by Tamara Berry
I still think this looks more like food poisoning than anything else, but despite my ability to brew medicinal recipes using nothing but the herbs I grow in my garden, I’m no doctor. Any client with a real ailment I’m quick to send to Dr. MacDougal, our local family practitioner and a close friend of mine.
“I think one of you should find Otis and tell him to prep his boat for a passenger,” I say to Sid and Nicholas over my shoulder. “I don’t think she’s in any immediate danger, but she needs to see a doctor.”
“No!” Birdie’s eyes pop open. She pushes me away and struggles to sit up once again. Regardless of what is ailing her stomach, her hearing seems to be working just fine. “You can’t force me to leave this place. Not now. Not like this.”
Like what? I want to ask. In pain and obviously unwell? Or when this is just the groundwork for yet another curveball she’s planning on throwing at me?
“I have no idea what the tide is doing or what it means for setting sail, but the sooner she’s evacuated, the better. Is Otis still sleeping, or will he be up and about already?”
Birdie doesn’t heed me.
“No.” Her voice is stern, if feeble. “I won’t be torn from our work before it’s complete. And unless you can call upon the powers of levitation or teleportation, there’s no way you’re getting me out of this bed.”
I imagine that the combined powers of Nicholas, Otis, and Ashley would be enough to carry out her forcible removal, but there’s something about the set of her jaw that gives me pause. Birdie has already proven herself a woman of considerable determination; I have no doubt that if she loses this physical fight, she’ll find a way to turn it into a supernatural one.
“Fine,” I say, unwilling to argue further. I know a lost cause when I’m staring down its barrel. “Barring her evacuation, is there a doctor who might be willing to come out all this way to take a look at her? I still think we’re dealing with a case of bad wine and too much fish at the breakfast table, but she needs to be seen.”
“I only know of one doctor who makes house calls,” Sid says doubtfully. “If you’re certain we need him . . . ?”
“I am. Nicholas, please find Otis and accompany him to fetch the doctor. Recite a full list of Birdie’s symptoms—her medical symptoms—and for the love of everything, leave Gloriana out of it.”
He nods once. “Consider it done.”
“What about me?” Sid asks faintly. She looks in no state to make a seaward journey, but I hardly need her to linger in the sickroom, adding more trouble than she allays.
“Get Elspeth,” I say, thinking fast. What a situation like this calls for is someone with a level head and no drama about her. “And after that, um, set some water to boil?”
Nicholas hides his chuckle under a cough. I can only hope that Sid doesn’t recognize this effort to get rid of her as easily as he does. Turning my back on the pair, I move to Birdie’s bedside instead. Now that I’ve promised to bring the doctor to her, she’s looking better, her writhing movements stilled and the cold, clammy sweat of her brow more of a ladylike glow.
“Perhaps we should take fewer wine recommendations from dead men from here on out, eh, Birdie?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer me, either too weak or too smart to make the attempt. By the time Elspeth arrives to assist me, I suspect it’s weakness rather than intelligence that’s zapped most of Birdie’s strength. She barely murmurs a protest as the pair of us set out to provide her with dry sheets, a clean and borrowed nightgown, a glass of water, and a cool washcloth for her forehead. They’re hardly the stuff of a medium’s trade, but they’re much more likely to improve Birdie’s state of health than any number of potions I might be able to concoct.
In fact, by the time we’re finished making her clean and comfortable, Birdie is asleep. Her light snores are accompanied by an occasional shudder, and she’s still much too pale for my peace of mind, but I’m grateful that she’s able to get some rest.
“Sid won’t be up here with the water for at least another ten minutes,” Elspeth says as we both stand watching the rise and fall of Birdie’s chest. “The stove wasn’t lit yet, so it’ll take some time to heat up. If you don’t mind my asking, what did you want with—?”
“I don’t.” I interrupt her with a smile. “But I thought our task would be easier if Sid was busy and out of the way.”
