For a moment, what she was seeing, what her eyes were noting, didn’t properly register.
Then it did and she froze.
She felt her eyes grow rounder. Swiftly, she drank in all she could see…then she swallowed and softly said, “We should have Mama come up—she’ll know for certain. But I believe you should send for the magistrate, too.” Drawing in a breath, she turned and met Thomas’s gaze. “I think your uncle was poisoned.”
* * *
Shock froze Thomas, Nolan, and Richard, then Thomas swore and looked for the bellpull.
Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t bother—I’ll get her.”
Ten minutes later, Catriona and Lucilla had independently completed detailed examinations. Catriona settled the covers back over Manachan’s chest, then straightened and faced the three of Manachan’s children now gathered at the foot of the bed. “I regret to say that Lucilla is correct. Your father was poisoned.” Her gaze rose to Thomas and Richard, standing a little further back. “My guess would be with arsenic.”
Nolan frowned. “But you can’t be sure, can you?”
“No, I can’t.” Catriona walked toward them; with her arms spread, she urged them to the door. “But the magistrate can order tests, and then we’ll know for certain. I suggest we go downstairs and wait for the doctor and Sir Godfrey to arrive.”
As usual, Catriona got her way. Nolan, Niniver, and Norris appeared dazed; they sat in the drawing room and stared either at their hands or vacantly into space. The rest of the household wasn’t much better.
Thomas knew how they felt.
Lucilla sat on the sofa beside him, one hand in his, the other tracing comforting circles on his back. Leaning closer, she murmured, “If someone here—Nigel, for instance—was intent on poisoning Manachan, there was nothing you or I could have done to save him.”
He nodded; his rational mind recognized the truth in her words, yet he still felt numb inside. Still wondered…
But as the minutes ticked by, his mind cleared enough for several questions to rise above his inner desolation. Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy brought in the tea tray; while Catriona poured, Thomas caught Lucilla’s hand, rose, and, drawing her with him, walked to the end of the room. Halting by the window, ostensibly looking out, he settled his hand about hers. “If it is arsenic, as you and your mother think, could Manachan’s illness have been due to that poison? The illness he’s been battling for the last months? I read somewhere that a fatal dose can be built up in a body over time.”
Lucilla raised her brows. “You could be right.”
Catriona came up, carrying a cup and saucer for each of them.
Lucilla reached for one cup. “Mama—I told you that Manachan had been ill for months, on and off. Could that, too, have been due to arsenic?”
After handing Thomas the second cup, Catriona quizzed him on what he’d witnessed of his uncle’s symptoms, and Lucilla added what she’d observed while staying at Carrick Manor and treating Manachan. Catriona grimaced. “It’s certainly possible. For a man of Manachan’s previously rude health, gradual poisoning might well have caused those effects.” She looked at Lucilla. “Which brings me to ask—what did you put in the boosting tonic and in the restorative you gave him?”
Lucilla rattled off a string of herbal essences; Thomas could make nothing of them.
But Catriona nodded. “I can see why your treatments worked. You had several ingredients in there that would have bound up the poison in his system and cleansed his body of it. You weren’t targeting the poison intentionally, but your potion nevertheless reduced it, and so he improved.”
Lucilla sighed. “I can’t believe I saw no sign of poisoning while I was here—not even when I examined him.”
Catriona looked grim. “Don’t distress yourself on that account—that’s one of the difficulties with arsenic poisoning. You can take a person right up to the brink of death, and yet all the symptoms are easily explained—in Manachan’s case, by old age. Only once they die…” She shrugged. “And even then, if a doctor isn’t looking closely, or isn’t summoned in time, then the death will still be recorded as due to natural causes—heart seizure, congestion of the lungs, or the like. The external evidence fades quickly.”
The doctor arrived soon after. He went upstairs with Catriona and returned looking exceedingly grave. By then Sir Godfrey had arrived; the doctor was relieved to be able to place the entire matter into Sir Godfrey’s hands. After a low-voiced conference with the magistrate, the doctor departed.
A heavy-set, bluff, and—under normal circumstances—genial gentleman, Sir Godfrey returned to stand before the drawing-room fireplace. He, Catriona, and Richard were old friends, and Sir Godfrey had known Manachan as well as any of the surrounding landowners. With gruff courtesy, Sir Godfrey expressed his condolences to the family and the clan, then informed Manachan’s children that, as it appeared their father had been murdered, he—Sir Godfrey—was obliged to investigate and report on the matter.
Richard had already apprised Sir Godfrey of Nigel’s disappearance. Sir Godfrey’s questions, primarily directed at Nolan, but also seeking confirmation from Niniver and Norris where possible, ran over much the same ground as Richard and Thomas had already covered.
