Thorn (20 page)

There was the scraping of wood against wood, and then the lid slid free. Something gusted dry, sour breath upwards, and both men flinched. And then the light from Porling's torch fell across the thing inside the coffin.

The face that Dan Tudor had compared to a fair, pale
Morte d'Arthur
heroine and that John Shilling had guiltily and lubriciously fantasised over was suffused with purple where the veins had swollen with the frenzied efforts to escape and the panic-filled struggle for air. The eyes were staring and bulging from their sockets, the whites stained crimson where the tiny capillaries had haemorrhaged, and the lips were stretched wide in a silent scream, with blood-specked froth staining the corners.

The coffin was quite shallow, but she had managed to draw her knees up a little to push against the lid, and her hands were curled into helpless, frantic claws, most of the nails broken and the fingertips crusted with blood. Leo glanced at the underside of the coffin lid and saw that the lining was stained with blood and ripped. He drew in a shaking breath and forced himself to look back at the dreadful thing in the coffin.

Examination under these circumstances was unthinkable, and he did not attempt it. But he forced his mind to clinical observation. She was plainly dead and he thought that rigor mortis was still present in most of the body. If it had not started to wear off – and he did not think it had – she might have been dead for just under twenty-four hours. Sometime during last night, then, or maybe the early hours of the morning. If the funeral had taken place in the late afternoon, and depending when she had come out of whatever cataleptic state she had been in, she might have had twelve hours of horror before she died. Or had she suffocated almost at once? It did not really matter whether she had had twelve hours or twelve minutes of it; two minutes at full consciousness, fighting to breathe, dreadfully aware of what had happened, would have been sufficient to send her mad.

He looked more closely at the neck and jaws, which was where the relaxing of rigor usually started, and for the first time saw several crimson weals. He bent closer, puzzled, and then understanding flooded his mind. The small wounds had been made by her own fingernails, and Leo had a vivid and dreadful image of Eloise Ingram despairing but still appallingly conscious, attempting to claw open her own jugular vein in a pitiful bid to die quickly and cleanly. He looked hopefully at the inside of the coffin, but there were no stains to indicate a sudden effusion of blood. Then if she didn't die of asphyxiation, she died of exhaustion and fear, thought Leo in horror. And someone's got to deal with this unbelievable situation. Someone's got to tell Imogen.

As if in response to this last thought, he caught a quick movement above. He straightened up, aware that Inspector Mackenzie was straightening up as well, and saw backing away from the grave's edge, just outside of the torch's beam, Imogen.

Her eyes were on the terrible thing inside the open coffin.

Porling just managed to catch her before she fainted.

Leo straightened up in the narrow hospital cubicle and regarded the A and E registrar levelly.

‘No change at all?'

‘Not yet, I'm afraid. The lady's staying determinedly out of the world. We've checked for the usual things – drugs overdose, diabetic coma.'

‘It's stupor rather than coma though, isn't it? There are still some responses.'

‘Yes. Oh yes. The swallowing reflexes and so on are all still there. She's breathing normally, and the limbs are flaccid. Well, you can see all that for yourself.'

‘And her eyes are open,' said Leo, half to himself, looking down at the still, remote figure on the bed.

‘Yes. We've checked to see if they're following deliberate movements and there is some response at times. I thought you said she was on only a mild dosage of diazepam, by the way.'

‘So she was, according to Briar House.'

‘H'm. The tests don't show it as mild at all,' said the registrar caustically. ‘Either she was supplementing it with her own private supply – and you know as well as I do that they
will
do it, these teenagers – or someone's been trying to keep her more or less permanently doped.' He glanced at Leo. ‘Is that a possibility?'

‘I wouldn't put anything past her GP,' said Leo.

‘Could he have made a mistake?'

‘Any amount from what I've seen of him.' Leo paused, and then said, ‘Listen, I don't want to trespass on your territory—'

‘Oh, trespass away.'

‘But in view of what happened, isn't the likeliest diagnosis hysterical stupor? She simply couldn't face what she saw and withdrew?'

