Death, My Darling Daughters

by Jonathan Stagge

  Dr. Roberts, who had looked sulky and bored when surrounded by the girls, greeted me with an attractive cheerfulness, as if I was a welcome relief after such concentrated female admiration. His masculine respite with me, however, was short-lived. Almost immediately, Dr. Hilton’s daughter, who had not been gathered up by Mrs. Lanchester, crossed to join us. Ostensibly she came to introduce herself to me, but I strongly suspected I was just a means to an end and the end was Vic.

  Helena Hilton, like the other dear girls, wore sneakers and a severe cotton frock, all the accouterments of Hiltonism. She was a large blond girl with heavy breasts and a face that might have been beautiful if she had not laughed so much and shown so much pink gum. Her chatter to me was foolish, and all the time she batted her lashes with clumsy coquetry at an obviously unresponsive Vic.

  While we stood there, making an unsuccessful trio, Janie Hilton called over from the picnic rug:

  “Oh, Helena dear, do come and help me. I’ve got all these glasses to fill with iced tea and the pitcher’s so heavy.”

  The effect of her stepmother’s voice on Helena’s uncomplicated face was remarkable. A vicious light burned in her blue eyes, and she went on talking as if she had not heard the request.

  “Oh, Helena, weally. Do come when I ask you, please.”

  Helena had to hear then, and with a mimicry as accurate and savage as any of Rosalind’s, she mouthed: “‘Oh, Helena, weally. Do come when I ask you, plee-eeze.’” She snorted. “Bother that frightful little woman. Always help me here, help me there. Always whining and being misused.”

  I was surprised by this flagrant exhibition of spite, but Vic’s reaction to it was even more startling.

  An irritable flush darkening his handsome face, he gave Helena a rough shove and snapped: “For God’s sake, go help her. What else are you good for?”

  Helena gasped, and the malice in her eyes instantly shifted to Vic.

  “If you think she’s so wonderful,” she flared, “go help her yourself.”

  Tossing her yellow hair, she flounced away in the opposite direction.

  Vic scowled after her. “Women like that,” he grunted—“if I had my way, we’d be using them for vivisection.” He turned to me with a quick, winning smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bark out like that. But these goddam Hiltons make me sick. They think they own the world, and they’re stinking to Janie just because she didn’t have a Vice-President for a father.”

  I heard no more of Vic’s opinion of the Hiltons, for at that moment Mrs. Lanchester called us over to the Spartan repast of baked beans, salad, and the controversial iced tea.

  In my dual role as Mrs. Lanchester’s admirer and the “leavener” of the family “lump,” I was drawn into the place of honor at my hostess’s right. As I squatted down on the rug, balancing my paper plate of beans, I noticed that the little drama in the Hilton family was not yet ended. Janie, having poured the iced tea without help, moved toward her husband. Before she reached him, Helena, her face still flushed and petulant, flopped down at Dr. Hilton’s side, looping her arm through his and bursting into a barrage of cloying, intimate baby talk. Dr. Hilton responded with equal archness and seemed oblivious of his wife’s presence. Janie watched them for a moment, her pretty face baffled and unhappy. Then meekly she turned away and found a place next to Rosalind and Perdita.

  It was a trivial incident, but it had an unpleasant overtone which soured for a moment the “bouquet” of Mrs. Lanchester’s picnic.

  The conversation had not been completely organized by Mrs. Lanchester when there was a sound of crackling twigs behind us and yet another woman stepped into the clearing. Mrs. Lanchester rose to greet her without much cordiality.

  “Ah, Lisl, here you are. I thought you had forgotten my little picnic.”

  The woman moved toward us. “I say I come to your leetle peekneek. So I come.”

  Everyone seemed to know the newcomer except me, for I was the only one to be introduced. Leading me forward with a proprietary air Mrs. Lanchester said:

  “Lisl, this is Dr. Westlake. Dr. Westlake, this is Dr. Lisl Stahl. She has rented the white house property which adjoins ours.”

  The name Dr. Lisl Stahl was immediately recognizable to me as that of one of the world’s most famous toxicologists whose Practical Toxicology was a standard textbook in every medical school, and whose dramatic escape from a nazified Austria had received publicity several years ago. Kenmore, which until recently had hardly seen a doctor except myself, was apparently becoming a rendezvous for medical celebrities.

