The Clarrington Heritage Read online

  The canary was singing loudly in its cage, and the scene would have presented a picture of domestic bliss, if it had not been for the reek of whiskey. Andy carried that about with him, wherever he went, like a second skin.

  Hildy took a tablet at once, washing it down with a cup of her freshly made tea. Marise had accepted a cup too, refusing Andy’s offer to lace it with something stronger, and they had sat in the warmth of the basement parlor, comfortably silent.

  Marise had watched Hildy’s round, fair face, noting a change as the medication took effect. The easing of pain lines in her forehead and about her mouth was obvious and immediate.

  She’d nodded with satisfaction. “I can see that one’s probably going to work,” she said to Hildy. “Is there any sign of sickness yet?”

  Hildy breathed deeply, as if checking out her interior. “Not yet, and the other pain medicine made me nauseated very soon. You think this will do, eh?”

  “Well, the doctor said if this didn’t do the job he’d have to go to something stronger. He hates to do that, so I hope this one works,” Marise said.

  Andy grunted, raising one bushy white eyebrow. Hildy, used to his wordless signals, nodded and said, “Before you go, I need to say something. We think, Andy and I, all the time about how Pen could possibly have got out of her room.

  “If nobody else do it, then she must do it herself. Maybe there is some way to make bolts move from inside the door, you think? Like with magnet?”

  Marise remembered staring into her cup, her mind busy. “Possibly. I don’t know...aren’t the bolts made of brass? But I’ll ask Ben. He will know.” She frowned.

  “Still, that would leave the lock, one of those heavy duty ones. I don’t know how even a magnet could have worked that one, do you?”

  Hildy sighed. “Pen, she is clever with hands. Maybe she can make key? We do not know this, we just worry and think. Could a person make a key to fit such a lock out of something in her room? Maybe the little dull knife in the paint box?”

  Marise had a sudden vision of a patient woman chipping away at a paint knife, shaping a key in blind hope that it would fit a lock she could not see and whose working parts she could not know.

  “I have not seen that little knife in some time, when I clean her room,” Hildy continued. “I worry. Andy also worry. Grown people can run or they can fight. But Benjie...what could he do against her?”

  The echoes of the question followed Marise down the years into the present, as she stood on the dusty rug. She could still hear Hildy’s shrill voice speaking the words and Ben’s deep voice exploring the possibilities as he thought about it.

  It had already been too late, though they hadn’t known it. They had done their pointless talking, their useless searching of Penelope’s room. Things had gone too far to stop, although nothing at the time had warned them of the fact.

  Marise moved across the room and into the pantry-like cubby where the water cutoff waited. She twisted the lever over, hurried out of the dusty space, and sped back to the door. Once there she turned and looked back. She avoided looking at the scrubbed spot, which was still paler than the rug, though its outlines were softened by the layering of dust.

  “I’m sorry, Hildy,” she whispered. “So sorry.”

  Then she hurried up the steps to the ground floor and closed the door at the head of the stair. She felt better with it solidly shut against the thing that had happened below.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Hospital Suite

  Whenever she passed the door of Mother Clarrington’s room, Marise always thought of Edenson. The nurse had been so extremely jealous of her domain that Marise felt awkward whenever she went there. Yet her presence seemed to comfort her mother-in-law so much it was worth while putting Miss Edenson’s nose out of joint. She was, after all, employed to care for her patient, not to supervise her list of visitors.

  Yet now Marise felt Edenson’s presence even more than she did that of her mother-in-law. Though the woman had not been obtrusive, Marise had always known she was sitting quietly in her chair beyond the screen or lurking in her adjoining bedroom.

  You would have thought she felt they were conspiring to get rid of her. Or had she thought Marise might harm her patient? That was an uncomfortable notion.

  She’d always brought Benjie, if possible, when she visited Mother Clarrington, and the older woman seemed to be stimulated and pleased. The boy never quite seemed to know what to make of his grandmother, for illness had not yet forced its way into his young world. The concept of pain was one she had a hard time getting across to him.

