Death at Bishop's Keep

by Robin Paige

  The aunts appeared downstairs only after dinner was called, and when they met at the dining table they averted their eyes and did not speak to one another. Aunt Sabrina engaged Kate in bursts of animated conversation punctuated by gloomy silences, while Aunt Jaggers sat opposite, glowering and snappish. Aunt Sabrina, as if to make a show of naturalness, allowed Mudd to serve her a large portion of the savory mushroom pudding that Cook had prepared, talking gaily to Kate all the while. Served next, Aunt Jaggers seized on the remainder, taking it spitefully so that none was left for Kate. Tired as she was and depressed by the disharmony, Kate ate only a little soup and the fricassee remaining from luncheon. Mudd, for his part, was no more silent than usual, but there was an unveiled grimness in his face that reminded Kate that he and Mrs. Pratt held little good feeling toward Aunt Sabrina and none at all to Aunt Jaggers. She felt a real relief when the awful dinner was over and she could escape to her room.

  It was a meal that Kate was to mull over for a long time to come.

  41

  “In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.”

  —MATTHEW ARNOLD “Requiescat”

  The next morning, Kate woke and dressed as usual. Alone in the breakfast room, she openly ignored Aunt Jaggers’s interdiction and read from the newspaper. Having finished both breakfast and the newspaper, she glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock. Aunt Sabrina would certainly summon her if she was wanted, and after yesterday’s upsets, it was probably better not to disturb her. What to do?

  Feeling at loose ends, Kate put on sturdy boots and a coat and went to climb over the ruined stone walls of the old keep. Tiring, she sat in a quiet corner with her back against a wall of dark flint cobbles, watching the mist rise from the quiet lake and thinking back over the events of the past few days.

  The relationship between Aunt Sabrina and Aunt Jaggers had frozen into an icy glacier, and the scarcely disguised animosity of the servants added to the chilly foreboding that seemed to Kate to seep throughout the house like the tendrils of mist over the lake. If she were no longer to work for Aunt Sabrina, should she stay on? Would it not be better if she gave her notice? It was not what she wanted to do, but she did not want to stay in a place where the atmosphere was so poisonous that it infected even her own usually buoyant spirits.

  At ten, she went indoors and climbed the stairs to her room. If Kate had no work to do, Beryl Bardwell had an abundance. She settled herself at her desk, took out the manuscript of “The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab,” and dipped her pen into the inkwell. She was about to begin drafting the scene in which Mrs. Bartlett plotted the murder of the Egyptian gentleman, when she heard cries in the hall and the noise of hurrying feet.

  Kate went to the door and threw it open. “What is it, Amelia?” she asked. The maid had a foul-smelling, lidded chamber pot in her hands.

  “Oh, miss!” Amelia cried in a panic. “Mrs. Jaggers is took terr’ble sick!” Averting her face from the stinking pot, she hurried down the hallway to the stairs.

  Kate went to her aunt’s bedroom. The heavy velvet drapes were tightly drawn against the daylight. In the dimness, she saw Aunt Jaggers in her white cotton nightgown, doubled over in bed, clutching her heavy abdomen. Her face was contorted with a wrenching pain and her skin had a jaundiced cast that frightened Kate. The bedsheets were twisted and rank with sweat and liquid excrement. Mrs. Pratt straightened up, holding the washbasin into which Aunt Jaggers had vomited a greenish gray slime. Vomit slicked the cabbage rose carpet beside the bed. The fat terrier, ears and tail quivering nervously, cowered in the corner.

  “Has the doctor been sent for?” Kate put her hand on Aunt Jaggers’s forehead. It was wet with perspiration and the skin felt clammy.

  “Pocket’s gone, miss.” Mrs. Pratt turned away to dump the contents of the basin into a half-full bucket. There was, Kate thought, a tone of grim satisfaction in the cook’s voice, and her glance at the desperately ill woman huddled on the bed seemed coldly pitiless. Kate thought of Jenny. It would be no wonder if Cook derived a dour compensation from the woman’s suffering.

  Aunt Jaggers arched her back with a loud cry, and a convulsive shudder shook her whole body. Her eyes rolled in her head, showing yellowy whites, and she shrieked in pain. Then she flung herself over the edge of the bed and began to retch into the basin that Mrs. Pratt once more thrust forward.

