Death in the Castle (20 page)

“Richard—Richard!”

There was no answer. Why did she call Richard? The voices had nothing to do with him—or did they? Ah, the door was immovably closed! Her strength gave out and she leaned her arms against it and her head on her arms and felt that she would die of faintness. And then she felt strong arms about her and heard Kate’s voice.

“My lady—my lady, whatever! Lucky the doctor’s come at this very moment. It’s Dr. Broomhall, my lady, the young doctor—old Dr. Briggs said he had to go to London for the day when I called. I followed you as soon as I could set my tray down. You looked ghastly when you ran past me, not seeing anything. When the doctor stepped in the door and I told him—”

The doctor, close behind Kate, interrupted. “Really, Lady Mary, this is very shocking. I’m told you’re in bed and here I find you in this damp hole, running about—”

“Richard,” she gasped. “Find Sir Richard—look after him—”

“Yes my lady,” Kate said soothingly, “yes, indeed we will, but all the same you shouldn’t have—”

“She’s to go to her room at once,” the doctor ordered.

He seized one arm and Kate the other, and they marched Lady Mary between them, half carrying her.

“You’re so uneven,” Lady Mary murmured, dazed.

“Eh?” Dr. Broomhall was a young man, red-haired and lean and strong.

“You’re too tall,” Lady Mary said fretfully, “much too tall and Kate’s short—like—crutches that—don’t match.”

He laughed a loud healthy shout. “Six foot four—I agree that’s too tall. Allow me, Lady Mary.” And with one sweep of his arm he caught her up and carried her as lightly as though she were a child. She felt suddenly better.

“Oh, mercy,” she murmured. “I haven’t been carried like this since my honeymoon. Richard used to tease me by taking me off my feet. I’m not sure I should allow you—”

“There’s not much wrong with her,” the doctor said to Kate over his shoulder.

“It’s Richard who wants looking after,” Lady Mary said. “What’s wrong with him?” the doctor asked, half joking. “He looked very fit when I saw him in the village yesterday, trotting along the street on that fine gray horse of his!”

“I’m frightened.”

She closed her eyes and repeated in a whisper. “Very frightened. He’s—odd.”

“Odd?” The doctor’s voice was quiet and the mirth gone.

“He … he looked at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. … And he shut a … a door in my face. When I called he …he … didn’t answer.”

“Was he down in the dungeon, too?”

“No. I ran down … when he wouldn’t open the … the door … there’s an old stone staircase that leads into the … the … the …”

“The what?”

“I don’t know. A sort of room—”

Lady Mary fell silent. Dr. Broomhall’s eyes met Kate’s in a significant glance. Something is wrong here, the glance said. She nodded. They had arrived at the door of Lady Mary’s room. Kate opened it and he carried her in and laid her upon the bed. But she sat up suddenly and cried out.

“Richard!”

For there Sir Richard stood in the middle of the room, as though he were waiting for her entrance.

“My dear,” he said, coming forward. “Where have you been? I’ve looked everywhere for you. One of the men said he saw you coming in this direction and so I came here, only to find you gone.”

“Richard,” she whispered, staring at him as though he were a ghost. “Why did you lock the panel?”

He lifted his brushy red-gray eyebrows. “Panel? What panel?”

“Richard, don’t pretend!”

“I’m not pretending, my dear. It’s you—you don’t feel well, obviously—Doctor, she’s not well.”

Before the doctor could agree, there was a knock at the half-open door and John Blayne entered.

“Ah, you found her,” he said. “The men told me you were lost, Lady Mary. They’ve all been looking for you. Where was she, Kate?”

“In the dungeon,” Kate said gravely.

“Good God!” Sir Richard exclaimed. “When will you give up that absurd treasure hunt? You might have fallen—the stone floors are slippery with damp—you’ve got a chill. Lie down, dear.”

He pushed Lady Mary gently back on the pillows and chafed her hands and reproached Kate the while.

“Kate, how could you let her out of your sight?”

“She said you had shut her out somewhere,” Kate said bluntly.

“I shut her out? How absurd—I was here all the time,” Sir Richard said, “Why did she run to the dungeon?”

“We had been down there before,” Kate faltered. “To … to look for the treasure.”

“You weren’t serious!” John exclaimed. “I thought it was all in joke.”