  “I know how I look,” the old woman said sadly to Marise, once. “Like the living dead, in fact. I wouldn’t want to be kissed by these cold blue lips, and I know someone as full of life as Benjie doesn’t like to either.” She sighed and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, their pale gaze was fixed on Marise’s face. “I have missed it all, child. I wasn’t able to mother my own children, after Hannibal. My wretched heart laid me low after...after the twins. My sister-in-law got to kiss all the skinned knees. She got the rambunctious hugs and helped to catch the runaway kittens.” She drew a tearful breath.

  “She got to do all the things I’d have given my soul to do. I was grateful to have her help, but I envied her too. Lina has been closer, dearer than my own sister would have been, if she’d lived. Though we had a few spats when I was a young bride, they were never serious.

  “Her strength has kept me going when my own was exhausted, and now Emanuel is gone, you and Ben and Lina hold me to life. I know I’m unnecessary, but not one of you has ever hinted at that. I’m grateful for it.” She moved restlessly against her pillows.

  Edenson appeared as if by magic, touching the thin wrist, examining the pale face with anxious eyes. “You must not tire her!” she whispered venomously.

  “She will tell me when she’s tired,” Marise replied, keeping her composure. “It isn’t good for her to lie here for days seeing only you, Miss Edenson. She needs stimulus, even if it’s only the mild kind I can supply.”

  Edenson glared. Then, without another word, she went into her own room and closed the door. Though it shut with a faint click, the effect was that of a slam. Marise knew that, with the best will in the world, she had angered Edenson yet again.

  “Has Benjie gone outside?” her mother-in-law asked.

  Marise nodded. “He heard Ben come home, I think. The two of them are inseparable when they have the chance. It’d do your heart good to see them packing up fishing gear to go to the lake. They’ve been planning this trip for a month.” She leaned forward and smiled.

  “For men only, of course. It has been made quite clear to me several times, in the kindest possible terms. You wouldn’t think a ten-year-old would have that much tact, would you?”

  Mrs. Clarrington relaxed and smiled back at her. “He’s a bright, loving little boy. Though I see him so little, I can feel it in him. You won’t mind, I hope, if I say I was very much relieved when we could be certain the family taint had not touched him. Having children is such a gamble.” For a moment she looked infinitely sad.

  “We lost that gamble, Emanuel and I, in one out of our three. Believe me, Marise, there is nothing on earth more painful than realizing your own child is defective. Dangerous, even. When Emanuel told me about the Clarrington flaw, I was sure my own sturdy ancestors would outweigh that unfortunate inbreeding, which, after all, is many generations removed by now.

  “I was cocksure, as young people tend to be!” She gave a bitter laugh, and Marise reached to take her cold hand between her own warm ones.

  Elizabeth said, “I know you must have wondered why we went ahead and had children, after being warned so imperatively by poor little Clara. But my own certainty was a large part of the reason. The other was that we were so deeply in love we couldn’t be cautious all the time. I felt su
re it would make no difference anyway.” She shivered slightly, her hand quivering in Marise’s.

  “I will admit I was nervous while I carried Hannibal. It would have required a woman made of stone not to be, after the horror stories I’d heard. But Hanni was a merry little grig, from the day he was born. He was the steadiest, most reasonable child I ever knew. Even in his cradle, you could talk to him, explain things to him, and he understood, though nobody believed me when I told them.”

  “He was always that way when I knew him,” Marise agreed. “Right up to the day he died I felt him as a solid reassurance in the family. I’ve always thought he must have been the sort of baby Benjie was, busy with his own thoughts and projects, open to new interests, but not at all demanding.”

  “Exactly. The entire family was so delighted with Hanni; even Emanuel’s father seemed to come alive again, for a time, for he’d been like a man lost in a nightmare since the night when his wife and daughter died. His joy in Hanni was a lovely thing to see, for he almost went into shock when Emanuel told him we would have a child.

