Benedict Hall

by Cate Campbell

  And why had Frank Parrish been at the front door yesterday, as she went out with Loena? Had those been flowers in his hand?

  When lightning began to flash through the blinds, and thunder to roll over the Cascades to the east, Margot closed her eyes. The storm comforted her, somehow. It symbolized her torment, seemed to lift it out of her, externalize it, expend its energy into the stormy night. She was grateful, and as branches of the camellia whipped her window, and rain spattered the roof above her head, she slept at last.

  Frank stood by the window of his room on Cherry Street and watched the storm approach. He imagined it pouring down from the mountains, sweeping across Lake Washington, roiling up over the hill and down into the city. Lightning flashed, and thunder rattled the windows.

  He had no whisky tonight. He had come straight from Bill Boeing’s office to this room, to stand here—cold sober—and try to think things through.

  It had all been done with such deft and artful malice. He would not have guessed Preston Benedict capable of such subtlety.

  Boeing had been reluctant, he could see. He had said, “I’m sorry about this, Parrish. Really sorry. But I’m under a lot of pressure from Mayor Caldwell and the city council. I need their cooperation for our seaplanes to use Lake Union. We dropped one in the lake, you know, and a lot of the council are afraid we’re going to crash one onto someone’s house. I’ve had to fight to hold on to our privileges.”

  Frank had been seated across from him in his paneled office. He rose, and stood with his hat in his hand dangling beside his thigh. “Sir, it wasn’t like—like the column says.”

  Boeing stood up, too. “Look, you’ve done good work for me. I appreciate it. It’s just that the Benedicts have a lot of influence in this city. Maybe when this blows over . . .”

  Frank’s lips had felt stiff, his mouth unbearably dry. “If I could explain, Mr. Boeing.”

  Boeing looked as unhappy as a man could. He shook his head. “I can imagine how it was. I was young once, too, Frank.”

  “You don’t understand, sir. I—Benedict and I just—” He couldn’t think how to explain it. He had shoved Preston into the gutter, it was true. But if he could somehow make clear what had provoked him, why he had lost his temper—

  “It’s not fair, Parrish, that’s obvious. I’m not happy about it, but I’m in a corner here.”

  Frank wanted to protest, to beg for another chance. Pride forestalled him. It was, he supposed, the same pride that had given him the urge to shake Preston Benedict the way a terrier shakes a rat.

  He swallowed, put his hat on, and extended his hand to Bill Boeing. “Thanks for the opportunity, sir. I’m more sorry than I can say.”

  Boeing shook his hand. “So am I, son. So am I.”

  Frank reflected now that though Boeing’s regret had appeared genuine, it hadn’t helped. He had been let go. Preston Benedict had succeeded in getting him fired.

  His hand itched with the need to strike something. It was as well, he thought, that Preston Benedict was not standing in front of him at this moment. He had nothing much left to lose. He would probably throw away what little remained for the satisfaction of battering an apology out of him, for this and for insulting Margot.

  Blake finished his evening cup of hot chocolate, rinsed out the cup and the saucepan, and set both in the strainer beside the sink. He was already in his dressing gown, and when he went into his bedroom he didn’t bother to turn on the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. He opened the curtains to watch lightning flicker across the sky. Across the yard the windows were all dark, including Margot’s. He hoped she would get a good night’s sleep. He feared she would need all her strength for what the morning would bring.

  He turned toward his bed, but a flash of lightning brought him back to the window. Thunder rumbled in the east, and he waited a moment to see if there would be more.

  When another flash came, it illuminated the yard and the house in a burst of light. More thunder cracked and grumbled, closer this time, but Blake paid no attention. He had seen someone in the yard, someone lurking beneath the kitchen window, near the screen door. A tall man, bulky, wearing a workingman’s cap.

