by Mary Daheim
“Maybe,” Judith murmured, “but Joe always keeps in touch.”
The same voice Renie had responded to earlier came over the radio: “This is Control. Please come in, DCI MacRae.”
MacRae responded immediately. “Yes?”
“Would you stop at Hollywood House?” the female voice said. “Mrs. Gibbs wants to see you.”
“Of course.” MacRae sighed. “Do you know how many men are on duty to secure the premises?”
“Three now from Elgin, two more coming from Inverness,” the woman responded. “Is everything all right with you, sir?”
“Yes, certainly.” MacRae sounded mildly surprised.
“Good. You sounded rather odd when I spoke with you earlier.” The radio crackled once and went silent.
“That’s peculiar,” MacRae said to Ogilvie. “I don’t recall talking to Annie this evening.”
Ogilvie shrugged.
Judith seized the opportunity to tell the truth. “We answered the call,” she said, leaning forward. “We didn’t know what else to do. She was reporting Will Fleming as missing.”
“Ah!” MacRae chuckled. “I’m most grateful. I’ll explain to Annie. I didn’t know about Fleming until I spoke to the riot force. Inverness also got the call. You can’t imagine what a help you’ve been to us, Mrs. Flynn. You’re the best thing that’s come out of America since President Roosevelt’s lend-lease program during the war.”
“Really,” Judith protested, “I haven’t done much of anything.”
“And,” Renie said with bite, “apparently I don’t exist.”
“Now, Mrs. Jones,” MacRae soothed as Ogilvie turned onto the coast road, “I didn’t intend to ignore your contribution. We know how much support you give your cousin.”
“Yeah, right,” Renie muttered.
“Sorry about the digression,” the DCI apologized, “but we shouldn’t be long at Hollywood House. You may stay in the car if you like.”
“Oh no,” Judith said, ignoring Renie’s grumpy expression. “Having a woman…I mean, women there might make Moira feel better.”
As they approached their destination, a handful of people were walking along the road, heading back to St. Fergna. Only one of the two riot squad vans remained, and its personnel seemed to be preparing for departure. A constable stood on guard at the gate. After MacRae identified himself, admittance was granted a few seconds later.
Fergus waited stiffly at the door. “Madam is in her room with Dr. Carmichael,” he said, barely giving the newcomers so much as a glance.
The group trudged up the elegant stairway. Elise met them at the top. “Police?” she said, giving Judith and Renie a quizzical look.
“Yes,” MacRae responded. “Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones are observing.”
Elise’s thin face puckered in confusion. “Observing? What sort of observation?”
“Procedural,” MacRae answered blithely. “Which way to Mrs. Gibbs?”
Elise indicated the correct door. “The doctor is still with her.”
“Maybe,” Judith suggested to MacRae, “we should wait while you and Sergeant Ogilvie go ahead.”
MacRae considered for a moment, and then nodded. He and his subordinate walked toward Moira’s boudoir.
“You know me,” Judith said to Elise. “I was here before.”
The maid looked at Renie. “Not with Madame Patch-eye. Is she a pirate?”
Renie took umbrage. “Ever see a pirate in a cashmere sweater?”
Elise studied Renie’s disheveled appearance. “You are like a tramp. Filthy, unkempt.”
Judith moved in front of Renie to prevent another outbreak of violence. “My cousin was trampled by the mob.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Did you put Mrs. Gibbs’s jewel case in my purse?”
Elise looked affronted. “Mon Dieu! Why should I do such a thing?”
“If you didn’t,” Judith said calmly, “who did? Mrs. Gibbs?”
The maid had gone very pale, a hand to one gaunt cheek. “You have the case?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“No,” Judith replied. “It’s been stolen.”
“Oh!” Elise whirled around and covered her face with her hands. “Non, non, non! Impossible!” She started to cry.
Judith put a comforting hand on Elise’s back. “I’ve alerted the police. If you made a mistake and put the case in the wrong handbag, I’m sure your intentions were for the best. Mrs. Fordyce and I both carry large black purses.”
“I must kill myself!” Elise wailed. “I am the fool most large!”
