by Amy Corwin
“I will not squint—that is far worse.” She shook her head. “No. We must face facts if we are to improve our situation. You and Grace have the best chances for contracting respectable alliances.”
“Well, if we do, you shall have nothing to worry about.” Dorothy flung an arm around Martha and gave her a hug, despite the rattling of the china on the tray.
“Indeed. I shall like it above all things to be the old spinster aunt in one of your households.” She tried not to sound cynical or bitter—she did not want to add grumpy to old spinster aunt. However, it was difficult not to feel… not precisely hopeless, but perhaps alone.
Her thoughts drifted longingly to Quinton. If she could but see him, talk to him…
She thrust the thought away. It did no good to dwell on such things. She had to accept her situation as it was.
Her sisters might do well, even without dowries, but Martha had never been blessed by good luck. She never had been, and she couldn’t expect any changes now. One simply had to face the facts as they were, not as she wished them to be.
Chapter Two
Accepting another glass of arrack, Quinton leaned back in his chair and studied his host, Sir Horace Branscombe, while appearing to contemplate the open windows and fluttering curtains just beyond Branscombe’s rounded, bear-like shoulder.
Odd. It was nearly midnight, and yet the windows were open. His gaze drifted around the room, resting for a moment on the dark, heavily carved walnut chest against the wall of the large drawing room. An ornate silver tray with an assortment of glasses and decanters sat on top, squeezed toward the edge of the chest by another tray supporting a teapot, saucers, and other tea paraphernalia. Next to the tea tray was a large china plate with a few dark tidbits of some sort of food and another, smaller dessert plate. A peculiar odor—very near to sulphur—teased his nose.
Perhaps the windows were open to dispel the smell.
Branscombe’s young wife, Edith, stood behind her husband’s chair, one slender white hand on his shoulder and a frown pinching her wide mouth into a tight knot. Although she nudged her husband, her gaze was fixed on Quinton’s face.
Branscombe chuckled and stared into the depths of his own glass. His free hand rose to brush over his wife’s fingers in a gesture that was both reassuring and yet dismissive. “Sorry to send for you so late, Ashbourne.” He crooked his head to grin up at his wife, clearly indicating it was for his wife’s sake that the summons had been sent.
“It is not the late hour that is so objectionable,” Quinton said in a mild voice, “but being invited after the supper party has concluded.”
Flinging back his leonine head, Branscombe laughed. “You have refused so many invitations in the past—politely, of course—that we felt sure you would not mind missing this one.”
Quinton smiled, his eyes twinkling. Sir Horace was well aware that the recent death of Quinton’s father left him in mourning and mired in a great many debts. Unable to reciprocate adequately, Quinton had elected to avoid social functions until he had time to fully examine and improve his financial situation.
“And the summons?” Quinton asked at last.
“Tell him,” his wife urged, leaning over her seated husband and shaking his shoulder. “You promised—tell him.” Her hard, dark eyes fixed on Quinton.
“I will, my dear, never fear.” Branscombe patted his wife’s fingers again where they rested on his left shoulder.
Lady Branscombe is left-handed, Quinton noted as she shifted her grip on her husband.
A fading splotch of ink covered the side of her little finger, confirming his guess. He’d only met Sir Horace’s strapping, young wife a handful of times, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t realized before that the left-handed judge had married a left-handed wife. She was eleven years his junior, but the casual disarray of the drawing room, containing a basket overflowing with mending that rested on the seat of a nearby chair, and several heavy legal tomes scattered on every horizontal surface around Sir Horace’s chair, revealed the couple’s preference for spending their evenings companionly together in this room.
That they were both left-handed was just one of those odd coincidences that often distracted Quinton. He glanced again at his apple-cheeked host in time to catch most of his rambling explanation.
“…caught that young rascal when no one else could.” Sir Horace leaned forward to tap Quinton’s knee with his fist. “If old Fielding could have his Bow Street runners, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my Baron.” He chuckled. “Always one for a puzzle, eh?”
Quinton’s brows rose. “A puzzle?”
“Well, yes.” The judge cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to his knees.
