Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  But there was more beyond his troubled love life. There were hints that seemed to indicate that he, too, had visited the mystic. He wrote of his mistrust, and his worry about others being led astray from the true path to one of a dangerous belief in magic and reliance on potions and talismans. He evasively referred to something or someone he was intent on exposing, but it was not clear if he spoke of the mystic.

  And yet . . . potions, magic! She shook her head, confused and irritated by Lonsdale’s writing style. He had coached himself to write in such an indirect manner that even when speaking of something straightforward, that wouldn’t be harmful if someone came upon his journal, he could not be frank.

  A maid entered and curtseyed. “A visitor, milady; Mr. Boatin to see you, in the sitting room.”

  She gathered the letters with the journal and locked them in her writing desk, pocketed the key, and then descended—followed by Irusan, who thump-thump-thumped his way down the stairs—to find the gentleman perusing, from the shelf, a book of poetry. His spectacles glinted in the lamplight, and she paused in the doorway to watch and smile. How many times had she seen him thus in her father’s library, book in hand, spectacles glinting? “Good evening, Mr. Boatin,” she finally said, and he started, jumping to his feet.

  Irusan gave a meow of pleasure—Osei had rescued him once from Anne’s rowdy unpleasant cousins, and so was one of the cat’s favorite people—and ran to the gentleman, leaping into his arms. He struggled to right himself and keep from dropping the book. “Good day, my lady,” he said with a gasp of laughter. “You catch me in perusal of Pope. I find him entertaining.”

  “Do you read The Rape of the Lock?”

  “I prefer the Essay on Man.”

  “The proper study of Mankind is Man?” she said with a smile.

  He smiled in return and bowed. “Indeed. It is a sentiment with which I concur.”

  She took a seat and with a wave of her hand invited him to sit. He did so, settling Irusan on the chair beside him. “And so . . . what have you learned in your study of man?” Anne asked. “Any further information on how Lonsdale died? Does the doctor have a guess as to how long the poisoning would have taken?”

  He shook his head, setting the book aside on the table, clasping his hands and leaning forward into the pool of lamplight, his brow wrinkled in thought. His clasped hands dangled between his knees and he twined his fingers. Irusan jumped down and sat on the rug before him, nudging his hands. Osei obeyed the command and petted him. “Dr. Fothergill says there is not enough information. That is, there has not been enough study on the ingestion of poisonous substances, and how much or how long it takes for death to follow to know for sure.”

  “May I ask, if it is not indelicate . . . how does he know it was yew poisoning that killed poor Lonsdale?”

  “That is interesting. Dr. Fothergill tells me that he removed the fellow’s stomach contents, and there found one single bit of a yew needle. From that, because there is no other reason for it to be in his stomach, and the substance produces symptoms readily recognized, the doctor extrapolated the deadly poison. He cannot be certain, of course, but he is as certain as one could expect.”

  Anne found it fascinating and considered a whole branch of science research that was, perhaps, the future of investigation into causes of death, when so much currently was guesswork. “One single tiny portion of a yew needle?” she mused. “And from that he extrapolates yew poisoning?”

  “The symptoms of taxine poisoning have long been known. Julius Caesar recounted how Cativolcus, king of Eburones, committed suicide using, as he said it, the ‘juice of the yew.’ So Mr. Lonsdale’s symptoms of poisoning, united with the bit of yew needle . . .” Osei shrugged. “It is beyond the stretch of imagination to believe he would willingly eat such a thing, so he thinks Lonsdale must have been given it in something he ate or drank that day. One tiny bit of the needle was left in the brew or food accidentally.”

  “How would the so-called juice be isolated? I don’t understand.”

  “The poisoner must have distilled the toxin by infusion, as one brews tea leaves, the doctor said, then strained it.”

