by P. N. Elrod
“You get all that?” I whispered to Escott.
“The germane points. Did Miss Emily not have a key to Barrett’s room?”
I asked, but Handley didn’t know.
“Odd, that.”
“Not if Barrett wants to keep his secret. He’d have allowed for an emergency like this.”
“Hmm. No doubt we can ask him. I should like to arrange an interview with this Haskell for the exact time of Laura’s ride and where she went.”
“If we can interview Laura, we won’t have to.”
“True.” He skimmed the closely typed pages of the will. “I believe I see Barrett’s guiding hand in this.”
“Yeah?”
“There are some personal bequests, a generous trust for Laura, pensions for retired servants, and one most unusual arrangement. There is a long statement here by Emily concerning a close friendship she formed with one of her British in-laws. She had a special place in her heart for a young cousin whose name was also Emily.”
“You mean—”
He kept talking. “In the event of Emily Francher’s death, her secretary has instructions to contact this person. If she appears within one year after the reading of the will, the rest of the estate goes to her. This person’s fingerprints are on file with the Franchers’ bank manager and with Handley so that she may be correctly identified.”
“I can see the riot that’s going to cause among her excluded relatives.”
“Yes, this is hardly something they’d lightly accept.”
“What happens if this other Emily doesn’t show up?”
His eyes zipped back and forth. “Then the estate goes to Laura. In the event of Laura’s death, and/or if the other Emily never appears, then it’s to be sold off and the money distributed to a number of charities.”
“You think Laura knows about this will? If she does, then she could have made an investment for her future.”
“Unless Emily’s death was an accident, after all.”
“We’ll find out.”
He looked at Handley with some amusement. “I take it from your question to our silent friend here that you haven’t found Barrett?”
“You take right. Nobody’s found him. I’m thinking maybe he packed up last night and left.”
“Why should he do that?”
“I dunno, maybe he talked with Laura, heard something he didn’t like, and took off to think things over.”
He folded the will and put it back in the briefcase. “Did you see Laura?”
“Yeah, I even had a fast word with her. She gave out with a song and dance that he was gone because of his duties, whatever the hell that means.”
“She could be covering for him,” he suggested.
“During the day, yes, but he’d be up by now. He might just be wanting to avoid the relatives, and I can’t blame him for that, but it looks bad.”
“True. I was considering that if Emily’s fall were no accident, then Mr. Barrett is the only one in the house with no alibi.”
“Except with us. We know he couldn’t have done anything.”
“Possibly. Can you guide us to his sanctum?”
“No sweat, but he won’t want to see us.”
We started for the door, but Escott abruptly stopped. I didn’t understand why until he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the lawyer, who was still on the far side of dreamland.
“Handley? You can go back to your work, now. Completely forget we had this little talk, okay?”
“Very well,” he replied, sounding perfectly normal. He opened his eyes, swiveled his chair around to face the desk, and started shuffling papers. Escott and I slipped out and paced down the hall.
“What were you doing in there?” I asked.
“Virtually nothing, as I had no time to do it. I’d just gotten to Barrett’s office and was about to search the briefcase when the two of you walked in. The rest of the time I was looking for Barrett. Were you able to get a look at Emily’s body?”
“Yeah.”
“And her condition?”
“She’s really dead, as far as I can tell.”
“Then God forgive me for not coming out here sooner.”
“You think it was no accident, then?”
“To do so would be to make an assumption without the benefit of facts.” he said stiffly.
Okay, he had to be logical about things, but at least one part of his mind had given in to conclusion jumping, and he didn’t like that part one bit.
We went down by way of the main stairs. People still loitered in the big hall, catching up on family gossip and speculating on their financial future. I was tempted to tell them all to forget it and go home.
No one paid any attention to us, and after a little thought I found the right hall and the right door, the only one in the wing that was locked. I slipped through it, found the stairwell we wanted, and came back again.
“No key on that side,” I said. “I’ll just—”
“I think I can manage.” He pulled out an impressive set of skeleton keys and picks from a worn leather case. Crouching in front of the lock, he began to experiment.
“Aren’t you the regular Raffles,” I commented.
“Ah, but I hardly ever steal anything.”
“Look, I can just go down for a quick gander. If he’s really gone you won’t need to—”
“There!” He turned the knob and pushed open the door. “That was a bit of luck. Usually it takes much longer.”
“Where’d you learn to do that?” I was impressed.
“You acquire all kinds of skills in the theater.” He replaced his picks and shut the case. “We once had a leading lady prone to the sulks and locking herself in her dressing room. For the duration of her contract I was often required to get her door open so the stage manager could persuade her to go to work.”
“Crazy world.”
“Very.”
“But where’d you get that?” I gestured at the case as we went down the carpeted stairs.
“Oh, they’re sort of an inheritance,” he dismissed. “Let’s see about this one now.”
