‘It won’t do you any good. She’s in University College Hospital in a coma, and doesn’t even look like rousing.’
Tom’s drink went over on the carpet. Only the frail stem remained in his hand. ‘Goddam you, Theo! You said she was all right.’
‘She was, after the fire. It was the next night that a car ran her down – some place in Devonshire called Ashbourne St. Mary. Fellow came haring up a dark driveway in the middle of a storm and there she was standing in his path. He never had a chance of missing her, I hear.’
Even Tom, shocked as he was, could appreciate the real misery in Theo’s voice. He cared about Karen.
‘I’m sorry I spoke like that.’ Mechanically Tom replaced the bit of crystal on the table and went down on his knees with his handkerchief to try and mop up the drink.
‘Leave it. I’ll have it attended to.’ Theo stood aside and watched Tom wander out the door into the gallery. Several of Karen’s paintings hung right beside him. He looked through them, seeing only the long, sensitive face with the dark hair swinging at the shoulders, the wide mouth smiling at his clumsiness, and behind the spectacles the amber-gold eyes alight but with a shadow in their depths.
The famed University College Hospital was only a short distance away by taxi. It seemed like miles to Tom, huddled on the back seat in a fog of unhappiness he couldn’t explain. Karen Courtney was practically a stranger to him. Yet the idea of her being close to death dismayed him. What a terrible waste of youth and talent it would be…
When he finally stood outside the door of her private ward clutching a bunch of violets, he wondered whether he was making a mistake. What could he do for her? Why upset himself? He walked in.
A nurse was just drawing back the bed curtains and preparing to leave with her medical paraphernalia. Another woman stood by the window staring into the rain-washed street. Tom smiled at the nurse, then coughed politely.
The woman at the window turned bleak blue eyes on him. ‘Who are you?’
‘Tom Levy, a friend. I… met Karen at Theo’s gallery.’
‘I am Karen’s aunt, Wilhelmina Carnot.’ She thrust a thin blue-veined hand at him and he took it briefly in his.
He saw a small, stylish woman of about fifty with an indefinable air about her. Seeking some trace of likeness to Karen, he could only think of small breeds of dog, like poodles or whippets. She was too well-bred, too finished. He turned to the bed.
Karen looked like a marble effigy, her only touch of color the swatch of straight black hair laying each side of her face, and the curve of eyelashes on her cheeks. The sheet was drawn up to her chin. He could not believe that she breathed.
Billie said harshly, ‘There’s been no change. She’s just as she was when they brought her in.’
Tom couldn’t speak. His throat seemed to have closed over and it hurt like hell. He had to wait until he could relax the muscles.
‘What’s the prognosis? Who’s looking after her?’
‘Professor Townshend. He’s a fine neurosurgeon. He says… he says…’ Billie stopped.
Tom looked up at her. ‘Well? He says…?’
‘That it is a good sign that she breathes for herself. She can swallow and her bodily functions are also maintaining themselves well. But she could go on like this for a long time. He… she… The longer she remains in coma, the less likely it is that she will recover.’ Billie turned back to the window, her narrow shoulders bowed.
Tom would not have believed that mere words could hurt so much. It was as if a very dear friend had had the death sentence pronounced upon her. His eyes went to the pale face on the pillow.
‘There must be something…’
Billie sighed and walked over to her side of the bed. She too looked down at her niece. ‘That is what everyone says in a crisis. There must be something. But there is nothing we have not done. The outcome is with God.’ She added in a venomous undertone,
‘A cruel God who takes and takes and never gives back in return.’
His gaze flicked at her, then back to Karen. He put out his hand and with one finger gently brushed back a strand of hair over her forehead.
‘Do you mind if I come again, just to sit with her?’
‘Why not? It cannot hurt. I will leave word with the desk sister.’
‘Thank you.’ Tom gave one of his ungainly little bows and left. He was halfway across Hyde Park before he registered his surroundings.
