Curse of Black Tor (6 page)

If only there'd been a way to buy time for Johann. A place where there was no pressure. Her love had shifted from passion to fierce protectiveness. She'd tried to mother him and he'd hated it. But she'd felt responsible; no one else seemed to understand his fragility. Until the end she hadn't really understood that no one can take responsibility for another adult.

And now someone at Black Tor knew her as the Marty Collier the papers had pictured—a Nida, insatiable, hopelessly neurotic. She wasn't--she never had been. Any more than Maria Canyon was Nida.

“I don't know how you managed,” Maria told her the one time they'd met after Johann's death. “He was a man obsessed. I could hide from him when I had to. But you—” Maria paused and stared hard at Marty. “You were forced to play Nida.”

Marty shook her head. “No. Never that.”

“Forced to be Nida, then, if only in his mind,” Maria had insisted. “Johann was mad, of course. Quite mad.”

Marty couldn't answer, recalling the last ugly scene. She'd fled from Johann by locking herself in the bathroom, where there was an inner bolt, put there at Johann's order to protect himself from anyone entering while he was caring for his body. At the last, the bolt had protected her from Johann. Would he have killed her as he'd threatened?

She'd seen him use the knife hundreds of times to open letters—a Thai dagger, actually, with an alien god carved into the handle. But this time he'd used it on her, cutting her arm and breast before she gained the sanctuary of the bathroom. She'd huddled naked inside the bathroom, blood dripping on the pink tile, too distraught to do more than listen to Johann screaming curses in the bedroom. He'd splintered the bottom of the door by repeated kicking, before the phone distracted him. Ringing on and on, a shrill accompaniment to his ravings.

Finally he answered the phone—she knew because that's where she found him when the long silence gave her courage to wrap a towel around herself and venture out of the bathroom. Johann lay sprawled by the bed, phone still clutched in his hand, the dagger plunged into his chest.

The papers had played up the death for all it was worth, drawing parallels between Johann's death and The Unmasking of Hell with its overtones of the occult. Even the phone call was referred to as “mysterious,” since no one admitted to having called Johann. Dr. Towers was quoted out of context to bolster the articles. Only Dr. Towers’ testimony had kept her from being accused of murder. The papers had liked that, too. Nida was a woman who drove men mad—drove them to destruction.

But she wasn't Nida.

And she was no longer Marty Collier, either. She was Martha Jamison, just as if Johann had never existed.

Despite the locked door, she slept fitfully, waking to dawn and an insistent tapping. Who was at the door?

Martha wrapped herself in her robe and padded over to ask.

“It's me. You locked me out.” A child's voice. Sarah.

“Are you going to be like Jo, always locking your door?” Sarah demanded when Martha let her in. “I thought you'd be different.”

“Why are you up so early?” Martha asked.

“Because I'm going to spend my money. If you and Jo ask Henry to take you into town, I can go, too. Will you?”

“You'll have to talk to Josephine.”

“Oh, she'll go if you want to. She likes you. I want to go today. I don't ever get any money to spend.”

“But you have money now?”

“The man gave money to Bill and he gave me some. Bill's nice. He can sound like all different kinds of birds, and he's Jimmy's grandfather and—”

“What man?” Martha broke in, remembering Josephine's note.

“I don't know—just a man. I saw him talking to Bill. Jo told me not to tell about the paper, but she showed you, I bet.”

Martha watched the girl as she wandered about the bedroom, picking up a traveling clock here, a lipstick there. The white wing of hair that looked so natural on Jules seemed out of place on this child, somehow shadowing the innocence of her face. “Will you ask Henry?”

Martha thought of her phone call the day before during dinner. She'd rather not be in the house when Bran came to talk to Jules. She wasn't sure if she wanted to see him again, for there had been nothing between them as far as she was concerned. He was pleasant enough, but —

“I'll talk to Josephine,” Martha told Sarah. “Maybe she'd like an outing.”

After the girl left, Martha relocked the door and showered, dressing in a casual outfit of brown pants with a pale orange shirt. The sun was high enough that she felt she could knock on Josephine's door.

Josephine was reading in bed. Martha glanced at the book title. Growing Pains, by Emily Carr.

“She was persecuted by this town, actually persecuted,” Josephine said angrily. She gestured at the book. “I'm reading her autobiography. They said her paintings were ridiculous and she was crazy. They drove her away even though she loved the island. Why are people like that?”

“I'm afraid I don't know who Emily Carr is,” Martha said.

“Oh, that's right. You're not Canadian. She was a painter, and now everyone knows how good she really was. But then, when she was alive...” Josephine shook her head. “I understand how helpless she felt. They thought she was mad because she liked Indians and even lived with Indian families and shared their way of life and painted them and the forests and what was wild and natural. Women didn't do that in Emily's time. She stayed free, though. They wounded her, but they never captured her and put her in a cage.”

“She sounds interesting. I'd like to see her paintings.”

“Oh, would you really? There're some prints in her old family house in town, and the art gallery on Moss Street has originals. I'll ask Henry if he'll take us there. Of course he’ll have to ask Jules if it's all right, but I pretend not to know that. I hate to be dependent on Jules! When daddy dies—” She broke off. “You think I'm awful. But my father didn't want me in the first place. He married my mother because she was young and pretty. He wanted her—not me. She wasn't well after I was born, and she died when I was three. Aunt Natalie moved into Black Tor after that.”

“Was your aunt married then?”

“No. Uncle Matthew was an after thought. He's—” Josephine stopped. “Well, he doesn't count.”

“Your father's quite ill?”

“He's dying. And when he does, I'll have my own money.” Josephine frowned and was silent a moment. Then she kicked the covers aside and got out of bed. “Jules and Aunt Natalie will find a way to keep me from getting the money. That's why they want everyone to think I'm crazy.” She glared at Martha.

