by Robin Jarvis
"The mistress is too ill for visitors," she was told, "if you leave your card I will see that it is brought to her attention."
Miss Boston was flabbergasted and was about to give the man a good telling off when he turned as though someone had spoken to him from inside the house. "Let her in?" he asked in surprise. "This is all very irregular."
Miss Boston craned her neck and tried to peer round him. "Patricia?" she called. "Is that you?"
The man gave her a reproachful look then opened the door. Miss Boston stuck out her tongue at him and pushed past.
The first thing that struck her as she walked inside was not the impressive oak staircase that swept up to the first floor landing, nor the gleaming marble beneath her feet, nor the sumptuously expensive oil paintings that hung on the walls all around—no, what Miss Boston noticed first was the piercing chill.
Shivering, she wrapped the cloak about her, all the time looking for the person the man had been speaking to. There she was. Descending the stairs was a hefty, bushy-browed woman. Miss Boston's shoulders sagged—this was not her old friend.
The stranger was dressed in a pristine white uniform, her dark, wiry hair scraped back into a bun. She was an uncommonly ugly woman; her face was ill-proportioned and square with a large jutting chin, when she spoke her words were clipped and precise like a sergeant-major's, but the eyes which fixed immovably upon Miss Boston were small and pig-like. Her bearing was masculine—and her frame one that any rugby player would have been proud of. Down the crimson-carpeted stairs she stomped, her heavy footfalls thumping a jarring rhythm throughout the house.
"Welcome, Miss Boston," she barked in a baritone. "We've been expecting you."
"I haven't," remarked the man acidly.
The woman ignored him and shook the old lady's hand vigorously in her own which were large and strong. "I am Judith Deacon," she said, "Mrs Gunning's private nurse."
Miss Boston flexed her squashed fingers thinking that there was more starch in this woman than in her uniform. "How is Patricia?" she asked.
Miss Deacon's face grew serious. "I'll be frank with you," she told her, "Mrs Gunning is most unwell, I'm afraid there isn't much hope for her. She is terribly weak and grows worse with each passing day. I confess that I tried to dissuade her from inviting you—I don't approve of anything that over-excites her."
"Most commendable," Miss Boston put in, "but I'm not exactly sure what ails her. The letter she sent was very brief and vague, could you enlighten me?"
The nurse nodded, stiffly clasping her spade-like hands in front of her. "My patient has a very delicate condition which needs constant attention. It began when she caught a bad cold and progressed from there—she is quite old you know."
Miss Boston reared her head. Patricia Gunning was nearly ten years younger than herself and had always shared the same vigorous health that she enjoyed. "Do you think I could see her now?" she asked politely.
Judith examined her watch and nodded, "Briefly," she said. "Since Mrs Gunning employed me I have kept her to a strict routine—I won't undermine all my efforts for anyone. You can have ten minutes with her, that's all." She spun on her heel and addressed the man who had opened the door. "Rook, take Miss Boston's luggage up to the guest-room on the second floor, it has been made ready for her."
The man raised his eyes to the high, decorated ceiling and breathed loudly through his long nose, rustling the bristling hairs which sprouted from it. "Very well," he said, greatly vexed at the inconvenience.
Miss Boston watched with amusement as he went sulkily out to fetch her case. "Don't mind Rook," the nurse told her, "he's only a butler with an inflated opinion of himself."
"Indeed?" said the old lady, privately thinking exactly the same about her.
"Yes," Judith continued, "when I took over there was a full complement of staff here but I ask you, with only one person to look after it was a scandal. Bone idle most of them were, I soon sent them packing. Rook I kept on to attend to those matters my work made impossible for me to see to myself."
"What do you mean you took over?" asked Miss Boston in surprise.
Miss Deacon strode to the foot of the majestic staircase and placed a hand on the carved oak banister, striking the pose of "Lady of the House". If she had not looked so ridiculous it would have been alarming. "I have complete authority here," she said, "I think I should make that perfectly clear straight away—I wouldn't have taken the position otherwise."
"But what about Patricia?"
