“No, Dr. Mead,” Samuel said. “It’s Melody Michaels. You know she wouldn’t go near a doctor. She made all her own remedies and claimed doctors were charlatans who experimented on their patients. And she did have a point. She lived to a ripe old age, while many of your patients haven’t.” He laughed, but Vernon was in no mood for funeral parlour humor.
Samuel didn’t notice the doctor’s preoccupied state of mind. “Just these last few months Mrs. Michaels blessed herself every time I passed her while she worked in the garden,” he added. “I think she knew her time was near.”
“She was ninety-five years old, so it had to have been near,” Vernon said. Despite his mood, he remembered Mrs. Michaels fondly. She had been one of Burra’s most eccentric characters, with a strong, unrepentant view on just about everything. She was also one of the hardest workers he’d ever met. While most of the other residents in Burra had dusty, dry gardens, Mrs. Michaels had an abundance of greenery and flowers in hers, mostly from succulent plants and cacti that didn’t require much rain. She took great pride in her knowledge of plants that could survive the harsh Australian climate, and she would be sorely missed.
Vernon’s thoughts turned back to the reason he was standing in front of the funeral parlor, and he scowled. “I need Ebenezer Mason’s body brought to my surgery tonight,” he said.
“Tonight?! What for?” Samuel was puzzled by the odd request.
“His son has just been to see me, and he said he wants me to perform an autopsy.”
“That’s odd, given that he died in his own bed. Does he suspect something is wrong?” Samuel asked.
Vernon had to be careful. “It’s simply to ease his mind. Ebenezer Mason wasn’t an old man.”
“I wouldn’t have thought he cared. It’s common knowledge that they have barely spoken a word to each other in years.”
Vernon didn’t want the other man to start speculating. “I think deep down the young man cared for his father.”
“Don’t you want to do the autopsy at the hospital?” Samuel asked.
“It’s just as easy here, and I have some documents to attend to,” Vernon said as casually as he could. “Can you have one of your assistants bring the body over right away?”
“Yes, I’ll have Günter do it after I get Mrs. Michaels inside. I’m assuming Heath Mason is going to come and see me about his father’s funeral. That is what Mr. Mason’s butler told me, but I haven’t heard from him yet. In this heat, I can’t hold a body for very long.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow,” Vernon said, determined to go out to the Hall very early the next morning. “He told me so just a short while ago.”
***
An hour later, Vernon was working on Ebenezer Mason’s body alone in his surgery. His suspicions were soon confirmed. Ebenezer had suffered an aneurism where his aorta met his heart. Vernon suspected he had taken too much of the virility potion, which would have caused a rush of blood through the weakened artery, but he was stunned to also find that Ebenezer’s larynx was eroded, and his upper gastrointestinal tract was ulcerated. His liver and kidneys were also in poor condition, and his brain was slightly swollen. This stunned Vernon. Had the opiate and virility potion done this to Ebenezer? He couldn’t think what else would cause such damage, since he’d never had cause to suspect that the man was a particularly heavy drinker.
Vernon sewed Ebenezer Mason up and then went to his office with a bottle of brandy and slumped in a chair before pouring himself a generous glassful. He coughed and felt quite faint as the fiery liquid went down his throat.
His mind was racing as he dabbed perspiration from his face. He made up the potion and opiates himself. Had he done something incorrectly? Had he used too much of a certain ingredient? Arsenic was a component in the virility potion, but when used in small amounts, it was therapeutic. He was certain arsenic wasn’t the problem. But perhaps long-term use had caused an adverse reaction.
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
An hour later, Vernon felt no better when Samuel McDougal’s assistant arrived to take Ebenezer back to the funeral parlor. Vernon was by now three parts drunk. He wasn’t known as a drinker, so Günter was quite startled to find the man in such a state. He presumed the autopsy had been difficult.
