When we arrived Robert said he would wait to hear the news of my mother, and as soon as we were in the house Martha and I went immediately to her room.
Martha knocked at the door. There was no answer.
“Asleep,” she whispered to me. “A good sign.”
She opened the door and looked in. Moonlight showed me that my mother was not in her bed.
Hastily we went into the room. And then we saw her. She was lying on the floor and it struck me that her head was in a very unnatural position. Then I saw that there was blood on her face.
I ran to her and knelt beside her. She looked strange … unlike herself.
I called to her in anguish. She did not move; she did not answer; and some terrible instinct told me that she would never speak to me again.
When I look back over the night that followed, it is just a jumble of impressions. There is the memory of all the household crowding into that room. Robert was amongst them. They were all shocked, unable to accept this terrible thing that had happened.
Dr. Green arrived.
He said: “She must have fallen and cut her forehead on the edge of that dressing table as she fell … and she has suffered further injuries.”
She was taken to the hospital, but by that time we all guessed that nothing could be done.
We had lost her. I was trying to think what it would be like without her, never to hear her voice again … her laughter, her gaiety, her easygoing acceptance of life. All that was gone … taken from us in the space of a few hours.
It was not possible to accept it at first. I wondered whether I should ever be able to. Life would never be the same again. I just could not imagine it without her. I could not bear to. She had been right at the heart of my life, and now she was gone, in one night.
Why had I not been there? I could have caught her before she fell. I could have saved her. While I was at the theatre, completely unaware, talking to Roderick, Lisa and Robert … this had been happening … and she was gone … forever.
It was past midnight when Lisa came in. She was flushed and elated. She had clearly enjoyed the evening with Roderick.
She took one look at me and said: “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
I said: “My mother is dead.”
She went pale and stared at me.
I said: “She got out of bed. She must have had a dizzy spell. She fell. She injured herself … and … it’s killed her.”
“No,” said Lisa. “Oh no …”
Then she fainted.
When she recovered, she kept saying: “No, no, it can’t be. She’ll get better, won’t she? She couldn’t die … just because she fell.”
I did not answer. I just turned away. She caught my arm. There was anguish in her face. She had really cared for my mother. But of course she had. Everyone had cared for my mother. I had thought in my heart that Lisa was too preoccupied with her own success, her own chance to show the world what she could do. It was natural. But she had really cared for my mother. She looked stunned. Yes, she had really cared deeply.
I got her to her room and asked Mrs. Crimp to bring her a hot drink. Mrs. Crimp was only too glad to have something to do.
“I can’t believe it,” she kept saying. “What shall we do without her?”
I could not answer that question.
The household was numbed by the shock. It was no longer the home we had known.
The papers were full of the news about Desiree.
“One of our greatest musical comedy artistes, Desiree had revolutionized the genre; she had brought it into favour. She was too young to die.” She had been cut off in her prime. She would be sadly missed. There were lists of all the shows in which she had appeared. Cuttings from the papers were reproduced.
There were reporters lying in wait for us. Jane’s opinion was asked. “She was a lovely lady,” said Jane.
Mrs. Crimp said: “Her sort are rare. There’ll never be another like her.”
Lisa was interviewed more than any. Lisa was the understudy. “I owe everything to her. She was wonderful to me. She gave me my first chance.”
I read the reports again and again. The newspapers were soaked with my tears. I wanted to read the laudatory notices … sometimes I would smile, remembering what she had said of some of those roles. Then my misery would descend on me. I could not rid myself of memories. They came flooding back. Going into a room when I was very young. “Is this a party?” and people laughing, frightening me a little until I was caught up in her loving arms.
People had loved her, but none more than I. I was the one closest to her; for me was the greatest loss.
Charlie was heartbroken: Robert was deeply unhappy: Dolly was despondent. The theatre was closed for a week out of respect for Desiree. And then what? demanded Dolly. It was doubtful that Countess Maud would continue. Dolly was deeply grieved, but, like the rest of us, what he was really mourning was the loss of Desiree. Like us all, he had loved her.
Then we heard that, in view of the suddenness of her death, there would have to be an inquest.
What an ordeal that was!
We were all there—the servants, Martha, Lisa, Charlie, Robert and Dolly. Lisa sat beside me, tense and nervous.
There was no question as to my mother’s death: it was due to a fall during which she had broken her neck, and there were multiple injuries which had resulted in instant death. But because Dr. Green had reported that she had been subject to bilious attacks which had come in rather rapid succession and for which the only explanation was that these were due to food she had eaten, a coroner’s inquest had seemed desirable.
Two doctors gave evidence. Traces of poison had been discovered in the stomach, although the poison was not the cause of death … only indirectly. The sickness and dizziness which had made her fall had, however, been due to the fact that she was suffering from the effects of this poison.
They talked of Euphorbia lathyrus, and I began to understand why men had been sent to examine the garden. The doctors explained that they were referring to the plant commonly known as spurge … caper spurge in this case. It would have been in bloom at the time of the death and could have contributed to it. In this plant was a milky substance which was a drastic purge and irritant. The results of taking it could be sickness and diarrhoea— and in some instances this could result in dizziness.
It was clear that the deceased had been a victim of such poison, and as there was a bush of caper spurge in the garden, it seemed likely that it came from this.
Perhaps she had been unaware of the unpleasant quality of this plant and had touched it on those various occasions after which she had been taken ill.
We were astounded. My mother had never expressed any interest in the garden, such as it was—a small square behind the kitchen with a few shrubs growing round it, one of which was evidently this caper spurge.
I could not imagine her going down to the garden or, if she did, noticing the plants, but the assumption was that on those occasions when she had suffered the attacks she had been in contact with this plant.
There was a seat in the garden. Yes, she had been seen by Mrs. Crimp on one or two occasions, though not recently, sitting on it. The caper spurge was near the seat. The conclusion was that by some means she had managed to get the poisonous juice on her hands and it had touched the food she ate soon afterwards.
To some it might seem a possible explanation. Not so to me, who knew her so well. It did transpire that some people were more susceptible to the poison than others. It was assumed that the deceased may have been one of these. But death was not due to the poison. It was the fall which had caused that.