C
HAPTER
13
As Frank relaxed onto the bench seat of the streetcar, he found himself smiling despite the fierce ache in his arm. The taste of Margot’s mouth clung to his lips. His good arm could still feel the lean, vibrant warmth of her. She had kissed him back. She had leaned into him, her body pressed to his, her arms around his neck. He had no idea what he would do about all of it—he was a man with one arm, no job, and no prospects—but it felt good just the same. Elizabeth had never—she always kept a distance between them, and her kisses had been chaste and restrained. He could still sense the pressure of Margot’s breasts against his chest, the bite of one hip bone as she moved closer to him, closer than he had been to any woman in a very long time. He let his eyes close, recalling that moment.
“ ’Scuse me, mate?”
Frank opened his eyes, and flinched. “Sergeant Carter!”
Carter’s light hair was limp and greasy beneath his dilapidated flat cap, and his jacket looked like he had plucked it out of a rubbish heap. His cheeks sagged, and his pale lashes clumped together. “Yeah,” he said, with an aggrieved air. “It’s me, right enough.”
“What are you doing here?”
Carter tugged at his collar. His head hung at a sad angle, making him look like a beaten dog. “I was trying to see Benedict,” he said. He had a worn duffel bag, and he pushed it between his feet. “But there was some sort of ruckus after you left.”
Frank straightened. “A ruckus? What do you mean?”
“I was about to knock on the front door, and I heard shouting inside.”
“Shouting? At Benedict Hall? I only left there ten minutes ago.”
“I know, mate. I saw you.”
Frank said tightly, “Explain yourself, Sergeant. What the hell happened?”
“I waited till you was gone, and then I went up on the porch. I heard Preston yelling at someone, and then there was a bang, and a whole bunch of people started talking.”
Frank tensed, and a chill ran through him. “Preston was shouting?”
Carter blew out his lips. “Something fierce! That bloke has a terrible temper.”
“What kind of bang was it?” Frank reached for the cord to ring for the streetcar to stop.
“Sounded like someone threw something.” He sagged forward, and put his elbows on his knees. “It calmed down pretty fast after that. But I didn’t dare knock.”
Frank dropped his hand, and eyed Carter doubtfully. “That’s the third time you’ve been up to Benedict Hall.”
Carter’s glance was mournful. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“Blake told me.”
Carter made a face. “That nigger butler?” He shook his head. “Thinks he runs that family. Wouldn’t let me see Preston.”
“He fed you, I believe,” Frank said.
“Oh, yeah. He did give me some eggs, now you mention it.”
“And money.”
“Not much.”
“He didn’t telephone for the police.”
Carter heaved a wheezy sigh. “That’s true.”
“What were you doing there tonight?”
“I still need money. I want to go home.”
“You think Benedict will give it to you?”
“Yeah. He owes me.”
“Go back tomorrow, then. Or go to the
Times
.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t half like it if I showed up at his work!”
Frank shifted his weight on the bench seat, not liking to be close to the man. “Why do you care what he likes, if he’s in your debt?”
Carter mumbled at his boots, “Don’t dare cross Benedict. He’ll do things to you.”
“You’re twice his size.”
“Don’t matter. He has ways.”
Frank thought for a moment, as the streetcar rattled beneath the lights of Broadway. When it turned down Madison, he said, “My stop is coming up, Carter.”
Carter’s eyes flicked up to his, then away, then back again. “I thought I might tell you something, if you got some of the ready.”
Frank hesitated. “You’re not afraid Benedict will find out?”
Carter lifted his cap and scratched beneath his dirty hair. “Look, Major, I’m just trying to get enough scratch for a ticket home. I thought—if you had it—I’d get a train tonight. Get away before Benedict comes looking.”
Frank put his hand in his pocket, and fingered the bills he had there. He thought hard for a moment. It would be good to know what Preston had been up to, and it would be good to get Carter away once and for all—that would give Blake some peace. It would be tough, though, if he couldn’t pay Mrs. Volger his rent. He had spent half his cash on dinner. What remained was the last of his final paycheck. And he needed whisky.
The streetcar slowed. Carter said, “It was him blackballed you. Benedict.”
“I guessed.”
