I often wondered how I had got through the days before Chantel came. She was as much a nurse to me in a way as she was to Aunt Charlotte only I didn’t need the physical attention.


* * *

It was only ten months since Chantel had come and the autumn was with us again. The autumn tints and smells still filled me with sorrow but my heart was considerably lightened. That summer had been a wet one and the damp atmosphere had had its effect on Aunt Charlotte; she was still unable to leave her bed. How right Dr. Elgin had been when he said she needed a nurse. The ease with which fragile Chantel was able to lift her up with the help of Mrs. Morton, always astonished me. Aunt Charlotte’s disease had moved into an advanced stage and the doctor gave her opium pills to make her sleep. She fought against what she condemned as drugs but finally she gave in.

“One a night,” said Dr. Elgin. “At most two. More would be fatal.”

The pills were always kept in a cupboard in the anteroom as I called it which adjoined her room. The doctor said it was better not to have the pills near her bedside in case she was tempted to take more than the prescribed dose if her pains were acute, for the drug could become less effective after too frequent use.

“Nurse Loman, you will see to that.”

“You can trust me, Doctor,” said Chantel.

And of course he did. He talked to me about Aunt Charlotte. How wise I was to have brought in Nurse Loman. My aunt was a very strong woman. There was nothing organically wrong with her. But for her arthritis she would be absolutely healthy. She could go on for years in her present state.

The night after Dr. Elgin had told me that, I had a strange experience. I awoke in the night to find myself standing by my bed. I was not sure what had happened to me. That I had had a strange dream I was sure, though I could not remember what. In my mind was the thought of us all growing old, waiting on Aunt Charlotte — Ellen, Mrs. Morton, myself, and Chantel. All I could remember from that dream were the words which were still ringing in my mind: “for years …” And I was not sure how I came to be out of bed. At one moment I thought I remembered getting out of bed; and the next I was sure I did not.

It was a frightening experience.

I went to the door of my room and stood there listening to the sounds of the house. Had something happened to disturb me? I could only hear the faint soughing of the wind through the trees outside my window, the sudden creak of a floorboard. Then I was aware of the clocks ticking all over the house.

What had happened? Nothing but that I had been disturbed by a dream.


* * *

The weeks passed. The winter was a hard one; the east wind penetrated the house and as Aunt Charlotte said “stiffened up her bones” and made it painful even to move. She was resigned now to being completely bedridden. Her feet were swollen and misshapen and she could not stand on them. She relied completely on Chantel and Mrs. Morton.

I was away from the Queen’s House for whole days at a time, visiting sales, though I never went so far that I had to spend the night. A woman could not very easily travel alone. Besides I curtailed my trips as much as possible because it was difficult for business as there was no one to attend to customers while I was away.

I had begun to suspect that Aunt Charlotte had often bought unwisely. The Chinese goods were still hanging fire. Her expert knowledge had often carried her away and she would buy a piece because of its rarity rather than salability — all very well if one were a collector; but our business was buying and selling.

During that long hard winter I kept my journal up to date; and so did Chantel. I learned all that was happening at home, all the little details, made amusing and lighthearted by Chantel; and in more heavy style I wrote about my visits to sales and customers.

And then one morning when I awoke to find a crisscross of frosty pattern on the windows it was to learn that Aunt Charlotte was dead.


* * *

Chantel had gone in as usual at seven o’clock to take a cup of tea. She came running to my room. I shall never forget the sight of her standing there — her green eyes enormous, her face unusually pale, her titian hair falling about her shoulders. “Anna … she’s gone! I don’t understand it. We must send for Dr. Elgin at once. Ellen must go.”

So he came, and we were told that she had died from an overdose of her opium tablets which were always kept in the anteroom. How then had she been able to take them? The inference was obvious. Only if someone had given them to her. The Queen’s House had become not only a house of death, but a house of suspicion.

