A Cruel Deception Read online

  He didn’t answer.

  On the far side of the street, a woman was hurrying by, her umbrella up as a light rain began to fall. It had been gray most of the afternoon, clouds heavy with rain that had held off until close to dusk. I hadn’t bothered with the lamps, and the room was lit only by the flickering flames in the hearth.

  When Lawrence Minton spoke, breaking the silence, I was caught off guard.

  “What was the poison?” His words were weak, but clear.

  Should I tell him the truth? I hadn’t mentioned my suspicions to Marina, and I wasn’t certain that I should tell the Lieutenant.

  “Do you think it was poison?” I asked.

  “What else could have made me so ill?”

  When I didn’t reply straightaway, he added, “You’re a Sister. You must know. Tell me.”

  “The greater part of my training was dealing with wounds,” I replied. “We didn’t expect to find poisonings on the battlefield.”

  He grunted. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but I thought he was swearing to himself. After a time, he spoke again. “It was in the laudanum, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it must have been. Neither Marina nor I have been ill.”

  “Oh, dear God.” Then, raising himself on one elbow, he glared at me. “It was your doing, then.”

  “It was not!” I told him emphatically. “In the first place, where would I have come by a poison? In the second, why would I wish to harm you?”

  “You went to Paris.”

  “I did. To see the family with whom I was expected to stay, while in the city. I owed it to them to explain why I was not coming to them after all. How do you think I might have brought poison into my conversation with them? Could I beg a little arsenic for some rats infesting the house where I’ve chosen to live at the moment? Perhaps you ought to ask the friend who brought you the bottle.”

  He lay back down, covering his eyes with one arm. “Go away. I don’t need you hovering.”

  I stood up. “That’s a very good sign that you’re beginning to recover.”

  I was at the door, reaching for the knob, when he said, “On your word. You didn’t put anything into my laudanum?”

  “I give you my word.” I opened the door. “But someone did. If it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Marina, you might wish to consider whether or not you have an enemy who wants you dead.”

  He didn’t answer. I closed the door to keep what little heat there was in the room, and shivering at the cold in the rest of the house, made my way down to the kitchen.

  By nine o’clock, a cold rain had set in, and when I went up to bed, two hot water bottles wrapped in my apron, I found two more blankets as well. Marina had gone to look in on the Lieutenant and see to his fire. I’d left her to it.

  The pigeon was huddled in his corner, looking thoroughly wretched, as I began to draw the drapes. I debated what to do, then went down to the kitchen. In the back hall, leading out to the garden, I found a small wooden box that onions had come in, and dug around among the boots and waterproof coats until I discovered a knit cap that was ragged along one edge. Carrying them with me, I went up the back stairs rather than answer any questions about what I was doing.

  Making a bed of the cap, I set the box on the table by the window, opened the sash and reached out for the bird. He came to hand easily, and I put him in the box. He settled at once. I closed the window, drew the drapes, and dried my face and hands on the towel hanging on the rack beside the washstand. By the time I’d undressed and crawled between the cold sheets, the pigeon had tucked his head beneath his good wing and gone to sleep. I stretched my feet toward the hot water bottles and warmed them as I pulled the blankets over me.

  My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was that Lieutenant Minton had been put off using the laudanum, and perhaps this would be the turning point in getting him well.

  My lamp was still burning when I woke with a start, unsure what had brought me up out of a deep sleep. I reached for my traveling clock. The hands were pointing to three in the morning.

  And then I heard it again. A man’s voice shouting angrily. I couldn’t be sure where it was coming from, but I was wide awake, certain that the Lieutenant was awake, feeling stronger, and demanding his bottle of laudanum. Was he willing to take the risk of being poisoned rather than do without the sedative? I couldn’t leave Marina to face his anger alone.

  I reached for my robe. My slippers were icy as I thrust my bare feet into them and hurried to my door.