“There’s more.”
The streetcar clanked to a stop. Frank stood up, his hand still in his pocket. He gave Carter a hard glance. “You’ll really go, if I give you the money?”
Carter stood up, too, a gleam of hope in his pale eyes. “Too bloody right,” he said. “I want to get back to England and find a proper job.”
Frank led the way down the steps. He stood beneath a streetlight, not wanting Carter to follow him to Mrs. Volger’s. He counted the money in his hand. “It won’t get you to England,” he said. “Maybe as far as New York.”
Carter looked at the money, and his thick lips parted. Frank shoved the money back into his pocket, and Carter whined, “You ain’t going to give it to me?”
“You have something to tell me first.” Frank nodded in the direction of King Street Station. “I’ll see you to the train, Sergeant. You can bare your soul on the way.”
“Bare my—?”
“Tell me what’s on your conscience.”
They left Madison, and cut across on Fourth, heading toward the clock tower glowing above the city rooftops. Carter, with the air of one relieved to be divesting himself of a burden, told his story as they walked. He recited it with an impressive lack of compunction, nearly boasting as he spoke of planting rumors about Margot’s practice. “Easy, it was,” he said. “Just told all the whores if they needed fixing, Dr. Benedict would do it. Preston’s sister. Word spreads fast through the cribs, and the blokes carry it home to their wives and girlfriends.”
Frank gave him a look of pure loathing, but Carter wasn’t watching him. “Wasn’t hard puttin’ the word out about you, either, Major, beggin’ yer pardon.” Voluble now, he chattered on as if none of his actions signified in the least, as if the ruining of careers was hardly worth mentioning. “Just chatted up a few blokes here and there, the docks, the factories, out in the alleys where the men stand around and smoke.”
“But Preston’s column—”
“Oh, yeah,” Carter said, with another phlegmy laugh. “That took care of Boeing. But Benedict wants you right out of Seattle. Whatcha do to him, Major? He don’t like you one bit.”
Frank said, “Seems he doesn’t like you much, either, Sergeant.”
“He used to do. Now I know too much.”
“Why would you do those things for him? Why not just get an honest job?”
They walked in through the glass doors to the brightly lit lobby of King Street Station. It bustled with activity despite the late hour, dozens of voices echoing under its great dome. Frank walked with Carter to a booth, and he himself paid for the ticket, then handed it over. “You’re going to get all the way to Grand Central in New York. Maybe you can get working passage on a steamer. Or go to the British Embassy.”
Carter murmured something evasive. Frank gave it up. The man would probably steal what he needed, but there was nothing he could think of to forestall that. They sat on long wooden benches, waiting together in an uncomfortable silence, watching the people pass to and fro, wrangling their luggage and calling instructions to one another. Frank’s arm had begun to burn in earnest, making him shift again and again in his seat. The sleeve of his coat chafed maddeningly. He wanted a drink, but having decided to get Carter out of the way, he meant to see it through.
When Carter’s train was announced, Frank stood. Carter rose, shouldered his duffel bag, and looked down at the ticket in his hand. “Look, Major,” he said. “You’re a decent chap. I’m sorry I—well, I been pretty rotten to you.”
Frank made no answer. He had no doubt Carter would go somewhere else and be just as rotten to other people.
Carter lifted his head as the conductor called the train a second time. “I just—look,” he said again, evidently struggling with something. “You should know something. Something else about Benedict.”
“What?”
Carter started shuffling toward the gate. Frank stayed beside him to see that the man boarded the train, and stayed aboard. “What else do I need to know, Carter?”
Carter held out his ticket, and the conductor checked it, then pointed to a car down the tracks. Carter went through the turnstile, then turned to face Frank across the iron rail that separated passengers from the terminal. “There’s this jewel,” Carter said. “A big old sapphire. Benedict got it out in Jerusalem.”
Frank frowned. “He bought it?”
Carter barked an ugly laugh. “Hardly. Killed the bloke what owned it.”
“You mean . . . murder.”
“Bloody murder, yeah. Nasty scene, but that’s not the point. There’s something about that thing, Major. I can’t explain it, but you want to watch out. He wears it around his neck. And that thing means Benedict can pretty much do whatever he wants.”
