“But food first,” Anne said. “I am ravenous this morning. Perhaps death and sadness are for me an appetite stimulant.”
“Death?” he said. “What do you mean?”
She related the events of her previous evening; he was suitably shocked. As she spoke, an idea occurred, but she let it simmer in her mind. Once she was done explaining, and they had finished eating and were drinking a cup of coffee, brewed most excellently by the cook, she tentatively made her proposal.
“I’ll admit to being most upset by last evening’s tragedy, and to some relief that Dr. Fothergill is investigating the cause of young Alfred Lonsdale’s death. It seemed to me that the doctor was troubled, too. I understand that the doctor’s residence and work rooms are on Henry Street around the corner from my friends’ Pierrepont Place townhome. I would like to call on him, for I have a couple of questions. Would you accompany me, Osei?”
He thought about it for a moment, sipping his coffee with satisfaction. He then met her gaze, the sunlight streaming in the window glinting in his spectacles. “I’m sure his lordship would not be pleased with my answer. The last thing he said to me before I left him was to keep you out of trouble.”
“So if you think Tony won’t be pleased, that means you will do as I wish?”
“I am inclined to obey your request, my lady.”
“Good. I don’t see how keeping me from this task would keep me out of trouble anyway, do you?”
“I am of the opinion that my aid in satisfying your curiosity and anxiety is a better indemnity against the likelihood of you getting in trouble than would denying you my company. At least this way I can lend you aid if you become mired in a . . . situation.”
“A situation,” Anne repeated. “I suppose I have been in a few situations, in Yorkshire, Cornwall, and at home.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “But this is different. Surely there can be no harm in trying to find out what killed poor Lonsdale? And regardless, if there are troubles to navigate, I remain undaunted. My friends are in pain, and answers will help, I hope, soothe them.”
“Are you certain of that?”
Anne sighed deeply. “No. Sometimes answers simply lead to more questions, or to trouble. But I must try.” She smiled at Osei. “You’re not worried, are you?”
“About you? No, my lady. You are as intrepid as any warrior I have known.”
“I appreciate that, Osei.” She paused, but then said, “This won’t get you in trouble, will it, you helping me? Tony knows me enough by now to know there is nothing you could do to stop me if I have made a decision to follow a course of action. He was never able to control my actions, so how could you? He cannot say I have tricked him with a meek and placid exterior.”
He smiled. “No, you certainly have not deluded him as to your true nature and there is nothing typical about you. I do not fear his displeasure. His anger flashes bright but is quick to burn out. If you’ll pardon a moment of impertinence on my part, I would say that what the marquess most values is your inability to behave as any other young lady would.”
“Hah. Perhaps, but I think he cares for me in spite of it. Let us go, then; I’m ready, I only require my gloves and cloak. On the way to Dr. Fothergill’s you can tell me of the townhouse you have found for Tony.”
After a bright and promising start the day had closed in, with dark clouds gathering. The dowager viscountess’s carriage, creaky and ancient though it was, had the benefit of being closed to curious Bathonians, and warmer than a lighter, more modern vehicle. Mary was present to lend her respectability, but the maid would stay with the carriage and pick up some weighty packages for her mistress as Anne and Osei did their business. The driver had an intimate knowledge of Bath from a lifetime of driving its narrow streets and squares, so they made their way through the foggy gloom toward the doctor’s home on Henry Street.
“So . . . you have found a residence for the marquess, Mr. Boatin?” Anne asked. The secretary was Osei in private, but she tried to remember to call him by his proper name in public.
“Mr. Basenstoke made inquiries and procured for me the addresses of townhomes that were available. As a result, I have found the marquess a most suitable place on Upper Church Street, large enough that he will not feel cramped, but not so large as to be wasteful.”
“Close to the Crescent.”
“Yes, between the Crescent and the Circus.”
“And not directly by Milsom,” Anne said with a sly look. Mary smothered a chuckle. “And so not within reach of Lydia’s every complaint.”
“As you say.”
