by Marlowe Benn
She turned to the last entry and brought it nearly to her nose, squinting at the crabbed, heavily pointed script. “It’s hopeless.” She slapped the little diary shut. “I just can’t read this.”
Julia fought an impulse to snatch the booklet from her. She wouldn’t give up so easily. “Let me, then.”
“No, she was my sister. I have to read it, and I will. I need to know what happened. Even if it means learning more terrible things about my family.” Glennis pushed the diary into the pillow slip with the blouses. “But not now. I’ll need a stiff drink to get through it. For courage.”
A drink sounded like a capital idea to Julia too. As she lifted the hollowed-out Bible to return it to the crate, something rattled across the bottom of the secret cavity and caught on a small slip of paper. It was two pieces of jewelry, fastened together, an old-fashioned diamond brooch and a gold ring with a beautiful square-cut emerald. Along its inner band was inscribed W. C. to M. L.
Glennis examined them. “Not ours. Must be her latest loot, ready to pawn next. Guess I’d better take them. Call it evens for pinching my perfume.”
Julia nudged open the little note, subduing an irrational hope that it might explain everything. But it was an ordinary appointment slip, confirming the next appointment for “Naomi Pearsall” with Dr. Cecelia Greenbaum on September 22 at five o’clock. This coming Monday. The doctor’s Brooklyn address and telephone number were printed in Copperplate at the top. Conventional in every way. “Did Naomi ever use the name Pearsall?”
“Not that I knew. It’s our mother’s maiden name. Why would she do that?” As Julia silently wondered herself, Glennis added, “Who’s Dr. Greenbaum?”
“No idea. Should be easy to find out, though. I’ll look into it.”
As Glennis gathered together Naomi’s clothes, Julia sat back on the bed, forehead on her palm. She stared at the innocuous little paper. A doctor’s appointment could be the answer to their questions. It suggested Naomi had suffered some health problem that she had concealed from Alice and her family. The words next appointment carried immense significance. If a previous examination had detected symptoms that pointed, in hindsight, to poison, that information could help confirm Naomi had been murdered. Glennis’s suspicions would be vindicated, Naomi’s memory would be redeemed, and Julia could sail home to London secure in a future of her own choosing.
If, however, Naomi had had a natural ailment, one that flared into an acute crisis that fateful day—well, it was very sad, of course, but also supremely disappointing. It would mean Chester’s self-serving tale of “death following a brief illness” was on the mark after all. His cruel stifling of every impulse that gave Naomi life and energy would pass unchallenged. And, short of accepting David’s shocking proposal, it would be off to that bedsit in Bethnal Green for Julia. Everything depended on the nature of Naomi’s complaint. On what Dr. Greenbaum said.
“Ow.” Glennis turned to see what had poked her when she stepped back. It was a nail. Hanging from it was a gray cardigan, probably as Naomi had left it, shed carelessly, not knowing it would never again ward off the early autumn chill.
“Anything in that pocket?” Julia eyed the sagging square patch.
Glennis pulled out a wadded handkerchief, reeking of dried vomit, and dropped it in disgust. A second, reluctant search found two dimes and another slip of paper. She read it and tossed it into Julia’s lap. “Looks like breakfast.”
On it was written 5-9 followed by Heacock special. One egg, scrambled. Extra salt. Black tea, no sugar, no milk. $40.14 paid in full. It seemed to be an ordinary receipt, though the price was impossibly rummy. A slip of the pen, surely. Julia asked if she could take it and try to make some sense of it.
“Go ahead. Can’t think how it will help.”
Julia had no idea either. But thanks to years of living abroad, one possibility had already occurred: 5-9 could be a date, September 5. The day Naomi had died.
CHAPTER 19
The steps to Philip’s apartment had never felt steeper than they did early Monday evening. Julia had spent the afternoon lingering at an obscure table in an uptown café, nursing a café au lait as she tried to wring clues out of the two notes they’d found hidden in Naomi’s bedroom.