‘If we're talking about territories, that one's yours rather than mine,' said the registrar. ‘But I wouldn't be surprised if you're right. We'll have to wait for the CT scan, and we've still got to do a lumbar puncture to eliminate meningitis. We can't rule that out yet, or subdural haematoma or a subarachnoid haemorrhage either.'

‘Tumour?' said Leo. ‘No, that wouldn't present in such a sudden way, would it?'

‘Well, it's unlikely. Unless there's any history of epileptic fits.'

‘Not as far as I know. Her GP should be able to tell you, if he can stay sober long enough to tell you anything at all,' said Leo.

‘We'll check it with him. What about clinical depression? Is there any history of that, do you know? I mean prior to what happened tonight?'

‘I don't know. I don't think so.'

‘What about a blow? When she fainted, did she hit her head?'

‘Almost certainly not.' Leo remembered vividly how Imogen had tumbled forward, and how the young police constable had caught her.

‘Well, we're getting an X-ray of the skull as well just to be sure there aren't any fractures. It shouldn't take too long at this time of night,' said the registrar with the instinctive and defensive vagueness of one constantly working under interruptions. ‘But in view of what you've told me . . .'

‘You agree with me.'

‘Well, yes, I do.'

‘Hysterical or depressive stupor.'

‘Yes. Appalling thing for her to witness,' said the registrar, glancing at the bed. ‘Enough to make anyone shut down for a while. All that diazepam wouldn't have helped either.'

‘I know,' said Leo, suddenly understanding why people occasionally ground their teeth with sheer anger.

‘We'll probably have to admit her, or hand over to your people. We've started a chart measuring the time she's unconscious, counting this as day one. D'you want to stay with her until we get the X-ray done?'

‘Please.'

‘OK, I'll get someone to bring you a cup of tea.' A buzzer bleeped imperatively in the registrar's pocket, and he made a resigned gesture. ‘I'll have to leave you to it. But sing out for someone if she looks like coming out of it.' He paused, and sent Leo a quizzical look. ‘You'd take the case yourself, I suppose, Dr Sterne?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘I thought you would.'

The thin curtain twitched as he went out, and Leo was alone with Imogen.

T
he powers that ordered life and death and ordained judgement were still with Thalia. Even if she had not known it before, she knew it now. And once that was accepted, it was no longer surprising that matters had played so neatly into her hands.

Thalia had not planned that the bitch should find out what had happened to Eloise – she had not even thought about it – but it had been like the last coruscating piece of a cosmic jigsaw fitting into its appointed place. Imogen was sunk deep in what the doctors were calling hysterical stupor, she was four days into it now, and there was no way of telling how many more days she might remain like that. Everyone agreed that it was very sad even while they were all shuddering and stunned over what had happened to Eloise. George reported that Elspeth had taken to her bed for three days, and Dilys had had hysterics all over Battersea. Juliette was believed to have got most enviably drunk at some nightclub or other, and Rosa had told Great-Aunt Flora that it was anybody's guess whose bed the naughty girl had ended up sharing.

It was not sad at all, of course; it was the creature's punishment and judgement, just as Eloise's fate had been her punishment and judgement. Thalia had experienced once more the deep, secret pleasure when she had heard just how successful the plan against Eloise had been.

Wearing the falsest of all her false faces, she listened to the various suggestions put forward by the family who were beginning to recover a bit from the shock and were turning their attention to what ought now to be done regarding Imogen. As Great-Aunt Flora pointed out, it was at least something positive to think about.

Thalia pretended to agree with everyone. She made notes and nodded when stupid old Dilys made ridiculous suggestions about private nursing homes and long-term care, with the cost shared between the family. She held a serious discussion with Flora who wanted to buy an annuity which would pay for Imogen's care indefinitely, and said this was a very intelligent idea. It might be possible to do just that; Thalia would consult with Matron Porter and Dr Sterne and report back. They could then approach Royston's bankers for advice on how best to go about it. What did Flora think?

