Turn of the Table

By Jonathan Stagge

The country doctor takes his sleuthing into the spiritual realm when otherworldly goings-on strike close to home in this classic Golden Age mystery.
 
Summer finds Dr. Hugh Westlake taking over another doctor’s patients and living in his house. His next-door neighbors are a wealthy and influential family in the community, including leading investment banker Bruce Bannister. And soon, Hugh is drawn into quite the family drama . . .
 
A nurse has joined the Bannisters to take care of the ailing Bruce. Not only is she the niece of his late first wife, but she’s a psychic to boot. When one of her séances leads to Bruce’s death, it’s by a most unnatural cause: poison, pointing to either suicide or murder. As Hugh investigates this bizarre mystery, another one soon unfolds. He’s attacked by someone outside of their house in a thoroughly macabre manner: his neck is bitten. Now Hugh has to resurrect ghosts from the family’s past to uncover the truth about a potential murderer, a possible vampire, and a snake in the grass . . .
 
“Spiritualism and a maniac provide high scented red herrings. Suspense well-handled and solution satisfactory.” —Kirkus Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504072915

Book preview

Chapter 1

I doubt if I would ever have thought twice about the family next door if it had not been for my daughter. But from the very first day of our arrival in Grovestown the Bannisters exercised a peculiar fascination over Dawn.

I told her, of course, that daughters of poor, hard-working country doctors had no business yearning after their millionaire neighbors. To which she replied with an envious sigh:

It isn’t them so much, Daddy, though they are sort of mysterious and exciting. It’s their swimming pool!

And as soon as she had drawn my attention to it I, too, became uncomfortably conscious of the pool so tantalizingly close in our neighbors’ garden. Its shining expanse of water emphasized the indecent heat of the summer and was a galling reminder of the cool rural home which I had abandoned to give my old friend, Dr. Hammond, a vacation from his suburban practice. Even in the office I could not escape that pool for as I sweltered over my temporary patients I caught disconcerting glimpses through the window of young, sun-tanned bodies, diving and splashing happily in its clear waters.

But whereas to me the Bannisters’ swimming pool was a minor irritation, to my twelve-year-old daughter it became an obsession. From the back porch, which commanded an even better view, Dawn spent hours longing for our neighbors’ millionaire acquaintance and keeping a regular Gestapo check on each and every movement of the young Bannisters and Thorpes.

Such preoccupation was as unwholesome as it was unproductive. I decided reluctantly that a paternal foot had to be put down. Consequently, punishing myself even more than my daughter, I announced:

Since you’re so keen on aquatics, Dawn, I’ve made arrangements for you to spend the rest of the summer at a girls’ camp. You’ll get plenty of swimming, and from the booklet it says they’ll encourage your individuality and teach you to be useful.

To my daughter, who prides herself on her individuality and her usefulness, I couldn’t have put my foot down more clumsily.

She smoldered.

She left for camp still smoldering.

And she left me feeling very lonely. Without her Dr. Hammond’s house seemed large and empty and my life settled into the cheerless groove of a solitary widower.

The evenings were the loneliest. Occasionally my friend, Inspector Cobb, of the Grovestown Police, would drop in to chew the fat over a highball. But as a general rule I sat on Dr. Hammond’s coolish back porch, accompanied only by Dawn’s dour Scotch terrier, Hamish, staring into the spacious garden which surrounded the mansion of my neighbor, Bruce Bannister.

I soon found that Dawn had bequeathed to me her morbid fascination with the family next door. I knew them by sight and reputation, for Bruce Bannister was Grovestown’s leading investment banker, while his mother, Mrs. Sarah Deane, was the grand old lady of local politics and philanthropies. I was interested in the young people too. There were two boys and a girl who, poised on the springboard for a moonlight dive, was a breath-taking sight which made me feel younger than my fortyish years gave me any right to feel. They were, I knew, Bannister’s own son and the two Thorpes, children of the second Mrs. Bannister by an earlier marriage.

The girl, Linette Thorpe, had a lovely singing voice. Often it would trail to me through the soft summer darkness with the nostalgic sweetness of Keats’ nightingale. And sometimes, quite late at night, I would see Mr. Bannister strolling about the garden, his arm round his newly married second wife, for all the world like young lovers in a romance rather than a middle-aged couple in the respectable suburbs of Grovestown.

Such was the idyllic picture during the first two weeks after my daughter’s departure. Then, gradually, like a gray cloud overspreading a clear sky, I became conscious of a change. The laughter at the swimming pool seemed to lack gaiety and spontaneity. The Voice was rarer and rarer, and there were no evening strolls in the garden.

