Curse of Black Tor (7 page)

He shrugged again. “Very well. I'll give you his number.”

“Thank you.” Head held high, she marched from the room. Passing through the foyer, she glanced upward at the leaping killer whale. How could it be connected with her or Bran? She stopped, feeling heat in her cheeks. Had Bran deliberately introduced himself to her on the boat, knowing she was coming to Black Tor?

But then she relaxed and started up the stairs. He couldn't have known she was—there was no way for him to have found out. She wasn't much for coincidence, but that's all their meeting could have been. He had seen her get into the Rolls, however, and that explained his continued interest in her, despite her lack of encouragement.

At least the accusation from Jules, humiliating as it was, had warned her of Bran's motives. She'd certainly not see him again. If only Jules didn't intend to come with them that day, Martha thought, although she recognized the wisdom of his being along. She didn't yet know enough about Josephine.

Josephine accepted the fact of Jules's joining them with resignation. “I told you he spies on me,” was all she said.

Martha called Dr. Marston before noon. “So you're Josephine's new companion,” he said. “A psychiatric nurse, I hear. Very fine. The girl needs someone her age, but a capable someone.”

“Doctor, I'd like to talk to you about her past history.”

“And I'd like to talk to you, too, Miss Jamison. Jules tells me you'll be in town today. Why don't you drop by around three?”

“Yes, of course, doctor. Thank you.”

So, after visiting the art gallery, Martha went to Dr. Marston's office while Henry drove Jules, Sarah and Josephine to shop.

Dr. Marston was about fifty, with wavy chestnut hair barely touched with gray. He wore tweed, and a pipe lay on his desk. Chestnut eyes confronted her through rimless glasses. Not mod at all, she thought. Quite English, really. His diplomas delineated his progress from medical school through internship and psychiatric residency and testified to his membership in the proper medical societies.

“Not only a psych nurse, but quite pretty, too, I see. Josephine is fortunate.”

Martha smiled tentatively. “I like Josephine,” she said. “But I get varying stories from those around her.”

Dr. Marston nodded, then leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands, patting the fingertips together lightly. “I didn't see Josephine Garrard as a patient until she was nineteen years old. At that time, she'd returned from the States and was living once again at Black Tor. She'd been home for some time but hadn't been eating well. Norman Garrard, her father, called and asked me to see her. I suggested their family physician, but Norman insisted on me. I found the girl depressed, with some evidence of having experienced an amnesiac state for the previous two years. She seemed to have no idea what had happened to her in that time.”

Dr. Marston brought his chair upright and rested his elbows on the desk. “I was reluctant to stay on the case.”

“Why?” Martha asked.

“Lack of information. Deliberate concealment. I've never been told where Josephine stayed during those two years in the States. Was she in an institution for the mentally ill? I don't know. Norman isn't talking, and Josephine honestly doesn't know.”

“But you're her doctor at present?”

Dr. Marston took off his glasses and polished them. “Only because of my long friendship with the Garrard family.” He sighed. “Well, Josephine gradually emerged from her depression, her appetite improved, and although she was reluctant to leave the house, I felt quite optimistic about her future. Until last year.” He leaned forward, holding her eyes with his. “You must be very careful of possible suicide attempts, Miss Jamison. There've been three in this past year. An overdose of drugs twice and a fall.”

“A fall?”

“Josephine may tell you she was pushed. But--” He sighed again and picked up his pipe.

“She apparently tried to throw herself off the cliff near the house. Her clothes caught on a bush, and one of the gardeners found her and managed to rescue her. She was unconscious from a head injury—a mild concussion, from which she recovered. That was the first. The next time, she tried drugs, and the little girl found her and alerted the nurse they had then. I believe she was the one before the woman you replaced.”

“How many nurses has Josephine had?”

Dr. Marston thought for a moment. “Five that I know of. All older women, until now. I think the change to someone Josephine's age is an excellent idea.”

“And the last suicide attempt?”

“Drugs again. I thought she'd stopped taking them and they'd been tossed out, but evidently not. This time she had a change of heart afterward and managed to crawl from her bed to the window and throw something through the glass. One of the servants heard the glass shatter.”

The gardener again? Martha wondered. This Bill Wong who handled the mysterious note?

“Josephine denies that she took any drugs knowingly,” Dr. Marston went on, “as I'm sure she told you; but you must remember that she's recovering from a depression, and you know, of course, that's the dangerous time for suicide attempts—during the recovery period.”

Martha nodded.

“I've been at a loss to treat whatever pathology underlies the depression,” he said. “Josephine hasn't divulged much material except for her feeling of desertion when her mother died, her overall feeling of being unwanted in the household, of being unloved. Those two missing years remain obstinately locked away—to Josephine as well as to me.”

“But—Mr. Garrard must know, Josephine's father. Or her aunt, Mrs. Drew.”

“As I've told you, Miss Jamison, I've been hampered by their refusal to tell me. All the same, I believed until last year that Josephine might recover enough to resume a fairly normal life. Now, of course, my prognosis is more guarded. She seems to have persecution feelings, thinks everyone is watching her.” He nodded slowly. “To some extent she's right—we don't want her to try to take her life again.”

“But, doctor, she locks her door at night—anything could happen and I wouldn't be able to get in,” Martha exclaimed.

“The locked door was my idea,” Dr. Marston said. “An attempt to allay her notion of being spied on. Jules has an extra key, of course. I'm surprised he hasn't told you. But there's some arrangement whereby you can look into her room from the one next door. Your bedroom, I would imagine.”

Martha stared at the doctor. Why hadn't anyone told her?

“Is she psychotic, then?” she asked.

Dr. Marston frowned. “Without those two years--” He paused. “On the basis of what I've seen—no. But there's always the question: did she have a schizophrenic break at sixteen? She shows certain indications that that might have been the case, but there's not enough for me to be sure.”