  “Like Socrates, and the infusion of the hemlock plant,” she mused. “How positively diabolical.” A chill raced over Anne. She pictured some shadowy figure in a kitchen, distilling yew needles, perhaps smiling as they made the distillation, knowing the end result. It was sickening that such resolute evil existed. “I have been trying to piece together Lonsdale’s day, to see who could have given him the infusion. So far I know he had breakfast with Roger and Mrs. Basenstoke, lunch with a friend, and imbibed something at the Pump Room.” She glanced at the secretary and said, “Roger handed the tea around to Alfred and Mrs. Basenstoke, which was so unusual that my friend commented on her son’s action. He was not in the habit of taking breakfast with them. If he was of a murdering state of mind he could easily have introduced the yew infusion to the poor young gentleman’s cup, I suppose.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe he would do that to a kinsman.”

  “Though history is threaded with many accounts of those who murder a relation out of anger, or greed, or some kind of gain.”

  “But for what purpose? I fail to see how he gains by Lonsdale’s death.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Basenstoke was going to leave young Mr. Lonsdale money if she had the disposition of a private fortune, and Mr. Roger Basenstoke objected?”

  “Clary does have her own money, I know, so that is possible,” Anne said, frowning down at her hands. She stretched out her fingers, imagining the moment . . . handing a cup of tea to someone, knowing you were killing them. She shuddered and closed her fist. “It’s inconceivable.”

  “There could be other reasons we cannot know.”

  “Like jealousy over his mother’s regard of Alfred, who she told me was more a son to her than Roger.”

  “Jealousy is a powerful sentiment.”

  “Roger is a cold fish. I cannot think that he would be so jealous of his mother’s regard that he would kill his cousin, who, after all, was not living with them permanently, but merely for the autumn. Basenstoke is so calm, so unruffled . . . cold even. ”

  Osei shrugged. “I do not know the gentleman well enough, but it is said that Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep . . .”

  “Henry VI Part 2, correct?”

  Osei smiled. “The phrase is older than that, I understand, but I do quote Mr. Shakespeare, who writes it most elegantly. An old fable puts it that There’s More Danger in a Reserv’d and Silent, than in a Noisy, Babbling Enemy. Mr. Basenstoke may have resentments, even old ones, that he conceals beneath a calm and undemonstrative appearance, while beneath he could seethe and roil with anger.”

  “How vivid a picture you paint,” Anne murmured.

  “I find your language most useful at times.”

  “But there are numerous other possible sources for the poison,” Anne mused. “The gentleman may have taken the waters at the Pump Room, and he did imbibe wine at the evening party at the Birkenheads’; the glass was handed to him by Lord Westmacott.”

  “He was already ill at the evening party, was he not?”

  Anne sighed with relief. “You’re right, Osei. Perhaps I can strike him from the list.”

  “Perhaps. Though you cannot say for sure that Lord Westmacott did not provide refreshment to the gentleman earlier?”

  She acknowledged it with a nod. “There may be other possibilities. In fact, I was able to look in his room and brought away with me a bottle of some medicine he was taking. Would you be able to take it to the doctor for his analysis?”

  Osei said, “Gladly, my lady.

  “There was brandy also in his room, but I could not bring that away without arousing suspicion. I would not wish Clary to know the direction of my thoughts. Not yet, anyway.”

  “I will take the medicine bottle to the doctor. He has, by the way, reported to the magistrate his suspicions concerning the young man’s death,” Osei said
, watching her face. “He felt it was his duty.”

  “Otherwise his death would have been reported as the result of illness.”

  “Yes, my lady. And a murder would go undetected. It is fortunate that you were so perspicacious as to command Dr. Fothergill to take the body.”

  “Anyone would have done the same,” she said, heat rising in her cheeks.

  “No, my lady. Not one in a hundred would have done so.”

  “I may have caused more problems for my friends than if I had kept my nose out of it, which is one reason I feel an obligation to help solve it. The poisoner was counting on it looking like natural death. I wonder how many have died, thus, as a result of poisoning, made to look natural?” She considered the problem and glanced up at Osei. Of all the people in the world—or in Bath at the moment, anyway—she trusted him most: his intelligence, his discretion, his unique outlook. “I have something to share with you, something with which I was entrusted on my vow not to tell a soul.”

  “You had better not share it with me then, my lady,” he said promptly. “I would not have you break a vow.”