  Blake hurried into the kitchenette, and seized his canvas jacket from its peg. He pulled it on, and took up his marble-topped cane before he hurried down the stairs and out into the storm. He saw the man plainly, standing between the garage and the house, looking up at the second-floor windows. Rain pelted the grass, and the noise of it covered Blake’s approach. When he put his hand on the man’s shoulder, the stranger yelped, and whirled, hands up to defend himself.

  Blake let him back away. He had seen this man before.

  “It’s you!” Carter shouted over the sounds of the storm. “No need to get the wind up, mate. I need to see Benedict.”

  Blake glared at him. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want the family disturbed.”

  Carter bristled as before. “You can’t talk to me like that. A guest.” He was unsteady on his feet, and Blake could smell, even through the rain, the sour tinge of alcohol.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Blake said with careful dignity, though rain soaked his hair and ran down his face. “I could call the police and report an intruder.”

  Carter gave a phlegmy laugh, and the smell of drink intensified. “Why doncha, then?”

  “I told you. I don’t want the family disturbed.”

  “I’m not leaving till I talk to Benedict. He’s expecting me.”

  Blake glanced up at the darkened windows of the house. “It doesn’t look to me like anyone’s expecting company. Come on, let’s get out of the rain. I can take a message for Mr. Preston.” He pointed back toward the garage. Another distant rattle of thunder seemed to decide Carter, and he nodded.

  Blake led the way through the door and into the shelter of the stairwell. He flicked on the light, and stood at the bottom of the stair with his arms folded, his stout stick of Carolina pine tucked securely under his arm.

  Carter slurred, “Listen, mate, can’t you slip into the house? Get him up?”

  “Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow,” Blake said stiffly. He tried to stifle his antagonism for the man. The scene was bizarre, the storm battering the roof, the fat man filling his little entryway with the smell of his wet army tunic and the reek of bad whisky.

  Carter pulled off his cap and brushed it against his sleeve, spattering the floor with raindrops. “I need money,” he muttered. “I need it tonight.”

  “Why do you need money? And what does that have to do with Mr. Preston?”

  “I don’t see why I have to tell you,” Carter said sullenly, staring at his heavy boots.

  Blake let a long moment pass before he drawled, “Who else are you going to tell, sir?”

  Carter raised his head. His doughy features and small eyes gave him a porcine appearance. “I did some work,” he said sullenly. “And now I need to be paid. I have a few shillings, but no one will take ’em. I can’t pay my rent. I ain’t had anything to eat today.”

  Blake pursed his lips. “I can probably find a few dollars for you,” he said. “But I want to know what the work was.”

  Carter’s gaze shifted, and shifted again. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Carter shuffled his feet, then shrugged. “Preston wanted a word placed here and there, in the right ears. I been living down there, in the city, and I did it for ’im.”

  “A word about what?” Suspicion kindled in Blake’s mind, but he kept his face impassive.

  Carter hesitated a long time. Blake leaned against the wall, waiting. At last Carter said, “Look. I’m afraid if I tell you, Preston won’t pay me. I meant what I said—I got nothin’. I ain’t et all day. And I did the work, just like he wanted.”

  Blake eyed him, thinking how remarkably unintelligent the man looked. He suspected he had eaten pigs that were smarter than this pale-haired, pink-skinned creature. With a sigh,
he straightened, and gestured at the stairs. “Come upstairs, Mr. Carter. I have some eggs and bread, and a hot plate. I’ll give you something to eat. You can sober up a bit, and then you can tell me all about it.”

  Watching the fat man eat made Blake feel a bit nauseous. He had scrambled four eggs with a bit of butter in the cast-iron skillet he had kept in his room since the children were little. He had made them camp toast sometimes, or poached eggs. He sliced some bread, and gave Carter the wire frame for toasting it over the hot plate. He had half a jar of blackberry jam in his single cupboard, and Carter finished that, along with most of the crock of butter the milkman had delivered the day before. He got butter on his fingers and his chin, and dripped jam on his shirtfront. When Blake handed him a napkin, he took it without apology, and mopped his chest.