  I could hear someone stumbling about downstairs, shouting and bumping into things. Catching up my lamp, I went down the passage, dark as pitch save for the light I was carrying. I passed Marina’s door. She was standing in it, her face a pale blur above the white nightgown she was wearing.

  “I’ll see to him,” I said, hoping that she wouldn’t follow me downstairs.

  But she didn’t speak, and I hurried on.

  Halfway down the staircase, I could see Lieutenant Minton leaning against the far wall below me. He was butting his head against the paneling and crying out in what appeared to be pain.

  Experienced as I was with men in the throes of nightmares and delirium, I said as I came down the steps, “That’s enough of that. Go to bed.” It was the no-nonsense voice of a ward Sister.

  He turned to look at me then. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing me at all. I wondered then if he was sleepwalking.

  But what did he see? He went on staring at me, lit as I was by the lamp in my hand, my hair down, my blue robe unfamiliar to him. The rest of the hall was in darkness.

  “You turned your back on me then. Why? I went back. I couldn’t help it if it was too late. I never meant it to be too late.”

  I stayed where I was, watching his face. It was begging me for something, and I had no idea what that was. I considered shell shock, but I rather thought he was lost in the past, reliving something that he couldn’t face in the light of day.

  “Say something,” he pleaded, one hand reaching out. “Don’t just stand there and judge me. I tried, in the name of God, I tried.”

  Suddenly he was looking past me—above me—and I realized that Marina had followed me, her pale face and white gown just at the edge of the ring of light from my lamp. She was almost ghostly, standing there. And I thought that he hadn’t recognized her, that he was seeing someone—something—else.

  Falling to his knees, he began to cry, wracking sobs. Marina started down, intending to go to him, but I put out my hand to stop her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands. “God knows I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t think he was speaking to me now.

  A cold draft on the stairs was chilling my feet, all the way to my knees, in spite of my robe. I said quietly as much to Marina as to the man on his knees, “Go to bed, it will be better in the morning.”

  I looked in her direction, and Marina turned and fled back up the stairs, her bare feet silent on the treads.

  Chancing it, I blew out my lamp, plunging the Lieutenant and myself into stygian darkness, even the handsome fanlight above the door barely visible. After what seemed like hours but must have been only ten minutes or so, Lawrence Minton was quiet, only his erratic breathing telling me where he was.

  I had seldom seen a man cry as he had done. Whatever was on his mind or even his soul, he carried a burden almost too heavy to bear, and I could understand now why he had turned to an opiate to dull the grief or the pain he couldn’t talk about to anyone.

  I stayed there on the stairs, afraid to leave him alone.

  And then he got shakily to his feet, stumbling once, and then walking erratically toward the door to the parlor. A hand found the newel post of the stairs and then the frame of the door as he made his way to the parlor and the bedding we’d set out by the hearth. I heard a soft thump as he threw himself down. I waited, shivering, until I could hear a faint snoring. The sleep of exhaustion, I thought as I went quietly down the remainin
g steps and looked in to see his shape huddled under a blanket.

  My first thought was to pull one of the other blankets over him, but I was afraid of waking him. They were close by, if he needed them. I could—should—do no more.

  Shutting the parlor door as quietly as I could, I collected my lamp and climbed the stairs, feeling the stiffness of standing so long in the draft. My hand on the bannister guided me, and I could just see the passage to my room as I reached the first-floor landing.

  Marina’s door was closed when I passed it, and then I was at my own. Fumbling for matches, I was able to light my lamp again and put it on the desk, rather than disturb the sleeping pigeon by carrying it across to the nightstand by the bed.

  I kicked off my slippers, kept on my robe, and got back into bed. It was as cold as I felt, and I lay there shivering until I was finally warm enough to sleep.

  Who had Lieutenant been talking to, there on the stairs, before Marina appeared above me?