  “Neither would I, but I consider this possibly a vital link in the chain of events that led to Lonsdale’s death. You see my dilemma; I believe Alfred Lonsdale was murdered. There are secret aspects of his life that may provide the clues to lead to who killed him, and I am not free, as a woman, to move in circles where I can discover what I need to know. On the other hand, I do travel in the right circles to get other pieces of the puzzle. I have already made a start in solving the problem, but I would confide in you, and enlist your aid.”

  He nodded solemnly. “You know I am at your service, my lady. And I will protest no further; my curiosity has been piqued.”

  “First, though, I have a favor to ask: are you free to go to the Upper Assembly Rooms this evening to attend the concert?”

  “I am at your command.”

  “Good. I’m inviting Lolly too. I have consulted with her on a separate matter—”

  “Concerning Lady Lydia’s moods?”

  “Yes, as you say . . . and I wish to speak with her. But first . . . have you ever . . .” Distressed, she paused and sighed, examining the pattern on the Turkish rug beneath their feet. Irusan turned to her and pushed his cold nose into her hands. She ruffled his mane of fur and sighed. Finally she looked up and met Osei’s gaze. “I feel ridiculous saying this. I have no idea if I am about to be offensive, or if I am making too great a thing about something you will consider of no importance.”

  “My lady, say what you will. I will neither think it ridiculous nor offensive. I know you well enough to believe you incapable of either.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Boatin. Have you ever heard of men who are attracted to other men? Is it . . . in your culture, or . . .”

  As she stammered, he came to her rescue with a smile, saying, “Yes, I understand the concept. In my people there were men who were known to be . . .” He frowned. “I am now the one struggling, but it is to translate a word from my language. I suppose . . . ‘boy wife’ would be the closest. Or ‘man wife,’ men who choose to be with other men, and commit their fidelity, as to a spouse.”

  She sighed, relieved, and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Am I to assume that Mr. Lonsdale was one who preferred the company of men?”

  “Mrs. Basenstoke discovered a cache of love letters when she was looking for a suit of clothes for his burial. It was a shock to her when she found that the love letters were from a man.”

  “Who is the other gentleman?”

  “He signed the letters with a pet name, Tulip.”

  “Do Mr. Lonsdale’s friends know this about him?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m wondering if Roger knows. His behavior toward Mr. Lonsdale was . . . troubling. He was rude and cutting. Lonsdale remarked on it in his journal.”

  “And you think it was because of his preference for men? I would not make that assumption. As we have already discussed, there could have been some other conflict between them, since they were family and lived in the same house. Perhaps it was something else of which Mr. Lonsdale was unaware, or, as we postulated, jealousy over Mrs. Basenstoke’s love of her nephew.”

  “You’re right, of course, Osei. I have a tendency to race ahead in my thoughts and make assumptions. Anyway, I wish to enlist your help to do a few things.” She told him of the concern Alethea and Westmacott had both expressed over the word club in association with Lonsdale and Mr. Graeme. “I wonder what that means, if . . . if Mr. Lonsdale belonged to some kind of club consisting of men who felt as he did, and if it is a matter of gossip among the gentlemen of Bath. I don’t know if you can learn anything about it, but you may. Tell me . . . you have a self-taught classical education. What do you think of when you hear the word Theban?”

  “Thebes is a Greek city mentioned often in classical literature.”

  “Yes, of course, but there is something in my mind to do with the word Theban in particular. I feel I have heard the word before, but the reference escapes me.”

  Osei pondered, and his eyes widened behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “What is it? You’ve thought of something,” she exclaimed, eagerly sitting forward.

  “I can think of one thing, my lady. It may connect to what you were saying. In history it is known that there was a group of soldiers, a unit, formed of men and their younger lovers.”

  “Male lovers? How odd to make up an army unit in that way.”

  “It was thought that they would fight more earnestly to protect their loved ones.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “It was called the Sacred Band of Thebes.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “That’s it! I knew I had heard of it in some connection, though I think the part about male lovers was expurgated from my education. I was told they were friends.”

  He smiled. “It would have been difficult to explain to a young girl, perhaps.”