  When he had finished, he sat back with his hands over his big stomach. “Pretty good,” he said. Blake said nothing. Carter scrubbed the butter from his fingers with the napkin, and looked around him at the simple furnishings. “Servant’s quarters, eh? Bigger than most, I expect.”

  “Are they?”

  Carter gave a generous burp. “Sure. My place in London was like a shoebox.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you were in service.”

  “Right-ho, mate. I never was. Me own man, I was, till I went into the army. I was a drayman, had me own cart and everything. There wasn’t nobody in the city could lift as much as me.” He rubbed his belly, and laughed. “I was a bit younger then, of course.”

  “So,” Blake said slowly. “You don’t lift anymore. You . . . what was it you said? Place a word here and there?”

  Carter looked a little abashed. “Well, look, mate, it’s hard getting work these days. A bloke has to take what he can get.”

  “I see.”

  Carter squinted at him briefly, then glanced away again. Rain dripped down the windows, glistening under the raw light of the bare fixture above the table. Blake could feel the man softening, soothed by food, comforted by being out of the rain.

  “Everything’s different since the war,” Carter said. It seemed an irrelevant thing to say. Blake waited. The thunder had moved on. The late hour and the patter of the rain made the room feel isolated, an oasis in time for two unlikely travelers.

  Carter went on. “Nobody needs a drayman now.” His eyes fixed on the dark window, following the raindrops’ meandering path down the glass. “There’s vans, even war-surplus trucks to haul things. Nobody knows what they’re supposed to do. At home, half the men got killed, and the women take their jobs.” He rubbed his stomach with the flat of his hand. “It was better out there. Out East. A man knew what to do every day.”

  “Follow orders,” Blake said.

  Carter nodded, and his little eyes glistened in the light. “Right-ho,” he said heavily. “That’s what a man like me does. Follows orders.”

  “So Preston gave you orders.”

  “He gave me orders, and I followed ’em. And now I need my money.”

  “Tell me what your orders were.”

  The little eyes flicked from side to side. “Can’t tell you. Preston wouldn’t like it.”

  “No. Probably not.” Blake cleared his throat, and stood up, straightening his dressing gown. He had hung his jacket on its peg again, but kept the marble-headed cane leaning against his chair. “Well, then, Mr. Carter. If you’ve finished your meal . . .”

  Carter gave him an aggrieved glance. “You said you might have a few dollars!”

  “I said I believed I could find some money if you told me what you’ve done.”

  “Aw, come on, mate. You know how Preston can be, doncha?”

  “How is that, Mr. Carter? How can he be?”

  Carter lumbered to his feet, hitching his trousers with both hands. “Well, you know. If he loses his temper.”

  “What happens if he loses his temper?”

  Carter was shaking his head. “It’s bad. It’s real bad.”

  Blake indicated the stairwell with his head. “I’ll say good night now.”

  “Aw, come on,” Carter pleaded. It was unpleasant, a big man whining. “Come on, mate, just a few bucks.”

  Blake shook his head. “You chose your company, sir. I can’t help you.”

  Carter’s fists curled, and his little eyes narrowed, almost disappearing into the folds of his cheeks. Blake put his hand on the cane. It had been a long time since Chatham County Convict Camp, but Abraham Blake had not forgotten how to defend himself.

  When he lifted the cane, its marble lion’s head shone faintly in the muted light. The fat man reared back like a frightened horse. His pale eyebrows rose, and the flesh of his neck quivered. “Better watch yerself, mate,” he said in his reedy voice. “Preston wouldn’t like it if you hurt me.”

  “You seem to know a lot about what Mr. Preston doesn’t like.”

  Carter nodded, his jowls trembling. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  “Perhaps you need a friend, Mr. Carter.”

  The Englishman said mournfully, “Yeah.”

  “I believe I have four dollars in my wallet. Let’s make our exchange, and you can find someplace to sleep tonight.”

  “Four?” Carter looked hopeful.

  “As I recall. I don’t carry cash as a rule.”

  “You won’t tell Preston?”