  “The thought that another generation might have to deal with the tragedies he’d known made him frantic. Hanni changed that and gave us the courage to try again.” She moved her hand restlessly, and Marise released it.

  “If only we’d been content with what we had!” Elizabeth was silent for a long moment. Then she shook her head. “But hindsight does no one any good. The twins came, beautiful and bright like their brother. It was obvious from their first day of life that each was a person, unique to him or herself, though Ben was just a bit like Hanni. More demanding, of course, but that was natural. We spoiled both of the babies badly, and Hanni was more indulgent with them than any of us adults. He couldn’t bear for either of them to cry.”

  “What about Penelope?” Marise had wondered about that tragic woman, what sort of child she had been.

  “She was different, but because I had never had a girl I thought it was just the gender that made the difference. Much of it may have been, too. She was beautiful, talked a month before Ben even tried, and was walking when he was still scooting along on his bottom.

  “When she was three she began to draw on the bathroom tiles with soap; Lina wheeled me into the children’s bath and showed me. I hated to have her drawings cleaned away, for they were imaginative and very well done for so young a child. Yet before she was five I became strangely uneasy about her.”

  Marise leaned forward again, reaching for an answer. “Why?”

  “I could see something behind her eyes. There was something about her reactions to other people as well. As quietly as I could, I warned Lina to watch her closely, though I think I didn’t make it forceful enough. Perhaps if I had managed that, the child next door might have been spared....”

  Marise smoothed the coverlet into place. “We can’t go according to what might have been,” she said. “Ben told me the rest, or enough of it. I can’t blame you in the least for being uneasy about Benjie, at first. I have to admit I wondered too.” She rose briskly.

  “Now I must go, for the farm waits for no man or woman. And you are getting tired. I can see that. I’ll come in tomorrow for a few minutes.”

  There had been many tomorrows, for every morning she would visit Mother Clarrington with news of the family and the business, of her grandson and her son. Though Ben went up every evening, he was never good at conveying such trivia, his mother complained to Marise.

  “You make me see what is happening,” she said. “Ben just hands me a string of words. He’s a dear boy, but he doesn’t tell a story nearly as well as you do.”

  That pleased Marise, for she was very fond of her mother-in-law and valued her friendship. Every day she looked forward to their quiet half hour, though at times she carried away disturbing information.

  One morning Mother Clarrington met her with an unwelcome notion. “You know, some nights Penelope comes to my room,” she said. “She came last night and talked to me in the dark. She said terrible things, but she always does. They seem real to her, I think, although they’re not.”

  Marise felt cold along her bones. She and Ben had felt so certain the new locks and bolts would stop Penelope’s prowling about the house.

  “Are you sure you’re not dreaming?” she asked. “That new medication can make you have mild hallucinations.” Though she asked the question, she felt uneasily that it was irrelevant.

  Mother Clarrington shook her head. “I’ve been sedated and medicated for too many years to mistake hallucination for reality. I know the difference. No, it was Pen. She never comes very close to me, but I can tell she hates me. I can hear it in her voice, as well as in her words.” She reached to grasp Marise’s hand with desperate strength.

  “You have Ben check everything carefully, once again. Pen is so full of hate. She told me...she said she frightened Hannibal to death with something she said, though I find that hard to believe. He knew her too well, and even if he hadn’t expected to find her there in the library, that by itself would never have shocked him enough to kill him. I am certain of that.”

  Again she squeezed Marise’s fingers. “Have Ben check.” Her voice failed, and only her pale eyes pleaded.

  So they redoubled their efforts, changing locks and bolts. They warned Benjie seriously against even going down the third floor corridor, and he accepted the warning, wide-eyed but cooperative.

