Victoria Holt (38 page)

“We must find out what it is,” said Daisy. “It seems the poor child has a weak stomach…nothing serious. When we discover what is causing these upsets we shall be able to stop them.”

Eugenie seemed to take the attacks lightly for two days later she was playing Juliet with great verve.

There was an atmosphere of Christmas in the town. The shop windows displayed goods and invited people to shop early for Christmas. Mrs. Baddicombe had a special window full of cards and had white cotton wool on strings like beads hanging down to give an impression of falling snow.

When I went in, she said: “Do you like my window? Christmassy, don’t ’ee think? And how is it up at the school now? Getting ready for the break. Mind you there’s a whole month to go yet.”

I said we were all well and I hoped it was the same with her.

“We’re that busy,” she said, “and likely to get more. How’s that Miss Verringer? I heard she was very poorly. That maid up there…she said the poor girl was very ill, and she wouldn’t be surprised if she were sickening for something.”

“That’s nonsense. She just has a weak stomach, that’s all.”

“Weak stomachs can be a sign of something worse…according to that maid of yours…”

“What maid?”

“The foreign-looking one. Oh, she’s not really foreign but there’s something different about her. Elsa…is it?”

“Oh, I know. She talked about Miss Verringer, did she?”

Mrs. Baddicombe nodded. “If you want my opinion, she’s upset about her sister going off like that. Nobody’s ever heard where she be to, have they?”

“I daresay she’ll be bringing her husband home in due course,” I said.

“It’s to be hoped she’s got one.”

“Mrs. Baddicombe, you shouldn’t…”

“But you know what men are. Or perhaps you don’t. But you’ll find out.” Her eyes twinkled. “Soon, I shouldn’t wonder.”

I found all my resentment rising against her. I did not want her inventing illnesses for Eugenie so I hesitated and said: “Miss Verringer is quite well. We haven’t any anxiety about her health.”

“Well, nobody could be more glad than me to hear that. If you ask me that girl…what’s her name…Elsa?…I reckon she’s a bit of a gossip.”

I couldn’t help smiling and Mrs. Baddicombe went on: “She’s not a bad-looking girl. I think she’s got someone tucked away…in foreign parts, I reckon.”

“What do you mean…tucked away?”

“I reckon she’s over here saving up to get married. She’s always writing to someone…and it’s a man. I’ve seen the name on the envelope when she’s sticking on the stamp. A Mr. Somebody…I couldn’t quite see the name. Well, it’s not easy upside down. I said to her I said in fun like, ‘Oh, another love letter, eh?’ and she just smiled and wouldn’t say a thing. When you think how she’ll come in here and talk…But some can be close about themselves though ready enough to talk of others. But I know there’s somebody. She’s always writing to him. And he seems to be on the move a bit…sometimes it’s one country, sometimes another. I have to look up the cost of the stamp. France…Germany…Austria…Switzerland…all of them places. Last time it was Austria.”

“Perhaps she has lovers in all those places,” I said.

“No, it’s the same one…as far as I can see. Sometimes she’ll get the stamps and don’t put them in on the counter. Then I am in the dark.”

“How perverse of her.”

“Well, that’s life, ain’t it? You’ll be going home soon I expect. Nice for you.”

I bought my stamps and came out.

I always felt there was something sinister about that abnormal curiosity of hers. The idea of checking up on the stamps people bought and not only speculating about the recipients of the mail but discussing it with anyone who came into the shop!

Toward the end of November it started to snow.

“They boast in this part of the world that they only see snow once in seventeen years,” commented Eileen. “This is two years running. We must be approaching another ice age.”

The girls enjoyed it. It was fun for them to be cut off for several days. From our windows the ruins looked like something out of another world—ethereal and delicately beautiful.

“I wish the wind would drop,” I said. “When it blows from the north it makes queer whining noises like souls in distress.”

Eileen said: “It must be all those monks rising up in protest against old Henry who destroyed their Abbey.”

“That’s no reason why they should complain to us,” I pointed out.

“They’re complaining about the injustices of the world,” retorted Eileen. “Mind you, we all feel like that sometimes.”

“Oh, Eileen, you’re contented enough.”

