ambulance klaxon blaring from the quiet Sussex lane outside the garden’s brick wall.
At the same time, Lily Taylor came rushing from the house towards them. She was still in a blue dressing gown, her blond hair bristled with rollers, her glistening face drooped woefully, but she had managed to remember Medfield’s guests.
“It’s Celia,” she cried. “Dreadfully sick, going to the hospital, and Richard . . .” She choked and bit her lips.
There was a startled pause. Then Myra clasped the older woman’s arm. “I’m so
sorry,
Mrs. Taylor. What can we do? Except keep out of the way and go home? How dreadful for you, could I help with my car?”
She was too well-mannered to press for details, but Sue burst out in dismay, “Oh, Cousin Lily, she’s not goin’ to lose the baby, is she?”
“Baby?” Lily shook her head distractedly. “I’ve got to go now, I just wanted you to know. Dodge will serve lunch, I suppose.” Lily sped back into the house.
“Poor woman,” said Myra. “And poor Celia. Obviously, we’d better clear out. I’ll give you a lift back to town, Igor—and Harry, too, if he turns up. I don’t feel responsible for the Simpsons—that ghastly creature—but I do wonder where Richard is. I should think not the sort of man to go to pieces in emergency, but then,
he’s
been acting very odd. Oh well . . .” She shrugged her delicate shoulders and went off to summon a maid.
Upstairs in the Marsdon bedroom, Akananda was consulting with the elderly Dr. Foster from Lewes, who had arrived an hour ago. The doctor looked and acted like an irritable country squire, beet-faced, clipped gray mustache. He stood frowning down at Celia, and spoke to the Hindu with impatient condescension.
“Appalling sight, she is,” he barked. “Certainly in shock. Some kind of hysterical seizure, I suppose, but bound to admit I’ve never seen the like. What’s the matter with those arms! And the
eyes!
”
He whipped off the handkerchief with which Akananda had covered Celia’s pale, clammy face before her mother could see it. The distended eyes showed white as a terrified mares, and were transfixed to the left. Foster flicked an eyeball with a corner of the handkerchief, but there was no reaction. Her arms were still raised rigid above her head, the stiffened fingers curled in a clutching position. Both doctors had tried to lower the arms, and found them unyielding as iron.
“Girl’s not quite dead, yet,” went on Foster, “I think I get a pulse of around thirty, don’t you? And she
is
breathing, after a fashion.”
Akananda nodded. “I believe she may live,” he said, “though the adrenalin seems to have had no effect. We will have a better idea of her cardiac function after an EKG. Then strychnine perhaps . . . or cortisone?”
Foster shot an annoyed and puzzled glance at Akananda. The fellow spoke with authority, the sobbing mother who had telephoned said he was a physician, but there was something fishy. Young woman who looked as though she was dying of fright. And where was the husband?
“Where is Sir Richard?” he asked. “He ought to be here.”
“He is absent. Nor is his presence needed. Shall we take her now?”
Foster found himself calling the ambulance attendants. The men lifted Celia onto the stretcher.
“Mind the arms,” said Foster. “They won’t bend, we’ll have to be careful in the passages.”
Lily had stayed in her room as Akananda had requested. She was dressed and waiting when he put his head in while the procession passed.
“Come along,” he said gently. “We’re off to hospital in Easebourne.”
“But where’s Richard?” she wailed. “Where did he go after he finally roused you?”
“I don’t know,” said Akananda. “He rushed downstairs, and perhaps out of the house. We’ll look for him later.
Pray,
Mrs. Taylor—for your daughter and for Sir Richard.”
“Not for
him,
” she said through tight lips. “He’s run away. It’s
At the same time, Lily Taylor came rushing from the house towards them. She was still in a blue dressing gown, her blond hair bristled with rollers, her glistening face drooped woefully, but she had managed to remember Medfield’s guests.
“It’s Celia,” she cried. “Dreadfully sick, going to the hospital, and Richard . . .” She choked and bit her lips.
There was a startled pause. Then Myra clasped the older woman’s arm. “I’m so
sorry,
Mrs. Taylor. What can we do? Except keep out of the way and go home? How dreadful for you, could I help with my car?”
She was too well-mannered to press for details, but Sue burst out in dismay, “Oh, Cousin Lily, she’s not goin’ to lose the baby, is she?”
“Baby?” Lily shook her head distractedly. “I’ve got to go now, I just wanted you to know. Dodge will serve lunch, I suppose.” Lily sped back into the house.
“Poor woman,” said Myra. “And poor Celia. Obviously, we’d better clear out. I’ll give you a lift back to town, Igor—and Harry, too, if he turns up. I don’t feel responsible for the Simpsons—that ghastly creature—but I do wonder where Richard is. I should think not the sort of man to go to pieces in emergency, but then,
he’s
been acting very odd. Oh well . . .” She shrugged her delicate shoulders and went off to summon a maid.
Upstairs in the Marsdon bedroom, Akananda was consulting with the elderly Dr. Foster from Lewes, who had arrived an hour ago. The doctor looked and acted like an irritable country squire, beet-faced, clipped gray mustache. He stood frowning down at Celia, and spoke to the Hindu with impatient condescension.
“Appalling sight, she is,” he barked. “Certainly in shock. Some kind of hysterical seizure, I suppose, but bound to admit I’ve never seen the like. What’s the matter with those arms! And the
eyes!
”
He whipped off the handkerchief with which Akananda had covered Celia’s pale, clammy face before her mother could see it. The distended eyes showed white as a terrified mares, and were transfixed to the left. Foster flicked an eyeball with a corner of the handkerchief, but there was no reaction. Her arms were still raised rigid above her head, the stiffened fingers curled in a clutching position. Both doctors had tried to lower the arms, and found them unyielding as iron.
“Girl’s not quite dead, yet,” went on Foster, “I think I get a pulse of around thirty, don’t you? And she
is
breathing, after a fashion.”
Akananda nodded. “I believe she may live,” he said, “though the adrenalin seems to have had no effect. We will have a better idea of her cardiac function after an EKG. Then strychnine perhaps . . . or cortisone?”
Foster shot an annoyed and puzzled glance at Akananda. The fellow spoke with authority, the sobbing mother who had telephoned said he was a physician, but there was something fishy. Young woman who looked as though she was dying of fright. And where was the husband?
“Where is Sir Richard?” he asked. “He ought to be here.”
“He is absent. Nor is his presence needed. Shall we take her now?”
Foster found himself calling the ambulance attendants. The men lifted Celia onto the stretcher.
“Mind the arms,” said Foster. “They won’t bend, we’ll have to be careful in the passages.”
Lily had stayed in her room as Akananda had requested. She was dressed and waiting when he put his head in while the procession passed.
“Come along,” he said gently. “We’re off to hospital in Easebourne.”
“But where’s Richard?” she wailed. “Where did he go after he finally roused you?”
“I don’t know,” said Akananda. “He rushed downstairs, and perhaps out of the house. We’ll look for him later.
Pray,
Mrs. Taylor—for your daughter and for Sir Richard.”
“Not for
him,
” she said through tight lips. “He’s run away. It’s
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