Devils were beginning to possess me, which meant that I was being robbed of my reason. This was what they believed, but I knew that some evil threatened me, that someone was trying to rob me of my reason—or to make it appear that I had lost it—before killing me. It did not seem impossible that my husband wished to be rid of me so that he might marry a young woman who could give him sons. Death was stalking me and with Death was a companion, Madness.
No one could ever have called me a weak woman. I had always been able to defend myself and I was going to defend myself now. I was not mad. I was certain that I had been locked in that hut and that the door had been suddenly opened and that the key had been put back after I had left. Someone had been lurking in the bushes outside the hut. The door had stealthily been unlocked and when I had run out and gone to the house the key had been replaced.
That was how it must have happened. That was how I knew it had happened.
And I was going to prove it.
Strangely enough that incident in the hut had given me strength. I was going to throw off this lethargy which I knew now was the result of the evil herbs with which my food and drink had been laced.
I was going to fight this with all my strength and I was confident that I could win.
Oh, Romilly Girling, I assured myself, you will find you have a strong adversary in me. I shall not step aside so that you can marry my husband. And, Jake, you have not won the last battle yet.
Linnet had left now. “I will sleep,” I said. But I never felt less like sleep.
I picked up the drink by my bed and smelled it.
How could a drink brought to me by my loving daughter have become contaminated?
Still, I did not drink it. I left it there at my bedside.
I must think of a plan. I would watch what I ate. I must be alert. I must be ready at any hour of the night. The next time the shrouded visitor came to my room it should not escape. I was going to catch it, drag off the shroud and find out who it was who was playing these tricks on me.
I would stay in my room for a few days. I would feign illness. I would have food sent to me which I would not eat. I would preserve part of it and take it to the apothecary and when I had proof from him that my food was being laced with poison I would lay my evidence before … before … before whom? Before Jake! What if my suspicions were correct and he was my would-be-murderer? How he would laugh. Before Linnet? Could I say to her: “Someone is trying to kill me. Help me find who it is.” How could I? No matter. I would wait and see what I would do. In the meantime I would collect my evidence.
I took a piece of beef from the kitchen and with it a good cob loaf. These I concealed in my bedroom. I took also a flagon of muscadel wine with nuts, apples and marchpane.
Once I had pretended to have the sweat. I must have been rather good at pretense. I now feigned to a lethargy which I was far from feeling. I took my secret meals and ate nothing which came to my room, although I took several samples of what was brought to take to the apothecary.
My spirits were rising. I was at last taking an action which I felt suited my nature. I was going into the offensive.
I did not take even Linnet into my confidence, although I was on the point of doing so many times.
I wanted to be ready when my shrouded visitor appeared. And I was.
I had pretended to be very sleepy all day. I had become aware that most of the food which came up to me was laced with poppy juice, so the object was to dull me into a mood when my wits would desert me. Then instinct warned me some plan was about to be put into operation.
I was right. It was three o’clock in the morning of the third day when I was awakened by a presence in my room.
The bedclothes were being gently drawn from the bed.
I opened my eyes. Standing at the foot of the bed was the figure I had seen before—shrouded in gray. Over the head was a hood which covered the face; there were slits for the eyes to see through.
I lay still waiting. The figure moved not toward me but to the door. It stood there and I was ready to leap out of bed—tense waiting. As soon as it moved I would be after it. I would tear off that concealing cover. I would find out who was hiding beneath it.
And suddenly there came to my mind: What if it were indeed a ghost? What if the ghost of Isabella had come to haunt me? What part did I play in her sudden death? Was it murder? And if it was, was not I the motive for that murder?
And why should I think of Isabella at such a moment? How could I say except that there was something about that shrouded figure which had brought her to my mind?
Ghost or not I was going to find out. The figure moved backward. Then I saw a hand emerge. The finger was beckoning me.
I was about to leap out of my bed when my instincts warned me. If there was a murderer concealed behind that shroud it was the same person who had been dosing my food. I had feigned a lassitude I did not feel. I must behave like a person who was under the influence of poppy juice.
I rose slowly from my bed.
The hand disappeared; the figure had moved out into the corridor.
I went out. The figure was a few yards away. The finger beckoned me again.
Trying to act like a sleepwalker, I followed.
The figure had disappeared around a bend. I hurried after it. I came to rest at the top of the great staircase which led into the hall.
There was no sign of the shrouded figure.
I stood at the top of the staircase; and then I knew. Someone was behind me, hands stretched out, waiting to hurl me down those stairs.
I turned and grappled.
I heard someone shout: “I’m coming,” and there was my daughter Linnet. She seized the shroud. The three of us were huddled together for a moment. I felt myself lifted off my feet. Then suddenly there was a wild scream. I found myself clinging to a piece of gray cloth as a figure went crashing to the foot of the staircase.
Linnet and I did not speak. We ran down the staircase to that crumpled figure, which lay face downward. I lifted the hood and the mask that fitted over the face.
“’Tis Manuela,” I said.
She did not die until three days afterward. Poor tragic Manuela!
She was conscious and lucid for a while before death overtook her. I was at her bedside and she was aware that I was there. She had little time left, she said, and much to say.
To think that this Spanish woman should have lived in my household for so many years and I know so little of her! How strange that she should be so devoted to Roberto and yet plan to kill his mother.
It was vengeance. Just retribution, she called it.
“As soon as I saw the ruby cross I knew that I would kill you,” she said. “Before that I just wanted to make you suffer.”
“But you did not attempt to kill me until last night,” I reminded her. “You gave me small doses of poison and tried to rob me of my reason.”
“That was what happened to Isabella. She was ill; she was robbed of her reason; and then one day she was thrown down the staircase.”
Her story was told jerkily, far from lucidly and not at one sitting. I had to piece it together to make a coherent whole. She was very weak, but she wished to tell it. It was a kind of confession. She wanted extreme unction, and I was determined that she should have it if I could manage it. It would mean running some risk, but I had known of Catholic families in the neighborhood and I would ask if a priest might come to ease Manuela’s last hours.
He would have to come in secret, but I would defy Jake, if necessary, to bring her this last consolation.
I learned that Manuela was a half sister of Isabella—her mother having been a serving girl in the mansion which was Isabella’s home. Manuela had been given a place in that mansion as soon as she was old enough to take it and had been sent to Tenerife when Isabella went there to marry Don Felipe.