didn’t think she wanted to hear what Tessa had to say.
“Simpson interviewed me repeatedly. You’re aware of how preoccupied I’ve been. I wanted to tell you why, but I couldn’t. It was really bothering me. I felt terrible when I didn’t come to the visitation, when I wasn’t there for you.” She leaned closer to Hollis. “You remember the Citizen had a description of the knife that killed Paul?”
What did this have to do with anything?
“The Citizen identified it as a boning knife. A week ago Sunday, we invited one of Kas’s colleagues for dinner. I decided a stuffed rolled roast of pork would be easy, but when I searched for the boning knife—no knife. I used another knife, but when I saw the picture in the paper . . .” Tessa’s voice shook. “Our knife, which is identical to the one in the photo, is still missing. After I read the article, I searched the kitchen again, but to no avail.” She gripped the steering wheel tight enough to whiten her knuckles. “I didn’t want to accuse Kas. Something was going on, but I didn’t know what and at that point I couldn’t do anything. We had to attend a testimonial dinner for the retiring Deputy Minister of Health, and both of us had speeches to give. Sunday I was on call, and Kas was playing golf. Although I worked yesterday, my concentration was shot. I wondered what the connections were and what Kas was hiding. Last night, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I woke him up at two thirty, and said we had to talk. Before I lost my nerve, I asked him point blank if he’d killed Paul.”
Tessa had believed Kas was the murderer.
“It was horrible. Kas couldn’t accept that I’d suspected him.” She rested her head on the steering wheel.
“He didn’t kill Paul—Knox Porter, a member of St. Mark’s, did it.”
“You’re kidding.” She lifted her head. “You mean the police have solved the case. That’s wonderful.” She shook her head. “Suspecting Kas wasn’t the only thing bothering me—there’s something else to tell you.”
Hollis didn’t want to listen. Knox’s revelations had been monstrous, but this might be worse.
“Years ago, when I was a medical student, I did a rotation at 999 Queen Street, the psychiatric hospital in Toronto. We had a pregnant fourteen-year old catatonic patient on one of the locked wards. She was detained on a Lieutenant Governor’s warrant, because she’d killed her father who’d physically and sexually abused her.” Tessa traveled the tunnel of memory. “I performed an abortion. Of course, I labelled it a D. and C. When my patient came out of the anaesthetic, I told her what I’d done, because I’ve always believed catatonic patients hear you even when they appear totally unreachable. I proved my point, because from then on she responded. She recovered and later was released and lives an ordinary life. I hear from her at Christmas. I’ve never regretted the decision. At the time, abortions were illegal. If anyone had blown the whistle, I wouldn’t be a doctor today.
“Tessa, it was a long time ago. Things are different, and it sounds as if it was a compassionate act performed at great personal risk.”
“Thanks. Your dear husband didn’t agree. Paul Robertson, good Christian, tracked down the story. He threatened to spill the beans and have me struck from the medical register.”
“Did he blackmail you?”
Tessa settled against the car door. “No.”
Before Hollis allowed herself to feel relief, Tessa continued, “That wouldn’t have been diabolical enough for Paul. He forced me to donate five hundred dollars a month to the Right to Lifers. I feel terrible not to have told Kas or you. What kind of a marriage do we have if I didn’t confide in him? We should have presented a united front and challenged Paul. Even if it had become public, surely the college of Physicians and Surgeons wouldn’t have done more than reprimand me for a humanitarian act performed decades earlier.”
Hollis shut her eyes, opened them and twisted to reach her right hand across her inert left arm. “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but Paul was a stranger to me. I had no idea what he was capable of. And I only found out about some of the terrible things he’d done after he was dead.”
They sat in silence until Tessa leaned forward. Hollis was being assessed as a patient, not a friend. “My God, I’m not much of a doctor. Now that I’m really taking in your appearance, I realize you’re the one who needs help—not me. What happened?”
“As I said, Knox Porter killed Paul. Last night he tried to kill me.”
“Knox Porter. Isn’t he the man you described as wimpy? The one with the wife who always wears brown and repeats everything he says.”
“That’s the man. After he killed Paul, Knox broke into the manse, shot at me, sent a threatening letter, murdered Sally and intended to kill me too. He lured me to their third floor apartment, tied me up and dragged me down three flights of stairs to take me away and kill me. The problem is I don’t know what happened last night because I was knocked out. I came to in the ambulance. I think Knox escaped because a policeman sat outside my hospital room last night, probably because they were afraid Knox would come after me—he’d told me why and how he’d killed Paul. However, early this morning, the policeman received a message that I was no longer in danger and left. I presume Simpson and the police caught him.”
“Simpson? Where does she fit in the equation?”
“Simpson showed up at the last minute. I was gagged, but I made as much noise as possible and threw myself down the stairs. The ambulance attendant told me only the police were at the Porters’ house when they arrived.”
The women parked at the manse at the exact moment the door flew open, and Hollis had a blurry picture of MacTee galloping across the lawn to attend to nature’s needs. Standing in the open doorway, Elsie waited for him to finish.
Tessa helped Hollis out of the car. When Elsie saw them, she hurried down the steps. “What happened? Here, let me give you a hand.”
Inside, Tessa apologized for leaving, but promised to return later. Hollis collected a spare pair of glasses from the junk drawer under the kitchen telephone before she slumped at the table.
Rhona, who’d been up the entire night, received the news about Knox at five. She completed paperwork and phoned the hospital to hear they’d released Hollis. After washing her face and swilling down a cup of exhausted machine coffee, she headed for the manse.
Elsie, looking out the manse window, saw Rhona arrive.
“She’s here. I’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee—she appears totally beat.”
Hollis didn’t have to ask who “she” was and made no attempt to rise. Once she’d collapsed in the chair, she’d decided she might stay there forever.
Rhona sat down across from Hollis. “How do you feel?”
With a visible effort, Hollis produced a tiny smile. “Grateful to be alive. What happened to Knox?”
“Knox Porter?” Elsie asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened to him? Weren’t you going to his house last night?” she said to Hollis, who nodded.
Rhona
