Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel)

by Cate Campbell

  Hattie shook her head, and her dark eyes shone with fresh tears. “This is awful sad to hear,” she said. “I’m awful sorry.”

  “I am, too.”

  Hattie drew another, slower breath, and gave Allison another trembling smile. “Oh, now. We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

  Allison smiled back, comforted. “I guess we are, Hattie. I guess we’re a pair, you and I.”

  Hattie pushed herself up and crossed to the stove. “One thing I know, Miss Allison,” she said. “Everybody gotta eat. I’m gonna finish this soup. Everybody feels better after they have some soup.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “I was lucky,” Margot told Frank, as the nurse finished bandaging her arm. “My sleeve caught the blade, prevented it from severing the tendons. That would have meant the end of my surgical practice—maybe all of my practice.” She looked up into his face, and saw that he was still angry, his jaw pulsing with tension, the blue of his eyes darkened to indigo. “Mostly, I was lucky you were there,” she added softly. “I don’t know what might have happened.”

  The nurse, a woman she had never seen before, glanced up from beneath her cap, then quickly away again. They hadn’t spoken Preston’s name, but everyone in the accident room knew something terrible had happened in the Benedict family. Dr. Creedy had treated Margot’s arm and then told them he was going to the jail to treat—he had paused, and spoken in an undertone—her brother. There had been two nurses in the room at the time, and Margot’s cheeks burned under their curious glances. She knew hospitals. The nurses would have their heads together the moment she and Frank were gone. She couldn’t see how even her father could quash the rumors that would fly.

  The other nurse came back into the room and crossed to her. “Dr. Benedict, your driver is here. He’s waiting with the car.”

  “Thank you. We’re coming.” The bandaging process was finished, and Margot nodded to the nurse, then swung her legs off the bed. “We can go, Frank. Do you have my coat?”

  “Wear mine,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket, draping it around her shoulders. “Yours is gone.”

  The nurse said, “We threw it away, Dr. Benedict. I hope that was all right. It looked—” She broke off, spreading her hands.

  Margot nodded again. “Of course. I should have realized. I’m sure it’s ruined.”

  The nurse supported her as she stood up, and Frank took her other arm as the three of them walked toward the door. “If there’s any sign of infection,” the nurse began, but Margot forestalled her instructions.

  “I know,” she said. “Thank you, Nurse. I’ll come back if there is.”

  As they crossed reception to the front doors of the hospital, Margot felt curious eyes on her, and kept her head down to avoid them. Frank kept his arm around her shoulder, which helped. Blake was waiting in the Essex, and he climbed out to open the rear door.

  “Thank you, Blake,” Margot said. “When we get home, I want you to go straight to bed.”

  “I’m fine, Dr. Margot,” he said. “I had a bit of a rest already.”

  As Blake pressed the starter, Frank said, “You’re the one who needs to go to bed, Margot. I’ll go clean up the clinic.”

  “Is it bad?” she asked. “The storeroom?”

  “Not too bad. I’ll repair the lock on the door. Mop up the floor.”

  “You’ll need hydrogen peroxide for that. And we’ll need to disinfect it.”

  “Fortunately, there’s no carpet there.”

  “I don’t know what to tell Angela.”

  “Truth is best,” he said shortly.

  She sighed, and let her head drop back against the plush seat. It was warm in the automobile, and she had allowed Dr. Creedy to give her an injection of scopolamine, which was now making her drowsy. Textbook reactions, she thought. First, shock. Second, a burst of nervous energy that had made it hard to sit still while Dr. Creedy made his sutures. Now, exhaustion.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” she murmured to Frank.

  He didn’t need to ask whom she meant. “It’s either jail or an insane asylum.”

  “I don’t know which is worse.”

  Frank shifted his shoulder to move closer to her. He didn’t answer, but she sensed his thought in the hardness of his muscles and the pressure of his hand on hers. Her brother had nearly succeeded in killing her. Frank didn’t care what happened to Preston.

