“No, love. I can’t think who you mean. But let’s look over the menu. The waiter will be here soon.”
A wide smile came to Emmie’s face. “Look, Harry. Your favorite dish.”
The special of the day was roast duck with olive sauce.
“Oh, I love roast duck,” Naggie confessed.
“Be careful, Emmie may have had the chef prepare something special for me.”
After the waiter had come and gone, I began to relate the story Mrs. Field had told me, about Emmie turning her husband into sausage. Then Emmie took over. There’s no disputing she gave it a good deal more depth and color. Before long I was having second thoughts about my choice of entrée.
“I believe Mrs. Field appreciated my fictional self,” Emmie told us.
Naggie grimaced at the name. “Oh, that one knows all about living a fiction.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not what she pretends to be.”
“You mentioned this morning she’s niece to an earl,” I said.
“Not that the earl had any choice in it.”
“Black sheep of the family?”
“She’d be the black sheep of any family. You saw how she treated me. Called me a brim. And for why?”
“What’s a brim?” Emmie asked.
“Like a trollop, or worse.”
“Do you know the Fields well?” I asked.
“Not well. Heard of him, of course. And her. She’s notorious. But as I mentioned, I only met them a couple weeks ago, on the boat over.”
It seemed hard to believe she’d developed such animus for Mrs. Field in two short weeks. Unless she saw her as some sort of threat.
“Had you seen any of this May Goodwin?” I asked.
“The dead girl? No, or at least not that I know of. Is it true she was poisoned?”
“The doctor thinks so, though it isn’t clear how. The food and wine she had that evening weren’t poisoned. But she was taking something else, and that’s gone missing.”
“What something else?” Emmie asked.
“Well, she was pregnant… and not married.”
“Ergot, I’ll wager,” Naggie said.
“Ergot?”
“That, or savin oil.”
“What are they?” Emmie asked.
“Cures. For good girls now gone.”
“In the pudding club?” I asked.
“That’s right. And so they’re looking to resign their membership. Maybe they’re working girls and can’t afford an accident. Or maybe there’s just too many to feed now.”
“Do these things work?” Emmie asked.
“Just often enough to give them hope, I suppose. If ten take the ergot, four might get cured… and two might die. Is that what this girl was taking? Ergot?”
“Oil of pennyroyal. But Ed, my colleague, told me his wife took pennyroyal when she was expecting. To regulate things, he said.”
“Well, of course,” Naggie laughed. “That’s what she told him. Is she going to say, ‘I’ve got to rid myself of this child of yours’? Did she have it?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t take enough. Got frightened when the pains started.”
“Is it always painful?” Emmie asked.
“Oh, always. It’s no surprise it killed the girl.”
“But that wasn’t what killed her,” I said. “The doctor seems sure it was digitalis that poisoned her.”
“The heart medicine?” Emmie asked.
“That’s right. Apparently it doesn’t take a lot more to kill someone, particularly if they’re taking it often.”
“You think someone put it in the pennyroyal?” Emmie asked.
“Oh, that would be easy work,” Naggie said. “That taste would cover up anything. And imagine how these girls take it. She takes a spoonful. When that doesn’t work, she takes two. After a week, she’s taking four. Got her to poison herself.”
When our meal arrived, Naggie sensibly changed the topic by telling us of the flower shop she ran in a small town on the northern coast of France.
“You must speak French well.”
“Not well at all. In Étaples most of my customers are Brits, and Yanks.”
“Étaples? Do you know the Chappelles?” Emmie asked.
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Chappelle is my best customer,” Naggie told her. Then added with what sounded like concern, “You know them well?”
“No, not well,” Emmie told her. “We met them in Washington just before they moved to France.”
“But not heard from them since?”
“No, just acquaintances, really.”
“Oh, I see.” She seemed pleased by Emmie’s answer, though I couldn’t think of why she would be.