I was puzzled. There had been no departures, no breaks in that formerly happy community. In fact, there had been an addition to their number, a tall slim girl who appeared at the pool in a jade-green swimming suit. Her long, dead-white arms and legs were in striking contrast to the healthy tan of the other three. She seemed a little apart from the rest, with them but not of them. But she was always there.

Apparently she could not swim. For while the others dived and splashed she remained at the shallow end of the pool, dipping her feet and occasionally lowering herself into the water.

I could not guess her function in the household, yet instinctively I felt certain that she was responsible for the change that had come over the family.

Mentally I called her the Serpent.

But my interest in the Bannisters remained objective. It never occurred to me that I would become intimate with them. Certainly I never dreamed that they were destined to plunge me into a fantastic and catastrophic chain of circumstances which brought tragedy to them and which almost ruined my own career as a physician.

Things began with a rush. For I met three members of the Bannister household on a single day.

Bruce Bannister himself was the first. His call was professional, and he made an appointment during the evening office hours which I kept in the house after completing the early afternoon session in Dr. Hammond’s downtown office.

I knew already that he was one of Dr. Hammond’s patients so I took the opportunity before seeing him of reading up his case history from the files. He had suffered from periodic attacks of angina pectoris during the past year, but the record showed that recently he had responded to treatment and the spasms had become less and less frequent.

Well, young fellow, I thought I’d drop in and let you look me over.

His voice was cheerful as he greeted me, but the cheerfulness was not reflected in his eyes which were worried and restless.

Bruce Bannister was a man of about my own build. Although he must have been fifteen or twenty years my senior there was not a streak of gray in his hair which was as dark as mine, and he moved with the athletic carriage of a much younger man.

I made a routine examination and questioned him about his health. He admitted reluctantly that he had been having rather more trouble than usual lately—more frequent anginal attacks, sleepless nights.

I prescribed a bromide for his insomnia, saying as I handed him the prescription:

As for the heart condition, I can offer the usual verbal bromide—avoid all excesses and above all don’t worry. Is there anything particular on your mind?

We-ell, I’ve been pretty busy lately. He avoided my eyes as he spoke. I was thinking of retiring as president of Brown and Bannister. But I’ve decided to stay on a bit longer. I’ve got a stepson and daughter as well as my own boy now. He smiled. And before long it looks as though there’ll be another addition to the family. I’ve got their futures to consider.

I asked him what Dr. Hammond had recommended to control the pain of the anginal spasms, and he produced a small vial from his vest pocket.

Nitroglycerin tablets. I keep a supply in the vest pocket of every suit I own in case of emergencies. Never move a step without it.

There was nothing much more I could do or say since he did not seem to want to tell me the reason for that worried look behind his eyes. As he left he said with a nervous little laugh:

I ought to be well looked after now because we’ve a fully trained nurse in the house.

So the jade-green serpent was a trained nurse. I might have guessed it from her legs.

The next visit from the Bannister family took place after the last of the patients had left. I was drinking a solitary cocktail on the porch, while Hamish carried on a gloomy battle with a fly, when I saw Mrs. Bannister approaching from the adjoining garden.

Mr. Bannister’s second wife was a striking-looking woman. Her face had a purity of line and a remote, untouchable beauty which suggested that she might be deeply religious. In fact, she reminded me of some virginal and rather forbidding sister in a nunnery. It was difficult to think of her as the mother of two grown children. It seemed even more incongruous when, as she reached the porch, I noticed that she would soon be the mother of a third child.

She must have guessed the trend of my thoughts, for as I rose to greet her above the surly yapping of Hamish she said:

I haven’t come about myself, Doctor Westlake. I just wondered if I might speak to you about my husband.

I asked her to sit down and rather maladroitly offered her a martini. It was like offering a cocktail to St. Cecilia. Her refusal was polite and the smile that accompanied it sweet. But it was only too obvious that the second Mrs. Bannister did not altogether approve of pinch-hitting young doctors who sat alone on their porches drinking cocktails before dinner.

She stared at me and said: Frankly, Doctor Westlake, I want to ask you if in your opinion my husband is ill enough to need a trained nurse.

I told her what little I knew about the treatment and management of angina pectoris, concluding: Of course, anyone with that condition must definitely be considered a sick man, but—

She interrupted me gently: Then if you think he needs a nurse in constant attendance I would be grateful if you would recommend one to me.

But I understood from your husband that there already was one in the house.

Mrs. Bannister’s large gray eyes had turned to gray rocks.

I would prefer a male nurse.

She was looking at me earnestly. Eleanor Frame’s training may have been good, but she isn’t good for my husband. In fact, since she came here from Vancouver Bruce’s attacks have increased. Even though she is a niece of my husband’s first wife I want to get rid of her.