Elspeth doesn’t answer my smile with one of her own. She’s wearing the same weathered blue dress she’s had on this entire visit. It matches her complexion, which is showing a decided gray in the feeble dawn light. She looks, in a word, exhausted.
“We make an awful lot of extra work for you, don’t we?” I ask, a sympathetic cluck on my tongue. “I can’t imagine what you must do to keep everything running for so many houseguests.”
“It’s not that,” she’s quick to respond. With a glance down at Birdie, she steps away from the bed and lowers her voice before speaking again. I’m not sure what to make of that precaution when she says, “I did as you suggested, Madame Eleanor.”
“As I suggested?” I echo.
She makes a vague gesture with her hand, as though her palm is skipping over the waves. “The boys. Jaime and Ferguson. Last night in the gilded salon—you said I ought to send them away, and the sooner the better.”
“They’re gone?” For some reason, this news disturbs rather than pleases me. I want them somewhere safe, obviously, but not before I have a chance to talk to them one last time.
“Not yet, but they will be in two days’ time. My sister—she lives on Barra—will take them, but she won’t be ready to receive visitors until Friday. That’s all right, isn’t it? They can stay here until then?”
I have no way of answering that question with any semblance of truth. I have no idea how far into the future my visions can go, but two days seems like an awfully long time, especially considering the woman lying ill on the bed next to us.
The look of anxiety on Elspeth’s face is so great that I have no choice but to nod. To heap an additional burden on the poor woman when she’s already beset with so much would only be cruel. I can’t imagine what kind of money she’s paid to work at a place and a pace like this, but it can hardly be worth it. If I were in her position and happened to come across a box of gold during a routine spring cleaning, I’d scoop up a handful or two in recompense and feel no pang of guilt afterward.
“I’ll miss having them around, but it’ll be best for everyone this way,” I say. And since now seems as good a time as any, I add, “Do you think they could be convinced to return my luggage before they go?”
The crestfallen expression that drops Elspeth’s round cheeks is more than enough to make me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs. “You suspect them, too?”
I smile to show that I’m not upset. “I’ve had my suspicions. They’ve been gallivanting about in two of my scarves for days.”
“I’ll make them return them at once, Madame Eleanor, on my honor. I would have from the start, only they promised they hadn’t come near your bags.”
“And you believed them?” I ask, laughing. “Don’t look so upset. They’ve enjoyed every minute of those scarves, I’m sure, and they’re more than welcome to keep them. But I’d be lying if I said there weren’t a few items in my bags I’d like to get my hands on.”
“They’re good lads,” Elspeth says, though it’s more to convince herself than me. “They have awfully high spirits, though, and that school their parents send them to gives them no room to let them out.”
“I like them immensely,” I promise her. “Which is why I’m being so careful about their well-being, and why I’m not angry about the bags.”
I toy with the idea of telling her about the gold coin they gave me but decide against it. Common sense demands that I accept the neat story about yesterday’s episode—that the boys played a trick on me, that one of them was responsible for the blow to my head, even that they took the coins from my person once I was unconscio
us. After all, it’s the most rational explanation. Even my earlier thoughts about Elspeth, that she could have easily scooped up a handful of gold coins at any point in her years of service on this island, might be laid at their twin door. They, too, have had more than enough opportunity in their short lives to come across that box of treasure and pillage it at will.
But they were scared—I know they were. Of Otis and of being caught, of taking even one more gold coin from that Styrofoam chest than they thought they could get away with.
They’re sneaky little thieves, yes, but they’re not stupid.
“May I see them before you send them off? Not”—I’m quick to add—“to berate them for my luggage, but to show that I’m not angry? So we can part as friends?”
There’s no need for me to be so circumspect. Elspeth is more than happy for another opportunity to show her grandsons off.
“Of course, Madame Eleanor. I won’t let them leave here without saying their good-byes. And I promise to ask them about your bags once more. Leastaways, I will as soon as . . .” She trails off and glances at Birdie. “There’s no need to worry. The doctor will know what to do.”
