‘‘Would Arnold be telling you something about what happened to Rhea?’’
Lisette’s lips trembled. ‘‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried sick about it all. I took Rhea’s death hard- we’d been together for so many years-so I think I’ve exaggerated things in my own mind, to the point of believing Arnold was a witness to murder.’’
She said the last word in a harsh whisper. It was almost melodramatic, the way we both looked up the stairway. On cue, Paul Berkshire appeared at the top. ‘‘What the hell’s going on?’’
‘‘Arnold,’’ I said, ‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t do anything. If only there’d been someone else there to bear witness.’’
Arnold shook himself, as though he’d been dunked in water, then dipped his head at me. Paul Berkshire had started down, swearing. ‘‘Get the hell out of here.’’
Arnold sighed, then shot like a furry bullet up the stairs. Paul Berkshire yelled, ‘‘Fuck!’’ then tumbled down, a flaccid doll bouncing obscenely until he came to rest on the marble floor, his neck at an unnatural angle.
Lisette rushed over to him. ‘‘Oh, my God! He’s dead!’’
Arnold came down at a leisurely pace, stopped to sniff the corpse, then came over to me. I said, ‘‘That wasn’t an accident, was it, Arnold?’’
Fair dinkum. That little dog cocked his head-and smiled at me.
Lady Patterly’s Lover by Charlotte MacLeod
‘‘We’d be doing him a kindness, really,’’ said Gerald. ‘‘You do see that, Eleanor?’’
Lady Patterly ran one exquisite hand idly through the thick, fair hair of her husband’s steward. ‘‘I’d be doing myself one. That’s all that matters.’’
Born beautiful, spoiled rotten as a child, married at twenty-one to the best catch in England, wife at twenty-three to a helpless paralytic, bored to desperation at twenty-four; that, in a nutshell, was Eleanor, Lady Patterly. When old Ponsonby had retired and her husband’s close friend Gerald had come to manage the Patterly estates, Eleanor had lost no time in starting an affair with him. Discreetly, of course. She cared nothing for the world, but she was vain enough to care greatly for the world’s opinion of her.
Gerald had been only too willing. As handsome as Eleanor was lovely, he had the same total lack of scruple, the same cold intelligence, the same passionate devotion to his own interests. He took the greatest care of his old friend Roger Patterly’s property because he soon realized that with Eleanor’s help he could easily make it his own. It was Gerald who suggested the murder.
‘‘The killing part is the easiest. A pillow over his face, a switch of medicines, nothing to it. The big thing is not getting caught. We must make sure nobody ever suspects it wasn’t a natural death. We’ll take our time, prepare the groundwork, wait for exactly the right moment. And then, my love, it’s all ours.’’
Lady Patterly gazed around the drawing room with its priceless furnishings, through the satin-draped windows to the impeccably tended formal gardens. ‘‘I shall be so glad to get out of this prison. We’ll travel, Gerald. Paris, Greece, Hong Kong. I’ve always had a fancy to see Hong Kong.’’
They would do nothing of the kind. Gerald was too careful a steward not to stay and guard what would be his. He only smiled and replied, ‘‘Whatever you want, my sweet.’’
‘‘It will be just too marvelous,’’ sighed the invalid’s wife. ‘‘How shall we go about it?’’
‘‘Not we, darling. You.’’
After all, it would be Eleanor, not he, who would inherit. Unless he married her afterwards, he hadn’t the ghost of a claim. And suppose she changed her mind? But she wouldn’t. With the hold of murder over her she could be handled nicely. If he were fool enough to do the job himself… Gerald was no fool.
‘‘I shall continue to be the faithful steward. And you, my dear, will be the dutiful wife. A great deal more dutiful than you’ve been up to now.’’
Lady Patterly inspected her perfect fingernails, frowning. ‘‘What do you want me to do?’’
‘‘I want you to start showing some attention to your husband. Don’t overdo it. Build it up gradually. You might begin by strolling into Roger’s room and asking him how he’s feeling.’’
‘‘But I do, every morning and evening.’’
‘‘Then do it again, right now. And stay for more than two minutes this time.’’
‘‘Oh, very well. But it’s so depressing.’’
‘‘It’s not all jam for old Roger either, you know.’’
‘‘How sententious of you, darling. Shall I hold his hand, or what?’’
‘‘Why don’t you read to him?’’
‘‘He loathes being read to.’’
‘‘Read to him anyway. It will look well in front of the nurse. That’s our objective, Eleanor, to create the impression of devotion among the attendants. You must be able to act the bereft widow convincingly when we… lose him.’’
His mistress shrugged and turned toward the stairs.
‘‘Oh, and Eleanor.’’ Gerald lowered his voice yet another pitch. ‘‘We’d better postpone any further meetings until it’s over. We mustn’t take any risk whatever. And don’t be surprised if I start a flirtation with one of the village belles.’’
She arched one delicately pencilled eyebrow. ‘‘Have you picked out anybody special?’’
‘‘One will do as well as another. Protective camouflage, you know. It’s only for a few weeks, darling.’’ He turned the full force of his dazzling smile on her, and went out.
Eleanor stood for a moment looking after him. It was hard on Roger, of course. Still, she had her own future to think of. Her husband had offered her a divorce as soon as the doctors had told him the sports car smashup had left him paralyzed for life. Naturally she had refused. It wouldn’t have looked well, and besides, the settlement he’d offered was not her idea of adequate support.
No, she would have it all. She and Gerald. It was clever of Gerald to have found the way. She arranged her features in exactly the right expression of calm compassion and went to visit her husband.
Day by day she increased the length of time she spent in the sickroom. It was less tedious than she had anticipated. For one thing, Roger was so glad to have her there. She took to bringing him little surprises: some flowers, a few sun-warmed strawberries from the garden. She had the gramophone brought into his room and played the records they had danced to before they were married. Nurse Wilkes beamed. Marble the valet scowled distrustfully.
Eleanor found herself looking forward to her visits, planning the next day’s surprise, thinking of new ways to entertain the invalid. The weeks went by and Gerald began to fidget.
‘‘I say, don’t you think we ought to be getting on with it?’’
‘‘You said we mustn’t rush things.’’ And she went past him into Roger’s room, carrying a charming arrangement of varicolored roses she’d got up early to pick with the dew on them.
As had become her habit, she took up the book she was reading aloud to him and opened it to her book-mark. Her eye, now attuned to Roger’s every expression, caught a tightening of the muscles around his mouth. She put the book down.
‘‘You hate being read to, don’t you, Roger?’’
‘‘It’s just that it makes me feel so utterly helpless.’’
‘‘But you’re not. There’s nothing the matter with your eyes. From now on, you’ll read to yourself.’’
‘‘How can I? I can’t hold the book, I can’t turn the pages.’’
‘‘Of course you can. We’ll just sit you up, like this-’’ Eleanor slid one arm around her husband and pulled him up. ‘‘Nurse, let’s have that backrest thing. There, how’s that?’’
She plumped a pillow more comfortably. ‘‘Now we’ll prop the book up on the bed table, like this, and lift your arm, like this, and slip the page between your fingers so that you can hold it yourself.’’ A pinching between the right thumb and forefinger was the only movement Lord Patterly could make. ‘‘And when you’ve finished with that page, we just turn it over. Like this. See, you’ve managed it beautifully.’’