrina didn’t look good; her forehead was leaning against the steering wheel. Her skin was the same color as the snow at the top of the fence. The front of the Mercedes had impacted the stone wall with such a wallop that most of the stones had broken apart and lay crushed under the car’s wheels. The airbag hadn’t deployed, so maybe the impact hadn’t been as bad as it looked.

  Elle came trotting toward us. “Is there someone inside?”

  “Drive the car over here!” I shouted back. “It’s Sabrina. She’s alive.” Not for long in this cold, I thought. The Mercedes had been hidden behind an azalea bush, nose to the wall. I’d caught the glint of its silver bumper after we’d passed through the stone pillars. It was a miracle I’d looked to my left, the opposite direction we would have been traveling to get to the ferry.

  Felicity tried to help free Sabrina’s long giraffe legs from under the steering column. Only after Felicity managed to remove Sabrina’s high-heeled boots was Arthur able to pull her out. I hurried to help him carry her to the Lexus. Sabrina’s body was as limp as a rag doll’s, reminding me of Marian Fortune’s armless doll. I noticed the tips of her fingers were starting to turn blue. Why hadn’t she worn gloves? The outside temperature was in the teens, even colder when she’d left the house in the early morning. And how had she ended up going north? Southampton, where she was going to meet Dr. Lewis, was in the opposite direction.

  Elle ran over and told us that she had the heat blasting. Felicity opened the door to the backseat and removed the boxes, placing them on top of the stone wall. When we laid Sabrina on the backseat, she stirred for just a second. Just enough to let us know she was still alive.

&nbs
p; “We should take off our coats and place them on top of her,” Elle suggested.

  “Good idea.” Felicity took off her coat.

  After Elle draped her jacket over Sabrina’s still form, Arthur and I followed suit.

  “Arthur, there’s a thermal blanket in the emergency kit you put in the trunk. Get it.” I had a feeling Elle would never let him forget it was her idea to transfer the emergency kit from the pickup to his car. Then Elle turned to me. “You’ll have to get in with Felicity.”

  I gave her a thumbs-up and hurried to Felicity’s rental and moved the boxes in the front passenger’s seat into the back. As I leaned in to get inside, Arthur called out, “Should we try to make the four o’clock ferry?”

  I looked at my watch, then looked at the sky. The snow was steady but still manageable. “Willa’s a nurse, and Dr. Lewis might still be at the manor,” I shouted over the blustery wind. “I don’t think we should take the chance of missing the ferry.”

  He hesitated for only a second, then shouted back, “Okay.”

  I got in the car and we waited until the Lexus passed through the stone pillars. As we followed them up the long winding drive, I murmured under my breath, “Hope we made the right decision.”

  Turned out we hadn’t.

  Chapter 28

  Not only was Willa at Nightingale Manor but so was Dr. Lewis. We’d brought Sabrina up to her room, which was more like a luxury suite—something you might see in an episode of TV’s Victoria. All that was missing was a scepter, crown, and throne. Her room-sized closet/dressing room was about the size of my kitchen and great-room combined. Even Elle, who had her own room full of vintage clothing and jewelry, was jealous.

  Willa and Dr. Lewis shooed us out of the room. Before closing the door, I glanced at Sabrina’s pale face. There were no cuts or bruising from hitting the steering wheel. Her seat belt had been on. It must have saved her.