Excerpt from The Latecomers by Helen Klein Ross, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Mr. Tupper spoke through perforations in the receiver to the operator, and after he did this, each time, he handed Bridey the receiver, which she held at a distance as she enunciated words carefully, speaking as if to someone almost deaf.

"He's gone!" she shouted. "Come home."

Rachel lived in France. Both she and Sarah would have to be cablegrammed. She asked Mr. Tupper could he go to the post office to send word to Sarah and Rachel. He could. She wrote down numbers for him, from a book.

Bridey had to work on keeping her thoughts together; they were running all over, like headless chickens.

After Mr. Tupper left, she heard Young Doc's Packard come up the drive. She was in the kitchen, at the sink, washing the breakfast things that hadn't broken. When she looked through the window and saw Young Doc getting out of his car, she left the kitchen, wiping her hands on the hem of her apron, but he was already coming through the door, without knocking, which was unusual for him. "When did it happen?" he asked her.

"I found him just now, this morning," she said.

She glanced at the clock on the hall table. It was near nine. Vincent was probably getting the news from the headmaster. He'd be home soon.

Something about the arrangement of Young Doc's features wasn't right. She'd expected compassion. Instead, he looked angry. As if she had done something wrong. Had she done something wrong? She couldn't imagine what it could be. She always followed exactly the routine he'd set out for her, administered the dosage of medicines kept in the fireplace cabinet, mixed fresh every night and left for her in a tiny glass tumbler.

After taking off his hat but not his coat, Young Doc bounded up the spiral stairs. What was his hurry? Perhaps he doubted Bridey's pronouncement. That Mr. Hollingworth might not be dead hadn't occurred to Bridey, but now she supposed she could have made a mistake. And wouldn't a mistake like that be a happiness to discover? But her heart remained heavy. She didn't think she'd made a mistake.

Young Doc had a boyish manner. Old Doc had been the family doctor for years but now Old Doc was gone and Young Doc had taken over. She guessed he'd be Young Doc for the rest of his life.

When she came into Mr. Hollingworth's room, Young Doc had opened the old man's nightshirt and was pressing a stethoscope to his chest. Bridey flinched, feeling the cold of that disk. But of course, Mr. Hollingworth couldn't feel it now.

Young Doc rose from the bed and turned toward the window, putting the stethoscope back in his bag. Bridey moved to rebutton Mr. Hollingworth's nightshirt. It was then that Mr. Tupper came into the room.

"There weren't enough numbers. Postmistress says there's a number missing."

Mr. Tupper's eyes went to Mr. Hollingworth and fixed on his right arm, which was flung over the sheet, his hand drooping over the side of the bed.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think the poor man had been poisoned," he said.

"What?" said Bridey, startled.

Mr. Tupper approached Mr. Hollingworth and took up his hand.

"White lines in the nail bed. They taught us in training to watch out for that. Arsenic exposure. Green paint and wallpaper are mixed with it, you know."

Bridey leaned closer. Faint white lines arced over the nail bed. Why hadn't she noticed those lines before?

"You're a doctor now, are you?" said Young Doc, turning.

Mr. Tupper flushed and looked away, toward the window.

Young Doc continued. "The technical term is leukonychia striata. Its appearance can indicate arsenic poisoning, yes, but also a multitude of other conditions ... liver disease, malnourishment."

Young Doc looked at Bridey.

"Miss Molloy, have you been withholding nourishment here?"

"No, indeed!" Bridey said. But she recalled Mr. Hollingworth's lack of appetite lately, and perhaps she ought to have been more forceful in urging him to eat. Was her failure to insist that he eat more to blame for his death?

Excerpted from The Latecomers Copyright © 2018 by Helen Klein Ross. Used with permission of Little, Brown and Company, New York. All rights reserved.