She tackled the breakfast receipt first. In all likelihood it was as ephemeral and banal as it seemed: cryptic from carelessness, not guile. Hundreds of diners dotted the streets of Manhattan, many of them serving breakfast fare innocuous enough to require only terse scratchings on simple slips of paper. Unable to spend endless hours on the pavement or hunched furtively over Philip’s telephone, she despaired of ever locating the source of a “Heacock special.” It was the suspicious price that lured her on. For three hours she conjured constructions so fantastical (and ridiculous) she couldn’t bear to recall them—secret recipes for deadly potions, elaborate codes for poison formulas, and so on. Illicit drugs or chemicals might command such prices, but Julia’s scant knowledge of pharmacology or even rudimentary chemistry made finding any correspondence between tea and poison impossible.
It was labor beyond her ability, and she conceded defeat. Praying for better luck with the appointment slip with Dr. Greenbaum, Julia moved on, in search of a quiet hotel with a private telephone lounge.
She placed the call to Dr. Greenbaum’s office shortly before four. Identifying herself as Naomi Pearsall’s secretary in a tremulous voice, Julia apologized that Miss Pearsall was unable to keep her appointment that afternoon. Delayed in Albany at a meeting, she reported.
“Would she like to reschedule?” the receptionist replied, after an icy pause of rebuke for the late notice.
“I suppose it depends,” Julia said. “I’m afraid I’m just the assistant here. The others are all in Albany, and I was only told they’re delayed. Is it terribly important, you know, the reason for Miss Pearsall’s appointment? Something serious, I mean?” She was fishing. Dr. Greenbaum’s listing in the telephone directory gave no indication of her medical specialization.
Another pause, conveying more censure. “Details of patients’ appointments are confidential, miss.”
“Oh, of course. Oh yes, I see. Yes, certainly.” Julia fumbled along, hoping to provoke either sympathy or exasperation on the other end of the line. “They don’t tell me anything, you see, and I don’t want to do the wrong thing. Is it crucial, do you think? Maybe we should reschedule for as soon as possible, in case it’s really important?”
The receptionist’s tone thawed. “Was Mrs. Pearsall experiencing any discomfort, do you know?”
“Yes, some, I think,” Julia said. “She’s been having headaches and tummy trouble, if you know what I mean. No one’s told me anything more, but then that’s the way it is around here. I suppose that’s why she was seeing the doctor?”
The woman laughed. “Nothing too alarming then, dear. How about if we reschedule her for a week from Wednesday at three? Please ask her to confirm when she returns.”
“Oh yes. I’ll do that. Thank you so much. For understanding, I mean.” Julia babbled gratitude to disguise her frustration. Not only was the receptionist scrupulously discreet, but Naomi’s ailment appeared to have been utterly nonfatal. Whatever her complaint, it hadn’t roused concerns or suspicions. Julia couldn’t let her inquiry end on that discouraging note. She pushed her voice to a new and shameless register of forlorn. “It’s just that I’m so worried for her.”
The woman laughed again, more kindly. “I doubt there’s anything to worry about, dear. It’s quite common to experience a funny tummy, as you put it. But if she’s worried, you can assure her the second trimester is usually much more comfortable.”
“Oh, quite right. Yes, of course. Thank you so much.” That time Julia’s stutter was genuine. Her hypothesis of malicious cunning collapsed in a heap, wrecked by the most everyday explanation.
Naomi had been pregnant.
The telephone bell sounded as Julia stepped into Philip’s apartment.
“That’ll be for you,
miss,” said Mrs. Cheadle, materializing in the hallway. “Tiresome thing’s been ringing me off my feet.”
Gloves still on, Julia dropped her umbrella into the corner stand and hurried to the alcove where the instrument was kept. Her new knowledge complicated what she might say to Russell, but the prospect of hearing his voice was still cheering.
“Get over here.” It was Glennis. “Dr. Perry’s called a powwow. He says he has something important to say about Naomi. Hurry!”
Julia turned on her heel and was gone.