Moodily he stood watching children running with a kite, realizing that the rain had stopped and there was a fair breeze. His coat flapped about his knees. He felt cold with the kind of deathly chill that usually heralded ‘flu. But he knew he wasn’t physically ill, just sick at heart.
Nothing seemed to make sense any more. He was failing with the patient who most needed his help, while his carefully cultivated non-faith was in tatters, with nothing of any substance to put in its place except a few wisps of mysticism and a dash of witchcraft! And now there was the brutally unfair accident to a young woman whose future had held such promise – someone he liked and respected and who could die at any minute.
He drew a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the air. Heads, he’d get roaring drunk; tails…
Catching the coin he looked at its obverse and shrugged. Then he called to a passing taxi. ‘The nearest synagogue.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Charles had just come in from a pleasantly convivial evening spent at a tavern. He planned to retire immediately to sleep off his potations. Long ago he had acknowledged an addiction to ale, which was scarcely a gentleman’s tipple, and to the company he found in taverns. Neither was the Red Cock to be mentioned in the same breath as Whites or Brooks. But then, as he told himself, who was he to aspire to such heights?
It was only when under the influence of drink that he permitted such bitter thoughts to rise. At all other times he had himself well under control. Long inured to years of slights and put-downs from persons who did not bother to consider the feelings of others less fortunate than themselves, he felt he had succeeded in carving a satisfactory niche in the world. He knew he deserved the respect commanded by diligence and a loyal devotion to the family he served, and chose to ignore any failure on the part of others to render that respect. Besides, his sense of self-worth did not permit a response to the sort of barb he was in no position to return – such as Basil Frensham’s snide comments upon his lack of ancestry, or Lady Oriel’s really atrocious rudeness.
The one chink in his armor was his predilection for taverns and the life to be found there. He enjoyed the smoky atmosphere and the relaxed talk of men who had no position to uphold, and therefore could be completely natural in the way they revealed themselves to their fellows. He envied that freedom, even while holding himself apart.
Of course he had visited the gentlemen’s clubs in company with Antony, and he was aware that the members were equally at home in the company of their peers. An insecure man might pose and anxiously try for an impression, but Charles did not see himself as insecure. Nevertheless, he still felt far more comfortable as an anonymous observer in a taproom, although he would have died in agony rather than admit it.
The scream drilled through his head, halting him by the library doors. It was followed by a confused wailing sound, both tormented and wildly angry. He took the stairs in a series of strides, arriving at the landing as Karen appeared lamp in hand, her dressing gown trailing as she pulled it about her shoulders.
‘What is it?’ Charles half covered his mouth to disguise the liquor on his breath. He noticed that his hand was not quite steady.
‘I’m not sure.’ Her expression hinted at suppressed laughter, but he decided that could not be.
Down the corridor something exploded with a tremendous smash. Both Charles and Karen began to run. Arriving first at Sybilla’s door Charles knocked.
‘Is something amiss? Miss Frensham, are you there?’
With her gown caught up in one hand and the lamp wobbling dangerously in th
e other, Karen joined him. ‘Let us in, Sybilla.’
A shriek of rage answered them and a missile thudded against the door.
‘Here, take this.’ Karen thrust the lamp at Charles and opened the door and marched in. He followed unwillingly at her heels.
The room had a somber magnificence, hung in crimson damask with black and silver trim, but he would not have cared to sleep amid such splendor. Its atmosphere struck him as curiously heavy, almost repellent, and his nostrils wrinkled at the smell of sandalwood burning, and something else with it, pungent and heavily aromatic. There was too much reflective glass, too many candles, and far too much heavily carved furniture. He began to sweat.
Sybilla crouched in the middle of the floor, her long black hair in a wild tangle about her. She saw Karen and flew at her, nails, crooked, spitting like a cat.
‘You did this! You! What do you know of the houngan’s ways? Who taught you the magic?’ Her clawing fingers clutched at empty air as Karen ducked aside, and Sybilla’s own impetus carried her forward to hit the edge of the door. This time she screamed with pain and reeled back, holding a hand to her forehead.
