by Marni Graff
Today, he avoided his precious plants, his attention focused on his wife. As Gillian bent over and adjusted his lap rug, strings of her wiry grey and black hair fell over her bony shoulder. She squeezed his hand in comfort.
“Can I get either of you anything?” Gillian’s voice was raspy but kind. She had been taking care of Sommer since just after his accident and was a fixture at Clarendon Hall.
Sommer glanced at his wife as he consulted his watch. Antonia sat woodenly in the exact middle of the chair, her back doing penance by not relaxing against the worn cushion. He looked into the earnest gaze of the nurse who had kept his body moving and healthy all these years.
“No, thank you, Gillian. But perhaps we could do with a sherry. Would you ask Cook to bring us the Croft?”
Gillian nodded and left the room, her flat nurse oxfords squishing on the wooden floor. The library was one of the rooms off limits to the public tours Sommer had been forced to initiate to make ends meet. After he’d suspended the rest of the day’s tours, he’d also cancelled those set for the next week. It would be an added financial burden, but he didn’t see how any of them could cope just now with groups of strangers clumping around their home. It was bad enough they only had the use of half of the family residence.
Sommer sighed and looked around the familiar room, eyes scanning books read and loved—not seeing the shabbiness of the room but only its tall windows and thick moldings. He soaked up the comfort the books usually provided him. Reading thrust him out of his wheelchair and into a different time or place, an essential solace.
Silence haunted the long room. A fire crackled in the grate, spreading its warmth, creating a circle of heat and golden light in the autumn afternoon. He had a sudden image of himself as a newlywed standing in front of this fireplace. His back had always been cooler than the front that faced the warmth. Nothing in those halcyon days had suggested or prepared him for the tragedies he and his wife would face, but they had managed to survive—until this unspeakable event.
After thirty-three years of marriage, he didn’t know how to initiate a conversation with his wife. What was there to say that would soften the blow they’d had? Antonia’s hazel eyes were red rimmed and dulled with anguish, her sweet mouth set in a grimace of pain. Her impeccable blonde curls, usually neat and close to her head, stood up wildly around her closed face, as though she had been pulling at her hair. A visceral tremor ran through him. She had aged ten years in a matter of hours.
After breaking her precious figurines, Antonia had rushed about, upstairs and down, crying in frantic waves of hysteria that had echoed throughout the stone halls. Unable to soothe her, Sommer had eventually allowed Gillian to take him upstairs for his whirlpool while Cook had taken over trying to calm Antonia. The elevator door in the kitchen had blunted the frenzied cries of his wife, the sound receding as the lift rose.
Gillian had set him in the bath and tactfully left him for a few minutes. He’d wept alone there, the warm water swirling over and around his withered legs. When he was spent, he’d firmed up his resolve for both of them. Gillian had driven him in his van to the mortuary for the formal identification. He was glad Antonia had been spared the sight of their son’s distorted face.
Antonia finally met his look. He’d persuaded her to take one of the pills Doc Lattimore had left, and thankfully the sedative was taking hold. As her gaze softened, Sommer reached his calloused hand out to grasp hers and was shocked to feel its coolness in the warm room. He leaned over as far as the confines of his chair would allow and warmed first one of Antonia’s hands and then the other between his own, rubbing them briskly.
“Blast this bloody chair. I want to sit with you and hold you and comfort you as best I can, my darling.” Sommer looked down in disgust at his wasted legs, sensing movement as Antonia rose and cautiously, carefully arranged herself across his lap. She leaned against him, resting her head under his chin, and his shoulders had never felt stronger as he wrapped his arms protectively around her.
*
Sommer was continually surprised at how delicately Cook carried the small silver tray by its ornate handles, despite her rotund frame. She set the tray down carefully, sherry glasses clinking softly, on a barley twist side table that been his great-grandmother’s. Sommer leafed through a poetry anthology, trying to find words for Keith’s eventual funeral service. Antonia was back in her chair, paging through a photograph album, composed except for her blotched face and reddened eyes. She smoothed her hair down and motioned Cook over, pointing to one snapshot in particular.
“Look, Cook. Here’s the day we went down to the pier, and Keith first swam in the lake without his water wings. Remember how proud he was?”
Cook raised her eyes from the picture of the sturdy boy waving to those gathered on the dock, ready to record his every move, and Sommer saw the question in her eyes. He dipped his head in confirmation that the sedative was working.
“Yes, a right fearless boy he is.” Unable to use the past tense, Cook stifled a sob, then cleared her throat as Antonia looked into the distance, lost in the memory.
“I thought a bowl of thick soup tonight for supper, dear, unless you had other ideas,” Sommer said.
Antonia continued her stare, caught up in the memory spurred by the photo.
Sommer continued. “That sounds just the ticket, doesn’t it? Warm and filling, just what the doctor ordered. I don’t think we’ll want any heavy meals for the next few days. Use your judgment, Cook.”
