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Martin insisted upon accompanying Harold to visit Clara. They were decided that they would observe her behavior to determine if their theory on her exposure to the gases seemed accurate. Relying solely on his ears, Martin did what he could to compare Clara's mannerisms to those he'd witnessed firsthand.
“Mr. Emerson, may I speak with you?” one of the nurses asked, as they rounded the bend in the corridor when their visit with Clara was concluded.
“Oh yes, yes, of course. Martin, I shall just be a moment,” Harold said, turning to follow the nurse. Though Harold had departed, Martin sensed that he was not alone and his suspicion was confirmed as a voice beside him spoke now,
“Your name is Martin, isn't it?”
“Yes, that's right. And you are?”
“Oh, I'm Florence,” she replied, sounding surprised that he had asked her name because she had become so accustomed to namelessly providing the service others so desperately needed.
“Florence, like Florence Nightingale,” he said, with a smile.
“Yes, I suppose that's right. Is Miss Banks a relation of yours? I've seen you visit her from time to time,” she said.
“Clara? Oh no, she's not related to me,” he answered.
“Oh, is she your sweetheart?” she asked, her voice dropping slightly as she did.
Martin let out a soft chuckle,
“Oh no, she's just a friend.” Though he could not see it, he was sure a smile now lighted her face.
“Would you care for some sunshine, Martin? I think it will feel just glorious on our faces. We should take advantage of it, before the cold of winter grips us too tightly.”
“Yes, that'd be fine,” he said and allowed her to take him by the hand to lead him outside, though really he would have been capable of doing so without her guidance.
“Here, there's a nice seat for us,” she said, sitting beside him on a bench in the hospital's garden.
“Describe it for me, would you?” he said, turning his face to the welcoming sun that offered the radiance Florence had promised.
She looked at him, amazed by the lack of bitterness in his words at the request.
“Well, the sky is nearly empty of clouds but, the trees are full of leaves that almost seem to be dancing in their painted coats.”
“That's how I think of them too,” Martin said, smiling. Perhaps because she had already held his hand to guide him, perhaps because the grandness of the autumn day awakened the boldness in her, or perhaps for some other reason entirely, she reached out now to take his hand in hers. In her touch, Martin felt the looks that the shy eyes of the girls had cast upon him in his school days. It had been so long since he'd felt that sort of a touch. Agnes's hand always lingered with a pitying sadness, but none was present here. Her skin reminded him of Rebecca, when she had—
“Florence? Oh there you are. Dr. Markinson needs your help,” a nurse called to her from the door.
“Sorry, Martin. Harold should be out soon though,” Florence said, as she stood from the bench to return to the hospital.
“Florence?”
“Yes, Martin?”
“I was just wondering why you showed me such kindness,” he said, needing to know the origin of her action that extended beyond a nurse's mercy.
“Because, you've made me smile. I've heard your wit and humor and admired you for them. I wanted to try to bring a smile to your face in return,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, moved by her words and unable to say anything further, which for Martin was rare indeed.
“Goodbye, Martin. I hope to see you soon,” Florence said, her voice fading as she moved toward the door.
“Yes, me too,” he called after her. Left alone with his thoughts, Martin's mind alternated between the giddy joy Florence had imparted to him and a curiosity of what had detained Harold. His hearing seemed always on high alert, like a rabbit with his ears sticking straight up. Inside the hospital, someone laughed. Behind him, some small animal, probably a squirrel, scampered across the ground. And then, a voice found its way into his hearing. The words were inaudible and the person was no doubt too far away to make out anything. The inability to discern the words suited Martin just fine, as he had no intention of eavesdropping. The voice became louder, but oddly there was no voice that replied to the first. Martin could now distinguish the voice to be male. For a moment, he wondered at this one-sided conversation until he remembered that he was in a hospital for the insane and troubled. Dozens of the patients inside might readily talk to themselves. The matter would have been dropped entirely had Martin not heard what he did next. From a sea of indistinguishable words came the insertion of “Clara” that rang with certain clarity.
Well, just another patient that knows her.
He sat back to further enjoy the warmth of the sun's rays. Steps neared and the chatter of the man continued. Although he now sounded quite close, he seemed to remain oblivious to Martin's presence and he began to wonder if Florence had led him to some concealed location. Perhaps, one of the trees she spoke of was blocking the man's view of Martin.
That's not English.
The words became louder.
Why, that's German!
His senses heightened and his concern piqued, Martin stood preparing to enter the hospital alone to inform someone of what happened before it was too late. The door to the hospital creaked open alleviating Martin of a portion of his worry. Whoever had exited would also soon hear the man speaking and be able to identify whom the threat was.
The stride of the steps that sprang from the hospital bellowed with familiarity.
“Ah, hello,” Harold said.
