Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘See, Doctor, he’s holding on beautifully.’’

‘‘She’s going to have me up out of this in a matter of weeks.’’

The doctor looked from one to the other. There was color in Lord Patterly’s face for the first time since the accident. He had never seen Her Ladyship so radiant. Why should he tell them it was hopeless? Life had been hard enough on that young pair. Anyway, who knew? There was always the off chance the long bed rest had allowed some of the damaged nerve endings to mend themselves.

‘‘By all means go on as you’re doing,’’ he said. ‘‘Just take it a bit slowly at first. Remember that little heart condition.’’

Eleanor suddenly thought of Gerald and the digitalis. Her face became a mask. ‘‘I’ll remember,’’ she said tonelessly.

Her husband laughed. ‘‘Oh, nonsense. Everybody’s got these idiotic heart murmurs. My father had and he lived to seventy-nine. Gerald has, and look at him. Shoots, swims, rides, all that.’’

‘‘Gerald had better watch himself,’’ said the doctor. He picked up his bag. ‘‘Well, the patient appears to be in good hands. You’re doing splendidly, Lady Patterly, splendidly. Don’t be discouraged if progress is a little slow. These things take time, you know.’’

‘‘Time,’’ said Lord Patterly, ‘‘is something of which we have plenty. Haven’t we, darling?’’

His wife smoothed his pillow. ‘‘Yes, Roger. All the time in the world.’’

‘‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’’ The doctor moved toward the door. ‘‘Watch his pulse, Nurse. Give the prescribed injection of digitalis if it seems advisable after the exercises. You keep the hypodermic ready, of course?’’

‘‘All in order, Doctor. Right here on the medicine tray if need arises.’’

Gerald was right, Eleanor thought as she gently kneaded the wasted muscles of her husband’s arms. It would be easy. Too easy. She drew the covers up over him. ‘‘There, that’s enough for now. I don’t want to wear you out the first day. Shall I put on some music?’’

‘‘Please.’’

She had taken to playing the classical records he liked. It whiled away the time for her, too, sitting beside the bed, letting the long waves of melody sweep over her, daydreaming of all the things she would do when she was free. Today, however, she found her mind dwelling on more homely pictures. Miss Jenkins’s face when she’d dropped her little bombshell at the bookshop. The doctor’s, when he’d found her giving her husband therapy. Her husband’s now, as he lay with his eyes closed, the long afternoon shadows etching his features in sharp relief. He was as good-looking as ever, in spite of everything. That jaw would never be blurred by fat. What would it be like, living in this house without Roger? She tried to imagine it and could not.

After dinner the following evening, Gerald suggested a walk. ‘‘You’re looking peaked, Eleanor. Needn’t stay cooped up with your patient forever, you know.’’

His double meaning was plain. She rose and followed him out the french windows to the terrace.

‘‘Rather an inspiration of yours, that therapy thing.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘Easy enough to overdo a bit. Make the heart attack more plausible, eh?’’

She did not answer. He went on, confident of his power over her.

‘‘You were right about the digitalis, I decided. I’ve thought of something even better. Potassium chloride. I was a hospital laboratory technician once, you know. One of the jobs I batted around in after they turned me down for the army. Rum, when you come to think of it. I mean, if it hadn’t been for my wheezing heart I shouldn’t have drifted into this post, and if it weren’t for Roger’s I shouldn’t be… getting promoted, shall we say? Anyway, getting back to the potassium chloride, it’s reliable stuff. Absolutely undetectable. Do an autopsy and all you find is a damaged heart and an increased potassium rate. Exactly what you’d expect after a fatal coronary attack.’’

‘‘Gerald, must you?’’

‘‘This is no time to turn squeamish, Eleanor. Especially since it’s you who’ll be giving it.’’

‘‘Don’t be a fool. How could I?’’

‘‘Oh, I don’t mean directly. We’ll let Nurse Wilkes do that. She keeps a hypodermic of digitalis on the bedside table, ready to give him a quick jab if he needs it.’’

‘‘How did you know that?’’

‘‘I’m the dear old pal, remember? I’ve been a lot more faithful about visiting Roger than you ever were until your recent excess of wifely devotion. Nurse Wilkes and I are great chums.’’

‘‘I can imagine.’’ Men like Gerald were always irresistibleto servant girls and barmaids and plain, middle-aged nurses. And rich women who thought they had nothing better to do.

‘‘I took careful note of the type of hypodermic syringe she uses,’’ Gerald went on. ‘‘Yesterday when I was in London, I bought one just like it at one of the big medical supply houses, along with some potassium chloride and a few other things so it wouldn’t look too obvious. I’d dropped in beforehand to visit some of my old pals at the hospital and pinched a lab coat with some convincing acid holes in it. Wore it to the shop and they never dreamed of questioning me. I ditched it in a public lavatory and got rid of the rest of the stuff in various trash bins on my way back to the station.’’

‘‘You think of everything, don’t you, Gerald?’’ Eleanor’s throat was dry.

‘‘Have to, my love. So here we are. I give you the doings all ready for use. You watch your chance tomorrow morning and switch the syringes. Then you put old Roger through his paces till he works up a galloping pulse, back off and let Nurse take over, and get ready to play the shattered widow. The stuff works in a couple of minutes. And then this is all ours.’’

‘‘It’s all ours now,’’ Eleanor told him. ‘‘Mine and Roger’s.’’

‘‘I say! You’re not backing out on me, are you?’’

‘‘Yes, I am. I won’t do it, Gerald.’’

No woman had ever refused Gerald anything before. His face puckered like an angry baby’s. ‘‘But why?’’

‘‘Because I’m not quite the idiot I thought I was. You’re not worth Roger’s little finger.’’

It was astonishing how ugly Gerald could look. ‘‘And suppose I go to Roger and let him know the loving-wife act was just a buildup for murder? Suppose you’re caught with the evidence? You will be, Eleanor. I’ll see to that.’’

‘‘Don’t be ridiculous. What would you get out of it?’’

‘‘You forget, my love. I’m the boyhood chum and devoted steward. I’ll be the chap who saved his life. I’ll be in charge here, far more than I am now. And with no wife to pass things on to, Roger just might be persuaded to make me his heir.’’

‘‘How long would he survive the signing of the will?’’

‘‘That won’t be your concern, my sweet. You’ll be where you can’t do a thing about it.’’

Eleanor stared at him, frozen-faced. He began to wheedle.

‘‘Oh, come on, old girl. Think of the times we’ll have on dear old Roger’s money. You don’t plan to spend the rest of your life in that bedroom, do you?’’

‘‘No,’’ said Eleanor, ‘‘I don’t.’’

Her mind was forming pictures, of Roger being carried down to a couch on the terrace to get the sun, of Roger being pushed around the garden in a wheelchair, of Roger taking his first steps on crutches. And someday, of Roger and herself walking together where she and Gerald were walking now. It would happen. She knew it would because this was what she wanted most in all the world, and she always got what she wanted.