Cook brightened, evidently pleased at the opportunity Sommer gave her to help in a concrete way. She poured their sherry and, after refusing the glass Sommer offered her, bustled off to start the soup.
Sommer watched his wife replace the photo and flip to the next page. Sommer sipped his sherry and bent his head over The Oxford Book of English Verse, contemplating two things: how they would endure these next few days and what hell they had brought on themselves so many years ago.
Chapter Ten
“All my life I have had an awareness of other times and places.”
— Jack London, The Star Rover
3:20 PM
The lift let nurse Gillian Cole out at the center of the two upper wings of Clarendon Hall. The left wing, with its bedchambers still furnished as though Henry VIII slept there nightly, was used on the tours. On the right were Antonia and Sommer’s suites, Keith’s room and the playroom at the end of the hall that Keith had turned into his library. Edmunde Clarendon, Sommer’s older brother, occupied a former guest suite, and Gillian headed there to check on him. The area just to the right of the central hallway was kitted out with the hydro tub and exercise equipment both brothers used.
As Gillian rounded the corner from the elevator, she stopped to gather a stack of fresh linens. Her routine today had been severely disrupted, and while she felt callous for thinking that, she was always honest in her own thoughts. The scent of cool, clean sheets never failed to steady her. She stuck her nose deeply into a pile and inhaled, then chose a washcloth and towel and carried them into Edmunde’s room.
Gillian had always been slender, but lately her uniform hung from her shoulders as though her frame had diminished. Her skin had a pallor associated with a lack of sunshine, but over the years she’d grown used to being indoors most of the day. She was extremely proud of her nursing services to first one and then both of the Clarendon brothers.
The door banged as she opened it, startling the tall, broad man dozing in a mechanical wheelchair. His left side faced the door, and for a moment Gillian felt a prick of longing as she surveyed the strong profile. Edmunde’s dark hair swirled over his high forehead; white streaks like frosting lent him an elegant look from this angle. The hand that gripped the armrest appeared solid and strong.
As the nurse moved around the bed, the man’s shriveled right side came into view
. His mouth drooped grotesquely; a thread of spittle oozed from the gaping lip. His gnarled right hand curled around the rolled facecloth Gillian always left there to prevent further contractions or skin breakdown, a practice the physical therapist had taught her. The muscles on the entire right side of Edmunde’s large frame displayed atrophy from the debilitating stroke that had reduced the once-powerful man to a monstrous mountain of rubbish. Gillian had learned early on to rein in her reaction to his appearance.
She opened the window to let the crisp autumn air rush into the chamber. “There now, let’s get some of the fusty smell out of here. Antonia is calmer, and the timbers have stopped rattling.”
Edmunde grunted an acknowledgment.
Gillian flipped the pillows that propped Edmunde’s right side up when he sat in his chair. His motorized wheelchair had an attached table that covered his lap and kept him from sliding down to the floor. He could use his left arm when he wanted to, and she thought there was real progress with the strength in his left leg when the physiotherapist worked with him—when he felt like cooperating.
Gillian pried the facecloth out of the grip of Edmunde’s right claw, wet it with warm water from the bathroom and then used it to wash inside the hand. Drying his palm and fingers carefully, Gillian rolled up the fresh cloth she’d brought in, powdered it with the cornstarch she kept in Edmunde’s bedside table and adeptly reinserted it.
“You could do this yourself, you know. You do have a good side,” she complained, but her smile softened the statement.
He grunted again, his aphasia nearly complete. She remembered the day he’d given up on speech therapy. She thought he would have thrown the therapist bodily out of the room if he’d been capable of it. After that, even though the therapist had still insisted on coming, Edmunde refused to make eye contact and sat mutely in his chair. Finally, the therapist got the message and terminated treatment. Now, Edmunde chose to communicate with nods and grumbles.
Edmunde pointed to a cabinet near the door and nodded, waiting for Gillian’s response.
She considered his request. “I suppose a nip today is deserved.” She took a pint bottle of his favorite Islay Lagavulin Malt and opened it. The pungent peat scent made her eyes tear as she poured him a dram. “I never could understand how you can drink this stuff,” she pronounced, holding the glass out to him.
Edmunde took the glass in his good hand and held it near his nose. He sucked in a deep breath, eyes closed. Then he knocked back the entire dram at once, his face reddening as his eyes watered. He held out the glass for a refill of the single malt scotch.
“Enough,” she said, rinsing the glass in his bathroom and stowing it away with the bottle. “You’ll stink of it the rest of the day as it is.”
Gillian combed Edmunde’s hair off his face. She took a lemon-glycerin swab from a packet on the nightstand and ran it around the interior of Edmunde’s mouth. “That should help with the fumes.” She put her hands on nonexistent hips and considered him. “Want to sit near the window a bit? I love the light at this time of day.” She moved him to the window, with its view of Clarendon Chapel. Behind it to the right, she could just make out the edge of the cottage she shared with her son.