“I shall be when we break up for Christmas. Just imagine the bliss. No more trying to make Constables out of people who can’t draw a straight line. The only one here who has a modicum of talent is Eugenie Verringer, though Teresa Hurst is coming on nicely. No more lovers of Verona and that wretched pound of flesh. Clare Simpson sounds more like a pork butcher than a brilliant young lawyer. It was a great mistake to cast her as Portia.”

“She has two young sisters, candidates for the Academy,” I pointed out. “Don’t forget parents will be coming to the perfected performance.”

“Who knows it might be enough to put them off forever. I must say Charlotte makes a fair Romeo. She’s quite a good actress, that girl. I don’t think Eugenie is right for Juliet, but then the poor girl lost her sister. I wonder how Sir Henry Irving would like to choose his actors for Daisy’s reasons?”

“Oh, Eileen, it is only the school play!”

Eileen put on an air of mock despair. “How can I be expected to produce a masterpiece when you, my fellow conspirator in this impossible task, see it only as the school play!”

So it went on. The sessions in the calefactory were a great relief and Eileen was always amusing. There wasn’t one who was not looking forward with anticipation to the Christmas holidays.

It was the beginning of December. The cold persisted although we were able to get out. Miss Hetherington allowed tobogganing down the gentle slope and the girls were enjoying it immensely. The gardeners had made extra toboggans so that several of the girls should indulge at the same time.

Then one night I was awakened. This time by Eugenie.

“Miss Grant. Miss Grant.” She was shaking me. “Wake up. Charlotte. She’s ill…just as I was.”

I hastily put on my dressing gown and slippers and went to their room.

This was worse than Eugenie’s attacks. Charlotte was writhing in pain; she was very sick and her face was the same color as the sheets.

I said: “Get Miss Hetherington at once.”

Daisy came and I could see that even she was alarmed. This was a different aspect of the case. Eugenie might have had a weakness, but when another girl was taken ill that was a serious matter.

“We’ll get the doctor at once,” she said. “Go down to the stables and see if you can find Tom Rolt. Send him off immediately. Better put something warm on first. We don’t want you down with pneumonia.”

I hastily put on boots and a cloak and dashed out, my steps crunching on the snow, the wind blowing my hair about my face. I found Tom Rolt, who lived over the stables. He was disgruntled at being called out and it took him a little time to get the trap ready. He took it because he said he would be able to bring the doctor back with him.

This he did, but it was an hour and a half after Eugenie had awakened me before he came and by that time Charlotte was a little better. The pain seemed to have disappeared and she lay white and still in her bed.

The doctor was a little peevish to have been brought from his bed for what he considered to be another bilious attack. He had thought at first that it was Eugenie he was coming to see and was surprised to find it was another girl.

“It’s the same complaint,” he said. “There must be something here which is upsetting the girls.”

“I can assure you, Doctor,” said Daisy with a hint of righteous wrath, “that there is nothing in this school to harm my girls.”

“It is something they are taking. You see, Miss Hetherington, the symptoms are the same. There is something which is poisoning them and naturally they are rejecting it.”

“Poisoning them! I never heard of such a thing! Everything we eat here is of the best. We grow our own food. You can question the gardeners.”

“There are lots of new ideas now, Miss Hetherington. There are things that poison some and not others. It seems these two girls are rejecting something which they are eating.”

“Charlotte’s attack is worse than Eugenie’s.”

“It may be that she has not got the same resistance to it. This girl is very weak. She will have to rest for a week, I should say.”

“Oh dear, how distressing. We shall have to find a new Romeo.”

I couldn’t help smiling although I was upset to see Charlotte so ill. Heaven knew she had been a trial to me but she was pathetic now, a shadow of her former arrogant self.

“She should be carefully fed while she is recovering,” said the doctor. “Just a light diet. Boiled fish, milk puddings…”

“Of course,” said Daisy. “She should stay in bed, you say.”

“Yes, until she feels strong enough to get up. This will have weakened her considerably. The main thing is to be careful of what you give her to eat. There must be something which is not agreeing with the girls.”

“It is strange,” I commented, “that it should have happened to two in the same room.”

The doctor looked round the room as though searching for some evil there in those four walls.