  But I was less interested in Dr. Stahl’s renown than in the obvious fact that she was Lizzle, the woman whom Dawn hoped one day to make my lawful wedded wife.

  The prospect was a formidable one. My daughter was right. Dr. Stahl did look like a rat, an extremely foreign, extremely clever, and faintly disreputable rat. She was wearing a most unsuitable slinky black dress with a great deal of junk jewelry and clattering earrings, and from beneath black hair parted in the middle, eager black eyes and an eager rodent nose contemplated me keenly.

  “Vestlake.” She repeated my name, her tapering nose sniffing at me as if I were a piece of bacon rind. “Vestlake, vere I hear that name? Oh, the leetle girl who so miserably the violin plays.”

  I laughed and informed her that I was relieved to hear that I was not destined to be the father of a child prodigy.

  “Oh, she has some talent, the leetle one. Not like those dumpty-dumpty-pom Lanchester girls.” She was quite oblivious of the fact that Mrs. Lanchester was in hearing. “But, whoever teaches your daughter—the teacher”—Dr. Stahl took the tip of her nose between beringed finger and thumb and pinched it expressively—“the teacher—steenk.”

  I observed that my daughter was most enthusiastic about her and that I understood she might be willing to take over Dawn’s musical instruction herself.

  At this Dr. Stahl perked up. “Yes, I teach her.” The black eyes gleamed with cupidity. “Each time—each hour—three dollar.”

  I was afraid that Dawn’s matrimonial schemes were doomed to failure. Obviously Dr. Stahl thought of me only as a source of so many dollars an hour. While I was deploring an age in which so great a scientist should have to be so avaricious, my daughter, who was sitting at Vic’s feet, saw Dr. Stahl and waved enthusiastically.

  “Ah, I see there your leetle girl,” said the rat lady. “She is with Veek. I go to them. Veek is more beautiful than you.” She bared her teeth in a sharp smile. “If I must come to thees idiot peekneek, at least I find myself a beautiful man. Excuse, please.”

  She scurried away from me across the clearing. Soon she was clattering her metal earrings at Vic with Continental vivacity.

  Rather exhausted by the forcefulness of her personality, I dropped back onto the rug next to Mrs. Lanchester. With the exception of Vic, Dr. Stahl, and Dawn, Mrs. Lanchester had gathered everyone around her now, and it was obvious that the moment for savoring the real bouquet of a Hilton picnic had come. Mrs. Lanchester smiled around the group and then, like a schoolteacher introducing a theme for class discussion, remarked:

  “It is not common knowledge that Father almost persuaded Mr. George Meredith to come to America. I sometimes feel that, had he succeeded, we would have found a trifle more earthy vigor in his later novels.” With what I could only interpret as deliberate malice, she turned to her poor little sister-in-law. “I would be interested in your opinion, Janie.”

  While Mrs. Hilton lisped and floundered her way into a very sketchy opinion of Mr. Meredith’s earthy vigor or lack of it, I happened to look beyond Mrs. Lanchester down the trail which stretched through the hemlocks toward the house.

  What I saw should not have been alarming. There is nothing sinister about a uniformed maid hurrying along a woodland path. And yet the sight of the Hiltons’ decrepit domestic, half running, half stumbling toward us, brought an unreasonable sense of foreboding. The others, following my gaze, saw her too. Oddly enough, the whole Meredithian convers
ation petered out and we all just sat watching the maid with a sort of unadmitted intensity.

  Those few curious moments will always remain etched on my memory: the froth of laurel in the foreground; the dazzle of sun and shade across the path; and that elderly, cumbersome figure bringing, I felt sure, news of an unpleasant nature, and yet bringing it almost respectfully—on a silver tray as it were.

  The unnatural silence remained until the maid reached the clearing. She paused at the head of the path and then came padding directly toward Mrs. Lanchester. She was close enough now for us to see the grotesque disarray of her black-and-white uniform, close enough also for us to see the puckering of terror around her eyes.

  Mrs. Lanchester rose. “Why, what is it, Bertha?”

  At first the maid was too breathless and shaken to speak. She stood twisting her frilly apron.

  “Bertha,” said Mrs. Lanchester again, “what is it? What’s happened?”

  With an effort Bertha brought out the single word:

  “Nanny.”