  Who had turned his or her back on him? Was it a woman? Or had he been unable in his state to realize it was me, seeing instead whatever troubled him. I’d wanted to know what that was, but I was still uncertain, unable to decipher what he’d said. Perhaps it was a part of a conversation he remembered—and as I hadn’t been a party to it, I couldn’t even guess at the context. And why had Marina’s sudden appearance reduced him to tears? It was rather ghostly, he might not have recognized her any more than he’d recognized me. Still, she had triggered that anguish.

  In the end, I lay there, watching sheets of rain battering at the window until nearly five in the morning before finally falling asleep.

  Marina didn’t come down for breakfast.

  I made my own, saving the heel of the bread for the pigeon. It was still raining hard. Looking out the window toward the back garden, I could see puddles standing everywhere, rivulets running in the shallow places. A wretched day after a wretched night.

  Pulling the shawl I’d found in a drawer in my armoire more closely around my shoulders, I wondered if I should ask the Lieutenant if he could eat a little toast with the last of the tea, but when I looked in on him, he was sleeping heavily. Deciding not to disturb him, I went on up the stairs.

  As I was passing Marina’s door, it opened and she stopped short at seeing me just outside.

  She looked drawn, her eyes puffy. I didn’t think she’d got much sleep.

  “Bonjour,” I said. “Shall I make a little breakfast for you?”

  “I don’t think I could swallow it.” Then, as if fearful of the answer, she asked, “How is Lawrence?”

  “Asleep. We need to make up the fire, but I thought it best not to wake him just yet.” I had to know. And so I said, “Has he had such a—a nightmare before this?”

  “I’ve heard him calling out, moving about. I was afraid—I didn’t know what to do. I kept my door locked.”

  “What did you hear?” I pressed.

  “I don’t—angels, I think? I must be wrong, he speaks so fast, I can’t be sure. And he seems to plead with someone. As he did last night. I don’t know who it is. I haven’t wanted to ask.”

  She had brought him here out of kindness, but she hadn’t asked any questions. Whether she was afraid to ask—or afraid to know—it didn’t matter. I remembered that she was paying a debt, repaying the Lieutenant for bringing her father home.

  “No matter,” I said, offering a sympathetic smile. “It might be best if you see to the fire. He might not remember that you were on the stairs last night. It will be easier for him.”

  I walked on. She didn’t call me back again.

  Breaking up the hard heel of bread into crumbs, I found a saucer that had once had a cup in it, and spread them out so that the bird could get every bit. And then I cleaned the saucer, filled it with water, and brought it to him to drink.

  He seemed quite weary, as if he’d searched for some time to find where he ought to return. British and French forces had been moving rapidly in the last days before the Armistice, but it was also possible that he’d been blown off course by a storm, then had had difficulty in finding his masters.

  When he’d finished eating, I gently handled the injured wing. I knew almost nothing about bird anatomy, but I could feel the bones in the wing, and none of them appeared to be broken. I thought he’d bumped into something and sprained it.

  Pigeons were also the favorite meal for many birds of prey. Whatever had happened to him, he seemed content to lie there in his box, out of the weather.

  These birds were heroes and heroines of the war. One was quite famous—I remembered reading about him. Badly wounded, he’d somehow managed to deliver his message. The Germans tried to spot them and shoot them down, even used hawks to go after them. But homing pigeons had a unique instinct for finding their way. Why hadn’t this one?

  I searched through the drawers in the armoire and found a scarf to put over his box, so that he could rest quietly. Then I went to stand by the window, staring out at the gray clouds hanging low over the village.

  Unable to put it off any longer, I took a deep breath and went down to the parlor. If Marina couldn’t ask questions, I could.

  But the fire in the grate had nearly gone out, and the bedding on the floor next to it was empty. Lawrence Minton had awakened and made it up the stairs to his room. I was surprised that he’d had the strength.

