Murder by Twilight

by Blythe Baker

  Nurse Gray wasn’t the only one who would be out of a job soon. Now that Hazel’s mother was cured, Camellia would once again be simply an aunt. I wondered how the women would acclimate to their new roles.

  12

  Catherine’s recovery was announced on Saturday, and by Sunday, she was ready to get out of the house.

  “I haven’t been into town in too long to remember, and I haven’t set foot in the little church even longer than that,” she said.

  “She was so uncomfortable at the end of her pregnancy that we didn’t even consider making the drive into the village,” Charles explained to me as he handed his wife another scone with a large dollop of cream atop it.

  “Now,” Catherine continued eagerly, adding a spoonful of jam before taking a large bite. “I want everything to return to the usual.”

  Charles clapped his hands together, smiling like I hadn’t seen him smile since my arrival. “In that case, it seems like today would be a lovely day for us all to attend services together.”

  Catherine nodded in agreement.

  “All of us?” Camellia asked.

  For a moment, I thought she was asking whether she would be going with them, but then she turned to me, and I understood. Her eyes flicked from the large scratch I knew was on my forehead to the series of smaller scratches along my chest and neck.

  “I don’t think I’m feeling up to it today,” I said, saving everyone the awkward conversation of whether or not I should attend. Not only did I not want to explain to a group of strangers that I’d scratched up my arms and face while running from ghosts through the moors, but I also wouldn’t mind the time alone. With Camellia, Nurse Gray, Charles, and now, even Catherine, constantly watching me and monitoring me as though I was a spy sent to ferret information out of the house rather than a guest invited to come here, having time to myself where I didn’t have to constantly fret over what I said and did would be nice.

  “Nurse Gray can stay with her,” Charles said, laying a hand over Catherine’s, easing her concerns before they could even be spoken.

  Catherine frowned. “But she hasn’t been to a service for just as long as I have. And you know how devout she is.”

  “I do not need a nurse,” I said. “Nurse Gray helped me clean and dress some of the deeper cuts this morning, and they won’t need any tending until this evening. I can manage myself.”

  “Are you sure?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes,” Camellia agreed. “I don’t know if it is wise to leave her here alone.”

  “She will be fine,” I said, doing my best not to roll my eyes at Camellia. I had never enjoyed being spoken of in the third person, and I especially didn’t like when it was done by Camellia. “I’m a grown woman, remember. I know how to keep myself busy for a few hours. All of you, go into the village and stay as long as you like. I’ll find ways to occupy my time.”

  And once everyone was dressed—Catherine donning a fashionable crepe paper dress that fell in tight ruffles around her shins and a cloche hat with a matching green flower—they loaded into the car and pulled away, leaving me on my own for the first time in a week.

  Though, I wasn’t entirely alone. As soon as I closed the front door, I heard the sound of a pan banging in the kitchen, and I remembered my sister’s small household staff had remained behind, as well. The nanny was upstairs in her room, no doubt taking a nap since Charles and Catherine had taken Hazel with them to church, but the maid and cook would be nearby, probably cleaning up after breakfast.

  Even though I’d just been thinking about the benefits of a morning alone, I found myself pushing open the swinging door into the kitchen.

  The maid—a young girl with short brown hair tucked close to her face and a white cap obscuring her curls—startled when the door opened, dropping a plate into the sink and sloshing water up onto the countertop.

  “I didn’t realize anyone was still here,” she said, scrambling to pick up the plate before she thought better of it and wiped her hands on a dish towel to dry them. She walked to the end of the counter at once and lowered her head. “Can I help you, Miss Beckingham?”

  “No. Please, go on with your work. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  She seemed hesitant, but after a few seconds of silence, she went back to the sink and continued cleaning. Her movements were stiff and uncomfortable, and it seemed strange to me that my sister would run such an ordered home. Catherine had never exactly mingled with our household staff, but she’d never felt the need to be formal. We followed in my mother’s lead that way.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  Her eyes were wide and gray, and they darted around the room like those of a nervous doe, ready to run off and hide at any second. “Florence.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Florence.”

  “You too, Miss Beckingham.”

  “Rose,” I corrected.

  She nodded and went back to washing dishes. Her black sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and her pale skin was red from the hot water. I glanced around the room, expecting to see someone else but it appeared she was alone with the small mountain of dirty dishes.

  “I thought my sister and brother employed a cook, as well?”

  “They do,” Florence said. “But she does not come in until lunch. I am not a skilled cook, but breakfast is a simple meal.”

  “I’d say you are quite skilled. The scones were perfect.”

  Her face flushed with pleasure and she gave me a quick smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed them, Miss.”

  The conversation drifted into silence again, and I wasn’t entirely sure why I’d come into the kitchen at all. To meet the staff who had been serving me for the last week, certainly, but beyond that, why was I lurking in the doorway and making the poor maid uncomfortable?

  “Are you sure there is nothing I can help you with, Miss Beckingham?”

  “Rose, please,” I said.

