by Joan Smith
“Instant death, sir. It paralyzes the muscles, including the breathing muscles and the heart. Mr. Rupert claims to have seen this grotesque miracle. The victim falls, suffers a spasm of shuddering, gasps for breath, and voilà—he is gone. It strikes me as an excellent thing to use on politicians.”
“Mr. Rupert speaks a great deal of nonsense,” Mrs. Palin said curtly.
“That is true,” the Frenchman agreed at once. “And besides, he was quite drunk at the time, but I doubt he had the imagination to make it up. You have traveled a good deal, madame. Have you ever heard of this curare?”
“I have not traveled to South America. I never heard of such a thing, and doubt it exists.”
“What does it look like, Monsieur Arouet?” Mrs. Steyne asked. Like Mr. Palin and myself, she was rigid with attention.
“Why, I really don’t know. He did not say. The natives apply it to the tips of their arrows. I suppose it is a liquid, or possibly powder or something else. The poison might be mixed in various ways, I imagine. Mankind has always been inventive in the matter of killing. Its use is limited to the jungles of the Amazon, in any case, so we need not go in fear of a poison arrow. And now I shall become polite again, and change the subject, as my hostess has so patiently been hinting. Is the hunting good hereabouts, Mr. Palin?”
“Very good. About this curare, did Mr. Rupert happen to mention whether he has any of it?”
“No, he didn’t. Grouse, pheasant, deer? What do you hunt?”
The conversation was diverted to this harmless topic, while I sat with my heart racing, and my mind racing too to wonder whether the substance I had happened on at the hut on the moors was this curare. The manner of Huck’s death was very much as described. I blanched to think how close I had come to killing myself, or a person rather than a mere kitten. If Bobby had chanced to have a scratch, for instance...
“Have a glass of wine, Miss Bingham. You are looking pale,” Mr. Palin said. I took the unaccountable idea there was poison in the wine. But that was absurd; our glasses were all filled from the same decanter.
Cook’s food was delicious. The table was attractively set, with the flowers arranged by my own hand adding something to the appearance. The novelty of sitting at the family table and the extravagant talk of Monsieur Arouet soon returned the party to some semblance of spirits. He began a dissertation on his name, which belonged as well to Voltaire, though he could trace no kinship, despite his best efforts. From Voltaire he digressed to literature in general. The man was lively. I would have enjoyed to have a private discussion with him, but deemed it unsuitable for a nursemaid to display too great an interest in these cultural matters, so I refrained from any but the most trivial remarks.
When the meal was done, the ladies retired to the withdrawing room while the gentlemen had their port. It was while we waited that a servant came rushing in with a frightened expression.
“Can you come, Miss Bingham? The boy has had an accident!”
I leaped to my feet, my head full of awful visions of Bobby convulsing and gasping on the floor, like the kitten. Mrs. Steyne was right behind me. Mrs. Palin, the unnatural woman, said she would remain behind to tell the gentlemen what had happened.
“Tell Mr. Palin,” Mrs. Steyne ordered as we darted to the door.
The child was in the kitchen, being cosseted and petted by Cook and Molly. A cold compress was held to his forehead, where a purple egg-sized lump on one side gave him a grotesque, deformed appearance. His little face was white, his eyes moist. “Bingie!” he whined, holding his arms out to me.
I took him on my lap, soothing him, for my appearance had brought on a bout of sniffles. I felt guilty, culpable for not having been with him. “How did it happen?” I asked.
“He was sneaking downstairs after I put him to bed,” Molly said, with an accusing eye at him. “Gingerbread he was after, the rascal.”
“Bobby is not tired,” he told me, even as his eyelids sagged.
“He shouldn’t be put to bed so soon after a fall. Let him stay up a bit and see if he’s all right,” Cook averred, but I think she only felt sorry for him.
In a few minutes, Mr. Palin came into the room, wild-eyed, anxious. “What happened?” he demanded. A chorus of voices explained and exculpated, with Molly trying to make clear it was not her fault, and Cook eager to see the child was not blamed.