The nurse managed an ugly smile, revealing her irregular tombstone-like teeth. "Oh she isn't well enough for that sort of responsibility. It is my duty to see to the smooth running of the household. No others are required here, we manage extraordinarily well on our own. Now, if you please." She began to climb the stairs and gestured for Miss Boston to follow.
Miss Boston did as she was bid. This was not at all the kind of reception she had been expecting. Were all private nurses as domineering and coldly efficient as this specimen, she found herself wondering.
Up the staircase they went and when they came to the landing Judith marched up to a dark panelled door. She waited for Miss Boston to catch up with her before turning the handle and entering.
It was the most unusual sickroom Miss Boston had ever seen. To get in she had to duck beneath a swinging bunch of dried herbs that had been pinned to the lintel. This was only the first of many, for countless arrangements of withered leaves and flowers covered the walls and hung from the ceiling. A pungent, aromatic scent laced the air, irritating the back of Miss Boston's throat and stinging her eyes till they watered. Strange pictures and symbols filled the spaces in between the dead plants, designs taken from old magical works, charms of protection and healing. Miss Boston recognised them instantly but thought nothing of it—it was no surprise to her that Patricia Gunning was a white witch, but then she always did have a tendency to go over the top with it all.
A magnificent four-poster bed took up most of the room and was covered in a fine canopy of creamy muslin. At its foot, from a silver incense burner, streamed a steady thread of green smoke, it was this that was responsible for the overpowering smell.
"Confounded contraption," Miss Boston chirped, blinking and wiping her eyes, "never did like the wretched things."
"You'll get used to it," assured Judith. "Come right in and close the door after you—I won't allow draughts of any kind."
Miss Boston obeyed then walked up to the bed. Through the fine muslin mist, she saw amid the great expanse of the covers a small figure lying on its side, its head turned from view. "Patricia?" Miss Boston began. "Is that you?"
Very slowly, and with the greatest of care, the figure moved. Patricia Gunning was a frail woman of eighty-three years. Her face was shrunken like an apple that had been kept too long and her limbs were brittle sticks. With difficulty she lifted her head and the long, silver hair which had been painstakingly arranged over the pillows floated about her shoulders. It had the same quality to it that is found in old mirrors, being a faded, tarnished glow and was more gossamer-like than the muslin which surrounded her.
"Alice!" came her sweet, tinkling voice. "Oh Alice, I'm so pleased to see you!" She reached out her thin arms in greeting and Miss Boston drew the material aside to hold her.
Judith Deacon watched icily as the two friends hugged one another and folded her arms.
"Dear Patricia!" exclaimed Miss Boston. "It really is good to see you again."
Her friend sank back on to the pillows and smiled. Her eyes were still the clearest and loveliest blue that Miss Boston had ever seen. "I was not sure if you would come," she sighed. "How is your enchanting Whitby? Do you still climb the abbey steps before breakfast? You look marvellous—a real tonic to me."
"Well it looks as though you could do with one," observed Miss Boston truthfully. "I think we could start by opening a window or two—the atmosphere really is thick in here, enough to make anyone feel poorly. I don't know how you can breathe."
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br /> Judith Deacon moved in front of the nearest window, barring it with her amazonian body. "No draughts!" she reiterated. "The temperature must be kept at a constant and the incense is vital to the regime I have instigated solely for Mrs Gunning's benefit."
Miss Boston raised her eyebrows, "Well I shall just have to take matters in hand now—won't I Patricia dear? Fresh air cures everything—there's nothing wrong with you a nice walk around the park wouldn't chase away."
The woman on the bed closed her eyes, "Oh Alice," she breathed, "please don't try to jolly me along. I know how ill I am—I'm dying, there's no escaping that fact. I haven't got much time left on this earth."
Miss Boston frowned. "Now that's enough of that talk," she said firmly. "Is this the same Patricia Gunning who climbed over the roof of the ladies' college for an illicit rendezvous with her future husband?"
Patricia gave a feeble laugh. "Oh what a night that was," she chuckled. "What a surprise my darling Walter had when he saw me shinny down the drain-pipe. 'Not the behaviour of a young lady' he said—oh he was so gloriously pompous in those days." She propped herself up on one elbow and gave Miss Boston's hand a slight squeeze. "How you've cheered me," she told her, "a good friend you've been to me, Alice—thank you for that."