Charles struggled with his ale-dimmed wits. Could Sybilla Frensham really be attacking Caro in some sort of hysterical fit? And was Caro actually almost helpless with laughter? Bewildered, he set down the lamp with care and turned to her. ‘What is happening here?’
‘Ask our little household sorceress,’ she spluttered, and pointed to the shards of mirror lying before the fireplace. Remnants hung from the frame above the mantel, reflecting crazy patterns of red silk and candlelight and pieces of broken Meissen.
So that was the crash he’d heard. But why had Sybilla thrown an ornament at her glass? What was going on?
Then he saw the doll, a manikin figure of some soft substance like wax, sprawled on the hearth, its barely formed limbs twisted in impossible positions. He trod carefully through the mess and picked it up.
‘What is this? A child’s puppet?’ Then he looked more closely, and felt a shudder of distaste. ‘It has a thorn pressed into its throat and… it looks like a smear of blood.’
‘It is blood.’
He looked at Karen with amazement, and some disapproval. There had been such satisfaction in her voice. He saw her examining a place on her forearm which had been bandaged.
‘Do not tell me that it is your blood!’
A hiss from Sybilla drew his attention. She’d drawn away from Karen and now huddled on the end of her bed, her dark eyes the only part of her that seemed to be alive. They were bright as a raven’s, and malevolent.
Karen drew down her sleeve and looked at her steadily. ‘You were right to name me witch-woman. And you are brave to cast your spells on le loup-garou.’
‘Loup-garou,’ croaked Sybilla, rocking herself in her own arms. She had clearly retreated from the present into some world of her own.
Charles regarded her doubtfully, and decided there was little he could or would do for her. He swayed on his feet. He was very tired.
Karen picked up the lamp and went to the door. ‘Come, Charles. I think Sybilla wishes to rest.’
He followed her out into the corridor and along the landing to her own door. ‘I am quite at a loss. What has happened to Sybilla? What meaning is attached to the puppet?’
Karen chuckled. ‘She’s been trying her hand at a little black magic, and I simply turned the tables on her.’
‘Your pardon?’ He wished she would make herself clearer. There were still times when Caro spoke like a person who did not know her own language very well. It would account for that very peculiar statement about magic.
Karen sighed. ‘Sybilla has been ill-wishing me, using a silly little figure dressed up to resemble me. She even pushed a dagger through the heart, which presumably means death in a painful manner.’
‘She must be unbalanced! I never heard of such a thing.’
‘Oh, it’s quite well-known in the West Indies as a method of dealing with an enemy. It’s a part of the voodoo cult.’ She grinned. In the soft lamplight she looked to him like a mischievous urchin, with that flaming hair tied back and eyes alight. ‘It’s her misfortune that I’ve read a bit about it – just enough to scare her.’
‘You certainly succeeded in your aim.’ He thought of the horrific scream that had alerted him to trouble, and felt a twinge of sympathy for Sybilla. He added disapprovingly, ‘What is so frightening about the doll, and the words “le loup-garou”?’
‘I redressed the doll to resemble her and drove a thorn into its throat so that she would believe I had ill-wished her in return. Then I told her she was tangling with a genuine blood-sucking witch who could turn into a werewolf. That should put an end to her nonsense.’ She smiled kindly at him. ‘You look weary, Charles. Go to bed.’
‘I… Yes, but…’ The words would not form themselves on his tongue. He felt that he should say something, should at the least remonstrate with her. He was sure Antony would not approve the situation. But his wits were fuddled, and there was something about Caro now, an air of authority, a self-possession. He decided to say no more.
‘Good night, Charles.’ She gave him her hand and watched with amusement as he sketched a very clumsy bow.
‘Sleep well, Caro.’
*
He was not surprised to find Sybilla absent from the breakfast table. She seldom left her chamber before noon. But Caro’s sunny greeting dispelled any lingering concern over his behavior the previous night. She had failed to detect any oddness in his manner, after all.