Heavy rain had carved braids of mud along the Rankins’ entry drive. Julia stepped around the muck and mounted the steps to the front door. Out of the evening gloom, Russell appeared from the other direction. They exchanged muted greetings. “I have no idea what this summons is about,” he said, “but if it’s half as shocking as what I—” A wedge of light fell across them as a housemaid pulled open the door. “Fasten your chinstrap,” he said into Julia’s upturned collar as she preceded him into the house. She had a bad feeling she might need one. Whatever Dr. Perry felt compelled to tell the Rankins, she hoped it didn’t include mentioning their visit.
The family was gathered in the sitting room much as they had been for Naomi’s service, and Alice Clintock was there too, in a straight chair pulled slightly away from the group. Dr. Perry had settled into the oversize wing chair, this time with a needlepoint ottoman bearing his troublesome leg. Head down, fingers steepled against the bridge of his nose, the old man didn’t seem to notice as the others assembled. Apart from the scrape of chairs across carpet and the old doctor’s labored breaths, the room was thick with an anxious silence.
“So, we’re all here,” Chester said as soon as the maid closed the door. “You’ve given us quite a turn, Dr. Perry. What’s so important?”
The doctor lowered his hands to his lap. “I owe you all a great apology, and I can’t rest until I’ve made it. In my vanity I thought I could still perform the duties of a medical man, but I’m ashamed to admit I was not thinking clearly the night Naomi died. I overlooked, or rather I failed to consider properly, something quite vital. Something that changes everything about what I said before.”
Chester gaped. “What are you saying?”
“Simply this, my boy. I now believe Naomi did not die from an overdose.”
The silence swelled.
“You’re saying it wasn’t suicide?”
“What did kill her, then?” Russell demanded.
“Is it possible to know?” asked Vivian.
The doctor rubbed the long muscles of his gouty leg. “No, my dear, I’m afraid not. With her body cremated, we will never know the truth with certainty. Had I been thinking more carefully that night, I would have ordered an autopsy. I am very, very sorry.”
Grateful as Julia was to have her suspicions confirmed, she’d never reckoned that her questions would provoke the good doctor to confess his failings to the Rankins. Now she prayed the old man would consider his conscience cleared and leave it at that. Any more honorable soul baring might expose her investigation.
“A few weeks ago you were certain the tablets killed her. How can you now say they didn’t?” Chester demanded.
Dr. Perry heaved his frame toward Julia. “I have this young lady to thank for pointing out a perfectly sensible question. She and Glennis joined me for tea last week, and we had quite a chat. After you left, my dear, I couldn’t stop thinking about your observation, about the tablets.”
A fire began to lick about Julia’s heels. As she feared, every eye was on her. Surprise burst audibly into indignation, then anger. Worst was Russell’s hard syllable of dismay.
“What did Miss Kydd say?” Nolda asked, each word taut.
“She was puzzled about the tablets still intact in poor Naomi’s mouth. Miss Kydd asked how quickly the tablets would take effect. I assured her it could be a relatively calm death, in which one first drifts into unconsciousness. The true upshot, I understood later, was that unless death had been nearly instantaneous, the unswallowed tablets would be gone, dissolved by saliva. At death, saliva production would cease and the tablets remain partially whole.”
“Well, then—” Chester began, but the doctor swung his head to continue.
“She died, you see, before the tablets could do their work.”
No one spoke or moved. Julia’s breath felt pinned inside her.
Chester slapped the arm of his chair. “You realize what this means?” he shouted. “It means we were right. She ran herself ragged, too hard for too long, and it finally killed her. Just like we said. We’ve been telling the truth all along.”
“Is this good news?” Vivian asked. “Can we put to rest those awful whispers about why she’s not in Saint Stephen’s?”
Wrath flared in Alice’s voice. “She must have suffered terribly if it was something bad enough to kill her.”
“But now we’ll never know what,” said Vivian.
“Something’s not right here,” Russell said. “It’s bothered me from the start. Those tablets suggest she wanted to take her own life, but she’d know they take time. She’d have done something else, something quicker. Especially if she was in great pain, why mess about with tablets?”
