Curse of Black Tor

by Toombs, Jane

  “Well, I'm sorry I wasn't here. Now I must—”

  “He told me there was no reason you couldn't spend tomorrow afternoon in Victoria with me. So I'll come by about one-thirty, if that suits you.”

  “Jules said—”

  “He said you needed a few hours off. Please come with me.”

  Why was she so reluctant to go? He really was a charming man. “Thank you,” she told him. “One-thirty is fine.”

  She walked up the steps to her room after Bran left. Why was Jules so insistent on making her leave the house?

  Josephine lay on Martha's bed, reading. “I thought you'd never get back,” she said. “I wanted to tell you how wrong I was to think you were against me, too, like they are. I was right about you in the beginning—I can trust you.” She stood up and hugged Martha. “You aren't mad at me, are you? You won't leave Black Tor?”

  “I'm not going to leave,” Martha said.

  Josephine stepped back. “Oh, good,” she said. “Because daddy's worse. Simon doesn't think he'll last the week. I'm going to need someone on my side.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Martha had breakfast the next morning with Josephine and Cathleen.

  “I can hardly wait until tomorrow,” Josephine said. “Aren't you excited, Martha?”

  Martha nodded, but apparently the gesture wasn't convincing.

  “Maybe she doesn't like parties,” Cathleen said. “Or maybe we haven't invited the right man for her.”

  Martha sipped her coffee, not reacting to Cathleen. She hated being talked about as though she weren't present, as she was sure Cathleen was well aware.

  “Oh, Martha will like your party, Cathleen.” Josephine turned to Martha. “You will! We've worked out some surprises—wait until you find out what they are! People are coming from Seattle and Vancouver—and Cathleen's invited some of them to stay at Black Tor!” Josephine's eyes were shining with childlike enthusiasm.

  Martha left the other two still talking at the table and went to find Jules. Halfway across the foyer, she heard someone call her name, and she glanced around, for a moment not recognizing the stocky figure on the staircase.

  “Marty.” Simon spoke in a husky whisper.

  “My name is Martha,” she said.

  “Oh—sorry. Martha.” He said her name deliberate emphasizing the second syllable. “Mr. G. wants to see you. Right now.”

  “I'll just tell Jules where I'm going,” Martha said.

  “No!” Simon's voice rose as he glanced around uneasily. “Mr. G. wants it to be a secret.”

  “Why?”

  Simon winked at her slyly. “How should I know? Never argue with money, is what I always say.”

  Martha hesitated, then started toward the staircase. “How is Mr. Garrard?” she asked. “Josephine said he was—dying.”

  “That's been going on for months. But no denying he's worse.” Simon nudged her arm familiarly. “Maybe the old man wants a last fling before he conks out.”

  Martha ignored the statement, but Simon wasn't easily discouraged.

  “Maybe Mr. G. reads the same papers I do,” he said.

  Martha glanced at him.

  He licked his lips. “I don’t mind keeping it quiet,” he said. “You could make it worth my while.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, her heart sinking.

  “Sure you do, Marty,” he said. “Sure you do.”

  Simon knew. He'd been the one in her room.

  “I don't care to continue this conversation with you, Simon.” She strode past him and along the corridor, walking rapidly. She had almost reached Norman Garrard's suite when Simon caught up with her. He grasped her arm.

  “Let me go,” she said, her voice icy. “I won't be blackmailed. Take your hand off my arm or I'll scream. Then you can tell everyone who I am if you must, but I don't imagine you'll be kept on, either. Is that what you want?”

  He scowled, dropping his hand. Martha walked through the door and into Norman Garrard's room. When she saw the old man propped against his pillows, she hurried to his side, her fingers reaching automatically for a pulse. Congestive heart failure, certainly. He breathed in rapid shallow gasps.

  Norman Garrard twitched his wrist away from her hand. A green nasal cannula was inserted in his nostrils to deliver oxygen from the tank beside the bed. Martha checked the gauge from habit. Despite the six liters of oxygen per minute, his lips were blue.