  Florence’s lips pressed together, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the lady of the house really insists on proper addresses. She wouldn’t like me speaking to a guest in such a friendly way.”

  I frowned. “My sister was never so strict before. Besides, if she takes issue with it, I will be sure to tell her that I insisted upon it.”

  Florence’s mouth opened, her dark eyebrows flicking upward, and then she twisted her lips to the side uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I meant Mr. Cresswell’s sister, Camellia.”

  My frown deepened. “In that case, be sure to call me Rose. I know Camellia lives here now, but you are hired by her brother, correct?”

  The maid’s eyes were glued to the dish water now, though her hands had gone still beneath the surface. She nodded.

  “Then, it seems to me you are to take orders from him and his wife before anyone else.”

  The maid nodded again, and I could practically see her trembling. I felt badly for giving her such conflicting orders, but the idea that Camellia felt she could command my sister’s staff on how to behave bothered me more than it ought.

  I stepped towards the sink, head down, and voice low. “I’m sorry, Florence. If I can admit something to you—I’m rather not fond of Camellia. I didn’t mean to raise my voice to you.”

  The maid’s eyes went wide with alarm, and she looked up, studying my face as though she couldn’t decide whether what I was saying was a trap or not. She must have determined it wasn’t because her thin lips turned up into a quick smile.

  “That’s all right. I’m quite used to raised voices now that a certain person has joined the household.”

  The statement was quick and flatly told, but it cut straight to the truth, and I had to hold back a wicked laugh.

  “Camellia is a woman who…is unafraid to make it known what she wants,” I added.

  Florence’s mouth curled into a genuine grin, and her eyes flared with sarcasm as she nodded in agreement. “Yes, a trait I find to be one of her most admirable.”

  That time, I really couldn’t hold back my la
ugh. “Truly. She has so many admirable qualities it is hard to rank them.”

  After a week of mostly holding my tongue, it felt good to voice my thoughts, even if they were hidden behind double speak.

  I laughed again and added. “As if we were not lucky enough with only Camellia, Nurse Gray has a temperament to match.”

  I thought the joke had been funny, but the moment I spoke the Nurse’s name, Florence’s face fell. She rinsed off a dish and set it out on a rack to dry, making no move to join in my teasing.

  “I’m sorry, Florence. I was only teasing. Nurse Gray is a fine woman. She has to be in order to care for people as she does.”

  If possible, Florence’s mouth pressed together even tighter, as though she was holding in words that were desperate to rush out. I wished I could lean forward and unpin her lips to release them.

  “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “No.” Her eyes were wide, as if she were shocked that I could think such a thing. She dried her hands again and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Beck—Rose. I just cannot tease about a woman like Nurse Gray.”

  “Because it wouldn’t be right?” I asked. “Given what she does for a living? I know she saves lives, but—”

  “It wouldn’t be safe,” Florence said on a whisper.

  A shiver ran down my neck, though I couldn’t say exactly why. Nurse Gray had been living with and working for my sister and her family for months and no one had been hurt. Well, Catherine had the accident, but—

  An impossibility lodged itself in my mind and refused to be moved.

  “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

  Florence shook her head and tried to go back to the dishes, but I couldn’t let her avoid this question. I walked around the counter so I was standing next to her and grabbed her shoulder, turning her towards me. “If there is something going on here that you know about, I should know, too. If my sister is in danger, then she deserves to know.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Florence said. “But there are rumors around these parts about Nurse Gray. Stories my mother told me long before that woman came to work for the Cresswells.”

  “Stories about what?”

  Florence blinked, her gray eyes serious. “Death.”

  “She is a nurse. Death is to be expected.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “But there are a great many nurses who are not known as harbingers of death. They are not whispered about behind their backs the way Nurse Gray is.”

  Abigail and Margaret had told me Nurse Gray had a lot of spirits around her, and although I still didn’t know if I believed in such things, I’d assumed it was because of her line of work, but what if it was something else?

  “What do people whisper?”

  “Just that,” Florence said. “They whisper that she cannot darken a doorstep without someone dying. Her profession is to heal, but she only brings death. When Mrs. Cresswell was found out on the moors, bloody and unconscious, I’d thought it was the curse claiming her. Thank the Heavens she survived, but now there is no way to know which one of us is next.”

  Florence had been shy when I’d first walked into the kitchen, but I’d clearly broken down the barrier between us. She seemed to have no trouble at all speaking freely now.

  “Are there records of Nurse Gray’s employment before coming here? Anything to verify how many people have died in her care?”

  “I know only what I’ve heard,” Florence said. She leaned in, looking up at me from beneath her lowered brows. “If I were you, I’d head back to London sooner rather than later.”

  I thanked Florence for her input and excused myself quickly. Mostly because the girl’s sudden switch from shy maid to ominous soothsayer made me uncomfortable in more ways than one.

  When I’d first come into the house, Catherine had told me she believed the house was cursed and everyone was in danger. Could it be that she’d felt whatever strange phenomenon Florence was discussing? Could such a phenomenon even exist?