Unsurprisingly, Sir Godfrey came to the same conclusion everyone else was entertaining. He harrumphed and stroked his chin. “Well, we don’t yet have proof that it was arsenic, but with the samples the doctor has taken, no doubt such proof will come in time, and meanwhile…well, the stuff’s not called inheritance powder for nothing, what?”
From under his shaggy brows, Sir Godfrey eyed the three Carricks lined up on the sofa before him. “As Nigel’s gone missing, I fear I must trouble you to allow me to search his rooms.”
Niniver and Norris stared at Sir Godfrey blankly, then both looked at Nolan.
Eventually realizing that it was up to him, Nolan assented with a frowning nod. “Yes. Of course.” He glanced to the door, where Ferguson had stood throughout.
Without waiting for direction, Ferguson bowed to Sir Godfrey. “I can take you to Master Nigel’s room, sir.”
Thomas couldn’t sit still; he followed Ferguson, Sir Godfrey, and Richard up the stairs. He was halfway up when he heard Lucilla’s boots on the treads behind him. He halted and faced her; as she joined him, he said, “You don’t have to come.”
She met his gaze. “He might have been your uncle, and as irascible a curmudgeon as ever there was, but he was also my patient.” She tipped up her chin. “Besides, do any of you know what arsenic powder looks like?”
He guessed. “It’s white.”
She humphed and pushed past him. “It can also be slate gray, and all shades in between.”
As it transpired, the arsenic powder Nigel had been using to poison his father was pure white. Packaged in brown paper, but with the label on the inner packet still present and legible, it was hidden at the back of the bottom drawer of the tallboy in Nigel’s room.
Sir Godfrey snorted. “Sadly, the stuff’s easily enough had from any apothecary.”
Richard sighed and sat on the end of the bed.
Sir Godfrey set the damning packet on the dresser. “So…I assume we’re all supposing that the reason Nigel has fled is…” Sir Godfrey blinked. “Why, exactly? If you four hadn’t come to visit, and Lucilla hadn’t noticed what she had, in a few more hours, Manachan’s death would have been ruled as due to natural causes, or so the doctor said. I wouldn’t have been summoned, and Nigel would have gained all he presumably wants—the leadership of the clan and ownership of the Carrick estate.”
“Nigel knew we were coming here today.” Lucilla gripped her elbows, suddenly feeling chilled. “We made the arrangements yesterday, outside the church, and Nigel was there. Niniver—and the others, too—said that Manachan was set on attending our wedding, but according to Nolan, and Edgar, too, Manachan’s health started to deteriorate last week.”
Thomas put an arm around her shoulders and dr
ew her against him. He looked bleakly at Sir Godfrey. “If it was Nigel, then he knew about the wedding, knew Manachan was insisting on attending, knew that Lucilla, at least, would see Manachan and know that something was wrong, and possibly Catriona might see…” He glanced down at Lucilla, met her gaze as she looked up at him. “Nigel probably gave Manachan a large dose before the wedding, thinking to finish him off—or, at the very least, to force him to remain at home, possibly to die while everyone else was at the wedding…that would have worked.”
“It certainly would have,” Sir Godfrey said. “But Manachan was an obstreperous old coot—he wanted to attend your wedding, so damn it all, he did. He held on until then. But if he’d remained here instead of going to the church…Nigel’s plan would likely have worked and left no one the wiser.”
“So,” Richard said, “Nigel gave Manachan a large dose intending Manachan to first fall ill—too ill to attend the wedding—and subsequently to die, possibly while no one but Edgar was around. But despite the larger dose, Nigel failed to stop Manachan from going to the wedding, and he couldn’t stop the pair of you from meeting Manachan, noting how ill he was, and arranging to call…things started looking dangerous, so he took himself off.”
“To parts unknown.” Lucilla shivered.
Richard narrowed his eyes. “As to that…I would think he’d go into hiding, but would keep an eye on the place to see what happened. Then if there is no talk of murder, he’ll know he’s got away with the deed, and as he’s apparently made a habit of going off without warning, he can simply ride in again and claim his inheritance.”
“Not a chance.” Sir Godfrey scowled. “I’ll raise a hue and cry for the blackguard as soon as I get home.”
* * *
The murder of Manachan Carrick by his eldest son, Nigel, caused a county-wide sensation. Everyone in the district was thoroughly shocked; Manachan might have been a difficult, overbearing despot to everyone outside his clan, but he was widely acknowledged as having always done right by his clansmen, and for that he had always been respected and, in passing, was rightly honored.
