“Blenheim Lodge is a good century older. Why it’s called a ‘lodge’ escapes me. It sounds so rustic and cottage-like.”
“Perhaps it’s the trees,” Julia said.
“A horticultural chap said the ancient yew in the back is a thousand years old.”
“Heavens.” Julia smiled. “Here before William the Conqueror.”
She mounted the steps. Up close, Julia detected signs of strain in Mary’s face: purple smudges under her eyes and tension around her mouth. “Before I ask about your brother, how are you?” Mary frowned, and worry lines etched around her eyes.
“No need to fret about me.”
“But I do worry. Yesterday . . .” Julia shook her head. “It was a hellish day. I’m wondering, did you sleep?”
Mary bit her lower lip and shook her head. “I was exhausted. But when I went to bed, sleep wouldn’t come. Only sounds and images—the cries and screams. And those bodies.”
“It will stay with you, but time ...well, it requires patience, but time will bring relief. Still, we can do something about the sleeplessness now. I’ll leave you a mild bromide powder to take tonight.”
“Thank you, Doctor. It’s what didn’t happen to Charles butmighthave happened. That’s what haunts me. The thought goes around like a nightmare carousel.” Mary shook herself and stood back from the door. “Please come in.”
“How is Mister Allingham this morning?”
“I looked in a few minutes ago. He was breathing easily, and Louisa said he slept peacefully through the night.”
“Good signs, all of them.” Julia smiled. “Just what a doctor wants to hear.”
“It’s Lou who worries me now. Last night, she bustled his valet and me out of his bedroom and insisted on caring for Charles herself. This morning, she seems . . . stunned is the word. When I took her hand, it felt like marble.”
“The ordeal has caught up with her. I wouldn’t worry too much. Still, would you like me to look in on her?”
Mary shook her head. “She’s sleeping now.”
“Then we’ll let her rest.”
They crossed a red-and-gold Turkish carpet that covered the marquetry floor of the two-story entrance hall. Curved archways framed the entrances to the upstairs east- and west-wing hallways. Art was everywhere, oil and watercolor portraits and landscapes.
At the top of the stairs, Mary turned right into the east corridor and stopped at the last door. “You can ring if there is anything you need. Alfred is the footman.”
Julia jiggled the handle of her medical bag. “I have everything, I think.”
“I’ll let you get on with it. I’ll be in the studio. Will you meet me there?”
“Your studio?”
“I’m a painter. Turn left at the bottom of the stairs. French doors in the drawing room will take you out to the terrace. The studio is to the left at the back of the garden.”
“I’ll find you there in a half hour or so.”
Julia watched Miss Allingham stride away. Mary had called herself a painter, as Julia would say, “I’m a doctor.”
An unusual young woman.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Julia descended the staircase and followed Mary’s directions to the back garden. She faced two brick-and-stone buildings, one ivy-covered, its south wall pierced by four sets of oak doors wide enough to admit two carriages.The other, clearly Mary’s studio, had large, south-facing windows. Julia rounded a flagstone path to the studio’s entrance and halted in shock in front of the door’s smashed panels. She took a few steps, and glass crunched under her feet. Inside the studio, a tall, gray-haired man in a coachman’s caped coat and a young constable writing on a notepad faced Mary. She stood amid the tangle of toppled easels and scattered sketches, looking dazed.
Good God,Julia thought.What hellish timing for the poor girl.
The constable looked up from his notepad. “You have rooms above the stables, Mister Taylor?”