When we finished dinner, Naggie had us listen while she recited another of Fiona Macleod’s poems for us:
“I saw a happy Spirit
That wandered among flowers:
Her crown was a rainbow,
Her gown was wove of hours.
She turned with sudden laughter,
I was, but am no more!
And as I followed after
Time smote me on the brow.
“It started out nice enough,” she said. “But I ask you, how could time have smote the fellow?”
“Not sure,” I said. “But if he was in for much more of that, I doubt he minded being smote.”
“There’s another where she goes on about ‘the green fire of joy.’ What in the world is that? Sounds like burning bile.”
Naggie certainly had her charms. But if I needed someone to impersonate a Scottish poetess of deep feelings, she would not be my first choice. Preparing her for her meeting with Mosher would be hard work, and I thought it best to absent myself.
12
Down in the billiard room I found Ed engaged, so I occupied myself reading Aucassin & Nicolete.
According to the introduction, it was a sort of ribald medieval romance. And the visit to the kingdom of Torelore, my domain, was described as burlesque. That relieved my mind some, as burlesque was the one theatrical form I knew something about. Nonetheless, the revelation that I, the king, was “in childbed” came as something of a surprise…. Then it occurred to me I might make good use of my predicament.
When Ed had finished his game—and the last of several blue pigs—I suggested we visit Nathan Libby.
“Who’s Nathan Libby?”
“The lawyer I told you about just a few hours ago. How many of those have you had?”
“This is my third. Really help put your troubles in perspective. Say, Harry, didn’t that woman with Mrs. Field look like your wife?”
“Miss Meegs? Maybe some vague resemblance,” I said while leading him out.
“Sounded just like her, too.”
He may have had his troubles in perspective, but not his immediate surroundings. That third pig came at a price. In the lobby, he collided with a waiter, then stepped on a woman’s skirt as we descended the front steps. She tugged on it and sent him flying down into a bayberry bush. I pulled him out and we started down the shore road.
Libby’s house was one meant to impress. As was the white-suited butler.
“This way, gentlemen.”
He didn’t give me time to speak, just led us back to a large room where a crowd of uniformly well-dressed people had assembled. Then I saw Nan, looking like a waif who’d snuck in with the help.
“Mr. Reese, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“What exactly is here?”
“Mrs. Libby is hosting a reception for Mr. Field. Isn’t that why you’ve come?”
“No, we came hoping to speak with Mr. Libby.”
“Because of what Stanley Chambers told us?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t seen him about.” The butler came by and she stopped him. “Is Mr. Libby available?”
“No, miss. He’s gone down to Boston. Won’t be back until Sunday evening.”
“It’s a shame he’s missing his own reception.”
About then Mrs. Field made her entrance, leading her reluctant husband by the arm and accompanied by an eye-catching young redhead.
“That’s Mrs. Libby with them,” Nan whispered.
“Regrettably, Mr. Field is still suffering from laryngitis,” the hostess announced. “However, Mrs. Field has graciously offered to read some of her husband’s work for our enjoyment and edification.”
Once everyone had quieted, Mrs. Field had the butler turn the lights down low. Then she began:
“Beauteous thou art, the spirit knows not how;
’Tis not the serpent-way thine iris slips,
Nor confluence of the temples and the brow,
Nor marge nor parting of the trembled lips….”
This heady stuff went on for what seemed like hours. It was accompanied by periodic groans and moans from the ladies in attendance. At first, I attributed the eruptions to collective indigestion, but soon realized these were the sounds of ecstasy—an exceptionally virulent strain.
The recital ended abruptly. Then as the lights came up, there was an awkward pause. Mrs. Field seemed to have vanished. As had our hostess.
In the meantime, Ed had collapsed into a stupor and onto the lap of a venerable matron who beat him about the head with an ivory fan. With Nan’s aid, I was able to right him. As we headed for the door, Mrs. Libby passed us—looking exactly how you’re imagining: hair undone and décolletage somewhat lower than it had started the evening.