“It’s those damned dark back stairs!” Mr. Palin, exclaimed, taking the blame on his own shoulders, “I’ll have a man in tomorrow to install a light fixture. He could have tripped on the tails of his nightshirt,” he said, looking down to see its length. It was not clearly visible, with the child seated on my knee, but I knew this particular one he wore came nowhere near his ankles. It was an old one that he was outgrowing. Still, it would not be hard for a youngster, groggy with sleep, to trip on those dark stairs. It was foolish to give way to the fear that was burgeoning inside me. It was the talk of poison abovestairs that had set me on edge.
“I’ll take him back upstairs and sit with him awhile,” I decided.
Mr. Palin lifted him from my lap. “I’ll carry him.” He held the boy gently, with such a concerned, loving glance it was hard to believe he could ever have hurt anyone.
Just at the door of the stairway he turned back and asked, “Where is Martin tonight?”
“I expect she’s in her room. She never comes down,” Cook told him, her voice expressing not a jot of regret at the circumstance, but only a smug satisfaction.
I followed them up the stairs, carefully picking my way, feeling along the walls. Mr. Palin laid his son on his bed, then without a word he lit a candle and went back to the staircase. I knew without being told he was looking to see if some object, toy or something else, had been left on the stairs, to have caused the fall. In a moment he returned and set the taper on the table.
“Did you find anything?” I asked.
“No,” he said, frowning with concentration. “It must have been an acc—he must have tripped.”
“You surely don’t think anyone did this deliberately?” I asked.
The air was so tense it seemed to be closing in around me like a caul. He glanced at Bobby, who was rooting about the covers for his old stuffed dog he slept with. He walked toward the doorway, to be beyond hearing of the child. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, with that worried shadow that was so often in his eyes. “We must watch him very closely, Miss Thompson.”
I gave a start at the use of the name. He examined me closely. “That is your name, is it not?” I admitted nothing, but could not deny it either. I knew it was futile. “You are a brave girl to come here.”
“How did you know?”
“You resemble your sister. Little things, mannerisms, certain expressions you use. It was when you were talking with Monsieur Arouet I became convinced of it. The mirror image of your smile—some fleeting resemblance convinced me. I confess I had begun to suspect earlier.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Palin?”
“No! Does she know?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t know.”
“How could she suspect?”
“From letters. I have wondered if Martin did not take one of my letters...” I stopped short, having to remind myself not to confide in him. In the candlelight, with his worried eyes inviting confidence, it was difficult to refrain.
“That was foolish of you. And possibly dangerous. You must not think too badly of us, Jane. I suppose that is not your real name either. What happened to your sister, it was an... accident. You do believe me?”
I wanted so very much to, was so relieved and joyed to hear him say so, that I answered yes before I gave it proper consideration. “What did happen to Rosalie?” I asked.
He looked at me long, steadily, sadly, drawing a deep breath. “It was an accident. She—fell from the parapet.”
“Why did you not tell us?”
“There were some—strange circumstances. I—I would prefer not to say more. Things are not quite clear to
me, especially now.... Try to believe me. No one meant to harm her. There could be no possible reason. We liked her; we all liked Rosalie very much. Bobby, myself, even Mrs. Palin.”
“What strange circumstances?” I insisted.
His hands grasped mine in a painfully hard grip. “Don’t persist. It is better this way, for now at least.”
“Bingie come now!” Bobby commanded from his bed.
“We’ll talk later—tomorrow,” Mr. Palin said, relieved to have an excuse,to put me off.
“I must know. Tell me! You owe me that much.”
“More, Bingie. Much more.” His voice was unsteady with emotion, there in the shadowed chamber. “I can never repay you for what you have done.”
Impatient with the lack of attention, Bobby began crawling out of bed to join us. Reluctantly, I gave up on my questions for the moment. “Get back into bed, Bobby. It is late.”
“My back hurts,” he complained.
“Let me see.”
He pulled up his nightshirt, trying to reach around to point out the spot. It was not at all necessary. A round, red mark was clearly visible, even in the dim light. “You must have hit it when you fell downstairs,” I said.
