“Help us.”
Twenty-Three
THE HOSPITAL ROOM was a dreary reflection of the overcast sky just outside its window. The light was low with the onset of dusk, and large raindrops plopped loudly against the glass pane. Clementine Lacy sat with her legs curled beneath her in an armchair typically reserved for family and visitors. A cup of hot tea warmed her hands as she watched the man sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed.
They had moved him only the day before to the recovery wing. The room was larger and better suited to accommodate family who wished to visit or stay overnight. There were some lovely prints decorating the walls, and the armchair and small sofa pulled out into perfectly acceptable beds. The recovery wing was designed to be peaceful, though Clem found it somewhat unnerving. It lacked the bustle and purpose of the medical wings and consisted of short, intersecting hallways that seemed entirely too quiet and isolated.
It was her break and, as was her custom of the last few days, Clem had come to share it with Arthur Bradley. So regular had become her visits and so happily anticipated by their patient, that the nursing staff adjusted his medication schedule so he was sure to be awake when she stopped in. Today, however, he had taken those first few steps on his own, and the pain was such that there could be no delay in medicinal relief.
Clem was disappointed. She liked the man. He was kind and interesting. Even before meeting Ettie, Clem had known of Professor Arthur Bradley from his opinion pieces in the Daily Mirror. The Mirror, as it was referred to locally, was the paper of record in New York City. Any important issue or debate was reported on and discussed within its pages.
Arthur Bradley was a noted professor of economics and an unlikely champion of educating women. Since Ettie did not assume his last name, the connection between the respected professor and famous ballerina was not generally known. Certainly, Clem had never known of it before. But she had silently cheered his editorials on allowing more than a very small quota of women into the universities.
Clem had an ulterior motive for her visits as well; she had hoped to coax from him the details of the night of his attempted murder, but so far his memory failed in recalling that traumatic event. She had even overheard Inspector Hamilton voice frustration at his enduring memory loss.
In the few visits Ettie managed to fit into her frantic schedule, Clem had discerned an attitude of wariness and even fear on the part of her patient. She had a theory why Arthur was reluctant to speak about that night, but it was such that she felt unable to share it with Ettie. So she had spoken instead to Aunt Abigail.
“I think he’s not entirely convinced that Ettie wasn’t his attacker,” she had confided in her aunt one evening in the blue sitting room. “I saw the painting; they look almost exactly alike.”
Aunt Abigail stirred the little silver sugar spoon around in her tea, contemplating the ripples. “Yes, but dear, didn’t you say that Inspector Hamilton had her under surveillance at the time of her father’s attack? And that the assailant was an older woman?”
“Of course, there is no doubt that Ettie was not involved,” Clem added hastily. “I just think with the similarity in their looks he… well, he is not so sure.”
“It is odd, you know. That this woman should be so like her,” Aunt Abigail had replied, glancing up from her tea and regarding Clem with a questioning look. “Could the woman be in any way related? Her attack on the father… the viciousness of it, would seem to indicate some sort of relationship. It certainly is not random.”
That night, Clem’s response to her aunt’s questioning had merely been to shrug her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. In truth, she had no idea what to think. She uncurled herself from the chair and, putting her cup down on the bedside table, wandered over to the window.
Ettie had never explained the quick exchange of words that had passed between her and Lord Westchester that day in the woman’s apartment. Talk of love and betrayal, strange technology, and another Odette. None of it made any sense.
Clem leaned onto the windowsill and looked outside to the entrance below. The flow of traffic had slowed, but there were still carriages crowded around the drive. Since the ambulance entry was in the back, they consisted of only those coming for regular appointments or perhaps visiting a patient.
A figure caught Clem’s eye; she wasn’t exactly sure what drew her attention. Maybe it was how the woman looked around and drew the brim of her hat further down over her face. Even so, Clem’s practiced eye noted her elegant and expensive outfit. She wore one of the newer fashions, a form-fitting bodysuit over which was draped a full skirt that reached just below the knees. A short jacket with wide lapels and large cuffs fit snuggly around her torso. The legs of the bodysuit ended just above her ankles, and were met by short booties with a small elegant heel.
She saw the woman nod almost indiscernibly. Two large men leaning against the iron railing immediately pushed away from it and headed in opposite directions around the building. They were tall, muscled, and lean, and gave Clem the impression of highly trained dogs released for the hunt. Her heart raced, and a thrill of fear shot through her.
The woman placed a hand on the top of her hat and tipped her head back to look up at the very window where Clem stood. She was just in time to step away, but had a quick, distinct impression of elaborately coiffed blond hair and an elegant black mesh veil covering the woman’s face.
Breathing heavily, Clem turned to look at the man still sleeping soundly on the narrow bed. She rushed out into the hallway, intending to alert the young constable on duty to possible trouble. Instead, she found the hallway deserted.
Clem ran back into the room and pressed the call button, a futile action to which no one responded. She picked up the phone intending to dial the front desk. But when no tone emanated from the earpiece, she literally held it away from her and stared at it opened mouthed.
