Part 20 (1/2)
When they reached the downtown area, Ben abandoned talk of a medical nature to take on the role of tour guide. ”Over there is C. L. Dakin's art store.” He pointed to the oversized oil painting in the window. ”That's supposed to show the 1605 discovery of Monhegan.”
”Does Aaron show his work locally?”
Ben nodded. ”The Bangor Art a.s.sociation has a gallery. They also sponsor lectures at the Bangor Opera House.” He nodded towards that impressive-looking building. ”Six years ago, Oscar Wilde visited Bangor at their invitation. Before he spoke, he visited the gallery and singled out one of Aaron's paintings for praise.”
Diana did not doubt Ben's word, but she found it impossible to imagine the effete Oscar Wilde, that self-styled ”apostle of aestheticism,” prancing along Bangor's elm-lined streets in his customary black velvet knickers and silk stockings, his trademark lily in one hand and an oversized boutonniere in his lapel. ”Did he scandalize the sober residents of Bangor?” she asked.
”They thought him a trifle eccentric.”
They made one stop before Ben's office, to send Diana's telegram to Horatio Foxe. Diana had only to put him off until Monday, when Maggie planned to travel to Boston in order to tell her publisher face to face that she was going to announce her ident.i.ty as Damon Bathory. When she'd broken the news to a few close friends, in confidence, she'd been gratified by their response. Although they'd been shocked, she'd told Diana, they'd not been appalled.
The message Diana sent was brief: ”B NOT MAN IN ALLEY. PLEASE APPROVE EXPENSE OF EXCLUSIVE.” She signed it and included her current address, in care of Dr. Benjamin Northcote.
Ben pointed out more landmarks when they resumed their journey. Just north of Norumbega Hall and the Windsor Hotel, he turned right into Spring Street and brought the buggy to a halt in front of a small, plain wooden house. His office was in a neighborhood that contained a mixture of boarding houses, stores, homes, and restaurants. It was also quite close to Miss Jenny's establishment.
They needed to talk about Miss Jenny, among other things, but once again Diana bit back confrontational questions. The truce between them was fragile this morning. She felt as if she were treading on eggsh.e.l.ls.
Ben escorted Diana through a door marked ”Office” and into a simply furnished waiting room. It was empty when they arrived but did not remain so long. They hadn't even reached the adjoining surgery before a man rushed in carrying a young girl in his arms. The child was whimpering pitifully and the cause was obvious -- her left arm was swollen to twice its normal size.
”In here,” Ben instructed, indicating the surgery.
Diana followed them. The girl was a toddler no more than two years old. Although Diana was sure her pain had not decreased, her cries grew weaker as her strength, perhaps even her will to live, was drained away by prolonged suffering.
Ben stripped off his coat and hat, tossing them into a corner as he bent to examine the arm. ”An abscess. It will have to be lanced at once.”
The child's father went white. Diana took his arm and steered him firmly back to the outer room. ”Wait here,” she ordered, and returned to the surgery, shedding her own outerwear as she went.
Ben was already administering anesthetic. Diana wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the pungent vapor.
”You'd better leave. There's worse to come.”
Diana braced herself. As soon as the child was asleep, he made the first incision. When pus shot up in an arc, foul looking and noisome, Diana found a clean cloth and wiped up the mess, but she soon realized that it was the infected area that most needed attention. Ben had to stop after each discharge to clean the incision so that he could see what he was doing. Without a word, Diana took over that part of the job. Through seemingly endless repet.i.tions of the task, she persevered, until at last the operation was over.
Ben regarded her with an unfathomable expression as he secured the bandages.
”Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and the warmth that came into his eyes made her knees weak. ”No. Some professional nurses would have been too queasy to a.s.sist me in a case like this one. You did well.”
”I'm only squeamish when it comes to reading horror stories,” she quipped.
Ben's voice was gruff. ”Go out and tell that father his little girl will recover. And since you're here, you may as well see what the next emergency is.”
Chapter Fifteen.
Ben had locked himself in his bas.e.m.e.nt laboratory by the time Diana came down to breakfast on Sat.u.r.day. He'd instructed the servants that he was not to be disturbed.
”He does this now and again.” Maggie pursed her lips. ”Gives me an idea. What if a mad scientist.... ”Her voice trailed off and a moment later she departed for her inner sanctum.
Diana ate, then ventured outside. The dry, chilly air invigorated her. It was a perfect day to walk and her first stop was the carriage house.
