80

Maggie began to shiver uncontrollably. How long had she been here? she wondered. Had she drifted off to sleep, or lost consciousness? Her head hurt so much. Her mouth was dry with thirst.

How long was it since she last called for help? Was anyone looking for her? Did anyone even know that she was missing?

Neil. He said he would call tonight. No last night, she thought, trying to make sense of time. I was in the museum at nine o’clock, she reminded herself. I know I’ve been here for hours. Is it morning now, or even later than that?

Neil would call her.

Or would he?

She had rejected his expressions of concern. Maybe he wouldn’t call. She had been cold to him. Maybe he had washed his hands of her.

No, no, she prayed. Neil wouldn’t do that. Neil would look for her. “Find me, Neil, please find me,” she whispered, then blinked back tears.

His face loomed in her mind. Troubled. Concerned. Worried about her. If only she had told him about the bells on the graves. If only she had asked him to go with her to the museum.

The museum, she thought suddenly. The voice behind her.

Mentally she replayed what had happened in the attack. She turned and saw the look on his face before he crashed the flashlight down on her head. Evil. Murderous.

As he must have looked when he murdered Nuala.

Wheels. She hadn’t been totally unconscious when she felt herself being wheeled.

A woman’s voice. She had heard a familiar woman’s voice talking to him. Maggie moaned as she remembered whose voice it was.

I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. I can’t die; knowing this, I mustn’t die. She’ll do it again for him. I know she will.

“Help,” she shrieked. “Help me.”

Over and over she called until she finally was able to force herself to stop. Don’t panic, she warned herself. Above all, don’t panic.

I’ll count to five hundred very slowly and then call out three times, she decided. I’ll keep doing that.

She heard a steady, muffled sound from above, then felt a cold trickle on her hand. It was raining, she realized, and the rain was dripping down through the air vent.

81

At eleven-thirty, Chief Brower and Detective Haggerty entered Latham Manor. It was obvious that the residents knew that something was wrong. They were standing in small groups in the entrance hall and library.

The officers were aware of the curious gazes that followed them when the maid led them to the office wing.

Dr. Lane greeted them courteously. “Come right in. I’m at your service.” He indicated they should be seated.

He looks like hell, Haggerty thought, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the gray lines around the doctor’s mouth, and the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

“Dr. Lane, at this point we’re simply asking some questions, nothing more,” Brower began.

“Nothing more than what?” Lane asked, attempting a smile.

“Doctor, before you took this position, you’d been unemployed for several years. Why was that?”

Lane was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I suspect you already know the answer to that.”

“We’d prefer to hear your version,” Haggerty told him.

“My version, as you put it, is that we’d had an outbreak of flu in the Colony Nursing Home where I was in charge. Four of the women had to be transferred to the hospital. Therefore, when others came down with flu-like symptoms, I naturally assumed that they’d caught the same virus.”

“But they hadn’t,” Brower said quietly. “In fact, in their section of the nursing home there was a faulty heater. They were suffering the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. Three of them died. Isn’t that true?”

Lane kept his eyes averted and did not answer.

“And isn’t it true that the son of one of those women had told you that his mother’s disorientation did not seem consistent with flu symptoms, and even asked you to check for the possible presence of carbon monoxide?”

Again Lane did not answer.

“Your license was suspended for gross negligence, and yet you were able to secure this position. How did that happen?” Brower asked.

Lane’s mouth became a straight line. “Because the people at Prestige Residence Corporation were fair enough to recognize that I had been the director of an overly crowded, low-budget facility, that I was working fifteen hours a day, that a number of the guests were suffering from flu, and the misdiagnosis therefore was understandable, and that the man who complained was constantly finding fault with everything from the hot water temperature, to doors that squeaked, to drafty windows.”

He stood up. “I find these questions insulting. I suggest that you leave these premises immediately. As it is, you have thoroughly upset our guests. Someone apparently felt the need to inform everyone that you were coming here.”

“That would be Nurse Markey,” Brower said. “Please tell me where I can find her.”

Zelda Markey was openly defiant as she sat across from Brower and Haggerty in the small second-floor room that served as her office. Her sharp-featured face was an angry red, her eyes cold with rage.

“My patients need me,” she said tartly. “They’re aware that Janice Norton’s husband committed suicide, and they’ve heard a rumor that she’s been doing something illegal here. They’re even more distressed to learn that Miss Holloway is missing. Everyone who met her was very fond of her.”

“Were you fond of her, Ms. Markey?” Brower asked.

“I did not know her well enough to become fond of her. The few times I spoke with her, I found her very pleasant.”

“Ms. Markey, you’re a friend of Earl Bateman’s, aren’t you?” Brower asked.

“To me, friendship implies familiarity. I know and admire Professor Bateman. He, like all the family, were very solicitous of his aunt, Alicia Bateman, who was a guest at the Seaside Nursing Home, where I was formerly employed.”

“In fact, the Batemans were quite generous to you, weren’t they?”

“They felt that I was taking excellent care of Alicia and were kind enough to insist on rewarding me.”

“I see. I’d like to know why you thought a lecture on death might be of interest to the residents of Latham Manor. Don’t you think they’ll all be facing it soon enough?”

“Chief Brower, I am aware that this society has a horror of the word ‘death.’ But the older generation has a much greater sense of reality. At least half of our residents have left specific instructions for their own final arrangements, and, indeed, frequently even joke about it.”

She hesitated. “However, I will say that it was my understanding that Professor Bateman was planning to give his talk on royal funerals through the ages, which, of course, is quite an interesting subject. If he had stuck to that…” She paused for a moment, then continued, “And I will admit also that the use of the bells upset some people, but the way Mrs. Sarah Cushing treated Professor Bateman was unpardonable. He meant no harm, yet she treated him inhumanly.”

“Do you think he was very angry?” Brower asked mildly.

“I think he was humiliated, then perhaps angry, yes. When he’s not lecturing, he’s actually very shy.”

Haggerty looked up from his notes. An unmistakable softness had come into the nurse’s tone and expression. Interesting, he thought. He was sure Brower had noticed as well. Friendship implies familiarity. Methinks the lady doth protest too much, he decided.

“Nurse Markey, what do you know about a sketch that Mrs. Nuala Moore made with the late Mrs. Greta Shipley?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she snapped.

“It was in Mrs. Shipley’s apartment. It seems to have vanished after her death.”