I didn’t bother trying to slip through again; I enjoy watching an artist at work. The wood-covered metal door at the bottom of the steps had a different lock than the one in the upper hall and took longer to break, but it was fascinating to see him do it. He had a definite air of satisfaction as it gave way to his efforts.
Barrett wasn’t there to greet us.
“Bolts on the inside I see,” he noted as he walked in. “I suppose if he were still here he’d have shot them and your special assistance would be necessary, after all. This looks most ominous.”
A few bureau drawers sagged open, their contents gutted, and there were gaps in the closet.
My shoulders were tightening and I didn’t think it had to do with Barrett skipping out. Something else had crept into the back of my mind and I couldn’t identify it.
Escott went to the library/living area and returned. “He’s quite the reader. These books are well used. He also did a bit of writing . . . I’ve found some sort of journal. It’s odd that he left so personal an item behind, unless he’s on a short trip.... Where are you?”
“Closet,” I called. The something bothering me wasn’t in here.
He looked in. “Good heavens, it’s as big as my sitting room.”
I pointed. “He left his trunk.”
“Perhaps he has a lighter one ready for travel purposes, as you do. That thing doesn’t look too portable.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“But I concede that this is also odd. You said he has earth in his bed?”
“Sewn up tight in some oilcloth.” A scent in the air—that was what was nagging me. Each time I breathed in to talk . . .
Escott went over to the bed and flipped up the linens. Everything was in place as I’d found it a few nights ago.
“As far as we know, this island is his home ground.”
I breathed, trying to catch it agai
n.
“He might yet retain title to some house or—”
Bloodsmell.
“—plot of land in the area and could have gone there.”
I drifted over to the bath, opened the door, and looked in.
“But the journal in there bothers me. . . .”
It was wrong. The whole damned world was wrong.
“Why should he risk leaving such a revealing document behind?”
And I was just another poor bastard with the bad luck to keep bumping face-on into the wrongness of it all.
“Jack?”
“Poor bastard . . .”
“What is it?”
Then he was next to me, staring at the awful thing on the cold tile floor.
“Oh, my dear God . . .”
The color left Escott’s face and he put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. A return wave of last night’s dizziness hit me and I backed from the doorway, staggering to the bed. The alien soil was no comfort.
Escott kept staring at it and I didn’t like the look in his eyes.
“I should have anticipated this.” His voice was very soft, very weary. “I should have. I’ve blown this whole business.”
“Charles—”
He shook his head, quickly, to cut me off. He drew a steadying breath and went into the bath. After a moment he called out, “Jack, I want your help.”
Jesus, for what?
Barrett had been pulled in feet first so that his head was just inside the door. He wore plain blue pajamas, but the top had been partially unbuttoned. The expensive silk was soaked through with massive patches of blood, most of it concentrated on his chest. Some blood was drying on the floor, but wide smear marks and two or three wet towels wadded in the tub indicated a little preliminary cleaning had been done.
Escott knelt over the body, his long fingers delicately peeling back the stiffening shirt front. The skin around the inch-thick shaft of wood in Barrett’s chest was parchment thin and just as dry. He was like that all over. His handsome features had shriveled up like an old monkey’s; his teeth were locked into a false grin by the lips and gums shrinking back. I was very, very glad his eyes were clenched shut.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“To render first aid.”
“Charles, he’s dead. He’s probably been dead all day.”
He shot me a piercing look, as angry as I’d ever seen him. “Knowing what you know, how can you tell?”
That shut me up.
He gave me a second to think, then said, “I need to try, I have to. Will you please help me?”
I gulped back whatever I’d started to say. God knows I owed him plenty, and he never asked for anything in return. “All right, name it.”
Some of the tension left him. “I daren’t pull the stake out until we have some blood on hand. He’s very fragile now; the extra shock could be too much. My kit with the things I used to help you is in the car, along with that livestock syringe. Fetch it out and go to the stables—”
“But I don’t know how to use a—”
“It’s only a syringe. All you have to do is find a vein and push the needle into it. Pull the plunger back slowly, though.”
I nodded doubtfully.
“The stable lad might be there. Svengali him if you must to get his help, but hurry.”
I shoved down the sick hopelessness inside and got moving.
The front door was more direct and faster, but I didn’t want to be seen, stopped, or questioned, and opted to disappear. I tore through the big hall, weaving between knots of dawdlers until I hit against the entry door and slipped through. Our car was way off to the left and I maintained that general direction awhile before going solid. The cloudy darkness made the possibility remote, but I was wary of being spotted from the house.
The car was standing alone now on the grass. It looked like a long night ahead and I didn’t want anyone noticing it.
Escott had given me the keys, so I started it up and scooted over the grounds until it was hidden from the casual eye by a break of trees.
Escott had stashed the bag in the back. It contained everything but the syringe, which I found in a metal box that had slid under the seats. The thing looked huge, but then large animals can require large amounts of medication. I dumped the case into the bag and ghosted up the road.