“Are you all right, Dr. Mead?” Günter asked after he’d loaded Ebenezer Mason’s body into the hearse. He’d noticed that some small medicine bottles had been smashed on the floor of the surgery and wondered if the doctor had fallen and knocked them over.
“What? Yes, yes,” the doctor said, distractedly waving him on his way and shutting the surgery door.
Günter left with the hearse, but reported what he’d seen to Samuel McDougal. Concerned, Samuel went to the surgery, but the door was locked. He knocked and called out, but there was no reply. He assumed the doctor had gone home to bed. Worried, he went to Dr. Mead’s home, but the door there was also locked, and no light shone from the windows.
***
The next morning, Vernon rode out to Martindale Hall quite early.
Winston was startled to see him when he opened the front door. “Dr. Mead, what brings you to the Hall?” he asked.
“Mr. Mason requested an autopsy of his father, so I’ve brought the results,” Vernon said as he entered the vestibule. He hadn’t included all of his findings in the report, just what the young man needed to know.
Winston thought the doctor looked terrible. “Are you feeling well?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Vernon snapped. He had slept fitfully, sitting alone and depressed in his darkened house for most of the night. He felt like a wrung-out rag, but he had to get this over and done with.
Winston wondered what the doctor’s report was going to say, but he dared not ask.
“Mr. Mason is breakfasting in the dining room, sir,” Winston said.
Vernon made his way to the dining room, where he could smell toast and boiled eggs.
“Good morning, Mr. Mason,” Vernon said, noting that the young man didn’t look like he had slept much, either.
“Good morning, Dr. Mead,” Heath said. He’d spent half the night thinking about Abbey Scottsdale and the other half trying to work out how he could get his inheritance. He hoped the doctor had some useful news for him. “Have you done the autopsy already? I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
Vernon steeled himself. “Yes. As I suspected, your father’s heart gave out.”
Heath was startled. He had truly expected that the man would discover something incriminating. “Are you sure that was all that killed him?”
“It was enough. If it puts your mind at ease, his death would have been very quick.” This wasn’t a lie, but a wave of unbearable guilt washed over Vernon.
Winston had been standing at the door that led to the kitchen. He accepted a tray containing a fresh pot of tea from the housekeeper and brought it to the table. He’d heard what the doctor had said, and the two men exchanged meaningful glances.
“I won’t be staying, Winston,” Vernon said as the butler went to pour him tea.
Heath pushed his chair back and stood up, unsteadily. “I was certain the woman sleeping with my father had something to do with his sudden death. Could she have given him something to bring on a heart attack?”
“No,” Vernon said, thinking he’d probably done just that. He desperately wanted to get out of the Hall before his guilt overcame him and he blurted out the truth.
Heath sank onto his chair again.
“I told Samuel McDougal that you would be in today to arrange your father’s funeral. In this heat, the body won’t keep for long.”
Heath nodded. “I will call on himI’ll see him on my way to the mine this morning,” he murmured absently. His mind was already racing ahead to how he would deal with Miss Scottsdale.
Vernon walked out of the dining room, followed by Winston. In the ve
stibule, the two men looked at each other.
“May I ask if the potion had anything to do with the master’s death?” Winston said in a soft tone that lacked accusation. “You can be sure of my discretion.”
“My assumption is that he took far too much, and it brought on an aneurism,” Vernon said in a hushed voice. “I tried to warn him that it was dangerous to keep taking it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Winston could see how guilt-ridden the doctor was. “It’s not your fault,” he said. Despite his loyalty to Ebenezer Mason, he knew the man’s failings. “The master always did as he wished. He was not one to take advice, even if it was for his own good.”
“Did you ever see him take any other medication, Winston, something from another doctor, perhaps? His liver and kidneys were in a terrible state.” It was a slim hope. Vernon was sure that Ebenezer Mason hadn’t been seeing Dr. Forbes, the only other doctor in Burra.
“I didn’t, Dr. Mead.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“If he did take anything, I’ve never seen it.” Winston didn’t add that the man could be secretive when he wanted to be.