  Kate ran for her own room and brought back basin, water, and clean cloth, and when Aunt Jaggers was once again lying on the pillow, exhausted, she began to apply the wet cloth to her forehead. Her aunt’s eyes were wide open and staring fixedly, the pupils sharply dilated. Her pulse, when Kate at last managed to find it, was slow and irregular, although she was breathing fast, in shallow gasps.

  The next hour was a melee of confusion, Mrs. Pratt with the basin, Amelia with the chamber pot, and Kate intent on keeping Aunt Jaggers from flinging herself off the bed in her convulsive thrashings. Dr. Randall arrived at last, a stout, genial-looking gentleman whose heavy jowls were frosted with old-fashioned white muttonchop whiskers.

  “Indigestion, is it?” he asked in a booming voice. He opened his bag and took out his stethoscope. “Let’s see, let’s see.”

  But when he looked up from a quick examination of Aunt Jaggers, his glance was worried.

  “What is it?” Kate asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Aunt Jaggers roused herself with an effort. “Poison.” Her voice was a threadlike whisper. “I’ve been poisoned.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Dr. Randall replied with loud heartiness, as if he were speaking to a deaf person. “Been eating oysters? There’s been some trouble with taint hereabouts. Several taken ill.”

  “No, no oysters,” Kate said.

  Aunt Jaggers began to flail frenziedly, and a stream of wild words poured out of her.

  “Hysterical,” Dr. Randall said. He took a bottle out of his bag. “This should set matters right straightaway, I warrant.” He measured out a thick liquid into a teaspoon.

  But the medicine, whatever it was, brought no quick improvement, and within five minutes Aunt Jaggers had vomited it violently into the basin. The doctor looked on, perplexed, stroking his nose with his thumb. Kate stood with Amelia at the foot of the bed, watching apprehensively. At last Aunt Jaggers quieted, her limbs relaxed, and she seemed to pass into a deep sleep, her mouth slack, her breath hoarse and raspy, a slug’s trail of saliva on her flabby chin.

  “Ah,” the old doctor remarked with some relief, “we’re past the crisis, I’d say.” He put the bottle of medicine on the bedside table. “Spoonful of this every three hours, and keep her warm and quiet. I expect to find her greatly recovered when I return this afternoon. Greatly recovered,” he added loudly, with an admonishing look at the sleeping Aunt Jaggers, as if instructing his patient in the course of her improvement.

  “What do you think has made her ill?” Kate asked.

  “Hard to say,” Doctor Randall replied. “You are certain about the oysters?” As Kate nodded, he snapped his bag shut. “What did she eat for breakfast?”

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “No one ate, ’cept fer th’ young miss, sir,” Mrs. Pratt offered. “According t’ Mudd, that is.”

  “Dinner was about eight last night,” Kate said.

  “Not likely food poisoning, then,” the doctor remarked with an air of authority. “Symptoms would have been felt within four or five hours.” He looked at Kate. “You seem healthy enough. Any symptoms?”

  Kate was about to answer when Nettie rushed into the room, her eyes big, her thin face pale. “It’s Miss Ardleigh,” she gasped. “I went t’ do her bed an’ found her on th’ floor. She’s bad sick!”

  Leaving Amelia to watch over the sleeping Aunt Jaggers, Kate and the doctor ran to Aunt Sabrina’s room, Mrs. Pratt, and Nettie at their heels. The scene there was much like Aunt Jaggers’s room: bed clothing rank and disarranged, the basin overflowing with vomit, the chamber pot brimming. Aunt Sabrina was sprawl
ed on the floor by the door, her nightgown drenched with cold sweat, the bellrope clutched in one hand.

  “Pore lady,” Nettie whispered. “She musta pulled an’ pulled an’ pulled it straight off th’ wall.”

  “Weren’t nobody t’ hear belowstairs,” Mrs. Pratt said sadly. Her voice hardened. “We all bin tendin’ t’other one.”

  Kate summoned Mudd, who was hovering in the hallway. He and the doctor managed to lift Aunt Sabrina onto the bed. Her breathing was so shallow that Kate thought at first she was dead, but once in the bed her eyelids flickered.

  “Mother,” she moaned. Her breath was foul with the smell of vomit, and her nightdress reeked with her waste. “Don’t be angry, Mother. I did not mean to soil myself.”