His forehead furrowed as he worked out the gruesome logic. “More likely someone put them in her mouth. To make her death look like suicide. Or to make sure she died.”
Oh, Russell, Julia thought. Please, please hold your tongue. I can explain later. Don’t put ideas into their heads, not before we know anything for certain.
“You’re saying someone else was involved?” In the stir, Julia couldn’t be sure who spoke. The voice was a female’s. Nolda? Vivian? Alice? Glennis?
“Someone manipulated her death?” Another garbled voice.
“Oh dear Lord, will there be an investigation?” Nolda said, her panic cutting through the commotion. She gripped Winterjay’s sleeve. “This can’t turn into another scandal. There must be a way to keep it private. Please, Edward, think of something. We can’t let Naomi keep destroying our peace. It’s too much.”
Dr. Perry made a loud noise, not quite a cough and not quite a shout. “Please, dear people. Calm yourselves. You’ve been through enough already. Whatever killed poor Naomi has gone with her to eternity. The matter of her death is officially closed and will remain so unless you prefer to call it to police attention.”
Nolda’s relief was so sharply audible that there was no question of any such call.
“Wait.” Glennis pounded her chair cushion. Hot color was splattered across her face and throat like drops of summer rain. “Someone forced Naomi to swallow those tablets when she was dying?”
This quieted the room. Alice fingered the beads at her throat and began to weep.
“How could anyone subject her to such a terrible farce?” Russell said.
“Who would do such a thing?” Vivian’s pained echo hung in the air.
Russell stood. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I have news too. It may very well answer that question.” His next words followed like gunfire: “I learned today that Naomi filed a new will last year without consulting or even informing me. I knew nothing of it until my partner returned from Mexico and produced it this morning. It supersedes the will I read to you the other day. The new will changes everything.”
“For God’s sake, what does it say?” Chester demanded.
“As of October 19, 1923,” Russell said, “Naomi bequeathed her entire fortune to Alice Clintock—” Harsh oaths sheared through this announcement, but he continued, reading from the document in his hand: “With the express stipulation that she is to employ the funds to advance the work of the Empire State Equal Rights Union. Should the Union cease to exist or deviate from its present objective, the funds are to support the operation of any organization, foundation, or enterprise Miss Clintock judges to best adhere to the objective of securing equal rights for women under the law. In gratitude for this stewardship, a genero
us retainer is provided for Miss Clintock for the remainder of her life.”
Alice sat rigid, unbreathing. Julia felt her lungs contract. This did change everything, all she thought she understood about Alice.
“How dare you?” Chester swung toward Alice. “How dare you?”
“Subvert this family . . .” Nolda could only sputter, still clutching Winterjay’s arm.
“You conniving, murderous snake.” Chester crossed the room to where Alice sat. “You watched my sister die—holy hell, you probably hurried her along—and then you tried to shame us with that suicide farce. You weren’t content to leech off her money while she lived; you made sure she gave you control of it. I swear you’ll never see a penny. We’ll crush you and your pathetic mob. Just you wait.”
Chester’s bent arms hovered at his sides, fists clenched. His fury misted Alice’s face. If there was another noise in the room, Julia couldn’t hear it, so loudly did the blood pulse in her ears.
“I swear I knew nothing about her will.” Alice’s voice shook. It took Julia a moment to realize she was trembling with outrage, not fear. “But I adore her more than ever for having the courage to change it.”
Alice sucked two shallow breaths of air and unclamped her fingers from the chair. Her feet stirred as if she meant to rise despite Chester’s looming bulk, but she either failed or abandoned the effort. “I’m the only one here who knows how she suffered and why. I loved her more than any soul on earth. If anyone killed her, it was you all, you hateful, hateful people.”
Chester spasmed, and Julia threw an arm across her face as if the blow would fall on her. Winterjay and Russell lunged. Chester’s shoulders came out of his jacket, but his fists were stayed. “Get out of my house,” he shouted. “This instant. Get out and never set foot on my property again.”
Alice slid her feet to one side and stood, gripping the back of her chair. Her eyes never left Chester’s face.