  They found Dick and Ramona alone in the dining room, seated at the table. The soup tureen waited on the sideboard, and Blake insisted on serving both Margot and Frank from it before he disappeared into the kitchen to have his own luncheon.

  “Where’s Father?” Margot asked.

  “Gone to the hospital with Uncle Henry,” Dick told her. He looked pale, but calm.

  “You’ve heard everything, Dick?”

  “I think so. It’s hard to believe that he—that Preston—” Involuntarily, he looked over his shoulder, as if Edith might be there.

  “If I hadn’t seen it, I’m not sure I would have believed it myself,” Margot said. “He’s hidden himself, all this time. It’s astounding.”

  “He was burned, Blake says. Badly scarred.”

  “It’s awful, Dick. As bad as anything I’ve seen.”

  Ramona said, with a shudder, “I can’t take it in, Margot. I just can’t take it in. And I don’t know what we’re going to do about Mother Benedict.”

  “I don’t, either,” Margot said bleakly. “I have real concerns about what a shock like that could do to her. She’s in such a fragile state already.”

  “How could he let her suffer that way? Couldn’t he have—at least he could have—I don’t know! Anything to let her know he was alive!” Ramona covered her face with her hands, and Dick put his arm around her shoulders.

  “I can’t give you an answer,” Margot said sadly.

  Frank said, “Margot, you need to eat something. There will be time to deal with this later.”

  She cast him a grateful glance. It was true, despite everything, she was hungry, and the chicken soup, thick with homemade noodles, was rich and comforting. She was halfway through a bowlful when the dining room door swept open.

  Allison, showered and dressed in a fresh frock but looking haggard, stood in the doorway gazing at Margot with desperate eyes. There was a chunk of her hair missing, just beside her right temple, which she had tried to disguise with pomade. “Cousin Margot! Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!”

  Margot held out a hand in invitation, and Frank rose to pull out the chair closest to her. Allison hurried around the table, grasping Margot’s hand even as she settled into the chair. Margot squeezed the girl’s fingers. “I’m fine,” she said. “There was no permanent damage. Nothing at all for you to worry about.”

  Allison’s cheeks were pink with emotion, though her eyes were hollow and shadowed. “It would have been my fault!” she whispered. “If I hadn’t gone out—that is, if Mother and I—”

  “Hush,” Margot said. “We can talk about all of that later. Have a bit of soup, and you’ll feel better.”

  Frank, without waiting to be asked, had gone to the sideboard, and returned now with a bowlful. He set it in front of Allison, and resumed his own seat.

  Margot held up her arm so Allison could see the bandage. “See? A few stitches, probably not even necessary. You did very well with the gauze, and I’m as good as new. Now, please, Allison—eat Hattie’s good soup. It has magic powers.”

  Allison’s eyes were fever-bright with unshed tears. She blinked, and pressed a forefinger to her trembling lips.

  “I mean it,” Margot said, gently.

  Ramona added, “Cousin Allison, Margot is right. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Allison picked up her spoon. Margot watched until she saw that she really was going to eat her soup, then winked at Ramona, and returned to her own serving with good appetite. Frank, on her other side, did the same. When Loena came in a few minutes later, the tureen was nearly empty.

&nbs
p; It wasn’t until Loena had gone out with the tureen and the tray of soup bowls that Allison gasped, and put her hand to her mouth again. “Mother!” she said in a horrified whisper. “I forgot to ask about Mother!”

  Dick made a small noise in his throat, one that sounded like disgust. Margot wondered what that was about. “Uncle Henry has gone down to the hospital,” Dick said. “With Father.”

  Allison turned wide eyes to Margot. “She’s in the hospital?”

  “Not because of her arm,” Margot said. “Her arm breaking may be because of some other illness. I thought she should be examined by our family physician.”

  “Some other illness?”

  “That’s right, Allison. Some other illness. Her arm shouldn’t have broken so easily.”

  “You mean it wasn’t my fault?”

  It was Ramona who answered this sad little question. She said, in the firmest tone Margot had ever heard her use, “Cousin Allison, you’re barely an adult, and your mother has been one for a long time. She’s the parent, and you’re the child. You’re not to blame for any of this. Not the smallest part.”