  Both Dr. Hilton and I got up.

  I said: “Has Nanny had another attack?”

  Bertha’s haunted eyes flickered blankly to my face. Then, following an impulse which must have broken the decorum of decades, she threw herself against Mrs. Lanchester’s lilac bosom and started to whimper. Snatches of coherence sounded through her sobs.

  “Right in front of my eyes, ma’am … she was all perked up, enjoying my visit … talking, laughing … sipping her tea … never seen her that cheerful … and then … and then, real sudden …”

  The sobs welled up, engulfing her words. Mrs. Lanchester, her face sterner than I had imagined it could be, shook the maid’s shoulders and asked sharply:

  “Then—what, Bertha?”

  “She was gone,” moaned Bertha. “Her face all twitched up in a spasm, and she was gone.”

  “Gone?” The word, quite incredulous, came from Dr. Hilton. “You mean Nanny’s dead?”

  Dr. Hilton’s incredulity was matched by my own. Medically it seemed impossible that Nanny, whom I had left sleeping so peacefully less than an hour ago, could have died.

  The sound of the old woman’s sobbing echoed bleakly around the clearing.

  “One minute perky as a chipmunk. Then that spasm, and she was—gone.”

  IV

  Under the impact of that news, the intellectual charm of Mrs. Lanchester’s picnic was smashed to splinters. Helena’s mouth hung open. Janie gave a little cry. Perdita moved to Rosalind’s side and clutched her sister’s hand. It was the three older Hiltons, however, of whom I was most aware. Mrs. Lanchester, Dr. Hilton, and Mrs. Kenton-Oakes, all with such different faces, wore strikingly similar expressions. It was an expression not of shock or grief but one of startled indignation, as if Death had committed an unpardonable breach of manners by claiming an employee of theirs without first asking their permission. I could almost hear Mrs. Lanchester’s thoughts: “How vulgar of Death! How American!”

  Although I was in the presence of four far more distinguished physicians than myself, I realized that as Nanny’s doctor I was responsible for the next step. The maid had reverted to a normal though rather damp propriety. While the others crowded around, I made her repeat her story. It was as straightforward as it was puzzling. After supper she had gone up to visit with Nanny. The old woman had been brewing tea, and although the maid refused to join her in a cup, she had stayed a few minutes to gossip. Nanny had been cheerful and garrulous. And then, suddenly, right in the middle of a sentence, she had gone into a convulsion and died.

  None of it made any sense to me, but it was useless to speculate until I had seen Nanny. I told Mrs. Lanchester that I would go back to the house immediately and advised her, for the time being at least, to keep the picnic going. She seemed strangely flustered now and, murmuring, “Yes, yes, Doctor,” started to bustle the dear girls back to their plates of congealing baked beans.

  As the group dispersed, I was very conscious of the fact that none of the four doctors had moved. They all stood around me, watching me. It was Dr. Hilton who spoke first.

  “I—ah—realize that Nanny is your patient, Dr. Westlake. But I imagine you will raise no objection to my accompanying you.” Trying to make his voice sound warm and failing to do so, he added: “I was very fond of the old lady, you know.”

  “I should like to come with you also.” Dr. Kenton-Oakes was fingering his steel-rimmed spectacles and peered at me, bright-eyed and alert. “From the maid’s rather rustic diagnosis, I feel this may be a case where several opinions could be valuable.” He turned to Dr. Lisl Stahl and Vic. “With Dr. Westlake’s permission, I suggest that we all go.”

  “Yes. She die. It crazy. We go.” The Austrian toxicologist’s hand was clinging with inevitable female possessiveness to Vic’s bicep. “Come, Veek.”

  The young doctor murmured: “Okay. Why not?”

  I could not refuse the request, of course. But as we all trooped back down the trail to the house, I felt increasingly nervous. To diagnose the cause of a death with such unexpected symptoms was itself an ordeal for a country practitioner. It was far more grueling to have to do so under the keen scrutiny of three—if not four—of the world’s most brilliant physicians.

  The four doctors behaved with great correctness, however. When we reached Nanny’s attic room, they all remained close to the door in silence, waiting for me to perform the initial examination. Even Dr. Hilton, who had graduated from knee pants under the old woman’s supervision, cast only one guarded glance at the figure on the bed.