“I’m relieved,” Anne said. “I was worried you would secure a place on the Paragon. That would be too close for my comfort.”
It was his turn to glance her way. “Indeed, there was a place on the Paragon on the list, and though I looked at it, I thought perhaps a little further away from your mother and grandmother would suit you better.”
“Your judgment is, as always, impeccable, Mr. Boatin.”
The carriage pulled to a halt. Osei jumped down, scanned the street and saw a brass plate with the doctor’s name etched on it. He limped to the door and knocked; a maid opened the door, curtseying, eyes wide, as Osei handed her Anne’s card. She retreated, but came back to the door a moment later and curtseyed again, then stood aside in the open doorway.
Osei helped Anne down from the carriage and she went directly through the door past the maid as the secretary stayed behind and told the driver to return directly after helping Mistress Mary with her parcels. The Fothergill maid showed them into a tidy front parlor, where they sat in comfortable stuffed chairs by a cheery blaze. The home was neat and well ordered, the furnishing simple but sturdy, with little to clutter the space except for bookcases, which lined most walls and were full to overflowing. Either the doctor was a married man or he had an excellent housekeeper, or possibly both.
A tidy woman entered; she was garbed in a plain blue gown with the faintest hint of woven pattern, and wore a white cap with long lappets over light brown hair dressed severely. She smiled, and her appearance was transformed from severity to amiability. “Lady Anne Addison?” she said, her voice sweet and musical. “I am Mrs. Fothergill. And you are Mr. Boatin?” she said, turning to the secretary. She offered her hand and both shook, a departure from polite greeting that surprised Anne greatly. “Please, have a seat. My husband is coming down directly. I offered to greet you; I hope that’s all right.”
Anne said, “Of course, Mrs. Fothergill. I’m afraid I’m being a nuisance coming so early.”
“I understand completely. You were a witness to that terrible tragedy at the Birkenheads’ home last night. How awful!” she said, her voice warm with compassion. “Poor young Mr. Lonsdale.”
Surprised that the doctor had shared his work, and also amazed by the woman’s openhearted warmth, Anne asked, “Did you know him?”
“We were acquainted,” she said. “He involved himself in our mission group to the Caribbean working to end slavery there.”
“Is your husband related to the Dr. Fothergill from Yorkshire?” Osei asked. “He who was a botanist as well as a physician?”
She smiled and nodded. “He is related in some degree.”
Anne stared at Osei; was there any connection he could not recall? She refocused on the lady. “Again, pardon our intrusion, but I am most anxious to speak with Dr. Fothergill concerning what happened last night.”
She nodded, her expression solemn. “A tragedy. A good-natured young man, Mr. Lonsdale was, and very kind. I am disconsolate at his death. Poor Arthur was up all night with his work. He just now had a cup of tea, but he will make time for you, I’m sure.” She paused, listening. “There he is now, coming down.” She rose. “I’ll leave you to speak with him.”
“You could stay, if you wish, madam,” Anne said.
“I never interfere in Arthur’s work, as he never interferes with mine.”
She exited to the entry hall, and their voices together, murmuring
, whispered into the room. Anne exchanged a look with Osei; what was passing between the spouses? She was his confidante, and perhaps shared with him her opinions of the people they met.
Dr. Fothergill entered and bowed, much more tidy and presentable than the night before in sober dark blue breeches and coat, his cravat tied neatly. “Sit, sit,” he said to Osei—who had stood as he entered—after introductions. His dark brown eyes alight with interest—his obvious kindness and intelligence transformed his plain face to one of benevolent good looks—he examined Osei’s visage for a moment. “My wife says she hears a trace of Africa in your voice, sir. Is she right?”
“She is! I had fooled myself that I had developed the accent of a proper Englishman,” he said with a rueful smile.
“There is no inflection of a proper Englishman. We are a muddle of accents on this island, not one better than the other. But one thing is true: my wife is exceptionally good at tracing origins through voice, a talent of hers. She has worked with many Africans in London and Bath as well as former slaves from the Caribbean colonies, a part of her mission with our people.”