We were questioned, all of us. No one had heard anything during the night. My room was immediately above Aunt Charlotte’s, Chantel’s was on the same floor, Ellen’s and Mrs. Morton’s were together on the other side of the house.

I cannot remember details of those days now for I did not write in my journal until after the inquest. Somehow I could not bring myself to do so. It was a nightmare; I would not believe it was real.

But there was one question which must be answered because the law demanded it. How had Aunt Charlotte taken sleeping pills which were kept in the next room when she could not walk? The inference was: Only if someone gave them to her. And the inevitable question was: Who?

Who had something to gain? I was her main beneficiary. The Queen’s House and the antique business would be mine on her death. I was her only surviving relative; it was a foregone conclusion that everything would be mine. I had been trained with that object. The suggestion was there right from the start. Before anyone mentioned it: Had I become tired of waiting? It hung about the house like some miasma, horrible, insinuating.

Ellen was struck dumb, but I could see the speculation in her eyes. Had she got her legacy? Would it satisfy Mr. Orfey? Mrs. Morton seemed almost relieved. Life in the Queen’s House had not been what Mrs. Buckle would call a bed of roses. Mrs. Buckle was too simple to hide her excitement. To be connected with a house in which sudden death had occurred had raised her prestige enormously.

It was exhausting — the questions, the police, the inquest.

What would have happened to me then but for Chantel? I often wondered. She was like my guardian angel; she was with me constantly, assuring me that all would be well. Of course Aunt Charlotte had taken the pills herself. It was just what she would do.

“She never would take her own life,” I cried. “Never. It would have been quite against her principles.”

“You don’t know what pain can do to people … pain that goes on and on and can only grow worse. I’ve seen it happen. At first she did not want the opium pills at all and then she took them and was constantly asking for more.”

Oh yes, Chantel saved me. I shall never forget how valiantly she did battle for me at the inquest. She looked lovely, yet so discreet in her black nurse’s cloak and her green eyes and reddish hair so strikingly attractive. She had more than beauty; she had that power to win confidence and I could see that she carried everyone in the court along with her, as she had in the Queen’s House. She gave her evidence clearly and composedly. It was true that Aunt Charlotte had been unable to walk across the room in ordinary circumstances. But she had seen her achieve the seemingly impossible and not only Aunt Charlotte but another patient she remembered had done the same. She would explain. A piece of furniture had been put into Miss Brett’s room; it was a piece which her niece wanted her to buy and although Miss Brett was so crippled and suffered such pain she kept an alert eye on the business. She had actually left her bed to examine the small cabinet. Nurse Loman had been astonished because she had believed her patient could not walk. But in certain circumstances patients such as Miss Brett could summon up special powers. She believed Dr. Elgin would confirm this and in any case she had found Miss Brett beside the cabinet. It was true she had had to be almost carried back to bed but she had walked to the piece of furniture unaided. Nurse Loman believed that this was what had happened during that night. The pain was intense; the dose she had already taken had given her only a short sleep; so she had decided to take more. Close to the chest on the top of which the opium pills were kept Nurse Loman had found a button from Miss Brett’s bedjacket, and she knew that button had not been missing when she had given Miss Brett her pill and said goodnight.

The bedjacket had been produced; the button examined; water had been spilled on the table close to Aunt Charlotte’s bed.

The verdict was that Aunt Charlotte suffered great pain and had taken her own life while the balance of her mind was disturbed.

But the matter did not rest there. The will was read. The business and the Queen’s House were for me; there was two hundred pounds for Mrs. Morton and — this was a surprise — two hundred for Chantel; one hundred for Ellen and fifty for Mrs. Buckle.

Chantel wrote in her journal: “What a surprise! Although I knew she was a little fond of me. She must have added the codicil that day when the two important-looking gentlemen came to see her. I suppose they were lawyers. But fancy her including me. Money is always comforting though. But I do wish it hadn’t happened as it did. Poor poor Anna! She’s really very vulnerable. As for the others — particularly Ellen — they can’t quite hide their jubilation.”