I can’t tell if that’s a question or a statement, but I decide on the latter.
“I have no doubt that this will all come to nothing,” I say with a determination I’m far from feeling. Even if Birdie’s illness turns out to be nothing more than that—an illness—there’s no denying that the timing is portentous. “We’ll have her back on her feet soon enough. And then . . .”
This time, it’s my turn to trail off. Getting Birdie well is obviously the most important thing, but I have no idea what comes after that.
Yes, you do, Winnie says.
For once, I’m not happy to hear my sister chime in. What she’s saying—what she’s implying—is that the next turn of events is the death and sea burial of an innocent little boy.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I mutter.
Elspeth doesn’t appear to hear me. Winnie, however, does.
Sorry, Sis. But I told you to turn around while you had the chance.
* * *
The doctor arrives in good time, carrying with him the bracing scent of the sea.
To be fair, all the men who gather in the hallway are redolent of salty brine and chilly air, but only the doctor dares to enter so hallowed a sickroom while seaweed clings to the bottom of his shoes.
“Knock knock!” he calls in a broguish singsong. There’s no need for the announcement. If the heavy footfall hadn’t warned us of his arrival, then the fact that Ashley has been stationed at the window watching for Otis’s boat to pull into view for the past hour would have done the trick.
Still, it’s nice to hear someone being cheerful. I’ve tried to keep up our collective spirits, even going so far as to listen to Ashley recite his poetry, but there’s only so much I can do with Birdie lying in bed and moaning anytime I try to leave the room.
“I hear you’re feeling a little under the weather,” the doctor adds.
Birdie’s only response to this is a loud sniff and a glance that dares me to abandon her. There’s no need for it. As I have a vested interest in the outcome of this examination, I don’t plan on going anywhere.
When standing side by side next to Ashley, himself a small man, the doctor is revealed to be of a level height. However, whereas Ashley is best described as dapper, no such appellation could be applied to the medical man. His prematurely balding head seems disproportionately large for his body. His eyes are small and close-set, his build that of a child’s, and the diamond-patterned jumper he’s wearing looks as though it belongs on a court jester.
Something about him seems familiar.
Nicholas coughs from the hallway. “We’ll, ah, just give you some privacy, shall we?” he asks. “Ashley? Otis? I’m sure Eleanor can handle things from here.”
I easily recognize his tone as one of veiled command. It might sound like a polite request, but he has every intention of standing there, one arm gesturing at the company, until every last person follows him downstairs.
In the normal way of things, he’d have been successful at it, too. When Nicholas Hartford III gets uppity, he also gets his way. But that’s not accounting for Otis. The trip to Barra hasn’t improved his mood any. In fact, from the scowling way he’s standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his huge greatcoat dripping all over the floor, it’s obvious he has no intention of relinquishing his current position.
“They may stay,” Birdie says, her voice rising feebly from the blankets. She lifts a hand before dropping it back to the bed again, as though the weight of it is too much for her to bear. “Whatever the doctor discovers is likely to affect us all.”
The doctor tsks. “Only if it’s contagious—and even then, there are ways we can reduce the spread.”
My eyes meet Nicholas’s, and we both relax. It’s absurd to hold a medical examination in a room crowded with people, one of whom is likely a murderer, but at least the doctor seems to know what he’s about. As he bustles to Birdie’s side, the feeling of familiarity grows until it clicks like a key turning in a lock. That comforting brogue, the ease with which he comes to the rescue, the recently pared fingernails . . .
My heart leaps to my throat. This is no ordinary doctor. It’s the doctor from the train, the one in the kilt. The one who tended to Harvey the moment his heart attack struck.
I glance down at Birdie, wondering if this is yet another of the tricks she manufactures with ease, but her eyes are closed, and she doesn’t seem the least bit interested in the events taking place around her.