  It was a strange day, and a long one, all the normal rhythms of life disrupted. After luncheon, Margot went to bed and slept for four hours without moving. When she woke, she pressed the bell for one of the maids, something she almost never did. It was the new one, Thelma, who appeared at her door, and Margot sent her to run a bath and to find out whether Major Parrish was still in the house. Word came that he had gone to his boardinghouse, but would return for dinner.

  Margot glanced out the window as she made her way toward the bathroom, and saw that the last of the fog had burned away. No doubt Frank would be on his way back to March Field in the morning.

  But for tonight, she meant to make herself as presentable as possible. She might even ask Ramona to help. She had things to say to Frank, and she wanted to look her best when she said them.

  She had just finished dressing when someone knocked on her bedroom door. When she opened it, she found her father, looking so tired he could barely stand. She took his hand, and pressed him down to sit on the edge of her bed. “Have you rested at all?”

  “Not yet. I went from the hospital to the jail. I had to see Preston, of course.”

  “Oh, Father. That must have been hard.”

  “Ghastly.” He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. “He’s in this hideous place. Bars everywhere. An open toilet in the corner.”

  “Awful.”

  “He just sat on the bunk—no mattress, just these rusty wires—and stared at the wall. He wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t look at me. I could see, though, his scalp—his neck—he’s so badly burned, Margot.”

  “Father, we could get him help for his scars. Plastic surgery is a fairly new field, but I’ve read of some good work being done in California.”

  Her father dropped his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks sagged. “Did he really do those things, Margot? What they said he did?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He tried to—to hurt you.”

  This made her choke back a bitter laugh. “To hurt me. Yes, he did indeed try to hurt me.”

  “Blake thinks he meant to hurt himself, too.”

  “I believe that was his intent, Father. He said it was the end for both of us.”

  Dickson’s sigh shook his whole body, and he covered his eyes again. From beneath his hand, he said brokenly, “This was behind us. Done with. Now, again . . . I don’t know how to face it.”

  “I’ll talk to Mother, if you like.”

  “I was thinking of not telling her, Margot.” He lowered his hand again and pushed himself up from the bed. “I was thinking of committing him to Western State Hospital. And keeping it quiet. Out of the papers.”

  Margot frowned. “Can you do that? Will it work?”

  “It will work. Nothing really happened, in the end. I’m not excusing him, you understand.” He gave her a worried glance, his eyes full of guilt and grief.

  “I understand that, Father.”

  “I know enough judges, and Creedy can make the recommendation. These weren’t the actions of a sane man.”

  “No. That’s true.”

  “Let’s go down to tell the family. We’ll have to get everyone to agree not to mention it to Edith.”

  “Father, it’s a very big secret to keep. If the maids find out, or Hattie . . .”

  “Hattie knows already.”

  “Oh, Lord. Poor Hattie. Well, you know she’ll want to protect Mother, either way.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “I’m not sure if this is a good idea or a spectacularly bad one.”

  He gave a shaky laugh, and put his arm around her waist to escort her out into the hall. “I’m not either, daughter. But it’s the only one I have.”

  Frank returned to Benedict Hall, dressed in his black dinner jacket and a dark silk tie, at eight o’clock. The house was resplendent with Christmas decorations, boughs of pine and cedar draped along the banisters of the porch, colored lights festooning the picture window. Blake greeted him at the door with his usual composure, as if the two of them had not just that morning been present at a scene of such melodrama it already seemed impossible.

  “Major Parrish,” Blake said. “How good to see you again. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that’s a very handsome jacket.”

  Frank grinned at Blake as he handed him his overcoat and his Stetson. “Don’t mind at all,” he said. “I hope Dr. Benedict feels the same.”

  Blake’s eyes twinkled briefly. “I have no doubts about that, Major.” He hung the overcoat and hat on the mahogany coatrack before he led the way down the hall to the small parlor. He held the door, spoke Frank’s name to the family assembled there, then turned away toward the kitchen. The newest maid was just coming out, and she curtsied to Frank before following Blake.