  Martha turned her head and saw that Simon had come up next to her. “Has the doctor been here today?” she asked him.

  “Don't need doctor.” The old man spoke weakly, using as few words as possible, pausing between them. “No use. He knows. I know.” His eyes flicked to Simon. “Outside” he said.

  Simon left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “You. Only one can keep Josephine safe. Alive. Trust— you. Money. Too much. Greedy. Watch Josephine. Not crazy. Never was. I know. Only me. Sarah. Smart. Safe. Josephine—danger—you help. Too late. My fault.”

  “Is it the money Josephine will inherit when—” Martha hesitated.

  “When I die? Yes. Fair.”

  “And she's in danger because of this?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “Don't know. Them.” His hands moved feebly. “One. More.”

  “In the house here, you mean?” Martha asked.

  “Think so. Must be. I found Josephine. Brought her home. No sign of him. Dead.”

  “Him?”

  “Young man. Two years.”

  Martha caught her breath. Josephine's father knew about Diego and the missing two years. But she couldn’t tell him, a dying man, that Diego or someone pretending to be Diego was there in Victoria. “I'll try to keep her safe,” she told him.

  “Stay alive as long as I can,” he said. “Indian. I am. Garrards are. Part. Kwakiutl. Don't have word for sick man. Indians don't. Either live or die. Josephine must live. She's had—bad time. Tell her—”

  The door flew open and Natalie marched into the bedroom. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, glaring at Martha.

  “Sent for her,” Mr. Garrard said.

  “You should have known better than to come up here and bother him,” Natalie said. “You, of all people—a nurse.”

  “Wanted her here,” the old man repeated.

  “Yes, and look how upset you are,” Natalie scolded. “I’ll have Simon give you something so you can rest. You know you're not up to talking.”

  He fixed his eyes on Martha's as she moved away from his bed. “Remember,” he said.

  Martha left the room, meeting Simon at the door. He glanced sideways at her as she passed, but he said nothing. Did he find Natalie and tell her she was there? Martha wondered. Or had she come by chance?

  When she got downstairs, she found Jules in the library. “Am I disturbing you?” she asked.

  He looked up from his desk. “No. Come in.”

  “I wanted to thank you for the salmon-fishing trip—I enjoyed every minute of the day.”

  “That was Charn's doing,” Jules said. “He shamed me into it by calling attention to how pale you were after the—-episode on the cliff. A day in the fresh air has brought back your color.”

  “Thank you. But I don't need another outing so soon after— .”

  “Nonsense. Let young Lowrey show you a bit of Victoria's beauty. Josephine is so engrossed in this coming party she won't even know whether you're here. ”

  “Afterward…” He paused and his smile faded. “After her ups, her downs are bad,” he said. “A complete mood change. You'll have to watch her carefully then. I wasn't too keen on Cathleen's party for that reason. But I can't keep Josephine shut away here with no entertainment.” He looked down at the desktop, then back up at her. “Take the afternoon while you can,” he said. “I only wish I—” He didn't finish the sentence.

  “I just talked to your father,” Martha said. “Natalie was quite angry with me. But he asked
to see me.”

  Jules straightened in his chair. “Oh? What about?”

  “He's worried about Josephine and wanted me to watch out for her.”

  “That's all?”

  She nodded. “He's gravely ill,” she said.

  “Yes.” Jules ran his hand over his face. “Yes,” he repeated.

  When he said nothing more, Martha left the library.

  After lunch, Matthew Drew caught up with Martha before she reached the stairs on the way to her room. “Have you a few minutes?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We'll go into the music room—it's never used.”

  She followed him along a short corridor to the right of the foyer and through sliding doors, which he shut behind them. The room was blue and gilt, and there was a massive gold harp in the far corner. A stuffed Pekingese curled asleep at its base.

  “Try not to upset Natalie,” Matthew said as she faced him. His light eyes were watchful behind gray-rimmed glasses.

  “She misunderstood,” Martha began.

  “Natalie does that,” Matthew agreed. “But you might humor her. She isn't well, and I worry.”