“Our people?” Anne interjected.
“The Quakers,” Dr. Fothergill replied.
“Oh, yes, I had heard that you were of the Society of Friends,” Anne said.
The doctor turned back to Osei. “Where are you from, then? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind at all, sir.” Osei explained his origin in the coastal region of Africa, an area south of the great Saharan desert. Though he didn’t say it, Anne knew from their past conversations that Osei was named after a great emperor to whom he was related. He, of the Fante people, had been sold into slavery by a warring tribe to his people, the Ashanti. Once on the slave ship transporting him toward the sugar plantations of the West Indies the conditions were poor and many of his people fell ill, so the slavers, intent on killing them all to claim the insurance, began to throw the alive overboard with the dead. When he had briefly recounted the awful tale, Osei said, “That is how my employer, the Marquess of Darkefell, became my employer. It was he and his brother, Lord Julian, who jumped in the water and saved several of us, including me. He brought me to his estate. I was ill and I still have a limp from an injury sustained in the fall, but he helped me get better. I learned the language from him and his household staff.” His recitation, repeated many times over the years, was swift and precise.
“Not just our language,” Anne said. “Osei learned Latin, Greek, German and . . .” She eyed the secretary. “I know there are others, but I can’t think what they are.”
“It is no matter,” Osei said, his face burnishing with a coppery hue. He cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “I am very interested in your wife’s work, sir. She mentioned a mission to eliminate slavery in the Caribbean. I lost all trace of my sister in the horrible events, as she was on a different ship than I. I have been looking for her ever since, approaching every society I can find to see if she has survived. Perhaps—”
“Of course Elizabeth would be pleased to help you,” Dr. Fothergill said. “She, especially, has made every attempt to record the true names of those who were given new names when enslaved, and those who adopted English names to become part of our society. Come back another day and she will show you her list; it’s somewhere to start. But . . . you didn’t come here for that. How can I help you?”
“I have been deeply troubled all night over that poor fellow’s death, Doctor,” Anne said. “Have you discovered anything? Was it death by misadventure, a deliberate poisoning, accidental? He was unhappy, I know, because we chatted at length after church on Sunday and he spoke of . . .” She hesitated, but continued, feeling sure her assertion would be kept secret. Softly she said, “He spoke of sins that would finish his calling as a vicar, sins that would be unforgiveable if people knew. He was deeply depressed. I dislike saying it, but . . . could his death be attributed to deliberate self-harm?”
He tapped his fingers on his knee and twisted his mouth. It was a serious matter, the thought of suicide, a sin and a crime with grave repercussions for the family of the deceased. “I make no claims, and will not speculate. But I found a most curious thing when I examined the poor lad.”
Anne waited, breath bated, watching the physician. Finally, when he hesitated, she said, “Please, sir, do not spare me the details. I am a woman, but no fainting flower.”
He smiled at that. “I did not assume so, my lady. Any married man does—or should—know the strength of the female of our species, and a married physician knows even more. I have helped my wife bear children, though the help consisted of sitting by her side while another woman did all of the labor of helping her birth them—no man midwife for her!—and also deliver the few we lost. I have been by the side of other women who strained and suffered to bear children who would see light of day only to die, and I know they would abide the physical pain a hundred times to save the life of their child. I have seen women stitch wounds, clean every kind of effluent the body produces, and all without a murmur. I know the strength of women.”
She was silent in the face of his good-humored acknowledgment of feminine strength.
“I hesitate for the sake of the young man and his family. What I have to say has grave consequences, and I have learned never to rush into pronouncing what cannot be taken back.”
“I understand, Dr. Fothergill,” Anne said. “But let me assure you; as I rely on your discretion in what I have told you, so no matter what you tell me, no one shall know it but us three unless you wish it shared.”
Osei nodded. “Lady Anne speaks the truth.”
“We are both exceptionally accomplished at keeping secrets.”