  The only person missing from the gathering was Allison’s mother. Frank shook hands with Dickson Benedict, thinking that he looked as if he had aged a decade since the night before. He greeted Dick and Ramona, who sat very close together, their hands entwined, as if they couldn’t bear to be apart. Allison came to take his hand in both of hers, and to murmur in an undertone, “Major Parrish! Thank you so much for what you did!”

  She was the only person to acknowledge what had happened. Margot, looking slim and elegant in a narrow frock of some deep blue fabric, drew him to the little divan without saying anything. Her mother looked up in the vague way that had become her habit, and said, “Major Parrish. How nice to see you again.” She seemed unchanged from the night before, and when Frank raised his eyebrows to Margot, she gave a slight shake of her head.

  After dinner, Margot drew Frank aside to stand near the window in the small parlor. Someone had arranged sprigs of pine in a wide glass bowl and sprinkled bright red cranberries among the greenery. The bowl rested on the sideboard, where Blake had set out glasses and two or three bottles from Dickson’s cellar. Dickson and the rest had settled themselves near the fire, Dickson with his cigar and cut-glass ashtray close at hand, Dick and Henry Benedict with tumblers of whisky. Allison had tucked her feet up under her, and rested her chin on her hand as she stared into the flames. She hadn’t spoken to her father at all throughout dinner. She had, however, eaten a good meal. Frank saw Margot give her an encouraging smile.

  They stood now beside the half-open drapes, gazing out into the dark garden. The moon was rising above the mountains to the east. The mists of the night before had evaporated, and the moonlight cast shadows across the grass. The cloudless sky meant there would be frost by morning. He was in for a chilly flight until he reached California.

  He glanced across at the quiet group by the fire. Ramona was speaking to Dick, and including Allison in the conversation. Allison was nodding, adding short remarks to whatever the discussion was. Frank said, “Your cousin seems to have recovered.”

  Margot looked over her shoulder at her family, then turned her face back to
the moonlit night. “She’s young,” she said. “It was exciting, but nothing terrible happened, in the end.”

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  “Oh, yes, Frank. That it does.”

  She gazed out into the garden, and he watched her clear profile, the smooth curve of her bobbed hair against her cheek. He said, “And you? Have you recovered?”

  She didn’t turn her head. “I don’t know. It was a very close thing, and that’s hard to accept. If you hadn’t come . . .”

  “But I did come.”

  “Yes. You saved me. In a way, you were the only one who could save me, because of your hand.”

  He held up his left hand, the prosthesis now bearing a deep score where he had grasped the straight razor blade. “Don’t forget, Margot, I have this hand because of you. So it balances out.”

  She breathed a long, trembling sigh. “Still, it feels odd to think that if you hadn’t come, if something hadn’t brought you there, I might have—” She stopped and swallowed. A moment later she lifted her face to look into his eyes. “Frank. Why did you come? You couldn’t fly in the fog, of course, I knew that. But you couldn’t know what was happening, or even that I was at the clinic at that hour. Why were you there?”

  He shifted his shoulders to block the view of the people around the fireplace before he dug the envelope out of his pocket. “I came to bring you the damn letter,” he said. “Because it upset you. I never meant that to happen.” He held it out to her. “Burn it, Margot. I don’t want to read it.”

  She made no move to take it. “Why would you not read it, Frank?” Her eyes searched his face. “What is it about the letter—a letter from Elizabeth—that gives it so much power?”

  He folded the envelope in half. He shoved it back in his pocket and turned away from Margot’s piercing gaze. “Don’t know,” he said dismally. “Don’t know why I didn’t just open it in the first place, and now that I’ve put it off so long . . .”

  She moved closer to him, so the lean length of her pressed, ever so slightly, against his hip. Despite everything, despite her parents in the room, the strangeness of the day, the tension of what lay between them, he felt a rush of desire. She said, “You can’t hand this off to me, Frank. You have to deal with it yourself, whatever it is.”