  “I'll try to be careful,” Martha said. “Perhaps you'd be good enough to keep an eye on her while I'm gone. Since you're a nurse, you'd know if the doctor should see her.”

  “I've been hired to be with Josephine,” Martha reminded him. “Of course, if I notice your wife looks ill, I'll certainly report that to Jules. But I can't promise to watch over Mrs. Drew.”

  “Just as long as you’re aware,” Matthew said. “I must get away soon. My research--” He paused, then added, “I’m keeping you from something else.”

  “What research?” Martha asked politely, reluctant to hurt his feelings. He was younger than his wife—perhaps not even sixty yet, and not unattractive with his white hair and ruddy skin.

  “Mysticism among the Vancouver Island Indians. A fascinating subject. The myths alone are a gold mine.”

  “Oh, yes,” Martha said. “Sarah told me about Ahlmakoh. Do you tell her many of the—stories about demons? Because she's just a child and could be frightened by—”

  “Are you criticizing my judgment?” Matthew demanded.

  “Why, no. That is, I thought....”

  “As you reminded me a few minutes ago, you were hired to care for Josephine, not to be Sarah's nursemaid.” He glared at her.

  “I'm sorry if I upset you,” Martha said. “Please excuse me now—I have an appointment.”

  Martha hurried away from the music room and up the steps to her room. She put on the delft-blue pantsuit she'd worn when she'd met Bran on the ferry, t hen she gathered up her purse and went down to meet him.

  “You're looking well,” he told her as he started the VW and swung around the drive. “No one would know you almost fell off a cliff the day before yesterday.”

  She stared. “How did you hear about that?”

  “Let's say—an impeccable source.”

  Had Jules told him? Or had he been gossiping with the servants?

  “I'm fine,” she said shortly. “Where are we headed?”

  “Would you believe Ye Olde English Tallyho?”

  “What's that?”

  “A tallyho is a sightseeing tour vehicle. I’ve been informed. In this case, horse drawn. ”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Do you think I’d bore you?”

  “Nothing about Victoria bores me,” she said.

  They got on the tallyho across from the museum. Martha remembered Jules pointing out the museum to her and asked Bran if he worked there.

  “That's home base while I'm on the island,” he said. “A fantastic layout they've got. You must see it before you leave.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Before I leave?”

  “Oh—just a manner of speaking. After all, Victoria isn't your home.”

  A few tourists boarded the tallyho, and then they were off on their sightseeing tour. Cy, the driver, kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out the local spots of interest and giving some details of the history of the island. After showing them the legislative buildings and the twenty-three-carat-gold statue of George Vancouver, they went on to Beacon Hill Park, given to the people of Victoria in 1858 by Sir James Douglas, the first governor of British Columbia, and from there to Goodacre Lake. Next, Cy pointed out Craigdarroch Castle, perched on its hill. Then they turned and drove along Park Boulevard . They passed the house were Emily Carr was born and grew up, then passed the totem poles in Thunderbird Park. When they came into the downtown section, Cy showed them the Christ Church Cathedral at the end of Courtney Street, pointing out the mandala in the upper window and the old burying ground next to the church.

  Then finally they returned to the starting point.

  “What a beautiful city!” Martha said to Bran after they'd climbed down onto the sidewalk. “Is it all so lovely?”

  “Oh, there are meaner sections of town, but Victoria has nothing as bad as most American cities. Tourism is big business here. Quite a lot of money around.”

  “I didn't see many large homes.”

  “They're mostly in Oak Bay, except for some of the old ones like the castle the guide pointed out. And Black Tor, of course. I understand the Garrards were always—different.” Bran's voice was hard.

  “Did you quarrel with Jules?” Martha asked.

  “Let's just call it mutual distaste.”

  Martha raised her eyebrows.

  “Doesn't all his handsome perfection strike you as too good to be true?”

  “I—I'd rather not discuss my employer, if you don't mind. Thanks for taking me out this afternoon. I did enjoy seeing more of the city.”

  “We'll take in something else next time. There's the Butchart Gardens and—”

  “I may not have any time in the next week or so.”