Rounding the bulk of the house, I went solid and saw lights on over the stables. Haskell, the groom, was in. I trotted up the stairs to his room and tapped on the door, calling his name.
He presented a startled face, all suntan and mussed hair and wore only his undershirt and workpants. “Yeah, who are you? What is it?”
“I’m a friend of Barrett’s. Listen to me, it’s very important that you do exactly what I tell you. . . .”
He might have cooperated without my influence, but I couldn’t waste the time answering his inevitable questions. By now I was long past the point of worrying about the morals of using forced hypnosis; it was a tool and it worked. I gave him just enough time to pull on his boots and sent him down to the fenced yard to bring in the horses.
My hands shook as I pulled out the syringe. It was one thing to use my teeth, and I had enough trouble handling that idea at times, but it was quite another to use a needle to do the same job. Escott wasn’t the only one who could get squeamish.
Haskell led in a big roan gelding and tied its halter rope to a ring on the wall. Its ears twitched, but I soothed it down with a little stroking and talking. Horses like to listen to nonsense, and this one was in the mood for it. When Haskell led in a second horse I stopped him and held up a milk bottle.
“Can you find me more like this? Clean ones?”
He stared hard at it.
“Any kind of bottles?”
He finally nodded and I sent him off.
I crouched next to the roan, picked out a vein, and decided on a firm fast jab over a slow punch and managed to get it settled somewhere in the middle. I was clumsy and the horse felt it, but kept still while I filled the barrel of the syringe.
It seemed to take hours, but there was no way to hurry things. When it was full I drew out the needle, shoved the point inside the milk bottle, and pressed the plunger. The process was far too slow with the blood coming out in such a tiny stream; it’d take all night to get six quarts. From the look of Barrett’s dried-out and shrunken body, he’d need every ounce and fast.
At the base of the syringe, where the needle attached, was a gizmo that unscrewed it, probably for cleaning. Trust Escott to think about neatness. I opened it up and poured the rest into the milk bottle, filling it halfway.
Just as I finished, Haskell returned, carrying a case of amber beer bottles.
“Those clean?”
He nodded.
“You make your own?”
“Me ’n Mayfair, but don’ tell his missus.”
“My solemn promise. Bring in the other horse, will you?”
He did and I worked. I was getting better at putting the needle in right, but no one would give me points for neatness or speed. But at least the milk bottle was full, now. It would give Escott something to start with.
“Haskell.”
He let go tying a rope.
“You see what I’m doing?”
“Yes.”
“Think you can take over for me?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Just fill it up and unscrew this part to empty it into one of your bottles. Okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And wash the needle clean each time. I’ll be back shortly for more.”
He took the syringe and I grabbed up the milk bottle and Escott’s bag.
The door to the kitchen was open and lights were still on everywhere. Not knowing how I could freely trot through the house with such a gory burden and unsure about finding the right hall again, I went down the cellar steps for a shortcut. With the bottle and gear hugged close to my body, I walked through the thick brick wall into Barrett’s room.
Escott was at the writing desk flipping through a book whose pages were covered with fine, script-style writing. His back was to me and yet again I gave him a start.
“What are you doing?” I handed over the bag.
“Waiting for you and poking into things.” He put away the book and returned to the bathroom.
Barrett looked worse than I remembered. “How are you going to do it?”
“Tube down his throat,” he said tersely.
“Was I like this when you found me at the warehouse?”
“Not as bad. I’ll hold him still, you pull out the stake. Keep it as straight as you can.”
I pulled. The brittle body vibrated. The wood shaft sang against the ribs and came free. Unbelievably, there was more blood left in him to well up in the wound. We both looked to his mummified face for any sign of life. He never moved. Escott grimaced and placed the tube between Barrett’s teeth and fed it down his throat.
“Isn’t it supposed to go up his nose?”
“The tissues are too shriveled to attempt it. The problem we have here is that his glottis might be open and I could end up putting the blood into his lungs instead of his stomach.”
“You can’t tell?”
“Not unless he’s breathing.” He fitted the other end of the rubber tube into a stopper with a hole in the middle.
“How’d you get by for me, then?”
“I was lucky.”
“You learn all this at that hospital?”
“I picked up some useful knowledge during my brief sojourn.” He shoved the stopper firmly into the bottle and upended the thing, pinching the tube slightly to regulate the flow. “Can you get more?” he asked.
“Yeah, Haskell’s working on it. I’ll be right back.”
Haskell had the first of the beer bottles full and was busy drawing off more from another horse.
“You’re doing a good job,” I said. “Ever have to before?”
“Yeah, I know a little about this stuff.” His tone was different. He’d come out of the hypnosis sooner than I’d expected.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know why you’re doing this?”
“No, but I figure you’re trying to help Mr. Barrett.”
“You know about him?”