“Horace—you promised,” his wife reminded him. “You assured me you would leave the matter in Lord Ashbourne’s hands. Must I remind you that you have four young children to consider?”
Sir Horace’s small, cunning eyes—so similar to a feral boar’s—flashed with annoyance although he took his wife’s fingers in his hand and gave them a seemingly tender squeeze. Jerking them out of his grip, Lady Branscombe shook her hand and stepped back from her husband’s chair.
“You must forgive my wife—she is excitable—”
“I am nothing of the sort!” Lady Branscombe clasped her hands at her waist and fixed her gaze on the grayish-blond curls gracing the top of her husband’s round head. “If you do not tell him, I will!”
Chuckling, Sir Horace shook his head. Catching Quinton’s gaze, he shrugged as if to say there was nothing he could do to temper his wife’s strong emotions. But the anger wrinkling Lady Branscombe’s brow couldn’t hide the anxiety—or was it fear?—that turned her wide brown eyes into hard agates.
She was tall for a woman and well-made, with wide hips and shoulders broader than many men of Quinton’s acquaintance—not the sort of wilting, vague lady who would faint with terror at the shadow of a cloud passing over the sun. Any concerns she harbored would be well-founded.
Frowning thoughtfully, Quinton studied his host.
Sir Horace sighed and rubbed a plump hand over his mouth. With an obvious effort, he straightened. A decisive expression hardened his face, and he assumed the grave, thoughtful appearance that he’d used so effectively in the past when presiding in court as a magistrate. “I will do as I promised, Edith, if you will leave us in peace.”
“You will hold to your promise?” she countered quickly.
“You have my word,” he replied. “Now leave us.”
Lady Branscombe eyed the top of her husband’s head before she nodded and strode out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
“So.” Sir Horace grunted and stared at his glass, now empty. Letting out another long breath, he placed the glass on the table between them, slapped his thighs, and then rubbed them. He flicked a quick, assessing glance at Quinton. “What have you heard?”
“Heard?” Quinton raised his brows again and set his own glass down. “Is there something of which I should be aware?”
A grunt answered him. Sir Horace’s hands rubbed his meaty thighs faster before he gripped the arms of his chair. “Perhaps not. It may be nothing, of course, but he was relatively young and appeared so healthy.”
Silence grew between them, and Quinton let it grow. His host would speak at his own pace, if permitted to do so.
Sir Horace flicked another glance at Quinton. “Our supper party ended rather abruptly, you see. A man died.”
“Died?”
“Gastric fever. Perfectly natural, though ghastly timing, of course.”
“If he died naturally…” Quinton allowed his words to die off, just as naturally as Sir Horace’s ill-fated guest.
“That’s the difficulty.” Sir Horace’s restless hands rubbed the padded arms of his chair. “Seemed natural enough, despite his young age. Two-and-thirty. Hardly old enough, one would think.”
“However…?”
“Edith—Lady Branscombe—and a few of the o
thers are less sure.” His chuckle was cut off with a strangled grunt. “Thought it all unnatural. Quite vigorous and hale when he arrived, and then, in the middle of supper, grew ill—shockingly sick. Vomited.” His bulbous nose wrinkled with distaste. “Died before Dr. Meek could do more than loosen the poor soul’s neckcloth. After it all happened, my wife remembered your management of that affair with that bloody horse thief. She insisted on sending for you. Nonsense, of course. Still…” Anxious lines appeared on Sir Horace’s chubby, rosy-cheeked face. He shook his head. “Nonsensical notion. Why should anyone want to murder old Alford? Ridiculous.”
Gastric distress… A distinct air, á la Catherine de’ Medici, wafted through the tale. The rapid onset of gastric fever in an otherwise healthy man did seem a trifle too sudden to be natural. Quinton made a noncommittal noise.
Best to leave a discussion of murder until later, or risk inducing Sir Horace to secure peace of mind by growing too fond of Dr. Meek’s conclusion of gastric fever. It would not be the first time the magistrate had refused to consider other viewpoints, should any show themselves, once he’d made up his mind.
“When did this happen?” Quinton asked.