“Did he consume much wine when at home?”
“He drank almost every day, but usually in moderate amounts.”
“He told me he took the opiate I gave him to help with the stress of running the mine. I need to know whether this was true, or whether …” Vernon could hardly get the question out. “Or whether he gave the opiate to the young women he wanted to bed.” He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the possibility. It was morally deplorable.
Winston battled with his wish to remain loyal, but he could see the doctor was upset and was crumbling under the weight of his guilt. “As far as I know, he did not take the opiate himself,” he eventually said. He wasn’t admitting that he believed his master had given it to young women, but he knew the doctor would draw the right conclusion.
Vernon knew exactly what Winston was alluding to, and he felt physically ill at the thought that his patient had been using the opiate on young women. He did, however, feel a small measure of relief that the opiate had not contributed to Ebenezer’s death. But he’d been taking the potion for at least two years. Had the contents caused such terrible damage to his liver, kidneys, and larynx? Vernon couldn’t stop thinking about the ingredients. He’d made it up several times, but had given it to only three patients in the past five years. Suddenly his heart jolted, and he felt sick. Two of them were now dead! Francis Beadle had died of septicemia caused by what Winston had thought was his appendix, but could the potion have caused tissue to die internally, bringing on the septicemia? Mr. Beadle had pleaded with him for help after marrying a much younger woman. Vernon had even taken the potion himself initially, to see that it worked. But what if he’d used a wrong ingredient by accident when making up the last few batches? He’d been exhausted with his patient load for quite some time, but could he have made such a terrible mistake? He intended to go back to his office and go over his procedures. He had to know the truth.
***
Heath staggered out the backdoor and fell to his knees on the lawn, where he violently expelled the contents of his stomach, his entire breakfast. He heaved until his stomach ached.
“Aren’t you feeling well, sir?” Mrs. Hendy asked, anxiously hovering behind him. In the back of her mind was the fear that it was her cooking that had made him ill. “Shall I call the doctor back?”
“No,” he said angrily. He couldn’t believe that Vernon Mead hadn’t found anything incriminating in the autopsy. He was utterly devastated. Groaning in frustration, he got to his feet and went back inside. After sipping a glass of water given him by Mrs. Hendy, he went to the smoking room, taking the autopsy report with him. He told the servants he didn’t want to be disturbed, and then shut the door.
Heath read the autopsy report over and over, but no matter how hard he looked, there was not a hint of evidence that was even mildly incriminating. It stated clearly that his father had died from heart failure due to a rupture of his aorta, which was found to be in a weakened state. This was not something that could be blamed on anyone.
How could that woman get so lucky? Heath asked himself over and over. What’s more, how could he prevent her from inheriting Martindale Hall and all its treasures, along with the hundreds of acres of farmlands, sheep, cattle, fallow deer, and workers’ cottages? Or the Burra Monster Mine? How?
Heath opened a bottle of his father’s finest whisky and poured a full glass down his throat. He felt the fiery fluid seep through his body, but it did nothing to numb his pain.
By the time Winston went to look for him, almost an hour later, he found Heath drunk in the living room. Heath had taken another bottle of whisky from the smoking room and had consumed much of the contents. He was standing before a portrait of his father that hung over the fireplace, dominating the room.
“Sir, is there anything I can do for you?” Winston asked from the doorway, worried.
Heath didn’t reply. He had a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. His feet were spread apart, so he could maintain his balance, and he was staring up at the portrait. In his mind, his father was looking down at him with a derisive expression on his face.
“Are you laughing now, you selfish bastard?” Heath slurred as he continued to gaze up at the portrait.
Winston, ignorant of the contents of Ebenezer Mason’s will, did not understand his new master’s anger.
Suddenly Heath hurled the glass in his hand at the portrait. It smashed, and shards exploded across the room, several pieces striking Heath. He cried out and fell to the floor, holding his face. Winston hurried as best he could to his side.