  I went up after him, tapped at the door, and called, “Lieutenant? Are you feeling stronger? Is there anything that I can get you?” It was my ward voice, making rounds, looking at each man and assessing his condition as I asked simple questions. But the response often told me who was feverish, whose fever had broken, who was in pain, and who was making a little progress toward recovery.

  There was silence from the room.

  “Lieutenant? I only want to be sure you are better. If you can manage a little food?”

  His voice seemed to be hollow as he answered in what was intended to be a growl. “Leave me alone. I’m all right.”

  He was far from all right, I thought. He needed to eat. Marina had cleaned up his room and changed his sheets. There was nothing else I could offer.

  “Some tea, perhaps? Or bread soaked in a little wine?”

  “Go away.”

  Wishing I could see him, judge for myself how he was, I reached out to try the door. But it was locked from the inside.

  I turned and went back downstairs.

  Marina said, almost defensively, “He wasn’t there when I went in to mend the fire.”

  “He’s retreated to his room.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you have a tub of some sort, I could wash out my uniforms and aprons,” I said, changing the subject.

  “You can do them yourself?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes, there was no one else,” I told her.

  We searched for over an hour before we found an old tin hip bath that had been relegated to the attics. It wasn’t as heavy as it appeared to be, and we managed to bring it down several flights of stairs to the kitchen. There I filled it with hot water from the cooker, added some soap powder from my valise, and then hurried upstairs to gather my clothing.

  I had just finished rinsing the things I’d washed, when Marina came back into the kitchen to help me wring out the lot and then hang them up on lines we strung across from wall to wall.

  The sound of the door knocker echoed down the passage to the kitchen, and Marina turned to me.

  “I wasn’t expecting—”

  Cutting across her words, I said, “It’s best if I answer the door. Do you mind?” If it was Lieutenant Bedford, I wanted to speak to him.

  Rolling down my sleeves and buttoning the cuffs as I went, I hurried up to the hall, afraid that Lawrence had also heard the knocker and might go down himself, already certain who would be on the doorstep.

  I was right, he was just opening the door as I reached the hall. The rain had let up, but a gust of damp, chill air rushed in.

  Haggard as he
was, his hair in disarray, his unshaven beard dark against his pale skin, Lawrence Minton took one look at the man on his doorstep, and without any warning, swung from the shoulder in a blow that had his weight behind it.

  Lieutenant Bedford went down, blood in the corner of his mouth.

  The Lieutenant turned, brushed past me without a word, and went up the stairs two at a time, before losing the momentum of his anger and staggering up the last six or seven.

  I went out the door and knelt by the injured man.

  “What the hell—?” he was exclaiming, then he saw me as his head cleared. “Who are you?”

  “Never mind who I am,” I said. “Are you all right?” Lawrence’s fist had caught him on his chin, cutting his lip and leaving what I expected to be a very visible and ugly bruise. I rose, picking up his cap and brushing off the damp, crumpled leaves.

  “What do you think?” he snapped, as he made an effort to scramble to his feet, but he had to hold on to me once he was upright, still too dazed to stand without help.

  “The laudanum you brought him on your last visit was poisoned.” I handed him his cap.

  He stared at me. “Poi—what are you talking about?”

  I decided to embroider the truth a little. “We thought we were going to lose him, he was so dreadfully ill. What in God’s name did you put in that bottle?”

  He pushed away my supporting arm, then said, “He didn’t seem to be near death just now.” Gingerly touching his chin, he glared at me, angry that I’d witnessed what had happened.

  “I think he was rather shaken by his collapse. You should have waited a day or two before coming back to St. Ives.” I was trying not to shiver in the cold air.

  “There was nothing wrong with that vial. Or the others.” He brushed off the leaves clinging to his uniform.

  I smiled up at him. “I’ll be glad to let you sample what’s left in the bottle.”

  “What sort of Sister are you?”

  “What sort of friend are you, to bring him something that will kill him—more slowly but just as surely?”

  “He asked me. He was having trouble sleeping. The war. A good many of us have nightmares.”