Martha's mind whirred with conjecture as she watched Dr. Marston load his pipe from a humidor on his desk. Should she tell him about Diego? Maybe it was all a fantasy on Josephine's part. Still—there was the note. Unless Josephine had somehow arranged with this gardener to pretend to deliver a note to— No, wait—Sarah had mentioned seeing a man. If the note was genuine, then maybe Diego was, too. She should tell someone, and Dr. Marston seemed to be the logical person.

The receptionist came in to inform the doctor that a patient was waiting to see him.

“Will you excuse me, Miss Jamison?” he asked.

“Doctor, I think I should tell you—”

“We'll make another appointment in a month—I'd like to have your view of Josephine as you come to know her. Good day.” He left the room.

Martha shrugged. She could always call him if this Diego business came to anything.

She left Dr. Marston's office and began walking down Douglas Street toward the Empress Hotel, where she was to meet the others in the lobby at four o'clock. She could see the huge turreted building as she approached, and soon she was close enough to make out every tiny balcony, tower and chimney, many seemingly stuck on for no reason. Ivy clung to the weathered brick. How many stories— five, six?

Tea and crumpets in the lobby. She'd never had crumpets. What were they, anyway?

They'd never been to England, she and Johann. The money rolled in and the money rolled out. Johann spent whatever he made, and she didn't work for those four years—he laughed when she mentioned working. Still, there'd been more money than she'd dreamed of or even wanted, though Johann was never satisfied. They made impulsive trips to Acapulco and Hawaii, to the Caribbean, and to Las Vegas for Johann's gambling. But not to England. No crumpets.

Nor was Martha to taste a crumpet that day. As she approached the hotel entrance, she saw Henry's gray uniform barring her way. “Pardon me, miss, but Mr. Jules would like you to come to the car. It's this way, miss.”

“Is Josephine all right, Henry?”

“As far as I know, miss.”

Henry seated her in the back with Jules and Josephine. Sarah didn't raise her head from the comic book in which she was engrossed.

“I'm sorry to postpone tea at the Empress,” Jules said. “We're going back to the house.”

“That's quite all right,” Martha said. She glanced at Josephine, who sat in the middle, and saw a smile quivering on her lips. Three suicide attempts? Martha thought. Josephine's pale skin was slightly flushed and she looked lovely. She looked—happy.

“The museum is over there,” Jules pointed out as Henry turned a corner. “We're quite proud of this whole complex—bell tower, museum and community center. All new, and yet integrated architecturally.”

Martha found it attractive and said so, all the time wondering if Jules were mocking her, referring in some way to her supposed conspiracy with Branwell Lowrey.

“Jules is mad at me,” Josephine said.

He flashed his sister a malevolent look.

“He thinks I tried to run away.” Josephine laughed. “I really didn't.”

“We'll discuss the matter later,” Jules said curtly.

“Oh, don't be such a stick.” Josephine's voice was light. “Henry and Sarah are perfectly aware of what's going on.
”
''

Jules clenched his jaw, and Martha could see the muscles bunch together in his face. She turned away.

“I thought I saw someone I knew, so I ran out of the store to say hello, and Jules…” Josephine turned up her hands and shrugged. “He thought I was escaping—isn't that the word, Jules?”

“This is neither the time nor the place for—”

Josephine laughed, and Jules stopped abruptly, reaching over and grasping his sister's arm above the elbow. “That's quite enough,” he said. “You're not a child to indulge yourself at others' expense.
”

Martha saw how his fingers dug in, but Josephine gave no sign that he was hurting her. “Oh,” she said, “excuse me, dear kind brother Jules.”

He let her go and turned his head away. There was no more conversation during the drive back.

When they reached the house, Josephine hurried inside and ran up the stairs. Martha would have followed her, but Jules held her back. “You'll have to watch her closely,” he said. “No trips to town. She tried to evade me in the store—deliberately. And this nonsense about seeing someone she knew? Josephine's been back home for four years and she's never tried to contact anyone. In fact, she's refused to see former friends when they've called here.”

“I'll be careful,” Martha said. “But are you sure she didn't catch sight of someone from—from the past? She—”

“Don't let her fool you, Martha. Josephine can be extremely devious. I assure you, she was trying to get away from me.”

“But why?”

“I'm sure Dr. Marston spoke of the suicide attempts. How do I know what went through her head today? My theory is, she wanted to find a drug source.”

“Has she been taking drugs without the doctor's advice?”

“I don't think she has lately.” Jules frowned. “I can't be sure. She was addicted to barbiturates when she, uh, came home. Dr. Marston advised a slow withdrawal to prevent serious physical problems, and we all believed it was working, until Josephine tried to kill herself. She must have been hiding them all along.”

Why hadn't the doctor come right out and said that? Martha wondered. Everyone seemed to speak partial truths.

Chapter Seven

“Jo said she was going to hang her hair out the window because she’d she'd been shut up in the tower too long,” Sarah told them. “Does she mean like Rapunzel in the story? Because her hair isn't long enough, and besides, it's not golden.”

“We'd better go up there,” Jules stated.

“Why not let me go alone?” Martha asked.

Jules stared at her for a moment.

“What good am I to you if you won't allow me any responsibility?” she asked.

“I wish I could be—sure of you,” he said.

“I think you should stay away from Josephine for the rest of the day,” Martha told him. “You might provoke her where I wouldn't, since she has nothing to prove to me.”

Jules sighed. “You may be right.” His eyes hadn't left hers, and she felt almost mesmerized by his gaze. Such dark eyes, like the magic fairy-tale pool in the woodland, that dark bottomless pool luring the unwary to enchantment and death...