The Death at Yew Corner Read Free

Bunting fought it with every fiber of her being. It was a mirror of the future—a future filled with Bea’s own limitations and the inexorable march of old age. Her present depression told her that youth was past, which meant that age hovered around a nearby corner. Infirmity crept so stealthily that you were not aware of it until it was too late for conscious choice or action.
    The stairway’s exit on the second floor was directly in front of the nurses’ station. A harried R.N. glanced up myopically at Bea and then back down to her medicine tray. Another nurse rushed from one side of the hall to a room across the way in answer to some plea. Bea turned to the left toward Dr. Bunting’s room, which was the fifth door down from the nurses’ station.
    She knocked softly on the open door and stepped inside. Dr. Bunting’s bed by the window was empty. The bedding was still rumpled from the night before.
    A frail old woman curled up in a fetal position in the near bed blinked her eyes open and stared at Bea.
    â€œIs Dr. Bunting around?”
    â€œShe makes so much noise” was the whining response.
    Bea laughed. “I imagine she does. I’m Bea Wentworth, Mrs. Rathbone. We met last week. You told me about your children.”
    â€œI have four you know.”
    â€œYes, and I know you’re very proud of them.”
    â€œI’m going to die.”
    Bea did not know how to respond to that statement. She had no way of knowing the actual physical condition of the old woman, her mental stability, or the power of her will—which she suspected had ebbed away. “I thought you were looking better today” was her reply.
    â€œNo, I’m not. The loud one went down the hall in her chair. She probably went to the sun-room.”
    â€œYes, thank you. Perhaps we can talk later.”
    â€œThat would be nice.” The reply was nearly lost as the old woman closed her eyes and clutched a blanket to her neck.
    Bea hurried from the room with a twinge of shame, not really knowing how to cope with the situation. How should she react to a woman willing herself to die? She realized that Dr. Bunting’s verbose battle against infirmity and incompetence indicated a fierce will to live.
    The R.N. at the nurses’ station looked up as Bea passed. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI’m looking for Fabian Bunting.”
    â€œI think she went to the sun-room.” The nurse looked back at her charts.
    Bea stood in the doorway of the empty sun-room. A midmorning sun had forced its way through protesting clouds and fell in irregular columns across the floor tiles. The imitation leather-covered chairs with chrome fittings shone dully in the dusty light. She walked to the far windowsill and picked up the opera glasses resting there. She held them in the palm of her hand for a moment, and then slowly put them back and walked to the nurses’ station.
    â€œDr. Bunting is not in the sun-room.”
    The R.N. glanced up and scowled. “I can’t keep track of every patient by myself. We are shorthanded, you know?”
    â€œI know you are, and it must be difficult. Perhaps she is somewhere else in the building?”
    â€œWell, how would I …?” The nurse gave a shrug of resignation and grabbed a chart. “She’s not charted for anything. She could have gone to the OT room, the TV room, or she might be visiting another patient. I just don’t have the time.”
    â€œThank you.” Bea turned away. She had been in the convalescent home a dozen times since it opened three years ago. She had known other patients here, and since Dr. Bunting’s admission, had visited at least once a week. The layout of the home was simple: a two-story brick building with the main wing parallel to the street and two side wings running toward the rear of the property from each end of the main building. There was a construction site at the rear of the property that