Justin was too startled to answer. Madeline said no more. They walked once around the block in silence. But by the time they returned to The Carter House, the beginning of a new relationship had been made.
The other ladies fought back valiantly. Florence’s smile beamed ever wider, and her face seemed to glow perpetually from the heat of the oven as she baked her exquisite little cakes to tempt the palate of Justin Gravelle. Alicia toddled down to the dry goods store almost daily, and toddled home again with a new necktie for him. Beatrice relied on her two special recipes, one for peach jam and the other for watermelon rind pickles. Blanche made a vulgar show of wealth by rolling up greenbacks and tying them with little yellow ribbons and depositing them not so stealthily under Justin’s napkin at the dinner table.
Justin accepted all this tribute, but did not change his mind about Madeline. He was aware too of the basilisk stares of the Carter sisters as they beheld the storm brewing. But he dared not turn back. The job had been proving too much for him. He’d been expected not merely to companion five ladies, but to court them. And one was enough.
He would marry Madeline Howard. They would move away from The Carter House, set up an establishment of their own somewhere. He would be master of Madeline’s little fortune, whatever size it was, rather than go on being a beggar for small favors. And he would be able to rest.
Because that was what, he concluded now, his predecessor had done. He had married one of these wealthy widows and waltzed away with her. After all, one had to better one’s self somehow.
It was on the very day that he’d intended to propose formally to Madeline Howard that he took sick. It was quite a sudden thing, and had seemed to be only indigestion at first — quite a logical conclusion to come to, considering the quantities of gourmet foods he had consumed at lunch.
But as the afternoon wore on, the indigestion took the form of violent cramps, occasional nausea, and a rising fever. Alarmed, Justin took to his bed. He lay there, alternately writhing and exhausted, till toward dinner time Celestine Carter looked in on him.
“Mr. Gravelle,” she began, “the ladies are clamoring for you. It’s such a nice warm afternoon, and they’ve set up the croquet wickets...”
“I’m sick,” he answered weakly. “Send for a doctor.”
But instead of scurrying off obediently, she came over to the side of the bed and stood looking down on him. She shook her head, clucked her tongue, and finally, sad and resigned, she turned and left the room.
“A doctor!” he pleaded hoarsely after the departing figure. But the only reply was a key turning in the lock of his door.
He screamed, not loudly, because he was too weak to scream loudly. He tried to get up, but he succeeded only in thrashing about on the bed. The effort brought on another wave of nausea, and he had to lie back again, the prisoner also of his own incapacity.
Poison... the word wrote itself across his mind. Somebody had poisoned him. Who? Why?
But it didn’t really matter, his fogged brain told him. All that mattered was that the doctor come, that he get well...
He drifted off. And he stayed in that nether realm of half-consciousness, half-death, almost out of contact with the living world, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, yet somehow aware of his drifting, knowing that the drift was toward the bottomless abyss, and terrified at that knowledge — till a sound woke him to some semblance of realization.
The key turning in the lock again.
The door opening and shutting. Muted voices... one... two... whispering... indistinct... yet coming closer... one on either side of him now... conversing about him... not seeming to know that he could hear...
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, if he’s not dead, he’s far gone.”
“Oh yes, far gone. He wanted me to call the doctor, but I knew there wasn’t any use.”
“Don’t you dare call the doctor!”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You know what kind of trouble having the doctor here would mean.”
“Of course I know. I wasn’t about to call a doctor.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about our consciences. We warned him.”
“Yes, we did. We told him the rule. No partiality.”
“And we said if he played favorites it would be fatal. Well, that’s what it’s been. Or going to be any minute. I do think he’s breathing a little.”
“Well, even if he is we still don’t want the doctor.”
“Oh, of course not. For sure as we had a doctor, the next thing there’d be the police. And we can’t have the police around here.”
“I should say not.”
“But who do you suppose did it this time?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. As long as they pay weekly, I’m not going to pry.”
“But don’t you get curious?”
“I try not to.”
“Well, we know it wasn’t Madeline. Not this time anyway. Because Madeline was the one he’d picked.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the watermelon rind pickles.”
“Maybe so. He was a pig about those pickles.”
“Poor old thing. I wouldn’t blame her. She’s never picked once. It must be discouraging.”
“Yes, she has to do something to keep up her hopes.”
“We are going to have a problem, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Getting rid of all his junk. He did real well for himself. He collected quite a wardrobe.”
“We’ll just do what we did the last time. The charity agencies. That isn’t the problem that’s worrying me.”
“What is worrying you?”
“Where are we going to put him?”
“With the others, of course.”
“But it’s getting terribly crowded.”
“Yes, but where else is there?”
“I don’t know, but sooner or later we’ll have to find another place.”
“When the time comes. When the time comes.”
“And I wish we could find another method.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m just getting too old to dig”
“But we can’t hire it done.”
“Oh no.”
“And we can’t ask our guests to help.”
“Of course not. But I wish sometimes we were in some other business. This cleaning up after people.”
“It’s a living, sister. It’s a living.”
“I suppose so. Shall it be tonight?”
“It’ll have to be tonight. Dead or alive. This isn’t the sort of thing that can wait.”
“All right, tonight. Midnight?”
“Yes. Gives us at least five hours before the sun comes up...”
The voices receded. The door opened and closed. The lock clicked. And Justin Gravelle was left to his tormented dreams.
Midnight... dead or alive... but he was still alive! Perhaps he would live. He had a rugged constitution. Even now it seemed that some of his strength was returning. That conversation between the Carter sisters had provided him with a spur and a challenge. He commanded his muscles, discovered that he could move a little. But then he lay still again. Better to conserve his strength for one massive attempt.
Slowly life seeped back into his veins. It was very dark outside, and finally he decided he could wait no longer. He got up, dressed in his best suit, stuffed his pockets with what cash he had and the most valuable gifts from his collection.
But when he tried the door, it was locked, of course. In real fear of the Carter sisters, he declined either to try to force the door or to pound on it to summon help. He went instead to the Window. There he discovered a trellis he had somehow never noticed before. He climbed down it, and sped off into the night.
“I’ve just checked,” Celestine Carter announced, “and he’s definitely gone.”