“A coincidence most likely,” he said. He looked at Eugenie who was sitting on her bed looking frightened. “She should have absolute rest. She’ll sleep tonight for I am going to give her a sedative, and I should like her to sleep through tomorrow. It would be better if she could be in a room on her own.”

Miss Hetherington looked perplexed. “All the rooms are fully occupied at the moment…”

I said: “Eugenie’s bed could be moved into my room.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Miss Grant. We’ll get that done tomorrow. For a few nights, Eugenie, you will sleep in Miss Grant’s room. In the morning take what you need as quietly as you can.” She turned to me. “It would only be for a few nights. Then we’ll be back to normal.”

“Good,” said the doctor. “She’s sleeping now. She’ll be better in the morning…but rest and then very careful diet.”

“We need have no fears,” said Daisy. “Miss Grant is in charge of this section and she will see that everything is as you say it should be.”

“Yes, indeed I will, Miss Hetherington.”

“Well, I’m sorry we had to call you out, Doctor,” went on Daisy.

“Oh, that can’t be helped, Miss Hetherington.”

“I think you had better take a little brandy before Rolt drives you back.”

“Thank you. That would be pleasant.”

They went off leaving me in the room with the two girls.

“I should try to get some sleep now, Eugenie,” I said.

“I was so frightened, Miss Grant. She looked so ill. I thought she was going to die. Did I look as ill as all that?”

“Yes, you looked quite ill…and see how you recovered. Now go to sleep and in the morning your bed will be taken into my room.”

“Yes, Miss Grant.”

She was very subdued and unlike the Eugenie I had known.

On a sudden impulse I tucked her in and kissed her as I might a child. As soon as I had done it I reproached myself. But oddly enough, Eugenie seemed pleased. She smiled and said gently: “Good night, Miss Grant.”

***

In the morning Charlotte was still very weak and tired. Daisy brought up two men from the stables to move the bed and this was done quietly and with speed. The doctor came again and I could see that he was more concerned than he had been on the previous night. Then I supposed he had been a little irritated at being called out and been inclined to dismiss Charlotte’s indisposition as trivial.

He said: “It’s a case of rather virulent food poisoning.”

Daisy was horrified. She was quite fond of the girls though Charlotte’s nature had never been an endearing one, but her real concern was for the school. An elopement last term. A death by poisoning this! That could be fatal for the Academy.

During that first day Charlotte was very ill and Eugenie was very upset indeed. I was surprised that she could show such depth of feeling, even for her greatest friend, for she had never struck me as a particularly affectionate girl.

In a way it made her more vulnerable, more amenable, and oddly enough she seemed to cling to me for comfort. When we were in bed—she in hers under the crucifix which was carved into the wall and I on the other side of the room—she would lie sleepless and I sensed she desperately wanted to talk.

“Miss Grant,” she said on our first night. “Are you going to marry my uncle?”

I was taken completely by surprise. I stammered: “My dear Eugenie, what gave you such an idea?”

“Well, he wants to, I know. And he was always trying to be with you…though not so much now. I wouldn’t mind if you did. You’d be a sort of aunt, wouldn’t you? You mightn’t like it though. He’s not very nice. And Teresa says you are going to marry that other man John Somebody. She says he is lovely…”

“Well,” I said, trying to speak lightly, “you girls seem to have settled my fate.”

“Miss Grant, is Charlotte going to die?”

“Of course not. She’ll be better in a few days.”

“Suppose she did. She’d want to confess…about that letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one about Mrs. Martindale.”

“You sent that. You…and Charlotte!”

“Yes. We were so angry with you because you parted us when you first came. Charlotte said we’d have revenge. We’d bide our time, she said. That’s what we did and when it seemed as if it might be true, it didn’t seem so bad.”

“It was a wicked thing to do.”

“I know. That’s why I have to confess…in case Charlotte dies with it on her conscience. She wouldn’t want that.”

“First of all stop talking about Charlotte’s dying. You’ll laugh at yourself in a few days’ time. And as for that letter. It was silly and unkind, and only mean people send anonymous letters. Your accusations are quite untrue. Your uncle says that Mrs. Martindale went to London. If she wants to do that it is no one’s concern. Never do such a thing again.”