“Sounds like superstition to me, Sergeant.”
“Maybe.” Carter’s small eyes flicked from right to left, and Frank supposed he was choosing fresh marks for his time on the train. He shifted his duffel, and half turned, ready to walk away. “Leastways I’ve warned you, Major. You oughtta get that stone off him. It means trouble.”
Frank shook his head. “Fairy tales. Forget it.” He touched his hat brim with his fingers, and Carter took a last look at his face. Frank said quietly, firmly, “Have a good trip, Sergeant.”
Breakfast at Benedict Hall was a chilly affair, despite the warmth of the July sun that brought out the gloss on the camellia leaves. Margot was still angry, and couldn’t bring herself to speak to Preston when he came into the dining room. Her mother was having a tray in her room, and her father was as silent as she, glowering over his paper. Ramona drank coffee in silence, and nibbled at a piece of toast. She avoided Margot’s eyes, but Dick grimaced at her across the table. “Rotten day for you, isn’t it,” he said.
Dickson looked up. “Why? What’s rotten?”
Margot said, “I have to go before the hospital board this morning.”
Dickson shook his paper with an angry rattle of pages. “Bunch of damned lady aunts, all exercised about nothing. You should let me put a flea in Peretti’s ear, Margot!”
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s tempting, Father. But I think I’ll have to manage this myself.”
At the opposite end of the table, Preston worked his way through a plate of bacon and eggs without looking up. Margot made herself eat an egg and a piece of toast. Blake came in to refill the coffee cups. He gave her a speaking glance, and she managed to smile at him.
“They can’t convict you with gossip,” Dick said stoutly. “Just stand up to them, Margot.”
Margot gave him an affectionate glance. “I’ll do my best, Dick. Unfortunately, it’s not about a conviction so much as an impression.”
“What can they really do to you? They can’t close your clinic.”
“No. But they can deny me hospital privileges.”
Silence fell again, broken only by the clink of flatware and the sounds of Blake and Hattie talking in the kitchen. Leona came in to collect empty plates. As she reached for Preston’s, he looked up. “Loena comes home today, doesn’t she?” he said. Leona nodded. “Good. That’s good news.”
Margot looked down the table at her younger brother. He looked so well it was almost unnatural. His skin was ruddy, his eyes clear, his fair hair springing vigorously over his forehead. He met her gaze, and gave her a limpid smile. “Good luck today, doc. I mean it.”
Margot felt everyone looking at her, waiting for her to accept Preston’s peace offering. She was aware of Blake standing guard in the doorway, and her father’s worried glance. Ramona touched her finger-waved hair with one hand as she raised her painted eyebrows.
Margot couldn’t do it. Better to say nothing than to reignite the fiery exchanges of the night before. Only Dick—and Blake— could understand. Her father had made it clear long ago that he wanted no part of sibling struggles. And her mother, or Ramona—
Blake saved her from answering. “Are you ready to go, Dr. Margot?”
“Yes. I’ll put in an hour at the clinic before I go to the hospital.” She rose, pushing her chair back from the table. Just as she laid her napkin beside her plate, she saw the look of naked hatred that crossed Preston’s face. It was gone in a heartbeat, but there was no mistaking it. She had been seeing that look all her life. Blake’s expression, the swift lowering of his eyelids and the tightening of his lips, told her he had also seen it. It wasn’t imagined, that look. They both knew what it meant.
Margot took a straight chair opposite the long table where the directors of Seattle General Hospital sat. There were four of them, gray-haired men who had been at the hospital for years before she entered medical school. Their long white coats, their grave expressions, and the coldness of the gray walls oppressed her. She wondered, as she took off her gloves and hat and laid them on a second chair, if this was the way patients felt when they came to the hospital, as if every element was arrayed against them.
She folded her hands in her lap, crossed her legs at the ankle, and waited.
“Dr. Whitely has leveled a serious charge, Dr. Benedict,” said Dr. Peretti. He was the oldest of the physicians on the board, and he came from an old Seattle family. He laid his hand on the slender file in front of him. For a single faltering moment, looking into his cold gray eyes, Margot wished she had let her father put a flea in his ear after all.