“We were serious!” Kate said. She looked from one face to the other and flushed.

“At Lady Mary’s age—” the doctor began but Sir Richard cut him off.

“It’s not a matter of age. She’s always had strange notions about—well, yes, perhaps it’s been worse lately. … Kate, let there be no more nonsense about a treasure. I won’t have her worried. It’s my responsibility—How is she, Doctor?”

The doctor had been examining Lady Mary, her eyes, her pulse, and now he took a powder from his case which stood on the floor where he had left it.

“She’s had a mild shock of some kind,” he said, “and she wants rest. Take this now, Lady Mary. It’s only a mild sedation. You’ll sleep for a bit and wake, feeling better. I suggest that we all leave the room. She’s having too much excitement,”

“I shan’t leave her,” Sir Richard said with decision.

“Very well, then the rest of us,” the doctor said. “I’ll call again later in the day.”

He led the way, John and Kate following, and they walked softly out of the room. Sir Richard drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. He stroked her hand gently and Lady Mary looked at him with pleading, doubting eyes.

“Was I dreaming, Richard?” she said faintly. “Didn’t you … weren’t you … behind the panel when I—”

He interrupted her. “My dear, you are simply to stop worrying. I shall attend to everything. In due course, I’ll take care of everything. Close your eyes, you’re safe in your own room, in our own home, our castle—”

“I don’t think it was a dream.”

“One has all sorts of dreams—there’s nothing wrong with dreams,” Sir Richard said.

His voice was far away and she could only just hear what he said. But perhaps it did not matter, perhaps it was true that she had only dreamed. He would take care of her … And she drifted away into a realm of peace.

And Sir Richard sat there beside her, stroking her hand rhythmically, lovingly, and murmuring to her with tenderness as he gazed at her sleeping face.

“You’re so pale, poor darling … I must take care of you. And I can, I’ve kept it a secret from you—I still can’t tell you.”

He leaned toward her, his face close to hers. “Do you hear me, my love?”

Her eyelids would not open. They were too heavy to lift. She could not speak. This unutterable weariness, lying like a weight of lead on her body—she could only hear his voice echoing in her ears.

“She doesn’t hear,” he was muttering. “Just as well … the crown is my responsibility … my fault … I’m a weakling. I should have dealt with my enemies the way Father did, with a sword! … I’ve waited too long. I was afraid to be called a monster as he was, poor crippled king! But I’ll be worthy of my name at last—Richard the Fourth!”

He dropped her hand and left her side and began to pace about the room aimlessly, stooping to stare at the bowl of spring flowers on a small desk of rosewood, at the silver brushes on the dressing table, at his own photograph, himself as a young man, framed in gold and hung on the eastern wall.

“Handsome, I suppose—I was called that—even my father—But he said I was weak. I wasn’t, I’m not—he was a monster—no, not a monster. He knew how to deal with people. I don’t—I don’t want to—but you must be strong—you must—”

He leaned toward the photograph and stared into his own gay young face.

“You’re weak—weak—hiding yourself, not telling even your queen! She’s lying there on the bed—ill, unconscious—your daughter defiled—even your son killed by foreigners, your only son—alone in London—an outpost—why wasn’t he here in the castle—safe? You didn’t dare—you and your secrets—you let the prince be killed—the foreigner is here—here in the castle where you’ve been hiding all these years. I hate you!”

He smashed the picture with his fist. The glass broke and crashed to the floor. He stood staring at the ruins.

“My father’s sword,” he muttered.

From far away Lady Mary heard the crash. She struggled upward against the enveloping darkness of sleep. She opened her eyes and saw him turn blindly toward the door, his face flushed, his eyes unseeing. She forced herself to cry out.

“Richard, Richard—you’re—”

Ill
was what she wanted to say—
Richard, you’re ill. Come, let me care for you. Someone come and help us both.
She thought she had screamed but her voice had not left her throat. She tried to get up, to run after him, and could not move. She was pulled back into sleep and unconsciousness.

… Before Dr. Broomhall left the castle he spoke privately with Kate. “I am not so concerned about Lady Mary,” he said, “her indisposition is temporary, the result of a fright and exposure, and a certain amount of exhaustion. She will be quite herself when she comes out of her sleep in a few hours. Keep her warm and as quiet as possible and”—he smiled encouragingly—“free from worry.”