“Somebody pushed me,” he said, looking at us, with his head cocked to one side. It was impossible to know whether he was telling the truth, or merely dramatizing the case, or perhaps even trying to hide any suggestion of childish awkwardness.
“A push wouldn’t leave such a mark,” I pointed out to Mr. Palin, who was staring at it in horrid fascination.
He looked for a few seconds, then went out into the hall. When he returned, he was carrying a broom. “This was at the head of the stairs. I thought Bess had left it after cleaning.”
With the child examining us curiously, he said no more. He did not have to. We both knew that a sharp poke from the broom handle on a child’s back would leave such a mark, as it sent him careening down the stairs, looking like an accident. I understood now why he had asked for Martin’s whereabouts. He suspected it had been done on purpose. But who would do such a cruel, malicious, treacherous thing? Why would anyone but a raving madman want to hurt a defenseless, half-deaf child?
“Did you see anyone? Hear anything?” his father asked, trying to put a normal tone into the meaningful question.
But the hallway was very inadequately lit, with a curtain to aid concealment. Add to that his poor hearing, and the likelihood of the child’s recognizing his attacker was small indeed. “No, but somebody pushed me,” he said calmly, straightening his gown.
The wind chose that moment of pitiful horror to whip against the windows, blowing angrily past the corners of the house. I shivered, not from the cold. A sinister something was stalking the house, making the very flesh on my back creep in revulsion. “Get back into bed,” I said softly.
“Bingie will stay?” he asked, with an irresistible glance, half fearful, half coaxing.
“Yes, Bingie will stay. I shall sleep in this room tonight,” I told Mr. Palin.
“That would be kind of you. I must return below for a while. Monsieur Arouet is hinting rather loudly to remain overnight. It is only common courtesy to invite him. The weather is worsening—the rain has turned to snow. With the roads icy, it is no night to send a guest from the door. I’ll ask the servants to set a truckle bed up here for you.”
He bent down to wish Bobby goodnight before leaving. Then he turned to me. “Goodnight, Bingie. Take care. You do love Bobby, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“That’s good.”
It was a strange, entirely unlikely termination to the evening.
Chapter Twenty-five
I went into my own room to change into my nightgown while Molly and Bess made up the truckle bed in Bobby’s room. I disliked to leave him alone for even a minute, so nervous had I become after seeing that welt on his back, and knowing what had caused it.
When I joined him, the girls were just preparing to leave, making a few good-natured jokes with the boy. “Why, what is my broom doing in here?” Bess asked, spotting it where Mr. Palin had left it, against the wall.
“You forgot to put it away, Bess.”
“I did no such a thing! I always put my things away. This rascal of a lad’s been playing pony with it. You must have seen him trotting around the kitchen with Cook’s broom between his legs, Jane. Next time you put it back, mister. You hear?”
Her whole manner, light and joking, convinced me she spoke the truth, was aware of no guilt connected with the simple domestic object. She took it up and went to her cupboard. I stood at the doorway, watching her, and thinking. My attention was soon diverted to a door banging down the hallway, in one of the unused nursery rooms. The wind must have got in to set it ajar. I knew this would be a sleepless night for me; a banging door would not help. I hastened down the hall to close it.
“How was the party?” Bess asked when I got back to the room. Her very normal behavior acquitted her. She was exactly as usual.
“Fine.”
“Imagine them asking you.”
“Never mind, Bess. There’s tons of food left for us in the kitchen,” Molly reminded her.
“Aye, and tons of dishes too. I don’t see why I must help. I’m the upstairs maid.”
Their chatter kept Bobby from getting to sleep. He was sufficiently aroused that he wanted to partake of the conversation. “Somebody pushed me downstairs,” he informed them, to gain attention.
“You monkey, and a liar to boot,” Bess said baldly. “Isn’t that just like a man, blaming his two left feet on somebody else?”
“I got hurt on the back,” he added.
“Is he telling the truth?” Bess asked, looking to me for corroboration.