The door to Moira’s room opened and Dr. Carmichael emerged. “What’s this?” he asked kindly, his thick gray eyebrows moving up and down as he spoke. “Elise, your mistress needs you. Are you ill?”
Trying to compose herself, the maid shook her head. “I am upset.”
“We’re all upset this evening,” the doctor said. “Becalm yourself and see to Mrs. Gibbs.” He patted her once. “Go now.”
“We’ll see to her,” Judith volunteered. “Elise needs a cup of tea.”
“Cognac,” Elise said. “Bonne idée.” Rather morosely, she went down the hall in the opposite direction.
Dr. Carmichael’s expression was wry. “The French,” he sighed. “So emotional.”
Judith introduced Renie, who was still looking out of sorts.
“You have an eye problem,” the doctor noted.
“Chronic corneal dystrophy,” Renie said, softening just a bit.
He nodded. “Then you know how to treat it.”
“Yes. I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“Speaking of practice,” Dr. Carmichael said with a faint smile, “I should attend to the rest of mine.”
“One question,” Judith put in. “This may sound strange, but I understand you treated Patrick Cameron the night David Piazza was killed in a car accident. Is it true that Patrick can’t remember what happened and how he got hurt?”
Dr. Carmichael frowned. “So he says. And not unusual, really. Trauma to the head. I’d just come home after delivering a baby. I heard the crash as I was getting out of my car. It wasn’t the first time a driver had gone over the cliff. It’s a treacherous spot. I notified the police and drove to the scene. I could’ve walked, it was so close, but I was tired.” He smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “Not as young as I used to be. In any event, I could see the car upside down against the rocks. It wasn’t easy, but I climbed down to the wreckage.” He sighed heavily. “I had my kit and my torch. When I looked inside the mangled car I saw David Piazza. He was dead. While I waited for the police, I wandered around a bit, not far, since the cliffside isn’t conducive to a late night stroll. About twenty yards away, I found Patrick, unconscious but alive.”
“He couldn’t have been in the car, could he?” Judith inquired as the doctor paused for breath.
“I doubt it, unless he jumped out before it crashed,” Dr. Carmichael said. “Patrick is very fit, but he doesn’t recall anything that happened after he left Hunter’s Lodge on foot three or four hours earlier.”
Judith recalled that Hunter’s Lodge was Patrick’s home outside of St. Fergna. “Were Patrick and Davey friends?”
The doctor glanced at his pocket watch. “Not particularly. I’m afraid Davey didn’t have many friends at Blackwell. Most of the executives were jealous of his intimacy with Moira.”
“Professional intimacy, you mean,” Judith said, noticing Renie, who was studying the ancestral portraits that lined the corridor’s walls.
Dr. Carmichael smiled wryly. “I assume so.”
“Was Patrick hospitalized?” Judith asked.
“Treated and released,” the doctor replied. “He refused to stay.”
Judith frowned as Renie took a pen out of her purse. “I gather his wounds were consistent with an accident injury.”
“Possibly,” Dr. Carmichael said, “but I wasn’t the attending physician at the hospital.” He looked again at his watch. “Forgive me, I must go. I know you’re helping the p
olice with their inquiry, but I do have to call on another patient this evening.”
“Of course,” Judith said. “I’m sorry to take up your time.”
“Quite all right,” he said, and started to walk briskly away just as Judith realized what Renie was about to do. “Stop!” she shouted.
Dr. Carmichael turned around at the head of the stairs. “Yes?”
“Not you. My cousin. Sorry.” Judith marched over to Renie and knocked the pen out of her hand. “How could you? Those pen marks better come off. These portraits must be worth a fortune.”
“I doubt it,” Renie said, studying the mustache she’d drawn on an eighteenth-century lady with a very long nose and slightly bulging eyes. “Most of them are just one step above paint-by-the-numbers.”
“You get worse as you get older,” Judith declared angrily, trying to wipe off the mustache with her finger. “You age, but you don’t act it.”