  “Well, why not bring the girl along—what's her name? Josephine?”

  “Oh, I don't think—”

  “Why not? I'd rather see you with her along than not at all. She isn't really crazy, from what I understand.”

  “I hardly think it would be appropriate.”

  “Josephine probably would enjoy it, and her brother couldn't refuse you, would he? I'd do my best to entertain Josephine so she wouldn't feel left out. I understand she's been shut up in that house for years, poor kid.” Bran shook his head.

  Martha began to consider the idea. He might be good for Josephine--after all he was cheerful and good-looking. Plus he wasn’t a native of the island, so he wasn’t prejudiced about her. Bran might make her laugh and give her a few happy hours away from Black Tor. And there’d be the two of them to keep track of Josephine. If she became depressed as Jules though t she’d be after the party, Bran’s idea might be a good one.

  “I‘ll keep your invitation in mind,” she told him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bran drove Martha back to the house. As they turned into the drive, she saw Cathleen's red car ahead of them; when they pulled up before the house, Cathleen was just getting out. She walked over to Bran's VW.

  “Hi. Enjoy your sightseeing?” Cathleen asked.

  Martha nodded. “This is Bran Lowrey,” she said. “Cathleen Wexler.”

  Cathleen smiled up at Bran. “No wonder Martha wasn't interested in my party,” she said. “Now I understand. But I can remedy that. Bran, consider yourself invited. Informal. Tomorrow about six.”

  Bran sketched a bow. “Delighted,” he said. “To meet you and to be invited to your party.” He turned to Martha. “I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “A long-time friend?” Cathleen asked after Bran had driven away.

  “No—I met him on the ferry coming over to Victoria.”

  Cathleen raised her eyebrows and smiled. “He's good-looking, if you like the candid blue-eyed type, and don't we all once in a while.” She sighed. “Less trouble in the long run. At least you know where you stand.”

  Martha said nothing, but
in her mind was Johann's handsome face, the clear, seemingly guileless eyes that had hidden his mind's dark thoughts. Bran wasn't Johann, of course, and she had no reason to suspect he was anything other than what he seemed. Still—Cathleen's generalization of candid-eyed types are seriously amiss. Who was Cathleen thinking of? What man didn’t let her know where she stood? Jules?

  Had Jules held Cathleen and kissed her as he had kissed Martha? There was certainly no openness in Jules's glance, the deep brown eyes offered no easy interpretation of his thoughts. Again Martha relived the moments of terror of her first night at Black Tor. Could she be positive that the man had been Simon? If he had identified her, perhaps others had.

  Cathleen walked away from her to the front door and Martha followed. Time to check on Josephine. Belatedly she realized that the girl was supposed to be spending the day helping Cathleen.

  Once inside, Martha hurried upstairs, only to find Josephine reading quietly in her room. “Did you have fun?” she asked Martha.

  “We took the tallyho tour,” Martha said. “Victoria's the prettiest city I've ever seen. Each yard has flowers, and the houses are so neat and tidy.”

  “Not Black Tor,” Josephine told her. “Daddy always said no architect could make the house fit in. He said it was a monstrosity and he was proud of it.”

  Martha sat on Josephine's bed. “Who brought you back here?” she asked. “Who found you in your lost years?”

  “Why, daddy, of course—didn't I tell you?” Josephine said. “As soon as I saw him I knew who he was and who I was, too. That was in the States, somewhere. Daddy said Oregon.”

  “Where were you when he found you?”

  “On a sort of farm with some other people. They were all older. When I remembered I was Josephine Garrard, I forgot who they were. Daddy told me their names but I still didn't know them.”

  “I had the impression that Jules was the one who brought you back,” Martha said. “Oh, no. I've heard him ask daddy about me, but daddy said it was none of his business. You're the only one I've told anything to.”

  “Then no one knows about your lost years except your father?”

  Josephine frowned. “I don't know if he does, either. He told me he found me, but he won't talk about how I'd gotten where I was. And the people on the farm said they didn't know anything except that I'd been there a year and that someone had dropped me off with them.”