Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

“Maybe I just need some fresh air,” he said, wanting to get away from her cloying company. But when he tried to stand, the blood surged in his head and red clouds filled the room.

When he came to he was stretched back out on the sofa, the blanket now tucked up to his chin. She was sitting on the arm, looking down at him, her fat face filling his vision.

“You fainted, you poor dear. It’s lucky you hadn’t got to your feet.”

Feeling weak as a child, he shut his eyes again. “My head’s pounding. I need more aspirin.”

She instantly stood. “Of course. I think you’re dehydrated, I’ll get you a drink, too.”

When she returned a minute later he saw she was carrying a steaming mug and a small bottle. “I’ve made you some more Ovaltine. I’m afraid you’ve had all the aspirin. But I’ve got some Calpol.”

“Calpol? Isn’t that for kids?”

“Yes. It was for…” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “We’ll give you an extra big dose.”

Too exhausted to protest, he watched as she poured out a tablespoon of the red liquid. Once he’d swallowed it, she placed the mug of Ovaltine in his hands. “Now drink up. We can’t have you like this, can we?”

He spent the rest of the evening lying on the sofa, listlessly watching the telly as his pulse rose and fell again and again. At eleven o’clock she came over and stood in front of the sofa. “I think it’s beddy-bed time. Shall I help you up?”

Irritated by her patronising choice of words, he waved her away. “I’m fine here. I’ll head up later.”

“Head still bad?”

He nodded once. “If there’s no improvement by tomorrow I think we’d better call for a doctor.”

She found him there the next morning. He was lying on his back, a shallow pant coming from his mouth.

“Oh dear, still feeling poorly?”

His eyelids fluttered open and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I’m more than poorly. I need a doctor,” he croaked, gesturing weakly to the phone which lay just out of his reach. “Can you pass it to me? I can hardly move. And bring me the copy of the yellow pages, too,” he added, thinking he needed to call Jan to cancel their dinner date.

“Let me get you a drink, your throat sounds awfully dry.”

“Okay. Yes, a drink would be good.”

She returned a minute later with a mug in her hands. Kneeling in front of the sofa, she reached an arm round his neck and lifted his head off the cushions.

“What’s this? More bloody Ovaltine? I just want water.”

“Now, now,” she clucked. “I’ve made it with milk, just how you like it. Take a sip, it’s not too hot.”

With a reluctant sigh, he did as he was told. Once it was finished she laid his head back down.

“Now can you please call me a doctor? I’m seriously ill here.”

She picked up the phone and placed it further out of his reach. “We don’t need a doctor. I’m here to take care of you.”

A surge of self-pitying anger made the dull thump in his head more pronounced. “Listen, I need more than cups of bloody Ovaltine. I need medical help. Now call me a bloody doctor.”

She held a finger up. “Any more language like that and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap. Now let’s get you upstairs, you need to be in bed.”

He tried to shrug off her arm as it slid back round his neck. “Give me the phone,” he gasped, thinking of Jan, the only person in the world he could turn to for help. Not caring if it meant revealing the truth about himself to her.

Ignoring his demand, she pulled him into a sitting position, then draped one of his arms round her shoulders.

“Get your hands off me,” he protested feebly.

“Okay,” she said brusquely. “One, two, three, up!” She hoisted him to his feet and his vision swirled and faded.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled helplessly, unsure if they were actually moving until he felt the edges of the stairs banging against his shins. “I need the toilet.”

“There, there. Everything will be okay,” she grunted, getting him onto the landing.

His vision cleared a little and he realised they’d stopped outside the door marked Nursery. She took a key from her pocket. His head lolled forward as she unlocked the door. The room had the letters of the alphabet running below the picture rail. The jungle-animal blind was drawn and a mobile of toy animals hung over an enormous cot in the corner.

“What… what is this?” he said, trying to focus.

“Don’t you worry, I’m here to take care of you,” she replied, lowering the bars of the cot and laying him down.

“I need the toilet. I have to go to the toilet.” He started to cry.

“That’s fine,” she said, stripping off his pajamas and taking a pair of incontinence pants from a drawer.

He felt her slipping them on and he looked at the photos lined up on the shelf to his side. Framed photos of gaunt-faced men, all lying in the cot he now found himself in.

“Who are they?” he whispered.

“My babies, of course,” she answered brightly, picking up each picture in turn. “All dead now. All dead.” She looked down at him, a smile on her face. “All my babies die. It’s what God wants.”

He stared up at her, remembering the inscription in the cemetery about her babies being with angels, realising there were no actual names listed on the gravestone.

“Now, it’s time for your feed. Mummy will get it.” She raised the bars back up and he heard her go downstairs. While she was gone he tried desperately to summon the strength to move. Sobbing with exertion, he was only able to lift a hand just clear of the blanket.

She returned with a large baby bottle, dripping a bit from the teat onto her upturned wrist. “Just right.”

He tried to shy away from her as she bent over him. But she cupped his cheek and turned his face towards her.

“What’s in that? What is it?” he said through gritted teeth as the teat was forced between his lips.

“Mother’s milk, my sweet one. Mother’s milk.”

1938

Have you traveled on the Shakespeare Express before?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “This is our first visit to England. Mary Anne and I are still trying to find our feet.”

“It’s a wonderful train. In the old days, you could only get to Stratford by changing at Leamington Spa-a dreadful nuisance. Ten years ago, they introduced the Shakespeare Express so that we could go direct from Paddington to Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“That will suit us fine.”

Cyrus and Mary Anne Hillier had been standing on the railway platform that morning when they fell into conversation with the attractive young woman in a tailored suit that somehow managed to look both smart and casual. Dipping down towards one eye, her hat concealed much of her close-cropped fair hair. Since their arrival in the country, they had found English people rather reserved, but here was the exception to the general rule. Tall, shapely, and impeccably well bred, she described herself as an unrepentant worshiper at the altar of the Bard.

“Then you and Cyrus are two of a kind,” said Mary Anne, looking fondly at her husband. “He’s written books on Shakespeare.”

“Really?” said the other woman. “How marvellous!”

“Cyrus is a professor of Drama at Penn State University. In fact, he’s the chairman of the department.”

“That means nothing over here, honey,” he said modestly.

“Well, it should do.”

“I’m just an anonymous member of the audience today.”

“You’re an expert,” his wife insisted.

“I agree,” said the younger woman. “If you’ve written books on a subject, you must be an authority.” She offered her hand. “It’s an honour to meet you, Professor.” They shook hands. “My name is Rosalind Walker, by the way. I’m not an authority on anything.”