“Sir,” Winston said, worried when he saw the blood oozing through the man’s fingers. “Let me see your face.” He feared the worst.
For several seconds, Heath didn’t move, but then slowly he clambered to his feet, groaning. Winston could see a nasty cut on his cheekbone that was bleeding profusely. There was also a cut on his forehead, but it was much smaller and superficial. Winston’s first thoughts were that his master was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye.
Heath staggered over the glass shards that littered the floor towards a leather Chesterfield sofa and collapsed, holding his head and groaning.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Hendy asked from the doorway, worried to see the portrait of Ebenezer Mason ripped and stained, and shards of glass all over the floor. She gasped when she saw the blood on the floor and Heath’s face.
“Get a bowl of water, a cloth, and some iodine,” Winston said as he stepped over broken glass to get to Heath. “Hurry.”
Mrs. Hendy scurried away, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of warm salty water, a cloth, and the iodine. Winston had a clean handkerchief pressed to Heath’s cheek.
“I have to go to the mine …” Heath mumbled, pushing Winston’s hand away. “I have to tell them that my father is dead.”
“You won’t be going anywhere for a while, sir,” Winston said.
Suddenly Heath vaulted forward and vomited again, all over himself, the sofa, and the floor. Winston looked at Mrs. Hendy and rolled his eyes. Ebenezer Mason had been an unyielding and often difficult man to work for, but Winston suddenly missed him terribly.
***
Abbey was strangely nervous about meeting Clementine Feeble, especially when she saw the lengths the staff members were going to in preparation for her visit. Marie and Elsa were enthusiastically cleaning, polishing, and arranging fresh flowers that Frank Fox had supplied from the garden. Sabu was busy in the kitchen preparing a cold chicken salad, poached fruit, and whipped cream.
Sybil had made a special effort with her appearance, dressing in a pretty gown in blue and white, which looked fresh and summery. She was also wearing blue and white beads around her neck. When she came downstairs and saw Abbey in the only dress she owne
d, Sybil was appalled.
“You look lovely, Mrs. Hawker,” Abbey said.
“I wish I could say the same to you,” Sybil shot back.
Abbey’s smile evaporated, and Sybil realised that her words had been hurtful.
“I don’t have anything else,” Abbey said, dismayed as she looked down at her dress. “But I’ll keep out of sight if you wish.”
“No, I don’t want you to,” Sybil said, sorry for her harsh words. “I might have something you can wear.” She was thinking of a gown that had become uncomfortably tight in the past year. “You’ll need some new undergarments and other bits and pieces, so go to the store and see Mrs. Hubert. She doesn’t have anything frilly, or really any variety, but what she has will do until we get to the stores in Clare.”
Abbey had been hesitant to go to the station store, even though Jack had said she could. She didn’t want to run up a large bill that she might not be able to pay. On the other hand, she also didn’t want to embarrass Sybil or Jack.
Sybil noted her reticence. “I’ll give you a note to take to Mrs. Hubert,” she said. She went to a writing bureau in the corner of the living room and scribbled a note, which she folded and passed to Abbey. “You go to the store while I find you a gown that will be suitable.”
Abbey thanked her and soon was on her way to Doris Hubert’s store.
***
When Abbey got to the store, she found a woman busy rearranging goods on shelves and making notes of stock that needed replenishing.
“Good morning. Are you Mrs. Hubert?” Abbey asked tentatively from the open doorway.
The woman looked up. “Yes, that’s me. Good morning.” She looked Abbey over. “You must be Mrs. Hawker’s companion. Jack told me to expect you.”
“Yes, I’m Abbey Scottsdale.”
“Come in,” Doris said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Hawker told me to give you this,” Abbey said, passing the note to the woman, who was short with curly hair and a round, cheerful face from which lively, blue eyes sparkled.
Shadows in the Valley Page 15