“Oh God! Oh God!” she moaned under her breath as she replaced the receiver. She had hoped that her fear was just a result of an overactive imagination. But now she was sure that those men, and perhaps the woman, would converge on this room, and she had the distinct impression they weren’t bringing flowers and get-well wishes.
“Think, Clem, think!” she admonished herself aloud.
As a volunteer of long standing, she knew the hospital well, but the recovery wing was less familiar territory. She ran out into the hallway in an effort to recall the floor plan. The next instant, she made a beeline for the custodial closet. She quickly retrieved two large brooms and pelted down the hall to stop abruptly in front of the stairway door. She slid the long wooden broom through the door handle and across the jam. As she ran for the other stairwell, she noted that none of the other rooms were occupied and, other than her ragged breathing, the quiet was deafening. She had just slid the broom handle through the second door, when she heard the latch rattle and weight brought to bear against it.
She breathed out and for a brief second felt a flood of relief until the ding of the lift sent another wave of terror through her body. Not known for profane utterances, Clem nonetheless exclaimed loudly into the empty corridor, “Bloody flipping hell and buckets of tar-black coal fire!”
Clem sprinted back to the hospital room and found Arthur Bradley blissfully unaware of the danger he was in. She unceremoniously grabbed a lovely bouquet of flowers from its vase and dumped the water over Arthur’s face. His eyes flew open, and he sat up with a howl of pain.
“Wha… wha…?”
“Get up! Get up, now!” she demanded. “That dreadful woman is coming back to finish the job!”
He asked for no explanations, but swung his legs over the bed as Clem pulled one of his arms around her shoulders. They hobbled out into the corridor. Clem heard the lift gate pull back just as they made the custodial closet. She shut the door silently behind her and helped Arthur to the floor. He leaned back against the wall with a groan, his face drawn and bloodless. She found an old metal chair and jammed it up under the door knob.
She grabbed a toilet plunger and held it at the ready, stepping away from the door to listen.
Whoever it was must have felt certain of their isolation, because they were making no attempt at stealth.
“Where is he?” She heard the woman screech. “Where is he?”
A loud crash and one of the stairwell doors gave way, then a mumble of voices and running feet.
“Did he get out that way?”
“No. It was blocked by a broom,” a man’s voice answered in an irritated grumble. “He must still be on the floor.”
Clem’s hand flew to her mouth, and she looked frantically around for another weapon. She spotted a bottle of bleach and various other cleaning tools. What could she do? At the limits of her ingenuity, Clem’s mind seemed to grind to a halt. Where was everyone? she thought with helpless panic. Where were the nurses? She closed her eyes and held her breath. Time stopped. She didn’t know how long she stood there, ears straining to hear every little sound.
“Clem! Clem!”
Her eyes popped open.
“Reginald! We’re in here!” She didn’t even stop to wonder at his fortuitous presence, she flung the chair away from the door and swung it wide.
She heard Inspector Hamilton bellowing down the corridor, “Professor Bradley!”
Stepping out into the hallway, she cried, “We’re here, over here!”
She saw Reginald skid perilously around the corner with a look of intense worry on his face. It was really all a blur, because the next second she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed with profound relief into his very broad and expensively tailored shoulder.
*
Constable Higgins was still in surgery.
“Why did the boy leave his post?” Inspector Hamilton mumbled with a confused shake of his head.
They were in the head matron’s office. A bank of large windows looked out upon a well-kept courtyard with its large and tranquil fountain. Strategically placed lampposts illuminated a gravel path and the rain that streaked down from a dark and menacing sky.
Inspector Hamilton stood with Matron in front of her large desk, a pencil and pad in his hands as he wrote down her statement.
“No one knows how your man got into the storeroom, Inspector. It was pure happenstance that the orderly checked it when he did,” she told him. “Generally, he locks up around five, but an emergency requiring his assistance delayed him by almost three quarters of an hour.”
“And the head injury…” he prompted.
“Yes, he appears to have been struck from behind with a heavy object, although my staff could find nothing like that in the storeroom.”
Inspector Hamilton nodded. “Um, yeah, my people are searching the hospital.”
On the leather couch next to the fireplace, Clem sat and listened, her eyes closed and head resting on Reginald’s shoulder. In fact, Reginald’s shoulder was getting quite a workout, and he sat in dazed contentment, his arm holding Clem securely against his side.
He could hardly believe that so much could change in an instant. After the night of Helena’s forgotten birthday party, he had felt a thaw in their relationship. It was small, but apparent. Which is why he was angry that she had forgotten again the plans they… or rather he, Reginald admitted wryly to himself, had made for this evening. He had come to confront her, to finally lay all before her, his feelings and her disregard for them.
What he had found was a hospital in disarray. The constable, still in his woolen blue uniform, lay on a gurney being prepped for surgery, and Inspector Hamilton was demanding to know where Professor Bradley could be found. Upon hearing that name, Reginald had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Clem had mentioned the professor, Ettie’s father, before.
“He’s in the recovery wing,” a nurse had informed them.