“Two hours ago—no more. Meek has taken the body already, though Alford’s wife is still here.” He jerked his chin up toward the ceiling. “Meek gave her one of his sleeping draughts—doubt she’ll wake before midday tomorrow.”
“I see. Supper was already concluded?”
“No—Alford dropped dead between the first and second course. Edith wouldn’t allow the servants to clear the table.”
Quick thinking. Quinton’s respect for Lady Branscombe rose a notch. “Then everything is as it was when Alford died?”
“Yes—though I can’t leave it much longer. We have guests, after all. They’ll be expecting breakfast in the morning.” Sir Horace chuckled and shook his head at this evidence of the nonsensical behavior of houseguests.
Nonsensical, indeed, if someone had already been poisoned while dining here.
Quinton rose to his feet. He glanced at Sir Horace and raised his brows. “Would it be possible for me to view the dining room?”
“Of course.” Sir Horace levered himself up from his chair with a grunt and rotated his heavy bearlike shoulders. He glanced uneasily at the door and cleared his throat before waving abruptly for Quinton to precede him.
The dining room was across the wide hallway from the drawing room, and just as Sir Horace indicated, the detritus from their lavish meal had not been cleared away. A huge cherry table dominated the room. A large chandelier, dripping with crystals, hung above the table, long tapers still burning to provide light, though they were now merely stubs of wax. Two silver candelabras sparkled with golden light amidst scattered plates, silverware, rumpled serviettes, and platters of half-eaten food, the remnants of the first course.
Silver chafing dishes and two platters bearing flaky bits of fish from the first course stood on the long sideboard, next to decanters of madeira wine and brandy, and a pitcher of negus. Porcelain serving dishes on the table displayed evidence of a sumptuous meal including roasted capon, lamb, mushrooms, ragout of endive, and a stew of chardoon. Although the food had long since grown cold and had the tattered, despoiled appearance of a meal hastily abandoned midway through, the buttery scent from the roasted capon lingered near the foot of the table. Quinton’s stomach rumbled as he stood behind the host’s chair.
The slice of game pie he’d eaten that afternoon seemed hours away.
Then he caught the scent of a less savory odor. A white bowl, filled with a ghastly mixture of bile and masticated food stood on the floor, partially under the table and near an overturned chair.
“A bit of a mess, eh?” Sir Horace grinned, resting his meaty hands on the curved back of what had probably been his wife’s chair. “Old Rathbone is beside himself, wanting to clear everything away and lock up the silver for the night.” He laughed at his butler’s concerns, his fingers playing over the back of the chair in front of him. “The fish is beginning to smell rather ripe in here, and of course…” He waved in the direction of the overturned chair and nearby bowl. “I fancy Rathbone will require a scullery maid to take care of this if we leave it much longer.”
The butler seemed like a man who took his duties seriously. Quinton hadn’t missed the worried lines etched above Rathbone’s dark brows and around his mouth when he’d ushered him into the house. Despite the revolting nature of the leftover food and contents of the bowl, the butler would certainly ensure it was cleared away, one way or the other.
“Where was the victim—er—Mr. Alford—seated?” Not that he needed to ask, but it wouldn’t do to make assumptions.
“Victim, eh?” Sir Horace’s shaggy brows waggled.
“Perhaps merely a victim of indigestion,” Quinton suggested with a hint of a smile as he waved at the laden table. “Gastric fever, as you say.”
Sir Horace laughed. “Indigestion, yes.” However, he sobered quickly, an anxious frown returning to his face as he surveyed the remains of his supper party. “Dreadful thing. Shocking.”
“So…” Quinton raised a brow. “Where did Mr. Alford sit?”
Rubbing his mouth, Sir Horace stared at the vacant chairs, his gaze moving around the table. A thoughtful V crimped his brow. “Should have had name cards—told Edith that.” He grunted. “She likes to order us about, though. Tells us where she wants us to sit when she’s decided and not before.”
“Alford?” Quinton prompted again, his gaze fixed on a chair that had been turned over and remained on its side on the carpet.