I didn’t know whether to admit it or conceal the fact. “He has a mark on his back,” I parried.
Right away, Bess had to pull up his nightshirt and see it for herself. “Glory be to God, look at the bruise. It looks like...” She frowned at me. She said nothing, but I knew what she was thinking. What else but the broom handle would have left such a round mark?
“Poor lad. Jane will look after you,” Molly assured him. But then Molly had never been as bright as Bess.
Shortly after the girls left, Bobby began yawning. He demanded, with the last of his strength, a lullaby. Before I had sung two bars, he was drifting off to sleep. I lay in the narrow truckle bed beside him, knowing sleep would not come for a long, long time.
Even in a more peaceful state, the howling winds that raged beyond the windows would have made rest difficult. I was far from that blissful peace. The attack on Bobby gave a new twist to my fears and suspicions. I never had established any reason for Rosalie’s death. That it was an accident was easy to believe, especially when I wanted so much to do so. Regina had spoken of violent and unstable tempers, but there was no blotting out the memory she had also spoken quite plainly of murder, and disposing of the body. Murders do not occur by accident, or if they do, they are not real murders, but manslaughter. Criminal carelessness, or something of the sort.
Bobby’s tumble was not due to carelessness, however. It had been planned in advance, the broom taken from the closet for the purpose of pushing him, unseen. It had not been done by Mr. Palin, that was certain. In a violent rage he might have caused some fatal accident to Rosalie, but he had been in the dining room when Bobby was pushed. So who had done it? Who would be vicious, cruel enough to do it to a helpless, handicapped child? Of equal importance, why would anyone do it? Money was a frequent motive, but surely any monies coming to him would revert to his father, who had not been the cause of his fall. He had the handling of the child’s monies in any case, for a good many years yet.
It was farfetched that two separate murderers or would-be murderers were loose in the house. Bobby and Rosalie—what was the connection between them? And again the stumbling block was there—Mr. Palin had killed Rosalie, accidentally or otherwise, but he would never hurt his son.
If
the “who” was unsolvable, then what of the “why”? What had the nursemaid and her charge had in common? Time and companionship. They had been much together. Had they seen, witnessed something that would incriminate someone? It might account for Rosalie, but one hardly needed protection from a child scarcely able to hear or speak. Not, in fact, able to speak more than a few disjointed phrases when Rosalie died.
Some little prickling at the back of my scalp caused me to sit bolt upright in my truckle bed at this thought. Supposing they had seen something dangerous. Rosalie, an adult, was an immediate threat. She must be disposed of at once. But Bobby, believed by most to be a moonling, could say nothing. Even if he had spoken, tried to tell, who would have listened, or believed? It was not till the last few weeks that he had been assumed to be not only normal, but bright. Recently his speech was becoming quite intelligible. A sane person, even a child, who could speak out, tell what he had witnessed....
A film of moisture bathed my brow, cooling me as it dried. What had I done? In my eagerness to turn Bobby into a rational, speaking person, I had turned him into a threat to someone. It was for that reason he had been pushed down the stairs. Every stray thought that wafted through my head supported it. Bobby’s awful tantrums after Rosalie died. He was not unduly upset by minor tragedies, such as Huck’s death. No, it had taken more than that to send him into such a state that even his own father began to believe him a lunatic. He had witnessed something so horrible it had nearly unhinged his mind, and it had made it necessary to kill Rosalie.
“Must I reveal to the world what you did with poor little Miss Thompson....” I knew who had got rid of poor little Rosalie, and I knew that same someone had not pushed Bobby. So there was something wrong with my reasoning, some cog missing, something I did not know, or recognize as a piece of the whole. There was Martin—where did she come into it? At madame’s apron strings, of course. And what of Mr. Rupert, with his curare, and his friendship with Rosalie, and his high style of living?
Rosalie had not been killed with poison, according to Mr. Palin’s account. She had fallen from the parapet; he could hardly say he pushed her. Around and around the crazy facts ran in my head, with diamonds eventually being added to the chase, or pieces of quartz that might be diamonds.