When he was settled, she bent down to his eye level and spoke directly to him. His deep-brown eyes met hers, the right lid drooping over the iris, clouding the thoughts behind it. His left one stared back at her without blinking. Although she had no idea how much he absorbed, Gillian always spoke to him clearly.
“There will be questions, you know,” she said. “Someone will come around, but they’ll go away eventually. Now, do you want me to put the disc on? You were just getting to the good part yesterday.”
Edmunde nodded, and Gillian hit play on his CD player. As she tidied his bed, the voice of Colin Buchanan narrating Reginald Hill’s mystery A Cure for All Diseases filled the room.
Chapter Eleven
“The day started badly and then got worse.”
— John Treherne, The Trap
3:45 PM
Nora sat silently at Simon’s kitchen table, watching as Ian left, closing the door behind him. This time he had not objected to Simon’s presence while he questioned her, reviewing all of her actions since she’d woken that morning. He pushed into the evening before, when Nora, Kate and Simon had eaten in the lodge dining room, then had watched a video together.
“Sleepless in Seattle,” Simon explained. “Ladies’ choice.”
Nora described going to her room after the movie and settling in bed, reading her name book before falling asleep. Ian told her he’d probably have more questions after the toxicology results were in. He seemed apologetic as he left.
Simon stood at the sink, watching Ian walk away. “Why is he harping on you? You’d think you were a suspect. He bloody well knows you had nothing to do with this.”
Nora shook her head. “Of course he does—but I found the body. Ian has to ask me the same questions he would of anyone. His every action will be scrutinized.”
Especially, she thought but didn’t say, given his close friendship with the Ramsey family. She noted Ian hadn’t asked to speak with Kate.
Simon turned to face her as she rose from her chair to join him at the window. She knew he wanted to help her up, but months of getting to know her independent streak had taught him she’d ask for help if she wanted it. Fingers of dull sunlight hit her face, and she relished their warmth. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, Nora straightened her shoulders, causing her belly to protrude further. She flashed Simon a brief smile. “Thanks for staying with me.”
He nodded, moving nearer, his deep-blue eyes searching hers for an invitation. She longed to lay her head against his chest and gather his heat. Fear of fulfilling her own needs but wrongly encouraging him held her back. The moment of silence stretched too long between them.
“Let’s finish the proofing,” Nora said. “Anything to keep Keith from my mind.”
*
For more than an hour, they worked on the book. Nora scrutinized the text and checked to ensure that the fairies’ expressions in Simon’s illustrations were delightful rather than frightful for young readers. Simon used a magnifying glass to look for minute color errors in the illustrations. The light faded more, and sounds from the lodge kitchen indicated the prep work for the evening meal had begun.
Despite her nap, the strain of the day had caught up with Nora. Her arms and legs felt weighted down and heavy. Even the baby had been relentless in his kicking this afternoon. She and Simon had just closed the proof book when Simon’s buzzer rang, and he slid open the pocket door between his suite and the hallway to reveal a young woman with shiny, brunette hair falling over one eye. Maeve Addams, the lodge’s assistant manager, stood framed in the doorway, wearing a silky blouse and a short, plaid skirt that showed off her excellent legs. Nora didn’t know why the woman aroused such negative feelings in her.
That was nonsense; of course she knew. Maeve made no secret of her attraction to Simon. Nora’s dislike of Maeve had only intensified as her pregnancy advanced and was amplified by the fact that Nora had no clarity concerning her own feelings for the man and also had no right to be possessive of him.
Maeve held a clipboard in one hand. “Sorry to bother, guv, but there’s a shortage on the paper goods, and I didn’t want to let the shipper go until you straightened it out with him.”
“No problem; we’re finished here,” Simon answered. “Please tell Agnes to have our table set for three tonight, would you? We’re all going to take a break from work this evening.”
Nora saw a flash of anger cross Maeve’s pretty face that Simon, washing his hands at his kitchen sink, missed.
“Will do. You’re the talk of the town, Nora, what with finding Keith’s body and everything,” Maeve said. She flashed Nora a dazzl
ing smile.
Nora groped for a snappy comeback, but none came to mind. Instead, she found herself saying, “I think I’ll have a rest before dinner,” when she wasn’t tired at all. She had a sudden need to be alone.
“Good idea. I’ll knock on your door ten minutes before, shall I?” Simon said, drying his hands.
Nora resisted her impulse to hug him tightly in front of Maeve. “That will be great,” she said and crossed the hall to her suite. Closing the door behind her, her mind in turmoil, she looked at the rumpled bed from her earlier nap. She hit the button on her CD player, and the sound of Johnny Hartman singing “I’ll Never Smile Again” filled the room. Nora smirked at the choice of song, a perfect fit for her mood, and kicked off her shoes before stretching out on her bed. She drew the duvet from the foot of the bed over her and reached for her name book. Pregnancy tired her, but this was different. She wanted to run backward in time to a place where everything felt safe, and there were few surprises and even less choices to have to make. Who would understand how drained she felt?
Perhaps only someone who lived with murder as a frequent companion, someone like Declan Barnes.
Chapter Twelve