So Eleanor Frame was a poor relation. That was the key which had let the jade serpent into the Bannister Eden.

Mrs. Bannister’s curious face with its distant, cloistered beauty was tilted slightly away from me now as if she were communing with some invisible and, no doubt, holier physician than myself.

It isn’t for any personal reason that I want Miss Frame to go. That presumably was to keep me from thinking along any cheap triangle lines. It’s that I consider she has an—an unwholesome influence over my husband. She sets herself up to be what I believe they call a psychic. She persuades Bruce to join her in table tipping and other forms of spiritualism of which I disapprove.

She did turn to look at me then. And I was taken aback at the extent to which those gentle eyes could register implacability.

She claims to have contacted the spirit of my husband’s former wife and communicates with her through a table while we all sit around in the dark. The morbid excitement is the worst thing for my husband. The whole business is humiliating for me. With surprising frankness she added: It’s bad for me, too, physically. I’m going to have a baby. And when one is over forty it’s not easy—particularly now that I’m kept in a constant state of nervous tension.

One of her thin hands moved to the string of amber beads around her neck. It was a gesture which reminded me of a nun at her rosary.

I’m thinking of the children too. It is most unwholesome for them. Abruptly she leaned toward me. "That’s why I’m speaking of it to you, Doctor Westlake. My husband is fascinated with this woman and the table tipping. I don’t want to make a scene and worry him. But if we could put it on a medical basis, if you as a doctor could suggest that it would be wiser for him to have a male nurse, I could get rid of Eleanor Frame without unpleasantness. After all, Bruce must realize he wouldn’t need two nurses. Will you do that—please?"

Gladly, I said, if it would help you. But there is one disadvantage. Your husband doesn’t really need a nurse at all. If I recommended a trained male nurse in constant attendance he’s liable to think he’s taken a turn for the worse. He’ll be just that much more worried.

It was obvious that she had not considered the matter from that angle.

In any case, I said, why not give it a day or two before you make up your mind? I’ll be happy to fall in with anything you think best.

Perhaps that’s wisest. She rose and offered me her hand. It was a thin, cold hand, but very firm. You’ve been kind, Doctor Westlake. And I’m grateful. Good-by.

She aimed an absent pat at Hamish and stepped off the porch.

I watched her until she disappeared into the evening shadows of the garden next door. Her strange story of a trained nurse, tables that tipped and messages that came from a dead wife had aroused my curiosity—considerably.

In fact, it almost made me forget my martini.

Chapter 2

I continued to think about the Bannisters throughout my solitary dinner. I had just put them out of my head and was trying to write a parental letter to Dawn when my third visitor broke in on me. Her advent was delightfully informal.

Hi. The clear young voice came from the back porch. Is the doctor anywhere around?

With Hamish skulking sourly at my heels I went out and turned on the porch light. Linette Thorpe was standing there, smoking a cigarette and smiling at me in a friendly, unselfconscious manner. A large, rather amiable-looking mutt bounded around her legs, and in the first flurry of disentangling it from Hamish I could pay only slight attention to Mr. Bannister’s stepdaughter. But finally Hamish decided to be hospitable and the two dogs padded into the house.

At close range Linette Thorpe was even more attractive than she had seemed at the pool. There was a fleeting resemblance to her mother in the widely spaced gray eyes and the fine sculpting of her facial bones. But there was none of Mrs. Bannister’s coldness. This girl was warm and very human with red lips and honey-colored hair which was several shades lighter than the healthy golden brown of her skin.

I’m sorry about bringing Prince, Doctor Westlake, but he seems to have made friends with your Scotty. She smiled and puffed at the cigarette. I’ve got a beastly sore throat. This is probably all the wrong time, but will you look at it for me?

Smoking isn’t the best thing for a sore throat. I spoke with unnecessary severity. For some reason I am always rather severe with very young, very attractive girls. I suppose it’s because I’m just reaching the age where I resent the fact that I find them so attractive.

She stubbed the cigarette meekly and followed me into the office. The two dogs were sitting together under the white enameled table in unhygienic amity. I shooed them out, shut the door and gestured Linette Thorpe to a chair.

Well, I asked sociably, how are you getting on with the swallow dive your brother was teaching you last week?

The girl laughed. That wasn’t my brother. That was Greg Bannister. My stepbrother. He says I look more like a pelican than a swallow. How you must loathe us fooling around in the pool while you stew here with your patients. Do come over and join us any time, please.

She was so friendly that I found myself ashamed of my earlier ungraciousness.