Outside, we found Field alone, smoking his pipe and holding the chow on a lead.
“Thank god that’s over and done with.” His wife had materialized from behind a hedge. “Tell me, Mr. Reese, don’t you find American women rather capricious?”
“I only know one case: my wife. And I couldn’t call her capricious. That would imply I had some clue to her thinking at any particular time.”
“How dull that would be. Shall we walk back to the hotel together?”
“Why not? Perhaps we can have that rehearsal,” I said.
“Rehearsal?” She looked at me blankly for a moment. “Oh, yes. And if Miss Tway will join us, we’ll have our chorus.”
Nan begged off and as the four of us walked back to the hotel, Ed reached down to pet the dog. Instead of baring its teeth, it retreated between Mrs. Field’s legs.
“You may follow him if you’d like, Mr. Ketchum,” the lady offered.
“Bah. Meek little fellow,” Field said. “Difficult to believe he ate Kipling’s rabbit.”
“Not ate him, dear,” his wife corrected. “I believe the poor bunny died of shock.”
As we approached the hotel, Noyes, the builder, came down the steps. When he saw me, there was a moment of confusion in his expression—as if he needed to remember who I was. Then he began shaking his head.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Noyes?”
“Oh, nothing, I suppose. Just seems odd. That Branscombe.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve already said too much,” he said, having said next to nothing.
I introduced him to the others. “Mr. Noyes enjoys reading plays,” I told Mrs. Field.
“Oh, bene. Are you an actor, Mr. Noyes?”
“Purely amateur.”
“Oh, no true artiste performs for money. Isn’t that so, Michael?”
His “bah” came with a snort attached.
“Perhaps we could enlist you, Mr. Noyes,” Mrs. Field continued. “We were about to rehearse some scenes from Aucassin & Nicolete and we’re in need of a chorus.”
He demurred, but allowed himself to be won over by her persistence. She took him by the arm and led us to an area beside the tennis courts that was diffusely illuminated by hanging lanterns.
As the dog marked its territory, Annie appeared and affixed herself to Field as if similarly trying to scent him.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she told him.
“Oh, our Nicolete has arrived!” Mrs. Field exclaimed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a copy of the work with me. Did you bring yours, Mr. Reese?”
“Yes.” I held it out to her, but it was her husband who took it up.
“Hell and damnation!” he shouted, then threw the book aside and stomped off into the darkness.
Annie began to follow, but Mrs. Field lunged for her, tackling her about the waist and then pinning her to the ground.
“If you don’t want to be tied up, my dear, you’ll need to behave.” She rose, keeping a firm grip on Annie’s arm.
Field, now perched on a boulder smoking his pipe, celebrated his wife’s triumph with an enthusiastic bravo. Noyes looked at me inquiringly.
“Artistes,” I reminded him.
Ed had picked up my book and handed it to Mrs. Field.
“I believe it’s this primitive binding that upset him. Michael, you see, is a book lover and like all bibliophiles a man of strong opinions, and not infrequent bouts of irrationality. Now, just so we’re all clear, Mr. Ketchum is Aucassin, the young hero of our tale. Annie, dear, you are Nicolete. As the story begins, you are a slave girl.”
“A slave girl?” She didn’t seem at all pleased with the idea.
“Yes, a paynim, a sort of Moor, sold into slavery by your own people. I don’t remember why exactly, but I’m sure they had a sound reason. Now, Mr. Reese…”
“The king of Torelore?”
“Yes, and I your queen, but before we reach that memorable scene, I will need you to play all the other parts.”
“Are there many?”
“A good many, yes. But don’t worry, I’ll be at your side. Now, perhaps you could read us the first passage, Mr. Noyes?”
She handed him the book and he read:
“Who would list to the good lay
Gladness of the captive grey?
’Tis how two young lovers met,
Aucassin and Nicolete,
Of the pains the lover bore
And the sorrows he outwore,
For the goodness and the grace,
Of his love, so fair of face.”