Martin opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again quickly when he realized Harold had not addressed him, but rather a voice that sounded like someone he knew that he couldn't quite identify.
“Oh yes, good to see you,” the voice of the man replied, sounding somewhat flustered at the beginning and then relaxing into a comfortable ease.
“I'm sure Clara will be glad to see you,” Harold said.
“Yes, yes, I will see you later, Harold.”
“Goodbye, Frederick.”
Martin's heart seized. He stepped forward toward Harold's voice. There was no greeting and so he decided he must be hidden behind trees. He took another step in Harold's direction. His walking cane sank into the ground, missing the path he was walking on.
“Oh Martin, there you are. I didn't see you from behind the tree there,” Harold said, his voice sounding more serious than it usually did. Then, taking note of Martin's expression, he continued,
“Martin, why do you look so grim? Surely, you have not yet heard what I have.”
“Oh? What have you heard?”
“Just as we feared, trouble is being stirred for Clara. It seems a Mr. Charlton wants to press charges against her. Now, please tell me what it is that troubles you.”
Martin took a step forward and spoke slowly as he said,
“Just before you came out I heard someone speaking German and then you addressed Frederick immediately after. I am quite certain that it was the same voice.”
“Oh goodness! Good heavens, good heavens,” Harold said, becoming flustered, “do you realize what this could mean? Something is certainly amiss here and I fear this is even larger than we thought.”
“Emma! We should go to Emma and enlist her help,” Martin said.
“Right. Oh dear Clara, I pray it is not too late.”
***
“WHAT IS IT THAT WE're looking for?” Emma asked, looking up from the pile of Frederick's clothes she was rifling through.
“We don't know really,” Harold said, as he shifted the contents of Frederick's belongings from one pile to another.
“Have you ever heard him say anything suspicious?” Martin said, as he sat at the edge of Frederick's bed and the other two conducted the search.
Her face ruddy, from the haste of the search coupled with the concern of Frederick returning at any moment, Emma looked up to answer Martin. Her hair tumbled disobediently out of her cap as she cocked her head to the side, trying to remember. So confounded was she that the entire search had been carried out without so much as a hint of a whistle.
“I don't know. I just always had this odd sort of feeling about him. Of course being Clara's beau and me being so fond of Clara, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt,” she said and then continued in her search for a moment, before pausing again and turning toward the men once again.
“Come to think of it, there was this one night when I overheard Frederick tell Clara the most peculiar thing. I was certain at the time that I had simply misheard him and so I dismissed it, thinking no more of it.”
“Yes? What was it?” Martin asked, feeling very like the detective of Baker Street once again.
“He said something about Lady Pemblebrooke being in mourning for Lord Pemblebrooke, but of course that's not the case. We all know that he is alive, though abroad at the moment.”
“Did Lady Pemblebrooke seem as though she were mourning? Certainly Clara would have been suspicious of her behavior, if what Frederick said seemed out of the ordinary,” Martin said.
“Oh Lady Pemblebrooke, bless her soul, was a delicate creature. We all fussed over her so as not to upset her any. Her nerves were shattered when the Zeppelins began falling over the countryside. She was certain, though I assured her many times that it would not be the case, that she would not survive the war,” Emma said. A look of sadness swept across her face, as she said,
“I don't rightly know why she was so morbid but she was right in the end, wasn't she?” Her voice wavered at the end of her question. Harold crossed the small room and draped his arm around his sister.
“I don't see anything here. We better clean this up so he doesn't suspect anything,” Harold said.
“Right, well, I'll continue to try to find something out. I'll pay careful attention to him,” Emma said. Harold began refolding the clothes, now strewn about the room. In his haste, he leaned too heavily on the chest of drawers and it moved backward creaking against the floor.
“What was that?” Martin asked.
“Oh, nothing. I just pushed against the chest,” Harold said, but Emma, who had turned at the noise, was pointing to the now exposed space that the chest had sat above.
“What's this?” she said, swooping down upon a slip of paper, the way a hawk does to its prey. She unfolded the page, which was well-worn as though it had been folded and refolded many times.
“Harold, come here,” she said, as she saw its contents. He took the paper from her and his breath drew in.
“Emma? Harold? What is it?” Martin asked.
“A newspaper clipping, written in German with markings made on it. Pemblebrooke is written on it,” Emma said.
“And look here. It says 'Clara' next to the underlined passage,” Harold said, his eyes gone wide.
“And what of the article? Can either of you make anything out?” Martin asked.
“Well, I can't read German,” Harold said.
“Neither can I,” Emma interjected.
“But,” he continued, “Underlined beside Pemblebrooke it says s-t-e-r-b-e-n. I wonder what that could mean.”
Martin's face paled.
“Martin? Martin, what is it?”
“It means died.”