Renie uttered an impatient sound. “Did it ever occur to you that I get tired of being shoved into the background while you hold center stage? Okay, so I’ve got some ego, but if we were in an opera, you’d be listed as the star soprano and I’d get a small contralto cast credit as Lumpa-Lumpa, Donna Fabulosa’s Drab Companion.”
“For heaven’s sakes,” Judith retorted, “you have your own business, you’re a talented artist, you get plenty of credit for—”
“Not to mention,” Renie broke in, airing yet more decades-old grievances, “that when we were kids, it always bothered me because on the calendar we got every year from church, your October birthday fell on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, not to mention you had both Saint Teresa of Ávila and Saint Thérèse of Lisieux bracketing your big day while I got stuck with St. Willibrord and St. Prosdocimus. Talk about obscure!”
Judith couldn’t help but feel a bit sheepish. “How could I do anything about that? Besides, we’re grown up now. As for my sleuthing, you usually encourage me. But that still doesn’t give you the right to vandalize other people’s possessions.”
Renie gazed at the portrait, which still showed a faint trace of pen mark. “Frankly, I think it’s an improvement.”
“I think it’s childish of you, and—” Judith stopped. “Saint Thérèse. The French one, the Little Flower of God. Who mentioned her recently?”
Renie frowned. “One of us? When we were talking about that spooky B&B in Normandy?”
Judith shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, even though my suitcase had mistakenly been removed from the train at Lisieux, but I got it back before we sailed.” She shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”
Before Renie could respond, Ogilvie came out of Moira’s suite. “Come in. We’ve finished our inquiry about the protesters.”
MacRae joined his sergeant in the hall. “Mrs. Gibbs is calmer. Dr. Carmichael’s sedative must be taking effect. She was still quite distressed when we arrived. We’ll meet you out front.” He turned to Ogilvie. “We should speak with the on-duty personnel.” With courteous nods to the cousins, the policemen made their way down the hall.
Moira looked very different from the impeccably groomed, graceful, and poised young woman Judith and Renie had encountered in the graveyard. Her red-gold hair lay in tangles on the lace-trimmed pillow; her fine complexion was ashen and her face drawn; the graceful fingers seemed more like claws as she grasped anxiously at the elegant duvet.
“You must think me an invalid,” she said in a toneless voice. “I apologize for greeting you from my bed again. I was up for a while earlier but that mob shredded my nerves. Except for Will, I’ve made Fergus turn visitors away ever since you were here. Several people have called on me in the past few days, but I simply couldn’t deal with them. Curiosity-seekers, if you ask me, though Seumas Bell had the courtesy to offer apologies for the ruckus with Patrick when you were here. I was still upset, so I told Elise to send him away.”
“Please,” Judith said, sitting in one of the two brocade-covered armchairs that had been pulled close to the bed. “You’ve suffered so many losses. And the scene this evening was really awful.”
Moira nodded once. “I understand you were there.”
“We were,” Judith said. “We got caught up in the traffic jam.”
“You’d come to call on me?” Moira asked.
“No,” Renie put in from where she was still standing at the foot of the bed. “We were going to the circus. I’ve got a gig as a clown.”
“We were headed to the Priory to see Marie,” Judith said, avoiding her cousin’s glare. “We’d heard Will was missing.”
“That’s absurd,” Moira said in a listless voice. “He was here. Marie should’ve known that. Why didn’t she call me? Why didn’t she call Will? Marie’s usually sensible. It must be the flu.”
“Did the ruckus outside disturb your baby?” Judith asked.
“Of course,” Moira answered, displaying a trifle more animation. “He cried for half an hour. My governess had to walk him all over the house. Ah. Here she is now.”
A plump and plain woman of indeterminate age entered the room. “Master Jamie has finally settled down,” she announced, her brown eyes darting between Moira, Judith, and Renie. “Shall I let him sleep through his eleven o’clock feeding?”
Moira gnawed on her thumbnail. “No. Yes! Yes, Euphemia, unless he wakes up and cries for it.”
“Shall I bring him to you?” the governess asked.
“No.” Tears welled up in Moira’s eyes. “I’m exhausted.”