"Keep your gratitude," replied her guest, "I don't want it yet. There'll be plenty of time still, you'll see."
Patricia said nothing, she lowered her eyes and let go of her hand.
At once, the ever-watchful Judith came forward. "Time for your medication, Mrs Gunning," she said taking a large glass bottle from the bedside table.
Miss Boston watched in silence as the nurse poured a small quantity of thick, brown liquid on to a spoon. "Surely that isn't one of your own brews, Patricia?" she asked in amazement.
"Mrs Gunning's potions are better than anything from the chemist," the nurse answered for her.
Miss Boston couldn't believe it. "But don't you think you ought to try conventional medicine?" she asked. "The old recipes are fine for headaches and rheumatism, but to rely on them now—isn't that being rather foolish? I always envied you your powers, Patricia, but this is madness."
"We know what we're doing!" rapped the nurse. "Now, open wide Mrs Gunning."
For an instant Miss Boston thought she caught a peculiar, almost frightened look on her friend's face as she opened her mouth.
"There's a good girl," said Miss Deacon inspecting the spoon, "all gone now."
"Thank you," muttered Patricia slowly.
The nurse screwed the top back on the bottle and replaced it on the table. Miss Boston was bewildered. "What sort of silliness is this?" she cried abruptly. "Patricia you must see a proper doctor—you're seriously ill!"
"The doctor has been to see Mrs Gunning," the nurse informed her. "Unfortunately he said there was nothing he could do. This at least gives her a certain amount of relief."
Miss Boston was appalled. "Nonsense!" she declared. "What kind of a nurse are you?"
"A caring one," came the reply.
"Alice," Patricia broke in, "tell me all your news. Did you really adopt those children you wrote to me about? I hope my influence helped. Did you have a good Hallowe'en? Did the children bob for apples and hollow out turnips—were there pomegranates and chestnuts? Are you still practising the craft or is it too much for you now? I haven't woven so much as a charm for warts in months." She spoke hurriedly, as if trying to defuse the situation and Miss Boston allowed herself to be drawn into the small talk for her friend's sake.
They exchanged a few, brief sentences then Miss Deacon checked her watch and announced that it was time for her patient's nap. "Now, you know the routine," she said in a no-nonsense voice best suited to a nursery, "four o'clock till six we have our rest." Reaching down she swiped the pillow from under the woman's head and tucked the bedclothes tightly round her.
Miss Boston's chins wobbled in surprise. "But I've only just arrived," she protested, "surely a few more minutes won't matter?"
The nurse threw her a vicious look and turned to her patient with her arms folded. "Mrs Gunning," she began crossly, "I cannot and will not have your routine disrupted in this manner. You employed me to look after you to the best of my abilities. Would you kindly tell your friend not to interfere in matters she is patently ignorant of? If she questions my authority once more I shall pack up and leave—is that what you want?"
"No!" Patricia cried, her whole body trembling. "Please Judith, I'm sure Alice meant no harm." She placed her shaking hand on Miss Boston's arm. "If you love me, do as she says," she implored, "do this for me I beg you."
Miss Boston patted the tiny hand, disturbed by the influence the nurse had over her friend. "Anything you say Patricia, dear," she said, not wishing to distress her any further.
"Promise, Alice," Mrs Gunning insisted, "that while you're here you'll follow Judith's instructions regarding me, however—unorthodox you might think them."
"I promise," Miss Boston relented. "I suppose you know what you're doing. I'm just happy to see you again."
Patricia smiled and glanced up at the nurse before sinking back in relief.
"Time to go," Miss Deacon told the visitor. "She needs to rest now."
Miss Boston rose from the bed where she had been sitting and Judith drew back the canopy. "When can I see her again?" she inquired.
The nurse ushered her to the door. "I will permit one more visit this evening," she told her. "Now, perhaps you would care to go to your room."
"Yes, I suppose I could unpack," said Miss Boston thoughtfully.
"If you really think that will be necessary. Your dinner will be in the dining-room at seven o' clock sharp."
