Judith knew the blame game. She’d felt guilty for letting Dan McMonigle eat and drink his way into an early grave. “It’s natural.”
Fergus still hadn’t moved. Beth glanced up at the butler. “I suppose. He’s the second husband she’s had die, and both very young. I can understand why she feels that way. Come, we’d better go inside before Fergus atrophies.”
The butler greeted Beth with a formal bow. Judith swore she could hear his bones creak. “Madam,” he said in mournful tones, “is in her boudoir. Elise and Dr. Carmichael are with her.”
“Elise,” Beth informed Judith as they climbed the curving staircase, “is Moira’s French maid. She’s rigid, snoopy, and overly protective, but she’s definitely loyal.”
A short, stout older man was coming down the hall. “Dr. Carmichael,” Beth said in greeting. “How is Moira?”
“As usual, nerves,” the doctor replied. “I won’t overmedicate her.” His sharp gray eyes looked at Judith. “A family friend?” he inquired.
“Sorry,” Beth apologized, and introduced Judith. “Her husband’s gone fishing with the MacGowan.”
“I’m at loose ends,” Judith said, shaking the doctor’s strong hand. “I volunteered to help Beth with Moira.”
“Very kind.” Dr. Carmichael was completely bald and wore a plaid bow tie. “Don’t think me unsympathetic, Mrs. Flynn. My patient has had much grief in her young life. Both parents gone, widowed twice over, her secretary’s death—fate’s been cruel. But I also don’t want to tempt that fate.” He turned to Beth. “You understand.”
Beth looked pained. “Moira’s prone to extremes. She’d have been better off staying in France. She was so happy there. She loved everything French, and spoke the language like a native. She doesn’t enjoy living in rural Scotland.”
The doctor shook his head. “That couldn’t be helped after her mother passed. Nor would Frankie have lived any longer there than here. He was one of those poor souls born with a fatal flaw that wasn’t diagnosed properly, and even if it had been, twenty years ago, medical practitioners didn’t have the means to correct it. The fever he caught in Africa was the final blow to his weak constitution.” He sighed and removed his spectacles, wiping them on his sweater vest. “Born too soon, died too soon.” He made a little bow. “I must go.”
Beth watched him start down the stairs. “Quite a remarkable man. He had a fine practice in Inverness but gave it up after his wife died six years ago. He moved here where there weren’t so many memories. We’re fortunate to have him.” She led the way to Moira’s suite. “Dr. Carmichael still feels guilty for not saving Davey. The accident occurred a short way from the doctor’s cottage.”
“Had Davey been drinking?” Judith inquired.
“Yes, at the Dolphin, a pub about five kilometers west of St. Fergna,” Beth replied, her hand on the doorknob. “Not a lot, but that’s a treacherous part of the coast road at night, and of course there was mist. Patrick was lucky to survive.”
“Patrick was with Davey?” Judith said in surprise.
Beth grimaced. “That’s the oddest thing. I’ve never understood exactly what happened. Patrick was found near the wreckage, unconscious. He had several injuries, at least one that was quite severe. But he didn’t recall being with Davey. Phil and I wondered if Patrick had come upon the scene right after the crash and tried to rescue Davey. Patrick’s car wasn’t nearby, but his home isn’t far from where Davey went off the road. Patrick, you see, has a place in the village, and sometimes he’d walk the two or three kilometers from there to Hunter’s Lodge where he lives with his wife Jeannie.”
“So late at night and in October?” Judith asked, recalling the time of year Davey had died.
“Oh yes,” Beth said with a little laugh. “Patrick is the rugged outdoor type. Very virile, very tough, and yet…” She paused to find the proper word. “Very sophisticated. Well educated, too. Come. We can leave our coats and purses here. We must attend to the patient.”
Moira’s boudoir was part of a sunny suite facing west. The sitting room’s predominant colors were yellow, pale blue, and lavender, and furnished with handsome pieces that were both simple and elegant.
The boudoir, however, was in semidarkness with the yellow drapes closed tight. A pale and listless Moira lay with her head propped up by satin-covered pillows. Elise, who seemed to have taken posture lessons from Fergus, stood at attention by the foot of the big bed.
“It’s a lovely morning,” Beth said to Moira. “You should be sitting in the sunshine.”
“Oh, Beth,” Moira responded in a pettish voice, “I’m too weak. The pain in my side is almost as bad as being in labor. I couldn’t. The bright light would hurt my eyes.” She lifted her head slightly from the pillow. The silky cases and sheets were trimmed with delicate lace; the duvet was ecru damask with a rose design. The rest of the bedding was equally lavish, a far cry from the striped Hudson Bay blanket and clearance sale linens Judith had on her bed at home. “Who is that with you?” Moira asked. “Where’s Marie?”
“Mrs. Flynn, from Grimloch,” Beth replied. “You met her yesterday. Marie has flu.”
“Poor Marie,” Moira murmured. “Mrs. Flynn? Oh—yes, of course. You were here with your friend.”
“My cousin,” Judith clarified.
Elise regarded Judith with unconcealed animosity. “Strangers,” she murmured, “should keep away from sick rooms. Madam doesn’t need more visitors.”
“Now, Elise,” Beth said in a pleasant voice, “I invited Mrs. Flynn because Mrs. Fleming is ill. Make yourself some coffee. Take your time.”
Elise shot Beth a resentful look, but marched out of the boudoir.
“Honestly,” Beth said after the maid left, “Elise is too prickly.”
“You know I acquired her after my mother died,” Moira said. “She’s tenaciously faithful to our family.”
“I’m not here to quarrel,” Beth insisted. “What can we do for you?”
