Green Darkness (11 page)

“It’s Celia,” she cried. “Dreadfully sick, going to the hospital, and Richard . . .” She choked and bit her lips.

There was a startled pause. Then Myra clasped the older woman’s arm. “I’m so
sorry,
Mrs. Taylor. What can we do? Except keep out of the way and go home? How dreadful for you, could I help with my car?”

She was too well-mannered to press for details, but Sue burst out in dismay, “Oh, Cousin Lily, she’s not goin’ to lose the baby, is she?”

“Baby?” Lily shook her head distractedly. “I’ve got to go now, I just wanted you to know. Dodge will serve lunch, I suppose.” Lily sped back into the house.

“Poor woman,” said Myra. “And poor Celia. Obviously, we’d better clear out. I’ll give you a lift back to town, Igor—and Harry, too, if he turns up. I don’t feel responsible for the Simpsons—that ghastly creature—but I do wonder where Richard is. I should think not the sort of man to go to pieces in emergency, but then,
he’s
been acting very odd. Oh well . . .” She shrugged her delicate shoulders and went off to summon a maid.

Upstairs in the Marsdon bedroom, Akananda was consulting with the elderly Dr. Foster from Lewes, who had arrived an hour ago. The doctor looked and acted like an irritable country squire, beet-faced, clipped gray mustache. He stood frowning down at Celia, and spoke to the Hindu with impatient condescension.

“Appalling sight, she is,” he barked. “Certainly in shock. Some kind of hysterical seizure, I suppose, but bound to admit I’ve never seen the like. What’s the matter with those arms! And the
eyes!
”

He whipped off the handkerchief with which Akananda had covered Celia’s pale, clammy face before her mother could see it. The distended eyes showed white as a terrified mares, and were transfixed to the left. Foster flicked an eyeball with a corner of the handkerchief, but there was no reaction. Her arms were still raised rigid above her head, the stiffened fingers curled in a clutching position. Both doctors had tried to lower the arms, and found them unyielding as iron.

“Girl’s not quite dead, yet,” went on Foster, “I think I get a pulse of around thirty, don’t you? And she
is
breathing, after a fashion.”

Akananda nodded. “I believe she may live,” he said, “though the adrenalin seems to have had no effect. We will have a better idea of her cardiac function after an EKG. Then strychnine perhaps . . . or cortisone?”

Foster shot an annoyed and puzzled glance at Akananda. The fellow spoke with authority, the sobbing mother who had telephoned said he was a physician, but there was something fishy. Young woman who looked as though she was dying of fright. And where was the husband?

“Where is Sir Richard?” he asked. “He ought to be here.”

“He is absent. Nor is his presence needed. Shall we take her now?”

Foster found himself calling the ambulance attendants. The men lifted Celia onto the stretcher.

“Mind the arms,” said Foster. “They won’t bend, we’ll have to be careful in the passages.”

Lily had stayed in her room as Akananda had requested. She was dressed and waiting when he put his head in while the procession passed.

“Come along,” he said gently. “We’re off to hospital in Easebourne.”

“But where’s Richard?” she wailed. “Where did he go after he finally roused you?”

“I don’t know,” said Akananda. “He rushed downstairs, and perhaps out of the house. We’ll look for him later.
Pray,
Mrs. Taylor—for your daughter and for Sir Richard.”

“Not for
him,
” she said through tight lips. “He’s run away. It’s inhuman.” She joined the stretcher and its bearers in the hall.

All
too
human, Akananda thought. That glimpse he had had of Richard as he cried hoarsely, “Celia . . . go to Celia, I’m frightened.” If there were ever guilt and horror on a face, in a voice . . . What could possibly have happened in a couple of hours last night to bring on these disasters? His psychiatric service at the Maudesley had accustomed him to the fetid aura of madness and impending suicide, but he had never before been so personally involved with the patients, nor felt as helpless.

The sun was rising when Sir Richard had summoned him, then disappeared. During the delay in locating Dr. Foster, who was away on an emergency call, Akananda never left Celia’s bedside; but he had no medications with him, and could do nothing but elevate the feet, pile blankets on her and try to sustain the unconscious girl by the force of his will. The servants were in the dark until the ambulance came, and then Dodge kept them under strict discipline, milling and whispering in their quarters. However, there was one whom he could not control, and when Lily set foot on the ambulance step, Nanny flew out of the manor.