Before the door was closed on her, Miss Boston took one final look at her friend. The figure on the bed seemed to be only a shadow and the muslin which enveloped her the first manifestation of that other, grimmer veil, which would soon fall between them.
The guest-room which had been made ready on the second floor was as comfortable a bedchamber as she could wish. The walls were a pale shade of lemon and the prints on the walls were pretty views of Italy. Fresh flowers had been arranged in a crystal vase and Miss Boston was grateful for their fragrance after the choking fumes of the sickroom. Her case lay on the bed where Rook had left it but on consideration she decided not to touch it just yet. Instead, she opened the window and let the last weak rays of sunlight shine on her face.
"Well, Alice," she told herself, "what are you going to do now?" The old lady drummed her fingers on the window-sill, her thoughts smouldering on the formidable nurse. She reminded her of several notorious landladies that she knew in Whitby—but her aggressive manner far exceeded anything they had been rumoured to display to their guests. "Judith Deacon is rather a mystery," she mused, "I wonder what possessed Patricia to employ her in the first place?"
When she eventually unpacked and placed all her things neatly in drawers or on hangers, she decided that it was time to explore the rest of the house. "After all," she told herself, "I can't be expected to sit here and do nothing until dinner surely?"
Patricia and her late husband had only bought the house eight years ago, so it was all new to Miss Boston. The last time she had visited they had a place in Knightsbridge. Mrs Gunning had certainly married well for Walter had been extremely wealthy.
The old lady left her room and descended to the first floor landing once again. At the top of the staircase she saw a telephone tucked into a niche which she had not noticed earlier. "Perhaps I should call Edith," she thought. "No, the post office will have closed long ago. You really must get a telephone installed at the cottage, Alice! I won't be able to get in touch until Monday morning now—botheration!"
As she passed the door of the sickroom Miss Boston was tempted to press an ear to it, but she resisted the urge and trotted down to the hall.
"I suppose there must be a library in here," she mumbled, "Walter was a prolific reader." For nearly an hour Miss Boston familiarised herself with the
layout of the ground floor. There was an impressive dining-room that contained a long oak table which stretched from one end to the other and could easily seat at least twenty guests. Beyond that there were five other rooms but everything inside them was covered by dust sheets and this fact alone gave Miss Boston dreadful misgivings—it was as though her friend were already dead. There was something extremely wrong about the entire business and that frightening nurse was at the centre of it all.
Aimlessly, Miss Boston went from room to room but never wearied of peeping beneath the dust covers to see what was hidden beneath.
Patricia had exquisite taste and had furnished the house with her own individual style. Miss Boston often wondered what Walter had thought about "Patricia's little hobby" as she always used to call it. Did he mind the paintings of the moon and stars that covered the walls of the sitting-room? And what about the special carving Patricia had commissioned from one of Britain's finest sculptors? It was a lighthearted tribute to her particular interest and hung above the fireplace; wooden cats, toads and mice swirled about in a semi-circle that also contained other objects associated with the craft. There were cauldrons, pointed hats, magic wands, charmed plants, corn dollies, amulets and even a broomstick.
Miss Boston grinned wryly and draped the sheet back over the carving. "What a gaudy display," she muttered, "quite ostentatious—dear oh dear."
Eventually she found her way to the library, it was a lovely room, books of all shapes and sizes obscured the walls and the old lady spent some time poring over a few of them. When she glanced up at the small clock on the table it was half-past six and she slid the volume she had been reading back on to the shelf.
"Soon be time for dinner," she observed, "I must go and freshen up. What must I look like? A brisk wipe over with a flannel should invigorate me and chase the journey's grime away." And with that she returned to her room.
At seven o'clock Miss Boston was seated at the long dining table while the butler served her dinner. It was one of the most disheartening meals she had ever eaten. Sitting alone in the middle of that immense table was bad enough but the food itself was drab and barely palatable. First of all, Rook brought in the soup which was a watery thin liquid straight from a tin and had not even been heated properly. Miss Boston was at a loss to tell what flavour it was supposed to be, but she forced it down and gave the butler a gratified smile.