  Blake considered, pursing his lips. “Let us say that I will not tell him where I learned—whatever it is.”

  Carter squinted his pale eyes through the gloom. “Five, maybe?”

  Blake took a firmer grip on the cane. “Let me see what I have. Stay here.”

  It took only a moment to go into his bedroom. He made a show of bringing his wallet out to show Carter he had no more money than he had claimed.

  “Nice wallet,” Carter said.

  “Yes, it is. A gift from Mr. Benedict last Christmas.” He opened it, and shook out the bills. There were, as he had expected, only four dollars. He dug inside the change compartment, and found seventy-five cents. “That’s all there is, Mr. Carter.” He laid it all on the table with one hand. He kept the cane firmly gripped in the other, but Carter, eyes glittering at the sight of the money, had given in. He leaned close to Blake, and whispered his secret as if some midnight listener might overhear him.

  Blake nodded, unsurprised, but saddened. He said, “No more spreading rumors, Mr. Carter. Or I will report you.”

  Carter scooped up the money and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and lumbered down the stairs, sober now, fed, but a sorry sight nonetheless. At the bottom he threw Blake a strange look. “I can’t figure you,” he said.

  “No,” Blake said tiredly. “I don’t suppose you can.” When Carter had gone out into the wet night, Blake went down the stairs, still carrying the cane. He took care in locking the door. He turned out the light in the stairwell, and stood there for a long time, watching the quiet house across the yard. When he finally trudged up the stairs for the third time that night, the burden of Carter’s secret bowed his shoulders and dragged at his steps.

  CHAPTER 10

  Margot startled awake in the darkness, wondering what was wrong. She lay on her pillow, listening. The house was quiet, and she realized, after several moments, that it was the silence that had wakened her. The thunder had stopped. Even the rain had ceased, though water dripped noisily from the gutters. Faint gray light showed through the opening of the curtains. She rolled over to look at the brass dial clock on her bedside stand, and lay a moment longer, debating whether five o’clock was too early to get up. She thought about what awaited her at the hospital this morning, and her heart began to flutter. Sleep would not return.

  She threw back her covers and swung her feet to the floor, expecting the shock of cold on her bare soles. When she felt the relative warmth of the wood, she remembered. It was June, nearly summer. The days were growing long.

  Margot was startled to hear, as she crept down the stairs with her shoes in her hand, the per
colator bubbling in the kitchen. She smelled eggs and bacon frying. She stopped in the kitchen doorway to put on her shoes. “Blake. What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Dr. Margot,” he said with an ironic smile. “What are you doing up?”

  She sighed, and reached for the mug of coffee he handed her. “I’m going to the hospital.”

  He moved to the stove to turn the simmering bacon. “You’re having breakfast first.”

  Margot pulled out a chair, and sat down. “I will, thank you. I don’t think I ate last night.”

  “You’re worried.” He dished up the eggs and bacon, and set them in front of her. He took a fork and knife from a drawer, and set those beside the plate.

  Margot set her coffee down to pick up the fork. “There’s nothing I can do for her now but be there.”

  He sat opposite her with his own coffee. “I’m sure you’ve done all you can.”

  “That was precious little.” She heard the knife edge in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. It was a relief not to worry about her tone. Blake would understand how she felt, and why. He understood all of it.

  She took a bite of egg, and followed it with half of a strip of bacon. She had been afraid she couldn’t eat, but anxious though she was, her body welcomed the food. She finished the eggs in a few bites, and picked up her coffee again. “Whoever did this to Loena,” she said, “wasn’t a doctor. Not only was the procedure a mess, but there couldn’t have been any antiseptic measures. The infection took hold too quickly.”

  “Dr. Margot,” Blake began.

  She drained the coffee, and stood up. “Sorry, Blake. I’m thinking out loud.”

  He stood up, too, slowly, leaning on the table.

  “Your back hurts again.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s not worry about that now.”

  “What then?” He smoothed his white apron. She read indecision in his eyes, and worry. “Is there something else wrong?” she asked.