“I’ll do my best, Dr. Broomhall. And Sir Richard?”

“He is the one about whom I am really concerned, though I must wait for Dr. Briggs to return from London to discuss the case.”

“But he seemed …”

Dr. Broomhall shook his head. “Whatever he said in his own self-defense was negated by the expression in his eyes. Quite obviously he is subject to delusions. How long has this been going on, Kate?”

“I … I can’t rightly say, sir.”

“With Lady Mary, a sudden shock caused her trouble; but with Sir Richard the delusions are functional and thus their treatment is not so simple.”

“What would you mean by that, sir?”

“Emotionally determined and reaching over a considerable period of time.” He glanced around him. “It’s beautiful, this old castle, but I wish Sir Richard and Lady Mary could get away from it for a while, a good long while. When the past begins to affect the present, as it would seem to be doing with Sir Richard, its hold should be broken. But, as I said, I will have to discuss this with Dr. Briggs.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do the best you can for them, Kate, and I’ll come by again within a few hours to see how Lady Mary is.” He turned and went toward his small car that had been standing behind the Americans’ large one.

Half an hour later, luncheon was announced. Sir Richard was nowhere to be found, and as his horse was not in the stable it could only be assumed that he had gone for a canter. Lady Mary was deep in sleep. Philip Webster sat down at the long table with the six Americans and luncheon was served by Wells and Kate. They did not linger over their coffee. Wells had reminded them all that this was the day the castle was open to the public and by three o’clock the charabancs would arrive.

“There’ll be people all over the place,” Wells said dismally, “as you well know, Mr. Webster.”

“That I do, Wells, and I’ll not be one of them. I’m going to the inn to do some telephoning. How about you, Mr. Holt, may I offer you a ride in my Austin?”

“You may indeed, Mr. Webster. I, too, have business to transact that can best be done in the relative quiet of the village inn. John?”

“I’ll stay here with the boys. We’ll work until we hear the buses, then we’ll make ourselves scarce. Sir Richard got out ahead of us all, didn’t he?”

“He often does this, sir,” Wells said apologetically. “He can’t abide having these people in his castle. Invaders, he calls them, though they’re most of them British and they pay good money.”

… Sir Richard, without benefit of Wells, changed into his riding clothes; then he strode rapidly through the familiar passages of the castle, out the wide west door, and across the lawn to the stable. Again, without benefit of Wells, he led his gray stallion from the stall, saddled and bridled him, and mounted with the ease of one long accustomed to horses. He ran his hand down the smooth neck and spoke in a low tone. The stallion pricked his ears and flicked his tail. His iron-shod hooves echoed on the cobbles of the stable yard, then thudded softly on the grass as he yielded to the direction given him. Trotting first, then breaking into an easy gallop, he carried his master over greening meadows and along lanes still starry with primroses.

Half an hour later, Sir Richard reined up by the church and dismounted. Before looping the reins over the hitching post he put his hand to his head to quiet the pain that had begun its raging. Usually a brisk ride made the pain abate, sometimes even cease, but this was not the case today.

The church was dim and empty, as he knew it would be in the early afternoon. He walked up the center aisle and turned to the alcove at the left of the altar. There his ancestors were buried; there he would lie someday with Mary beside him, the last of the Sedgeleys. At one side was the tomb of his father. Upon it lay a bronze statue in a coat of mail, gauntleted hands folded across the breast. Placed close to the figure and filling the space from shoulder to knee was the sword of his ancestor William Sedgeley, the man to whom the castle had been given five centuries ago. Tradition said that it lay there ready to be used, but only by a Sedgeley and only in a moment of utter need.

Sir Richard stood by the tomb, then he put his right hand on the sword and drew it from its scabbard. It came with difficulty, but he put his strength to it and the sound it made as metal scraped against metal echoed in the silence of the church. He lifted it in his hands, bent his lips to the hilt, then held it upright before him.

“I swear,” he began, in a loud hoarse voice, “I swear, by my father and by my forefathers—”

“Sir Richard!”

There, coming up the altar steps, was the vicar.

“Yes, it is I, Sir Richard Sedgeley of Starborough Castle.”

“You surprised me, Sir Richard,” the vicar said uncertainly, peering into the shadows of the alcove. “I thought I heard an unusual sound and came to investigate.”