  “Out o’ her head,” Mrs. Pratt said judiciously.

  Dr. Randall dispatched Nettie for the medicine he had left with Aunt Jaggers and began his examination. Kate stepped to the other side of the bed and took Aunt Sabrina’s cold, clammy hand.

  “It will be all right, Aunt,” she said quietly.

  Aunt Sabrina’s eyes flew open, the whites yellowed and sickly looking. An expression of confusion came over her face. “Who—?”

  “It’s Kathryn.” Kate smoothed her aunt’s matted hair away from her face. “Your niece.”

  Aunt Sabrina stared at her wonderingly for a moment, and then the confusion seemed to clear.

  “Kathryn,” she whispered. Saliva trickled out of one corner of her mouth and she spoke with what seemed like intense effort. “I ... must see ... the vicar.”

  Dr. Randall straightened up. “Things haven’t arrived at that state yet, my dear Miss Ardleigh. You’ll be up and around in no time, I promise it.” His face belied the assurance of his words.

  Aunt Sabrina leaned over the bed to retch into the basin Mrs. Pratt held. When she finished, Kate gently pulled her back and began to wipe her forehead. She reached up to clutch Kate’s hand.

  “I ... must see the vicar,” she whispered thickly. “Must tell him ...” Her eyes closed and her voice trailed off in an incoherent string of muttered syllables.

  Kate leaned closer. “Tell him what, Aunt?”

  “Tell him ... to tell Jocelyn ...”

  “Jocelyn?”

  Aunt Sabrina’s eyes opened wide and a spasm of pain twisted her face. “My ... child,” she grated between clenched teeth.

  Dr. Randall straightened up, shaking his head. “Delirious.”

  “She does not have a—?”

  “Absolutely not. Known her all her life. Splendid woman, but never had a husband, never had children. Can vouch for that.” He frowned, looking around. “Where the devil is that girl with the medicine?”

  Nettie rushed back into the room, her eyes open and staring, her face ashen. “She’s dead!” she cried hysterically. “Mrs. Jaggers is dead!”

  “Dead!” Mrs. Pratt gasped, and tripped the basin, spilling vomit on her skirts.

  “I swear it,” Nettie cried in a wild voice. “Her eyes is open, but Mudd says ’tis true.”

  “Dead?” the doctor said incredulously. He stood as if frozen. “But—”

  “Go,” Kate commanded, with all the authority she could muster. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Dead?” Aunt Sabrina struggled frenziedly to raise herself. “Bernice is—?”

  “Please, Aunt,” Kate begged, gripping her shoulders and pushing her gently down to the pillow as the others hurriedly left the room. “Whatever has happened, we will take care of it. You must rest and get well.” Kate didn’t want to think about what had happened in that other bedroom, or what would happen if Aunt Sabrina—

  Aunt Sabrina’s eyes were locked on Kate’s and a new urgency seemed to grip her. “The vicar has my ... will,” she said slowly, distinctly. The angles of her face seemed to have altered, and Kate could see the outline of the fragile bones under the nearly transparent skin. “See to the ... letters and the cipher manuscript, in the safe. Give everything ... to Barfield.”

  “Barfield?”

  “The vicar.”

  “Of course,” Kate said. “But you are going to be just fine, Aunt Sabrina.” She smiled with a confidence she did not feel. “Just rest and—”

  “I ... leave it to you, my dear Kathryn,” Aunt Sabrina whispered. “Jocelyn ... has no need.” Her mouth relaxed in a faint ghost of a smile. “You must ... carry on. You are the last ... Ardleigh.”

  Kate smoothed back the loose gray hair. “Please,” she said desperately, “just rest. You are going to get well.” She tightened her grip on her aunt’s hand as if to pull her back from whatever dark precipice lay ahead. “You are going to get well,” she repeated fiercely.

  A few minutes later, Aunt Sabrina lapsed into unconsciousness. She died a little after one o’clock that afternoon.

  42

  Cui bono?—Who benefits?

  —CICERO

  Dr. Randall turned from the sheet-covered figure, his face somber. “I want to see all the servants in the library. You, too, Miss Ardleigh. There must be a thorough examination.”