  Nevertheless, when Marise was waked from a sound sleep one night, weeks later, the door on the third floor was the first thing that came to mind. The rapping on her sitting room door had brought her upright, dreading what she might find.

  Ben was already on his feet, one arm in a sleeve of his robe, his feet shuffling for his slippers. “I’m coming,” He called. “Just a minute.”

  A muffled voice was babbling indecipherable words from the half landing outside their door as the two hurried down their short flight of steps. Edenson stood in the dim pink light from the tulip lamps, her hair mussed, her eyes filled with tears.

  “It’s your mother. She...was dead when I went in to give her the three o’clock medications.” Those flinty eyes were softer than Marise had ever seen them, the sure hands unsteady.

  She realized suddenly that this homely and unloved little woman had been genuinely fond of her patient and was grief-stricken now she was dead. Perhaps that was the only emotional connection in the nurse’s life, Marise thought, as she tied her robe firmly around her waist.

  “We’ll go with you right now. Ben, please call Aunt Lina while I go with Miss Edenson. Come, my dear.” She saw the woman was shaking, her teeth almost chattering. “You’re cold,” she said. “Let me get my sweater off the couch. Now...better? Let’s go up together.”

  She took the nurse’s hand and held it tightly as they hurried to the second floor. Edenson did not object to having her hand held until they neared the door of the hospital suite. Then she tugged it loose, smoothed down her hair with a nervous gesture, and sank back, to some extent, into her professional mold.

  “I can manage now,” she said, her voice steady and cold again. Her gaze flickered aside, then back to Marise. “Why don’t you...go up and see if your husband needs help.”

  Marise nodded. “I’ll peep into Benjie’s room as I go back. I don’t want him disturbed. It won’t take long, but do call the doctor.”

  “I did that at once,” Edenson said, offended.

  “Of course you did. Listen for the bell and let him in when he comes, will you? Andy doesn’t wake easily, and we may be out of hearing.”

  She turned and flew up to the third floor, knowing Ben would have gone there, after waking his aunt. The corridor was dimly lit, for Ben had switched on the flower basket fixtures. She could see him as she turned the last corner, bent over the locks on that door.

  “It was closed? Locked?” she panted.

  “Tight as possible. She hasn’t be
en out tonight, I can guarantee that. Poor Pen. Why did we immediately suspect she might have caused mother’s death, after all these years of expecting her heart to give out at any time? But it was the first thing that came to mind.” He fingered the middle bolt.

  “Should we tell her?” he asked.

  Marise sighed. “Not now. Not until tomorrow anyway. “Come down now, dearest. We have to see the doctor and tell Hildy and Andy. How is Aunt Lina?”

  “I tapped on her door and told her before she got there. Then I headed up here. I felt in my bones that I’d find the door wide open and Pen on the prowl. Thank God I didn’t. This should be one Clarrington death that holds no shadow of doubt.”

  When they got back to the hospital suite they found the doctor there with Edenson. Aunt Lina stood like a pillar of fire in her red robe, her jade green eyes wet. But she controlled her tears, as she seemed able to control most of her reactions, no matter how distressing the situation.

  She opened her arms, and Ben went into them as if he were still the small boy she had reared. She patted his shoulder, smiling past it at Marise. That was a watery smile, but a brave one. Marise tried hard to return it.

  The three waited in the corridor while the doctor and Miss Edenson remained closeted in the hospital suite. When the door opened at last, Doctor Pell stepped out, looked back, and closed it behind him.

  Pell looked around at them, wiping his glasses absently with an immaculate handkerchief, despite the odd hour. He was a crumpled, drowsy, gray little man, almost as familiar to Marise now as were the members of the family. Now he sighed.

  “It has come, just as we expected for so many years. Evidently, she had an attack some time between midnight and three o’clock. Her death was quick and easy, as I expected. Miss Edenson said she seemed to feel fairly well at supper time, and it is obvious there was no illness and not even much pain. It was the end she hoped for, when the time came.