”He's painting, mum,” Joseph told her when she asked after Aaron. ”He won't like it if he's disturbed.”
”He's himself again, then?”
”Oh, yes, mum. Right as rain.”
After a moment's consideration, Diana decided to walk into town. Grudgingly, Ernest relinquished a spare key to the gate, so she could let herself out and in again.
Her main purpose was to find out if Horatio Foxe had replied to her telegram, but she stopped first at the Bangor House for lunch. The place was crowded. As she waited to be seated, a handsome lithographic folder caught her eye, a familiar flyer used for advertising purposes.
With a sense of inevitability, Diana took a closer look. She had not been mistaken. A portrait of Nathan Todd in his role in The d.u.c.h.ess of Calabria graced the front. Inside were views of the princ.i.p.al scenes from the play. Todd's Touring Thespians were coming to Bangor.
Belatedly, Diana realized she'd known that. Jerusha had mentioned it on the train. With all that had happened after, it had completely slipped her mind. The company, she now saw, would give six performances at the Bangor Opera House, starting on Monday night. That meant they'd probably arrive sometime on Sunday -- tomorrow.
Her first instinct was to be pleased that she'd soon see old friends again. Her second thought was that explaining her presence would involve revealing the truth about Damon Bathory. Their timing could not have been worse. Maggie could not go to Boston to meet with her publisher until Monday. If the news leaked...
She'd have to avoid the actors, Diana decided. At least until after her story broke.
When she'd enjoyed a fine meal and done a bit of window shopping, Diana went at last to the Western Union office. The reply she'd expected had arrived, but Foxe's message stunned her. A third female reporter had been murdered in an alley, this time in Los Angeles. Another critic, like the first two, and like them she'd been killed on the same Sat.u.r.day night Damon Bathory concluded his visit to her city.
Diana gave no credence to the idea that Ben had murdered any of those women, although it was obvious Foxe still thought so. However, the news did send her scurrying back to the Northcote mansion. Now that there were three cases, coincidence could no longer explain them away. It seemed likely that the killer was a member of some touring theatrical troupe or act, and that the same person might, after all, have been responsible for the attack on her in New York.
As she trudged up and down the hilly landscape of Bangor, her mind raced. Fragmented memories chased after her -- a sound behind her, a tug on the back of Ben's cloak, a blow to the head. If her fall from the train had been no accident, then it followed that the troupe in question was Toddy's. That meant someone she knew had killed those three reviewers and had tried, twice, to kill her.
She wanted Ben, wanted him to hold her close and tell her that it would all be all right, that he'd keep her safe. Ben, however, did not emerge from his lab for supper. Likewise, Maggie was too absorbed in her new project to stop and eat. Diana dined in solitary splendor and went to bed that night in a troubled frame of mind. First thing in the morning, she promised herself, she would insist on talking to Ben. If he put her off again, she'd do the sensible thing and take the first train back to New York.
Diana awoke some time later to the groggy notion that Cedric the cat was perched on the end of her bed, his furry bulk pressing against her feet. Only gradually did she realize that the steady breathing was that of a much larger creature.
Still only half awake, she tried to convince herself that the distinctive odor tickling her nostrils was carbolic, the scent of the doctor, but it was not. The smell, unmistakably, was turpentine, the hallmark of the painter.
”I know you're awake,” Aaron said. ”You might as well talk to me.”
”What do you want me to say?” She hugged the covers tightly to her chest as she sat up and reached for the oil lamp on the bedside table.
The first flicker of light, from the match she struck to ignite the wick, showed her that Aaron's face wore a broad, satisfied smile. In fact, he looked like a delighted little boy who'd just gotten away with something. Or a child who'd made a magnificent discovery all by himself. His words, even when spoken in a decidedly adult male voice, reinforced the juvenile image.
”I've had a marvelous idea.” He slid up the bed until his hips were aligned with hers and they were sitting face to face. He seemed very large, very solid. If he chose to attack, she'd have little chance of warding him off.
”What idea?” In spite of her best effort, her voice shook a little. ”What is it that couldn't wait until morning?”
Puzzlement flickered briefly across his features, as if he had not realized the time. He didn't seem to understand the implications of being in her bedroom, nor did he appear to be affected by glimpses of her in her nightdress.
”What idea?” Diana repeated.
The childlike delight returned as he seized both her hands. ”I know what's been missing from my paintings. I understand at last. I must paint you.”