“I don’t think it’s anything contagious,” I say in a failing voice. In small towns and island communities such as these, it’s not uncommon to run into familiar faces and stumble over coincidences. In fact, it’s part of the reason that so much superstition abounds in them. It’s easy to draw connections when there are a limited number of people and places to draw connections to. Eventually, everyone’s path is going to cross.
But this is too much, even for me. This doctor could very easily be the last person to have seen Harvey Renault alive.
“She’s been experiencing vomiting, nausea, a rapid pulse, pallor, and clamminess,” I say, reciting her symptoms in an attempt to quell my own rapid pulse, pallor, and clamminess. “There’s been no spike in her temperature, but she claims to feel cold, so we heaped her with blankets. Have I about covered it, Birdie?”
She manages a wan smile. “So good of you, dear Ella, but what’s the use? What ails me can’t be cured by modern medicine.”
On the contrary, modern medicine is all we have. Medicine and science and cold, hard facts—which I’m going to extract from this case if it kills me.
Don’t say it, I mentally warn Winnie. My cats are currently lording over a bowl of cream in the kitchen, so there’s a good chance my sister is with them instead of me, but I don’t want to risk it. Avowals of death on any front are no longer welcome.
“We’ve been pushing fluids, but she hasn’t been able to stomach much else,” I add. “My main concern right now is whether you think it’s safe for her to stay here, or if we need to take her to a hospital. She doesn’t want to leave the island, but—”
“She doesn’t understand,” Birdie says to the doctor with a sad, knowing smile. “She doesn’t see, as the rest of us do, that Fate has much bigger plans.”
“Birdie, I think we can all agree that Fate would like to see you restored to your usual health,” I say tightly. “Or, at the very least, the Stewarts would like to see it.”
“Oh, yes,” Sid agrees from the other side of the room. Her voice is almost as faint as Birdie’s. “The last thing we want is for Gloriana to claim another victim.”
“Gloriana?” The doctor is jolted into a response. Gone is the kind, soft-spoken medical professional in whom I had some hope of finding rational discourse. The moment the curse is mentioned, he’s all nervous sweat and shifty eyeballs. “She’s
here? Now?”
Sensing how close I am to losing my temper, Nicholas pulls me away from Birdie’s bedside, leaving the doctor to conduct his examination without me. As loath as I am to let a believer—even a medically trained one—loose on that woman, I need the space.
In a move of much less wisdom, Nicholas keeps pulling me until I’m standing in the hallway where Otis lies in wait. He acknowledges me with a tight, unpleasant grimace. “Is she going to live, do you think, or should I fetch the undertaker before a storm rolls in?”
“She’ll be fine.” I follow the line of his vision to where the doctor presses a stethoscope against Birdie’s stomach. His movements are calm even if his demeanor isn’t. “There’s nothing the least bit mysterious about what ails her. Anyone who’s taken a first-aid course would tell you the same thing.”
“Oh, so you’re a trained medic now on top of everything else?” Otis asks. The question is a rhetorical—and sarcastic—one, because he follows it up with, “Why am I not surprised? There seems to be no end to your long list of accomplishments.”
“I’m sorry it took so long for us to get back here,” Nicholas says without so much as a blink for Otis’s outward hostility. “We stopped by the hardware store on Barra to see if we could get our hands on a backup generator.”
“Really? That didn’t even occur to me. What a good idea.”
Otis chokes out a bitter laugh. “You think? Unfortunately, they were out of stock. It’s too bad we didn’t try to buy one last week. Apparently, they had three, but someone had the foresight to buy them all up the day you arrived.”
“What?” I turn to stare at Otis. “Someone bought three generators? At once?”
“Odd, isn’t it?” he muses, rubbing his hand along the scrubby growth of his jaw. “When old Booker who runs the place hasn’t sold that many in the past year? One might almost suspect that this enveloping darkness was brought upon us on purpose.”