“Well, I haven't even seen your doctor yet, much less talk to him,” Martha said. “No one's told me you're—”

“They don't say it,” Josephine broke in. “They hint. 'She tried to kill herself,' they say. I've never tried to do such a thing.”

“Are you telling me you think someone else was responsible for your so-called suicide attempts?”

Josephine nodded impatiently. “Yes, of course. I don't know if they really wanted me to die or just to seem crazy. But I lock my door now. I'm careful.”

Martha's thoughts jumbled together in a kaleidoscope of speculation. Paranoid ideation? Or could Josephine possibly be right? What did her doctor think? How did this man from her past, the man called “Diego,” fit in?

“Did you sleep all right after what happened last night?” Josephine asked.

Martha nodded, reluctant to think about it. “I can't imagine who the man was,” Josephine said. “Although Jules has been different since Cynthia was killed six years ago. I don't think there's been any women who've interested him since then.”

“Cynthia?”

“Jules's wife.” Josephine began pulling clothes from the closet and discarding them in disgust. “I don't have anything to wear,” she moaned.

Martha picked a shocking-pink ensemble from the floor. “This looks charming,” she said. “The color must be striking on you,”

“But it's old,” Josephine wailed. “All my clothes are old. I haven't been shopping in months. I didn't care—” She stopped and smiled at Martha. “Now it's different, now that I know Diego's alive.” Josephine suddenly threw her arms in the air and twirled in a circle. “I wouldn't let myself think about him in case—in case--”

She paused, taking a deep breath and then sighed. “But it has to be true. I'll see him again.” She looked anxiously at Martha. “Will he still love me? Am I pretty? It's been so long since I cared. My hair...” She lifted a strand, let it drop, then gestured at the clothes strewn about the floor. “I must be—like I was. But I—I can't remember.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Wear the pink,” Martha said, making her voice positive. “With your coloring it's just right. And you're very pretty—no one could think otherwise.”

Should I tell Jules about Diego's letter? she asked herself. What's my duty to my employer? But if I tell him, I'll lose Josephine's trust. Perhaps I can watch her carefully for any other attempts by this Diego—if it is Diego—to get in touch with her. If I feel she's threatened in any way, even by her own feelings, then let Jules know.

Martha watched the radiance return to Josephine's face as she gathered up the pink outfit and looked at herself in the mirror. “The color does make me look nice, doesn't it?”

“Lovely.”

I'll call Dr. Marston today, Martha told herself. He may be able to help me decide what's safe for Josephine. And I must know what his diagnosis is before I become too involved in what she tells me and what her relatives tell me. I need a doctor's appraisal.

A cold sliver seemed to be lodged in her mind, chilling as it irritated. The night before. Who knew she was Marty Collier? Who had tried to force her to intimacies, believing that she would welcome them? Jules? Charn? An unknown man, someone she couldn't even imagine? Surely it hadn't been Bran—how could he have gotten into the house? She thrust away the thoughts.

“Instead of you talking to Henry,” Martha said, “I think I'd better ask Jules if we can go into Victoria today. He may have something else he wants me to do.”

“Oh, all right,” Josephine replied. “I suppose you must.”

No one was at the table when they went down to breakfast, but Charn came in after they'd been served. “Quite an early start this morning,” he said.

“You mean, for me or for you?” Josephine countered, smiling at him.

“Both of us. Maybe Martha will prove to be a good influence.” He smiled back at them.

Martha looked into his clear blue eyes and wondered if he could possibly have been the man in her room the previous night.

Later, talking to Jules in the library, she asked herself the same question. How could either of the men have confronted her so openly that morning if they were guilty?

“I think Josephine would enjoy a trip to Victoria,” Jules said. “As a matter of fact, I believe I'll join you. We'll go after lunch, perhaps have tea in the Empress Hotel. I haven't been in years. It's a touristy thing to do, but it's rather fun.”

Jules didn't look like a man who ever did touristy things. Nor did he seem a man who would invade her room. His dark eyes were reserved, even wary.

“Sarah mentioned she'd like to come along,” Martha said.

A crease appeared between Jules's brows.

“I think she wants to buy something,” Martha added.

“I imagine she can stay with Henry, then,” Jules said. “I don't know that the art gallery or tea at the hotel would interest her.”

Did having the child with him in public make him uncomfortable? Martha wondered. For the first time, the significance of Josephine's remark about Jules's wife's death struck her. Six years earlier, Josephine had said. Cynthia had died six years earlier. And Sarah was six. Had Jules been having an illicit affair while his wife was still alive? With Sarah as the result?

“You can tell your friend he's quite mistaken if he thinks I can be manipulated into giving up the whale,” Jules said suddenly. “Now that I've had time to consider the coincidence, I wonder if you haven't arrived here wearing false colors.”

Chapter Six

Martha stared blankly at Jules. What was he talking about?

“Your phone call at dinner last night, the same man coming to see me from the museum today. You say you 'happened' to meet on the ferry. I doubt the coincidence.”

“If you're referring to Bran Lowrey, I can assure you I've told you the truth.” She raised her chin. “I'll submit my resignation anytime you wish.”

He waved his hand. “No, no. I need you here, since you are a nurse—I've checked out your credentials. If I find I'm wrong about the conspiracy, you'll have my apologies.” His voice held an edge of mockery.

What an arrogant man! she thought, furious. “If I'm to stay, I do have a request,” she told him, keeping her voice steady with effort. “I'd like to talk to Dr. Marston about Josephine—today, if possible.”

Jules frowned. “Why the hurry?” he asked.

“Because I must hear the doctor's version of Josephine's problems before I can be sure of myself with her.”

“That could wait.”

Martha eyed him coldly. “I'm afraid I must insist.”