  Surely, in a profession like nursing, one had to reckon with the fact that some patients were going to be too ill to help. Sometimes—and perhaps even most of the time—people were going to die due to natural causes, and it might just so happen that the nurse was the last one to see them alive.

  Could Nurse Gray really be blamed for such a natural occurrence?

  I passed by Nurse Gray’s temporary guest room on the way to my own and then retraced my steps, stopping in front of it.

  I’d never been inside the woman’s room. Never even seen inside of it.

  Nurse Gray spent the majority of her day in Catherine’s room or, occasionally, taking breaks downstairs or in the garden when Catherine needed to rest.

  As I reached for the doorknob, I told myself it was nothing more than a curiosity to see the rest of my sister’s house that compelled me to open the door. Nothing more than a desire to see where the woman who had tended to my wounds and helped me in my time of need slept.

  Except, when I opened the door and stepped inside, I did not turn on the light. I closed the door silently behind me and pressed my back to it, blending into the shadows.

  I’d seen Nurse Gray leave in the car with my sister and the rest of the household, but I still held my breath and studied the bed to make sure there wasn’t a human shape lurking beneath it.

  The bed was small and modest, and the blanket was tucked crisply beneath the mattress. I’d expected nothing less from Nurse Gray. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, a small table next to it, and a single lamp. Beneath the table was a black leather bag with two rounded handles clasped together.

  It was the medical bag she carried with her into Catherine’s room every day. The one I’d seen inside several times. Inside was nothing more than bandages, cleaning supplies, and vials of various medications. Nothing unusual or noteworthy.

  I turned instead to the trunk.

  It was the only other piece of furniture in the room that belonged to the nurse and hadn’t been provided by my sister and brother-in-law. I could tell because the name GRAY was etched into the leather straps that wrapped around it and buckled in the front.

  I knelt down in front of the trunk in the dark and undid the straps quietly, lifting the lid and wincing when it banged against the footboard.

  It didn’t really matter. If Florence heard the noise from downstairs, she’d assume it was me moving upstairs. I didn’t need to be perfectly silent and covert since the house was mostly empty. Still, guilt gnawed at my stomach and made even my breathing sound far too loud in my own ears.

  Identical gray dresses were folded in a stack in one corner next to matching caps. Stockings were rolled up in another corner along with a second pair of black leather shoes that matched the pair she’d worn to church that morning.

  Nurse Gray, it seemed, was as pragmatic in her personal life as in her professional one. She didn’t seem to have “work clothes” and “ordinary clothes.” Instead, everything was the same drab gray color.

  In one sense, she lived with her patients, so it made sense for her to always be in her nursing garb. In another, it seemed like a very small life to lead, never doing anything beyond your occupation.

  And Nurse Gray had been in the occupation for a great many years. Long enough that she’d cared for Dorothea Wilds when the three sisters were still young. Or, at least, I assumed that to be the case since the picture of Dorothea they kept on their walls was her as a young woman.

  The trunk appeared to be nothing more than clothes, but just as I was about to close the lid, I caught sight of a brown leather folder pressed against the wooden side of the trunk. It was the same color as the wood, so I’d nearly missed it, but now it seemed obvious to me.

  I pulled out the folder and unwound the leather cord, feeling more and more guilty by the second for snooping through Nurse Gray’s things because of nasty rumors and tales. But that wasn’t enough to stop me. The guilt didn’t keep me from opening the folder in my lap like it was a book and flipping gre
edily through the pages.

  The pages were soft and yellowed with age and the ink was fading, but I could still make it out.

  Each line contained a name, presumably of a patient she’d cared for. Next to it was the date she began working for them and the date her employment ended. At the far right, there was either a single dot or a cross.

  Early on in the book, the symbol at the far right was almost always a dot. Then, several pages in, they changed to black crosses. Then, there was nothing but black crosses for pages.

  Nurse Gray’s time with the patients with the crosses was usually short—just a few months at a time. Sometimes only weeks.

  As I scanned the pages, a name caught my eye: Dorothea Wilds.

  As I’d suspected, it had been many years since Nurse Gray had cared for Dorothea Wilds. She had the start date of her employment and the end date, and then, at the far right of the page, a cross.

  It dawned on me suddenly what the cross meant.

  Death.

  The dots and crosses kept record of the final outcome of Nurse Gray’s patients, and with every page I flipped through, it became clear that the result was overwhelmingly death.

  Finally, I reached the end of the ledger, my stomach twisted into knots, and I saw my sister’s name. The date read several months earlier and there was a second date written next to it with a dot at the far right, as though Nurse Gray had expected her work to be finished. Then, later, that date and dot were crossed out.

  Likely, when Catherine’s accident had occurred and Nurse Gray had been asked to continue her work with the family.

  I was staring at the crossed out dot, ominous thoughts filling my head, when a creak in the hallway outside caught my attention.

  I jolted to alertness and turned to the partially opened window in the room. The sun was much higher in the sky than I’d realized. Had a car rumbled towards the house? I couldn’t recall it, but I also couldn’t recall hearing anyone come up the stairs?