What Flora thought was that she had misjudged Thalia Caudle who, in the present appalling situation, was proving a tower of strength. She said so in her forthright way, and Thalia smiled faintly and looked at her nails.

Coercing Freda Porter proved to be the easiest thing of all. The secret with coercion was to find out the weakness in your victim's armour, and use it.

Freda Porter's weakness had been obvious. The creature had applied for the matron's post at Thornacre, and she was waiting to hear whether it was successful. It was instantly plain to Thalia that Leo Sterne had something – probably everything – to do with it. It looked as if the Porter woman was suffering from a bad case of middle-aged infatuation for Dr Sterne. Very good; it should be used against her. Thalia, wearing the most guileless of all her guileless masks, explained to Freda that
of course
there was no question of anyone blaming Briar House, or Freda herself, for Imogen's having slipped out so easily, and
of course
no one was going to ask for an investigation. As to the fact that Imogen had apparently been systematically fed a far heftier dosage of sedatives than was necessary, or even prescribed, oh, that was a mere nothing, said Thalia. These things happened, and it was not something that need blight Matron's future. Especially since that future looked so promising just now. Especially with the Thornacre post on the horizon. It would be a very great pity if that was affected, said Thalia, slyly.

The shaft went home. The creature turned an unbecoming crimson and began to bluster, and Thalia felt a faint contempt for her. But she said coolly, ‘I believe it is not an unusual practice to increase a prescribed sedative dose with, shall we say,
difficult
patients. I don't blame you in the least, Matron, and we should not dream of making trouble for you.' A pause. ‘Of course, if Imogen should wake, if she should
talk
about how easy it was to get out of Briar House that night, and about all those sedatives she was given,' a brief gesture of helplessness, ‘it might be difficult to keep it quiet. On all counts, it might be less dangerous if she could be got out of London.'

Freda said, thoughtfully, ‘Well, I have to say, Mrs Caudle, that we haven't really the facilities or the staff to look after her at Briar House. Not in her present condition.'

‘You haven't really, have you?' Thalia slid into her softest, most coaxing voice. ‘Tell me, Matron, if you were to get this post at Thornacre, how easy would it be for you to have Imogen transferred there?'

‘Permanently?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘It would probably be quite easy,' said Freda, slowly. ‘Dr Sterne has an interest in the case, you know.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh yes. He believes that Imogen will come out of the stupor more or less naturally, although he can't tell yet how long it might take. But I think he would like to study her, which would mean transferring her to Thornacre anyway. Although it would probably have to be approved by the girl's family.'

Thalia said, ‘But if I, as Imogen's guardian, did approve it, it would place her directly under your care?'

‘If I were given the post, certainly it would.'

‘Yes,' said Thalia, thoughtfully. ‘If you were given the post.' She studied the other woman for a moment, and then said, ‘Let's suppose for a minute you were given it. Let's suppose we could get you into Thornacre as matron. I'm sure you would be excellent at the job, by the way.'

Freda permitted herself a small smile.

‘Would you be able to ensure that Imogen stayed there indefinitely?' said Thalia.

They looked at one another. ‘Well, do you know,' said Freda, at last, ‘I believe I might be able to do that. As matron I should have considerable authority.' This had such a good ring to it that she repeated it. ‘Yes,
considerable
authority. I should have to be consulted about the cases there. Of course, Dr Sterne discusses a great deal with me already.' This also sounded well. It sounded as if Dr Sterne reposed great confidence in her.

Thalia said, ‘Yes, I have realised for myself that you have quite a lot of influence with Dr Sterne.' She registered the woman's smirk, and the way she put up one hand to give her hair a little complacent pat. ‘And, of course, once Imogen was under your care, you could make sure that she didn't talk about the sedative overdosing, couldn't you? That's a side issue, but we ought not to forget it. We ought not to minimise the possible danger there, ought we?'

Freda, white rather than red now, said, ‘Oh no,' and gave a mad little laugh.