After that, the rehearsal devolved into a hodgepodge of loosely related vignettes, infused with dialogue I suspect Mrs. Field invented on the fly, and seasoned with periodic “bahs” from her husband, still smoking his pipe on his boulder.
Aucassin’s visit to the land of Torelore provided the dramatic crux of the thing. When he arrives, the queen is off in battle, and the king, yours truly, “in childbed.” This was my opportunity to test Mrs. Field’s expertise in pharmacology.
“Couldn’t I just take something?” I suggested. “Say, pennyroyal?”
“Pennyroyal?” she asked. “Whatever for?”
“Well, to be done with it.”
“Done with it?”
“Or perhaps ergot, or savin oil….”
“Oh, I see. Well, there’s no need. You see, fair Aucassin beats it out of you.”
“Beats it out of me?”
“Yes. In spite of his many admirable qualities, he’s still quite a conventional cove. He just can’t countenance a contravention of what he sees as the natural order.”
By then I’d learned two things for certain: Mrs. Field was unfamiliar with the use of pennyroyal as an abortifacient, and there had never been any serious thought given to putting on the play. May Goodwin had visited one, or both, of the Fields for some other reason.
The rehearsal ended near midnight when Annie slipped off to Field’s boulder. A second later she was crying for help. Ed grabbed a lantern and we discovered the fellow smoking a pipe in the darkness was not Field, but an assistant cook who’d been taking the air when the poet offered him his pipe and tobacco in exchange for sitting in the darkness and uttering “bah” whenever he felt the situation called for it. Unlike the real Field, he gladly reciprocated Annie’s advances and was disinclined to release her.
After heading upstairs, I went through the bath and gave Emmie’s door a knock. There was
no answer. The door was unlatched, and her room dark. When I heard the distinct sounds of her breathing, I silently undressed and crawled in beside her—only to find the bed occupied by an asthmatic cat. Once I asserted my rights of ownership, the feline escaped out onto the roof of the porch and I drifted off to sleep.
Sometime later, Emmie woke me entering the room. After looking through the bath to my darkened room, she silently closed the door, then turned on a small lamp and undressed. I was about to utter a greeting, but instead of coming to bed, she put on another, more casual, outfit. Then she turned out the light and left.
I dressed as quickly as I could and sprang down the stairs in time to see her striding along the shore road. Just past the casino, she turned off on the opposite side. We passed the old farmhouse and a little further on a dilapidated barn. Twice in the course of our excursion I thought I saw a man ahead of Emmie, as if she were following someone. Was Mosher out for a nighttime stroll, and Emmie following to pounce on his assassin?
We came to a pond encircled by cattails and brambles. At the far side was a little outbuilding with a lantern shining in the window. Spanning the pond was a rough bridge built of old boards balanced on floating logs. Emmie crossed on tiptoe and disappeared into the shadows. I now feared this had nothing to do with Mosher, that Emmie had planned a rendezvous. Was it with the shifty Leverton? Or was her brazen aquanaut about to render the services he’d alluded to?
I bounded along the primitive bridge. Or, to be precise, about three-quarters of the way along it. Then it collapsed. This didn’t trouble me much, at first, as there was only about ten inches of water. But that was just the icing on the cake. Below was a bottomless pit of mire. Even still, I might have been able to extricate myself were I not being pummeled about the head with large sticks.
“We nabbed him proper,” I heard Naggie say, wearing what looked like Mosher’s derby.
“Yes, but we can’t be safe until we’ve rendered him unconscious,” Emmie told her.
I managed to bleat out some sort of salutation and Naggie ceased her fire.
“Sounds like your Harry, love.”
Emmie made no acknowledgment but to strike all the harder.
“I say, Emmie. It’s your husband there,” Naggie repeated.
Fair Play’s a Jewel (Harry Reese Mysteries Book 5) Page 10