  Determined not to be thrown off balance by any expensive kibitzing, I moved to the bedside. A first glance was sufficient to tell me that the maid had not been mistaken and that Nanny was dead. Her round little body, active no longer, lay tumbled back against the pillows. The immaculate white nightgown was creased and soiled with tea stains. The lacy bedcap tilted forlornly to one side. In spite of the contortion caused by the spasm, her face was still the face of the old nursery martinet. It was as if, in her final seconds of life, she had threatened to take a hairbrush to Death’s backside.

  The spirit lamp was still burning under the silver tea kettle, from whose spout issued a violent stream of steam. The silver teapot, gleaming with polish, stood next to it, and by its side was an almost untouched cup of her superstrong tea. From the liquid splashed in the saucer, I deduced that one of her last movements must have been to put the cup down.

  I turned the spirit lamp off for the second time that evening and began my examination. The first few seconds told me that something was indeed wrong. The symptoms I observed were so surprising that I found myself forgetting my Who’s Who audience. Soon my vague suspicions became an alarming certainty. I felt there was only one way Nanny could have died, and yet my own diagnosis seemed beyond the realm of probability.

  I straightened from the bed and confronted the four physicians. I had anticipated embarrassment, but nothing as awkward as this. In a voice which nervousness made far more snappish than I intended, I said: “This is no natural death. To me it looks—”

  Dr. Kenton-Oakes stopped me. The air of extravagant vagueness which he, like so many Englishmen, seemed deliberately to cultivate, was quite gone. The eyes behind the spectacles were as sharp as scalpels. Even his voice had lost its affected whinny.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Westlake. Our diagnoses will be more valuable if they are made independently.”

  All four doctors moved to the bed then, incongruously unprofessional-looking in their picnic clothes. Standing aside, I watched their various techniques. Dr. Hilton was slow, rather clumsy, and, I felt, unexpectedly unsure of himself. Dr. Kenton-Oakes was a little ball of intense concentration. Young Vic, although that face and body belonged in a boudoir rather than a death chamber, had the situation at his fingertips too. As for Dr. Stahl, her eager black eyes gave Nanny one intent moment’s observation; then she swung to the bedside table, from which she picked up the cup of tea and sniffed at it time and time aga
in with her twitching rodent nose.

  Suddenly she pulled Vic aside and engaged him in torrential whispered conversation. The two older physicians joined them and the conference continued for some minutes sotto voce. It was all quite a strain on me.

  At length Dr. Kenton-Oakes, whom they seemed to have chosen as spokesman, turned to me.

  “Well, Dr. Westlake, we are all in agreement with you that this is not a natural death.” The clearing of his throat showed that he too was shaken. “The twisted condition of the body, the rigidity indicate a convulsion which is certainly not due to any anginal condition she may have had.”

  I nodded.

  He went on even more jerkily: “And the discoloration of the face and lips would appear to point to death from respiratory failure.”

  I nodded again.

  “And from the faint—”

  “So we’re all agreed,” I broke in. “Death was caused by some type of cyanide poisoning, probably potassium cyanide taken by mouth in that cup of tea.”

  “Precisely,” said Dr. Kenton-Oakes as if he were relieved that the ominous words had been spoken by me rather than by himself.

  Vic threw me a curious glance. Dr. Stahl remarked:

  “I agree. But I take the cup for analysis. Then we are sure.”

  During the strained moment of silence that followed, I was very conscious of Dr. Hilton. The professor of medicine at Arkwright was looking at me with an unmistakable astonishment which showed that he had not expected so much acuity from a mere country doctor. His surprise afforded me quiet gratification.

  With a forced resumption of his normal waggishness, Dr. Kenton-Oakes said the awkward thing that had to be said: “Since old ladies, even Scottish ones, are not in the habit of ingesting cyanide by preference, we can only assume that the poison found its way into her cup through some agency other than her own.”

  “Richard!” The word came explosively from Dr. Hilton, whose stuffy Boston face had paled. “You are not suggesting that Nanny was murdered?”

  Dr. Kenton-Oakes’s voice was rather irritable as he snapped: “I made no such melodramatic asseveration, George. It is laughable to suppose that anyone would want to murder an aged and inoffensive nurse. I merely stated that it is not normal to find cyanide in an old woman’s tea.”