As he and Inspector Hamilton raced to the lift, Reginald could hear Matron scolding, “Who did that? Who moved him to recovery? That wasn’t on the schedule. He is far too sick…”
The clang and whir of the lift drowned out her harsh reprimand. The few short moments it took for them to reach the fifth floor seemed endless. Reginald had not known what was going on, nor did he have evidence, other than her uncharacteristic absence from the center of any action, that Clem was in danger. He rather felt in his heart, his very bones, that she needed him.
The forced door with its shattered broom handle was the first sight to meet them as they stepped off the lift. They heard the heavy tread of feet down the far hallway. Inspector Hamilton raced in that direction, while Reginald ran calling for Clem down the nearest corridor. Her almost immediate response to his shouts relieved much of his anxiety, but it wasn’t until he had held her in his arms that he felt the world right itself.
He had stood with his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her pale, tearstained face and done something that still made his insides melt and a blush creep up his cheeks. He had kissed her. In that kiss, he had put everything: his fear, his longing, his frustration, and his love.
Appalled at this ungentlemanly behavior, he had immediately asked for forgiveness and blabbered something about her being the bravest, most wonderful girl. In a very Clem-like manner, she had told him to shut up and put her arms around his waist, holding him tight. They had stood there oblivious to everything else until, with a gasp, she pulled suddenly away from him remembering Arthur Bradley.
Professor Bradley’s wounds had reopened, and Clem spent the next several minutes staunching the flow of blood with whatever she could find. When the nurses and doctors finally arrived, they determined that, while this setback was grave, he would not require additional surgery.
And so they found themselves in Matron’s office, in perfect accord with each other. Reginald wondered with a characteristic lack of self-delusion how long it would last.
“I didn’t see him.” Clem lifted her head from his shoulder and repeated, “I remember now. I didn’t see the constable when I first went into the professor’s room. It didn’t really register at the time. I had a vague idea that perhaps he was checking the other corridors.”
She sat up straighter and looked at Matron. “How did it happen? How could he be moved and left isolated and alone? I don’t understand. Why was the wing empty? Nobody… nobody was there!” She stood up and paced agitatedly around the room.
Reginald watched and resisted the impulse to soothe her. He was learning that he didn’t need to fix everything. Clem would be fine. She had proved herself mistress of her own actions, capable of navigating the world and its dangers. He watched her and smiled inwardly. His mother wasn’t going to be happy with his choice.
Two of Inspector Hamilton’s sergeants hung back in the doorway and waited for his notice. He looked up and nodded for them to enter. Clem recognized Officer Guzman from the day at the cemetery, but she had never before seen the female officer who accompanied him. They both carried articles of clothing, and she recognized the large lapel and cuff design of the jacket as belonging to the woman.
“Those are her clothes,” she declared matter-of-factly, “She was wearing that jacket and the skirt. Where did you get them?”
The female officer glanced at Clem, but directed her response to Inspector Hamilton, “They were in the trash bin at the back of the hospital, near the emergency entrance.”
“The head nurse thinks the assailant must have snatched a hospital uniform from somewhere,” Officer Guzman added. “She didn’t believe anyone without a uniform could have exited without notice, that entrance being more closely monitored than the main one.”
Matron compressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. Clem was sure from her expression that whatever procedures were in place in the emergency parlor and elsewhere throughout the hospital were going to get a thorough review.
A bustle at the door announced the arrival of Ettie. She stood on the threshold, pale and shaky; Lord Westchester stood directly behind her. Her dress was eerily reminiscent of that worn by the unknown assailant. Ettie’s b
ody was snuggly enveloped in a black bodysuit. The skirt covering it was shorter and less full than the woman’s had been, and her jacket was more utilitarian than fashionable. On her feet were sturdy walking shoes, not elegant boots with a pretty little heel. Still, it gave Clem pause, and she visibly shook off her unease.
Ettie ran to Clem and held her in a tight embrace. “How can I thank you, Clem?” she choked with emotion, “Yet, again.”
Before Clem could respond, Inspector Hamilton asked sternly, “Where have you been, Miss Speex? You seem to have slipped our surveillance, which means you have no alibi for this latest attack.”
He was being deliberately provocative, and he hit a nerve. Ettie looked at him, fury chasing fear from her eyes. But it was Lord Westchester who spoke, “Miss Speex has been with me.” He assumed his most aristocratic bearing. “I am not accustomed to police oversight and used whatever means at my disposal to seek some privacy for me and Miss Speex.”
Inspector Hamilton looked at him hard, his hazel eyes narrowed and a skeptical expression on his long, dark face.
“Lord Westchester, why were you in Professor Bradley’s hospital room the night after his attack?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.
Charlie said nothing and schooled his features into a mask of haughty superiority, but Ettie could see that he was surprised.
So could Inspector Hamilton. He huffed through his nose and said before Charlie could deny it, “You were seen by another patient.” The inspector shook his head with baffled anger. “Funny, but the guards on duty that night were not around either. They weren’t at their post when their relief showed up the next morning. We still can’t find them. It seems we have a desertion epidemic on our hands. Know anything about that?”
Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II Page 25