“Madam,” she cried shrilly, “wha’ ails her ladyship?” She pushed past Lily and blinked down at the inert body on the stretcher. “The lass isna
deid!
” she faltered.

“No, no,” said Dr. Foster, who had known the little Scottish nurse for years. “Go back, Mrs. Cameron. See if you can find Sir Richard.”

“The maister . . . The young maister—what’s he done?” Her voice trembled, the bright robin-eyes filmed with anxiety.

“He hasn’t done anything that I know of,” said Foster impatiently. “He simply isn’t here. Carry on,” he said to the driver, who threw in his clutch and set off the klaxon’s raucous hooting.

Nanny Cameron watched the ambulance careen down the drive and turn towards Easebourne. “Oh, dear-r, dear-r, dear-r,” she whispered, her little mouth working. She straightened her shoulders and drew a difficult breath. As she reentered the house the Duchess was descending the stairs.

Myra was already dressed in a smart town frock, carrying an alligator handbag. She recognized Nanny at once as more than a servant, though hitherto unseen, and said with kindly authority, “Is there anyone to bring my car round and fetch the luggage? The staff seem disorganized. I’m so sorry her ladyship is ill, and we’ll all leave at once. But would you know where Sir Richard is?”

“I wouldna, your grace.” Nanny had heard descriptions of the Duchess in the servants’ hall, and been secretly pleased that Medfield Place housed a highborn aristocrat as it often used to in the past, before the preceding Lady Marsdon died.

“I’ll be sairching for the maister.” She added with pleading, “He can’t be far, and he’d tak’ shame if ye left wi’out a fareweel. The gardener’s lad’ll look to the car and the luggage, your grace, but will ye no bide a wee while?”

Myra considered, then reluctantly acquiesced. She longed to be out of the confused, subtly menacing atmosphere, but she also felt an obligation to remain. In the absence of host, hostess and Mrs. Taylor, it seemed necessary for someone to take over, at least temporarily.

“I’ll wait here,” she said, indicating the drawing room.

Nanny sketched a curtsy and hurried away. The other guests gradually joined Myra, even Harry, who had come back from his walk and was thoroughly startled by the news.

“Extraordinary . . . extraordinary,” he kept saying. “Celia wasn’t ill last night.
Ambulance,
you say? What could have happened to her?”

Nobody knew, and Harry was aware of a surprising pang. Pity, almost tenderness. Celia’d behaved like a little strumpet last night, he thought, wondering why he used such an old-fashioned word. “Prickteaser” was more accurate—letting him fondle and kiss her in the garden, then pulling back and slapping his face like a barmaid. He had been very angry, but now he wasn’t. He felt a twinge of protective tenderness and a certainty that whatever her sudden illness was, Richard Marsdon was making the girl miserable. Damn his eyes, Harry thought. I wish I’d never come down for this bloody weekend.

All the guests shared Harry’s view in varying degrees, but George Simpson felt the most fervent regret, as he struggled to rouse his wife to a semblance of normalcy. Edna had finally been wakened from her stertorous, twitching sleep by the ambulance siren. Her head pounded and when she tried to raise it, she retched.

“Where’s me tonic?” she asked George thickly, when she saw him standing by the bed.

“It’s all gone.” He looked at the empty quart bottle in the trash basket. “Get up, Edna, get dressed. Lady Marsdon’s very ill, been taken to hospital.”

Between puffy lids her eyes focused slowly. “Lady Marsdon . . .? Very ill . . .?”

He nodded, and drew back as she smiled. There was malicious triumph in the upcurved lips, the puffy eyes. She mumbled something like “Hope she dies.”

George grabbed her thick shoulders, and yanked her upright.

“Before God, I don’t know
how,
but I think you’re drunk! Here, get to the bathroom, I’ll douse you in cold water!”

She shook off his hands and became the picture of offended dignity.

“How dare you, George! You know very well I’ve never touched a drop in me life. It’s joost the headache. It hurts something cruel.” She sagged back onto the pillow. Her mouth fell open, a trickle of saliva dribbled from the corner.

George gazed down at the bed. What’ll I do with her? Can’t let anyone see her like this. The servants’ll talk. And Sir Richard, what would
he
think . . . respectable firm . . . I
can’t’ve
seen that gloating look she had on her face. He shuddered and sank down on the desk chair, his head in his hands.