“Hmm. Lady Honore Leake sat on my wife’s right, with General Whyting next to her. My wife prefers the new mode of seating with the gentlemen and ladies sitting alternately around the table—so…” His brows bunched over his eyes in concentration. His grip on the chairback tightened. “On Edith’s left was—no—that is, the general was on Edith’s left. Next to him was Mrs. Trussell. So who the devil was next to Lady Honore?” He let go of the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Mr. Trussell. Yes, Trussell was next to Lady Honore, and then came Mrs. Whyting. Next to her was your man, Alford.”
Quinton eyed the serviette crumpled over a plate, the handle of a silver fork protruding from under one of the folds. A knife rested on a smaller plate smeared with butter and a scattering of crumbs. A half-full coffee cup and a wine glass with the dregs of what looked like white wine claret marked the edge of Alford’s place setting. A wet area, spreading from the base of the wine glass, suggested that the glass had been knocked over at some point and righted again.
As he suspected, Alford’s chair was the one that had been knocked over. Quinton bent and gently set it upright. The sharp odor from the white bowl caught in his throat. He turned away before taking a breath.
“So Mr. Alford was seated here—who was next to him?” Quinton asked.
“Mrs. Frethorne. Then I was at the bottom of the table, of course, and Dr. Meek was on my right.” Sir Horace gestured at the empty chairs. “Then Mrs. Trussell, Mr. Frethorne, and Mrs. Alford.”
“I see. So there were four couples, Lady Honore, and Dr. Meek.”
“And Edith and myself, of course.”
“An even dozen.” Quinton smiled before walking a little further away from the table where the acrid odor from the bowl wasn’t quite so noticeable. “Would it be possible to obtain a dozen small bottles or so? Clean ones. And a box to hold them?”
Sir Horace’s brows jutted out, and he pursed his lips before nodding. “Of course. Let me ring for Rathbone.”
The butler managed to find twice the number of bottles Quinton requested, although instead of a box, he provided a basket and linen cloth to keep the bottles from rattling against one another. His stiff face and the glances he cast at the congealing food revealed his anxiety over the state of the dining room, but he made no comment as he delivered the basket and went to stand in a corner of the room, presumably to wait for permission to begin clearing away
the mess.
“Was there anything in particular that Alford ate or drank?”
“Nothing that the rest of us did not eat.” Sir Horace shook his head. His hands clamped down on the back of the chair in front of him. “The more I consider it, the less suspicious I grow.” He chuckled, though the sound had an uncertain cadence.
Quinton quickly took samples of everything, including the few drops of wine left in Alford’s glass and made annotations in the small pocket book he carried with him, after marking the cork of each container. He’d never been particularly interested in, or proficient in, the field of chemistry, but he knew someone who was: his childhood friend, Miss Martha Stainton. And she’d want to know precisely what was in each bottle.
Not that Martha would appreciate being presented with a basketful of items he hoped she would analyze. He held his breath as he took a sample from the bowl on the floor, clamping his mouth shut to avoid gagging.
She would definitely not be pleased with this one. His mouth twitched into a quick grin at the thought.
“We all ate from the same dishes,” Sir Horace repeated, watching him, his brows beetling over his eyes. “And drank from the same bottles. He could not have been poisoned, or we would all be dead.”
Quinton arranged the bottles in the basket. “Perhaps.” He glanced around the room again with a slight frown. Had he forgotten anything?
The plate in the drawing room.
“I’d like to return to the drawing room.” Without waiting for a reply, Quinton strode into the hallway. “Do you know which glass or cup Alford used?” he asked over his shoulder. He didn’t pause until he reached the walnut chest in the drawing room.
Sir Horace shrugged.
“Did he eat anything from this plate?” Using one finger, Quinton pushed the platter over an inch. Bits of an unpleasantly grayish, gelled item were scattered over the white surface, and a sulfurous odor hung over it.
“Oh, that.” Sir Horace snorted. “He brought that with him, some sort of delicacy he obtained while he was in China. In fact, he’d just returned last week, I believe. Thousand-year egg or century egg or some such nonsense. Amused him to get us to take a taste.”