  “I suppose. I think I can safely assume that in Bath there is a club called the Sacred Theban Club—that was in the journal—of men of Lonsdale’s persuasion. He met Graeme there.”

  “And yet both were young men. There must be older men involved, hence the club name?”

  “I suppose. I don’t know who those gentlemen would be, though. But Osei, this explains some of what I read! How valuable a weapon it would be if one had a blackmailing bent to know the gentlemen of such a club.”

  “True. If there were men there with reputations to protect it would be a rich hunting ground for a blackmailer.”

  “I’ll have to sort it out in my brain. However, there are a couple of other things: as I said, I am attempting to reconstruct his day, where Mr. Lonsdale went, with whom, and what he did. Also, I wish to prove my suspicions correct. Alfred’s lover was Mr. Thomas Graeme, who was in the end blackmailing him with the threat of exposure; of that I’m virtually certain. Graeme was threatening to reveal all, I think, perhaps to Lonsdale’s friends and relatives, and even to the church. And yet there is more. Lonsdale spoke to me of a moral dilemma, of a need to right some wrong, but I believe it was something more than his love affair.”

  “What do you mean, my lady?”

  “I have a sense that there is more to young Mr. Graeme than his preference for men and willingness to blackmail his lovers. I fear that he is behind some matchmaking scheme of sorts. But how could he profit from such a thing, and how is he allied with this Mystic of Bath? There is a connection there, I’d wager.”

  Mr. Boatin smothered a grin. “Is that all you investigate, my lady? A trifling. A matter of hours.”

  She smiled. “You’ve caught me, Mr. Boatin. It is, indeed, a complicated puzzle, with many mysterious pieces to it.” Sobering, she said, “I wish to solve Mr. Lonsdale’s murder because I see how deeply hurt my friends are, and how it is affecting their lives. There is gossip going around about the fellow dying in the Birkenheads’ home, and I don’t like it. I must, therefore, be where
people gossip, and nowhere do they gossip more than the Assembly Rooms and the Pump Room. So we shall attend the concert tonight, and tomorrow I will go to the Pump Room and try to speak with Mr. Graeme. Let me get that medicine bottle for you to take to Dr. Fothergill.”

  • • •

  Anne sent a note to Mr. Tyson, the Upper Assembly Rooms’ master of ceremonies, about the Marquess of Darkefell’s impending arrival in Bath, and added a note introducing his secretary, Mr. Boatin. She mentioned that gentleman’s desire to attend the concert. It was enough, as she had surmised, to ensure he would be welcome. And so, gowned elegantly, she entered the Upper Assembly Rooms on Mr. Boatin’s arm. As she’d hoped, their entrance made a stir, conversation swelling and swirling across the room in ripples of hisses, whispers, sighs and muttered exclamations.

  Lolly, on the secretary’s other arm, avidly glanced around, waving with her fan to her various friends. She was giddy with excitement, for the concerts were in general out of her limited budget. It was a treat, an auditory sweet.

  The concert would be in the tearoom, but it was not yet open to patrons. Anne did not often like arriving early, but tonight she wished to make Mr. Boatin known to her acquaintances. Quin, who adored music, was sitting in the Octagon Room with Susanna Hadley, waiting to be seated. Anne, Lolly and Mr. Boatin made their way through the crowd toward them, nodding and bowing to all who greeted them. Quin was happy to see Osei again, and introduced him to Susanna. Swirling around them were many others who Anne introduced, including Baron Kattenby and Mrs. Venables, and Lady Sharples, who examined the African gentleman with undisguised interest.

  Drifting past her she saw Mrs. Noakes and Mr. Doyne. She managed to attract their attention and introduce them to Osei, who bowed and engaged them in small talk. Anne had filled the secretary in on as many of her suspicions as she could remember, on their way over, so he was well-equipped with Bath gossip. Fortunately Mr. Doyne, who, it turned out, had been to Tunisia on the African continent, lingered. As Mrs. Noakes attempted unsuccessfully to appear interested, they spoke of a recent outbreak of plague in that area. Plague of different sorts was a recurring problem in Europe, Africa and Asia, with no solution, no cure that anyone could come up with beyond avoiding the plague-ridden.