Nanny Cameron was searching for her young master. She went first to the library, where the Marsdon Chronicle was kept. The library was empty, and the great vellum book rested in its accustomed place on the top shelf. Nanny took it down and ran a tentative finger over the gold-embossed cockatrice on the front cover.

“Beware,” she said aloud, knowing well the motto. “I doot he’s listened sharp enough to the war-rning.” She shook her head, then she had a flash of “the sight,” which was as much a part of her Highland heritage as rugged common sense. Guided by the flash she lugged the heavy book over to the lectern in the alcove, opened it at random. She squinted at a page near the beginning. It was covered with faded close-set lines, long curly strokes, and tiny ripples above what must be letters. She could decipher but a few words.

“All Hallowes Eve . . . unshriven deeds bringe sorrowe to our house . . . terrible lust . . . I command my heires . . . fear of damnation . . . murdered girle . . . Medfeilde . . .”

There was a faint pencil line down the margin beside the entry.

“’Tis this he reads and moithers over when the mood’s on him,” she murmured. “Evil fra’ the lang, lang ago, yet her-re again amangst us. The Good Lord ha’ mercy.”

She sighed dolefully, shut the Marsdon Chronicle, replaced it on the shelf. She hurried from the library, and started on a systematic search through the great mansion. She had reached the foot of the attic stairs in the west wing when she thought of the music room. Aye, to be
sure.
Along dark passages, up and down steps, she trudged to the old schoolroom.

“Sir Richard . . .” she called softly. “Maister-r Richard.” There was no sound inside. Nanny tried the door. It was locked. She rapped and called again. “Maister-r . . . ’tis only Nanny. Open up!”

Her ears were sharp and they caught a faint rustling noise. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. Twenty years ago she had stood like this rapping at this very door. The bad time when the lad was twelve; the weary care, the trouble and the horrifying memories. She rapped again, harder.

“Open up! Sir Richard!” she cried in the nursery tone of command. “’Tis Nanny!”

Still there was no answer, and no more sound. “I’ll get them to break the door-r in!” Her voice shrilled with fear.

After a moment she heard a hoarse response. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone!”

She slumped against the door, steadying herself on the knob.

“Maister, her ladyship is ta’en verra bad, gone to hospital. Your guests await ye. Come down to them!”

There was another long silence before she heard a thickened shout. “For Christ’s sake, let me
be!
”

Though she stayed a few minutes, pleading and exhorting, there was no further sound from inside the schoolroom.

Nanny plodded back along the passages. She descended the stairs and went to the drawing room. Everyone looked up expectantly.

“Any luck?” asked Myra. “Have you found Sir Richard?”

“Aye, your grace, may I speak private wi’ ye?”

Myra rose and followed her into Richard’s study. “Well, where is he?” she asked.

Nanny shook her head. “He’s locked himsel’ i’ the old schoolroom. He willna come oot. Doom hae laid its dreedful hand on the Marsdons.”

“Oh, come, Mrs.—what’s your name, by the way?”

“Jeannie Cameron, your grace. I was nurse to Sir Richard since he was a babby.”

Myra nodded. Her own nanny had been much like this. Sensible, fiercely loyal, but superstitious.

“Well, Nanny,” Myra resumed, smiling, “I’m sure there’s no need to fear doom just because Lady Marsdon is ill and Sir Richard wishes solitude. We’ll leave for London, and you must give our sympathy and farewells to Sir Richard when he appears. That’s all.”

Nanny’s black eyes looked sadly up at the beautiful, impatient face. “He will
not
appear-r, your grace.”

It was a flat statement, and unpleasantly convincing.

Myra exhaled, sat down on the cushioned Tudor armchair opposite Richard’s tidy desk, lit a cigarette, and said, “Just what do you mean by that? I don’t understand.”

“No,” said Nanny. Her rosy cheeks puckered like a withering apple. “Ye dinna understand.”

Oh, Lord,
must
I? Myra thought. All very sad that Celia was ill, and Richard apparently going round the bend—locking himself in that dreary schoolroom and sulking—distressing behavior but nothing to do with
me.
She glanced through the open casement window at her car, which was now waiting ready-loaded by the front steps. Take about two hours to get back in town, then give Gilbert a ring, arrange something for tonight, something exciting, forget this mess . . . 

“Your grace,” said Jeannie Cameron quietly, “I’m sore afeared, and there’s nobody else her-re I weesh to tell why to.”