“As you wish.” Euphemia left as Fergus entered.
Moira cast a weary gaze on the butler. “Yes?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs have arrived,” he said in his stilted voice.
Moira waved a frantic hand. “Please. Send them away. I can’t possibly deal with them tonight. Why would they leave the castle?” She put the question to Judith.
“They’ve probably finished serving dinner,” Judith said. “Have you spoken with them since their grandson was killed?”
“No.” Moira turned away. “I don’t want to. Especially not now.”
“Maybe they heard about the riot,” Judith pointed out, “and wanted to make sure you and the baby were okay.”
“We’re not,” Moira declared, still staring off into space. “Send them back to the castle, Fergus.”
Fergus cleared his throat, a dry sound like crushed autumn leaves. “Your visitors didn’t come from the castle, madam. They’re the other Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, your husband’s parents from South America.”
19
Moira let out an anguished wail. “No! Not Harry’s parents!
Oh, God help me! Make it all stop!” She threw pillows on the floor, yanked at the duvet, and began clawing at the sheets.
Fergus stood as unbending as a lighthouse. After a long pause, he finally spoke. “Shall I tell them to wait, madam?”
Judith leaned close enough to grab one of Moira’s flailing arms. “Please calm down,” she urged softly. “You must relax.”
Moira tried to pull away but suddenly slumped, her energies spent. “Cruel, cruel, cruel,” she mumbled. “Why must I suffer so?”
Renie had moved closer to Fergus. “Let me handle this,” she told him. “And one word out of you and we’re going to war.” She stomped past the rigid butler and left the room.
Judith put her arms around Moira and rocked her like a baby. Fergus turned around in his robot-like manner and slowly walked away.
“Shall I send for Elise?” Judith asked.
Moira gulped and slumped against Judith’s arm. “No,” she whispered. “Not now. Oh my God!” Moira gasped. “I can’t face Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs! They’ll blame me for Harry’s death!”
“Why?” Judith asked, handing Moira several tissues.
“They’ve never liked me,” Moira said between sniffs as she wiped at her eyes. “Their niece, Liza, lived with them in London while I was away at school in France. Harry’s parents treated her like a princess because they’d never had a daughter. When Harry and
I started seeing each other, Liza told the most terrible lies about me. They believed her, even though I’d never even met their wretched niece. In fact, I hardly know Harry’s parents, but it’s obvious they think I’m some kind of silly little slut and was never worthy of their handsome, charming, spoiled boy.”
“Spreading vicious rumors is a nasty habit some people have,” Judith said as Moira sank back onto the pillow. “I’m surprised that Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs found out about Harry so quickly. They must not have been as hard to reach as I’ve been told.”
Moira scowled and blew her nose. “They can be found if they want to be,” she asserted. “I don’t believe half their tales from abroad. It sounds too rugged for what I know of them. If they took a trip up the Amazon, they’d hire a limousine.”
Renie came back into the boudoir, dusting off her hands. “Your in-laws have left. I told them you were in bed with Fergus.”
Moira looked appalled. “That’s not very amusing, given their opinion of me.”
Renie shrugged. “They don’t think highly of Fergus, either.”
“We should probably leave you in peace,” Judith said to Moira. “You’ve had very little of that these past few days. Will you be able to attend the inquest tomorrow?”
Moira flung a hand over her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know. I’m afraid there’ll be another mob. Morton could be behind it. He’s always resented me. The police suggested that the demonstration was staged.”
Judith wasn’t sure how to respond. “Jocko Morton? What would be the point of damaging your reputation? It gives the company a black eye. How can that help him as the CEO?”
“You don’t understand,” Moira said. “It’s not about public image, it’s personal. He wants me out. Jocko wants to be in total control.”
“But you own the company,” Judith pointed out.
Renie leaned against the bedpost. “There must be a buyout in the wind,” she said. “Who’s making the offer?”
Moira was surprised. “How did you guess?”
“I don’t guess,” Renie replied. “I work with big businesses. I know the game—or as much of it as I need to in order to not design a pharmaceutical company’s logo using a skull and crossbones.”