As I adjusted my forehead mirror I asked:

Are you the Voice?

You mean the one who sings? Yes. I’ve been studying abroad. She shot me a curious glance. You’ve certainly got us pretty well sized up, haven’t you? I mean our swimmings and singings. I hope we don’t disturb you?

On the contrary, I wish you’d sing more often. Especially that French song that sounds like rustling leaves.

Oh, you mean the Debussy. Her face lit up with enthusiasm. I adore it. I’m going to sing it next month when I make my grand Grovestown debut.

Well, open your mouth and I’ll see what’s wrong with the golden larynx.

I focused my light and looked down her throat. To quote a Victorian hyperbole, I might say it was like looking down the nave of a cathedral. That there should be so vast a vocal capacity in so small a girl seemed amazing. Equally amazing were the neat rows of white, perfect teeth. There was not the ghost of a filling among them. Her tongue was pink as a healthy cat’s and nowhere was there any sign of redness or irritation. After a thorough examination I removed my tongue depressor and switched off my forehead light.

Well, I said crisply, that was quite an experience. Now perhaps you’ll tell me the real reason why you came here. You know perfectly well there’s nothing the matter with your throat.

Linette Thorpe stared at me, her red lips moving in a slow, infectious smile. Then I can smoke again, can’t I? She took a cigarette from a box on the table and grinned up at me as I gave her a light. If you want to know why I came it’s because I heard from Mother that a nice-looking youngish doctor was doing old Doctor Hammond’s work. I thought a sore throat would be a ladylike excuse for looking you over.

You’ll have to think up something better than that.

She was lolling sideways in her chair with one brown, stockingless leg hanging seductively over the arm. Her eyes were fixed on my face and I had the distinct impression she knew exactly how attractive I found her.

Actually, what I came for was to see if, somehow or other, I couldn’t beg, borrow or steal some poison from you. Some very, very strong poison.

Rather injudiciously I replied: To get rid of the serpent that has entered your garden?

Serpent is good. Linette gave a hard little laugh. Only it’s tough on the serpent clan. Eleanor Frame is worse than a snake; she’s a triple b—

You needn’t elaborate, I cut in. I’ve heard about her from your mother.

I thought that’s what Mother came over to talk about. The gray eyes were deadly serious now. Won’t you try and help us get rid of Eleanor Frame? She’s driving us all crazy and she’s positively killing my stepfather.

She flung out her hands. "It was so perfect until she came. Bruce has been in love with Mother for years. He was always begging her to let him divorce his first wife and marry her. But Mother would never consent so long as Grace Bannister was alive. Mother’s very strict. She doesn’t believe in divorce, although heaven knows Bruce had every cause to divorce Grace Bannister. She was a completely rotten sort of egg. Drank and cut up like a crazy woman; made his life a hell.

"But Bruce was an angel to her. He’s been an angel to us too. We were poor as rats, but he paid for me to study singing abroad and gave my brother a responsible job at the office. Of course Oliver’s always been crazy to study music; he doesn’t really fit into investment banking. But it’s a marvelous opportunity for any boy his age. Bruce did all that for us before he married Mother. When at last Grace Bannister did die everything was so happy till that—that Eleanor Frame turned up. She shrugged helplessly. He knows we all hate her. But he keeps her on just because she’s Grace’s niece and that beastly table tipping fascinates him. It’s changed him completely. And we’re all dragged into it too. Every night we have to sit around, holding our hands on the table in the dark, waiting for it to rap out messages from ‘Grace.’"

She looked up. Grace Bannister’s dead, but she might as well be alive the way she’s running things from the astral plane or wherever it is. All those messages! One rap for A, two raps for B…. The very first message was: ‘Keep Eleanor and make her happy.’ Then ‘Grace’ insisted that Bruce shouldn’t retire from business. He’d made all his plans to leave and David Hanley was almost certain to get his job as president. It was terribly hard on Dave when Bruce changed his mind because though he’s still in his early thirties Dave’s a brilliant man and perfectly capable of filling the job.

She flushed and added quickly: It was hard on Mother too. After all, Bruce has plenty of money and we’d much rather have more of his company than more money, particularly now he’s sick. But ‘Grace’ was against it.

She tossed her head. "Soon ‘Grace’ will be ordering the meals and a new car and expensive clothes for Eleanor Frame. It’s sickening. As if a reasonable spirit would come back from the dead to push a table around! As if Grace Bannister would try to help Bruce after she was dead anyway, when she made his life so miserable as long as she was alive! It’s obviously a dirty, crooked trick Eleanor Frame’s using to keep her influence over Bruce, to get board and lodging free. And he believes