The doctor nodded, accepting their assurances. “I will take you at your word, though I have learned in my life that secrets are impossible to keep secret. However, I will tell you. In my opinion the young man died from ingesting taxus baccata in sufficient amount to poison him.”
“Taxus baccata . . . what is that?”
“The yew,” Osei said.
“The yew . . . as in the yew tree?” Anne exclaimed.
“Does that mean anything to you?” the doctor said, watching her closely, his observant gaze on her face.
“I do know it is poisonous. In fact, Mr. Lonsdale and I walked together in the churchyard of St. Swithin and he pointed out an ancient example of the tree; he . . . he said it was known as the Tree of Death.”
They were all silent. Had that been the moment a distraught young man recalled the yew’s toxic properties and decided to make use of it? Self-destruction was not, though, the only possibility here. Lonsdale had spoken to her in serious tones of a moral dilemma, of making a choice that would potentially hurt someone he loved—though it would be the right thing to do—or do nothing, and others he cared nothing for would suffer. And he had indicated last night that his soul was calm, for he had decided to do the right thing. At what cost? She pondered, in that moment, the potent enmity between him and Mr. Roger Basenstoke; what if Lonsdale knew something about the fellow, something that would expose him to the law? How much would that hurt Mrs. Clary Basenstoke, whom he loved like a mother, if Lonsdale exposed Basenstoke to justice?
“Dr. Fothergill, I . . .” She stopped, unsure what to say, how to reveal her deepest fears. It was hideous to speculate on the inevitable direction her thoughts were taking; was she really pondering the possibility that someone had deliberately poisoned Mr. Lonsdale to keep him from doing what he had decided to do? The moral thing, he had said, the one that would hurt someone he loved. She didn’t know enough about him to know if there were others who fit that description. “Dr. Fothergill, I am deeply concerned, I will not conceal that. It seems to me there is no natural way he could have ingested such a poison, so what you are suggesting leaves us with two possibilities.”
He nodded. “I’m afraid I concur, my lady. This was either self-destruction, and I would not like his family to know it was that, or it was m
urder.”
There was little else they could glean from the doctor, for he would not speculate on how Lonsdale ingested the yew. A note came for him by hand as Osei and Anne rose to leave. The doctor appeared angered by the note.
“What is it, Doctor?” Osei asked.
“I sent a note to the Basenstoke household last night, to tell them I had that poor fellow’s body, and it appears Mr. Roger Basenstoke is furious. He is threatening legal action.”
“On what grounds?” Anne asked.
“Theft of a body.” The doctor was shaking, and appeared to be attempting to calm his fury. “He says if I do not return Mr. Lonsdale’s body immediately he will have no choice but to accuse me of being a cadaver thief, set on unnatural means to further my despicable research.”
“That is outrageous!”Anne exclaimed.
Dr. Fothergill took a deep breath and let it out slowly. In a calmer tone, he said, “For some the body made flesh is sacred. It is a subject concerning which I must be delicate. We don’t know; his mother could be the one who is upset with me. I will do my best to smooth it over.”
“We must be going, sir; I apologize for any trouble you may have with Roger Basenstoke.”
“My lady, worry not. I know what I did was right, and gave us answers we would not have had otherwise.”
“What will you do with that knowledge, sir?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure yet. I will ponder that as I prepare young Lonsdale’s body for his family.”
Chapter Fourteen
The carriage, with Mary inside, awaited them at the doctor’s door. “Would you come with me to John and Lydia’s, Osei?” Anne asked as he helped her up the two steps.
“I would be happy to, my lady.”
Once ensconced and on their way to Milsom Street, she discovered that Mary’s business was satisfactorily concluded. She bore with her a trunk containing two of Anne’s new gowns, as well as two bonnets, gloves, and a fan suitable for the theater. “Remarkable! To sew the two gowns in such good time Mrs. McKellar must have stayed up all night, and then she had the foresight and kindness to obtain the other items for me as well.”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 13