  Kate smoothed the sheet. “An examination? But why?” she asked wearily. Her chest was heavy with sadness, her eyes blurred with tears.

  “Why?” The doctor’s white whiskers bristled, and Kate realized that he was holding on to his composure with difficulty. “The disease that killed your aunts may be contagious, that’s why! We may have to quarantine this place.” He waved his arms like an irate bandmaster. “Assemble the servants, please.”

  A half hour later, having looked into throats, taken pulses and temperatures, examined eyes and tongues, and listened to hearts and lungs with his stethoscope, Dr. Randall dismissed the others and kept Kate behind. He wore a look that Kate, nearly overwhelmed by shock and grief, could not decipher.

  “If we are dealing with a disease,” he said, going to stand in front of the fire, “there is no evidence of it.”

  “Thank God for that,” Kate replied fervently. She sat down in the Morris chair, shivering. “It would be terrible if others were to suffer as my aunts suffered this morning.” Her muscles felt stiff and sore, her throat hurt, and her head was throbbing. But it was grief that afflicted her, not illness. She had not had much love for Aunt Jaggers, but they were relatives and she could not wish her dead. As for Aunt Sabrina—

  Kate covered her face with her hands. She loved and admired Aunt Sabrina. It had been dreadful to sit helplessly by her bed, watching her slip farther and farther away, into a place from which there could be no return. And this death had brought memories of another, when Kate’s mother died of measles so many years ago. That aching void in her heart, so long covered over, seemed opened again by the death of her aunt.

  Doctor Randall cleared his throat and Kate looked up. “I have confidence in my examination,” he said gently. “But I suggest that the servants not be allowed to leave the house for any lengthy period of time—in case the symptoms should manifest later.” He looked down at the fire. “I fear,” he added uncomfortably, “that another question must now be addressed.”

  “Yes,” Kate said, trying to keep her voice steady. “My aunts are dead. If not by illness, how?”

  “Exactly.” The doctor shifted his weight. “The circumstances, Miss Ardleigh, are definitely suspicious. Mrs. Jaggers mentioned—poison.”

  Kate stared at him. “But she was hysterical! You said so yourself!”

  “And I thought so,” the doctor said somberly. “But the alternatives, I fear, are not limitless.”

  Kate pulled in her breath sharply.

  The doctor looked at her as if gauging her ability to hear his next question without going to pieces. “Do you know of anyone who might wish your aunts dead? Any ... enemies?”

  Kate closed her eyes. She could feel the laughter rising hysterically in her throat. “Enemies?” Her shoulders shook, and a wild giggle threatened to escape her. Everyone in the house had been an enemy of someone else in the house!

  The doctor put a beefy hand on her shou
lder. “Steady on, Miss Ardleigh,” he said in a fatherly way. He turned to his bag and took out a flask. “Here,” he said, unscrewing the cap and pouring an amber liquid into a small cup, “have a swallow of this.” Kate gulped the whiskey he offered her and sat still for a moment, letting the heat of it warm and steady her. The doctor helped himself to a sizable swallow and then another, capped the flask, and replaced it in his bag. “I am afraid it will be painful to speak to the constable about this matter. But he must be summoned to interview the servants while events are fresh in their minds.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There is sure to be a coroner’s inquest.”

  Kate nodded numbly.

  “And both your aunts ...” His look was sympathetic. “Both must be autopsied, I fear. I do not have enough evidence to certify a specific cause of death.”

  “I understand,” Kate said.

  “I will see to summoning the constable.”

  “Thank you.” Kate sat still while the doctor opened the door and went in search of Mudd.

  The doctor gone, the library seemed appallingly vacant. The chair, the lamp, seemed to wait for Aunt Sabrina, and the things on her desk—her pen, her notes, even the vase of autumn asters—seemed like ghosts, shadows, shades of her. In some indiscernible, indefinable way, Kate felt the impossibility of separating her aunt from the things she loved and lived with, and could not help but believe (though she knew it was not so) that at any moment Aunt Sabrina would open the door and come in.

  But the only person to enter was Amelia, who brought an inquiry from Mrs. Farnsworth, by messenger, concerning a certain person who was supposed to be a member of the London temple. Kate looked up the information and gave it to Amelia for the messenger, together with a brief note, unsteadily written, informing Mrs. Farnsworth of her aunt’s death.