‘Good morning, Charles. I’m pleased that you are joining us.’
Us? He turned swiftly and saw Amanda standing by the window admiring the garden. He thought her the personification of spring, all in daffodil yellow. Her dimpled smile did something to his heart. Bowing over her hand he fought the desire to press it to his mouth and cover it with kisses.
Perhaps she sensed this, for a delicate color rose in her cheeks and she moved away to join Karen at the small gate-leg table set in the window. The meal was so informal as to be practically al fresco. They served themselves and watched the birds in the garden. At least, the two ladies did so while Charles watched Amanda and tried to press upon her the more delicate tidbits of ham and fruit. He even prepared a pear for her with his own hands, and watched her eat it with every evidence of relish.
Any restraint there might have been was soon dispelled. Karen gave her friend a lively description of last night’s proceedings and, despite his disapproval, Charles found himself joining in their amusement at the confounding of Sybilla’s plans.
With a piece of bread and strawberry jam poised half-way to her lips, Amanda listened to the tale of Karen’s tit-for-tat stratagem, and giggled.
‘How clever of you, dear Caro. I would almost give my pearls to have seen her face.’ Then she sobered. ‘All the same, I do not like this turn of events. It seems you may have discovered your hidden enemy, only to have her openly attack. You must have a care in future.’
Charles was struck by the fact that he had missed this point. Had his wits been impaired, after all? ‘You believe that Sybilla was responsible for the accidents that have plagued Caro?’
‘It seems likely.’ Amanda looked from one to the other, questioningly. ‘We are all of the same mind, I conclude – that these were no “accidents”.’
Charles felt troubled. He had always disliked Sybilla, but it violated his most strongly entrenched beliefs to cast any lady in the role of a would-be murderess. Ladies did not behave in such a manner. They were delicate creatures, of inferior intellect, to be nurtured and guided by the dominant male.
To be sure, his adored Amanda at times exhibited an alarming propensity to take control, but this was to be expected in such a superior example of the female sex. It must gall her to know herself to be of finer metal than most, and driven to exert her capabilities by reason of the stupidity and ineptness of her peers.
Which returned him to Sybilla and her machina
tions.
‘I find it difficult to believe that any lady would be capable of such evil.’
Amanda cut him off. ‘Sybilla is not a lady. She may have been born to that estate, but her appalling behavior is the outward evidence of a degenerate mind. It is my belief that she is one of those souls incarnate with a propensity toward evil. I have seen no evidence of a desire to control her urges. If, as you say Caro, she has been under the influence of a black magician since early childhood, there is little hope that she can be brought to see the error of her ways. She is doomed to follow her crooked path.’
Charles looked away. He did not like to see her so condemning. She might have been the Lord Chief Justice himself pronouncing judgment on a malefactor.
Karen said, hesitantly, ‘There is something I feel I should tell you. I don’t know whether it’s my imagination, but… She has displayed such animosity towards Antony’s first wife, Jenny.’ She looked to Charles, inviting his opinion.
He shook his head, uncomfortable. ‘I do not know. She always gave the appearance of friendship. I think she liked her. And yet…’
‘And yet?’ Karen encouraged.
‘You are right. Her cozening ways were false. She was ever praising and offering her services, ever admiring of the child. Yet she lacked genuine feeling. I felt it like the change in texture under the fingertips when one touches first silk, then rough-milled cotton, but I did not recognize my feeling. Sybilla did not like her cousin.’
Karen nodded, her gaze caught by Amanda’s. Charles saw them exchange meaningful looks.
Then Karen said slowly, ‘It was more than dislike. I have wondered… I have wondered whether that fire was an accident.’
Charles gasped. ‘Good God! I cannot believe – ’
‘I can.’ Amanda had once again cut him off. ‘Yours is an intuitive spirit, Caro. I believe you may be in the right of it. For a person familiar with the Manor and the ways of its occupants, it would have been a simple enough matter to arrange.’
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