Most of the local men, from farmhands to landowners, joined in the ensuing manhunt for Nigel Carrick, but neither sight nor sign of the miscreant was found.
After three days of fruitless riding about the countryside, the searchers returned home, weary and disappointed, to get ready for the funeral of The Carrick.
The day dawned a misty gray, and the light remained muted throughout the morning, which seemed entirely fitting for such a somber event. The well-polished dray draped in the clan’s colors, with Manachan’s coffin on the bed, rolled slowly through the soft morning light. Manachan’s three younger children walked behind, with the rest of the clan at their backs.
All the others who had gathered to pay their respects to Manachan, and to his bereaved family and clan, were waiting outside the church. Sir Godfrey and his wife were there, along with all the other landowners and their wives, although all gave precedence to Richard and Catriona and the rest of the party from the Vale.
Everyone waited, hands clasped, heads bowed, as the coffin was carried inside, hefted on the shoulders of eight of Manachan’s clansmen, Ferguson, Sean, Mitch, and Fred among them, as well as Thomas. He’d considered Ferguson’s suggestion long and hard, but at Lucilla’s encouragement had accepted the position—his last duty to his uncle, to whom he owed so much.
But once the coffin had been settled on the stand before the altar, Thomas joined the Vale household in the pews on the opposite side of the church from those the Carrick clan occupied.
It was a subtlety, but an important one. He was still a member of the clan, but his first allegiance was now to the Vale.
For him, a new and deeper commitment had finally trumped clan.
Lucilla slid her hand into his as she slipped into the pew alongside him.
Thomas closed his fingers around hers and steeled himself to listen to the service.
It was a moving one, with tributes from several sources, both from within the clan—Bradshaw, Sean, and Ferguson all spoke—as well as the wider community, represented by Richard and Sir Godfrey. Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, it was Niniver who delivered her father’s eulogy. Although it cost her significant effort to hold her tears at bay, she spoke in a clear, quite lovely voice, painting a picture of Manachan that was both recognizable, but also deeply personal and immensely affecting and poignant. When she finally stepped away from the lectern, there was not a dry eye in the church.
Then the service was over, and the pallbearers stepped forward again and hoisted the coffin up. Pacing slowly and steadily, they followed the vicar out of the side door into the graveyard, where a freshly dug grave in the Carrick section waited to receive Manachan’s earthly remains.
Many of the ladies hung back, ultimately going out to wait on the lawn in front of the church, but Lucilla stepped up to support Niniver, and Catriona followed on Richard’s arm.
Marcus took station on Lucilla’s other side. He noted that Nolan and Norris both seemed absorbed, deeply sunk in their own thoughts; neither exhibited any care for their sister. Inwardly disgusted with the pair’s behavior, as he followed Niniver and Lucilla from the church, Marcus switched to walking on Niniver’s other side. If she grew faint or was overcome—and who could blame her?—he wanted to be in a position to steady her.
With Lucilla on her other side, Marcus deemed Niniver safe; although Lucilla wasn’t tall or large, Niniver was, if anything, even more finely made, more delicately ethereal.
The ceremony for interment was blessedly brief; once the first sods were cast by the family, those who’d gathered about the grave made their way around the church to join those waiting on the lawn.
Thomas had returned to Lucilla’s side. When they reached the lawn, their party stepped out of the stream of mourners returning from the grave and halted. Thomas looked at Niniver; her head was still downbent. “You did well with the eulogy—he would have been pleased.”
Niniver drew in a breath and raised her head. Meeting Thomas’s gaze, she inclined her head. “Thank you. I know you cared for him as I did.”
Thomas’s features were hard, a rigid mask concealing his feelings. “His passing marks the end of an era—you were right in saying that there will never be a Carrick such as he.”
Niniver nodded. Her gaze shifted to Nolan where he stood in the center of the lawn, receiving the condolences of the more far-flung gentry who had yet to speak with him. “I fear that in that, you’ll be proved correct.”
Marcus had noted the direction of her gaze.
Thomas had followed it, too. “What’s the general feeling in the clan over Nolan becoming The Carrick?”
Marcus glanced at the others, but no one seemed to register that that was an odd question for Thomas to ask Niniver—Manachan’s daughter—yet from all Marcus had seen and heard from Thomas and Lucilla, it seemed that Niniver was, indeed, the Carrick most closely connected with the clan, the one to whom the rest of the clan would speak freely.
Niniver shrugged and settled the black shawl she’d worn over her hair on the long walk to the church about her shoulders. “Despite his gruff ways, everyone in the clan liked and respected Papa. I don’t know of any who liked or trusted Nigel—if he’d become The Carrick, there would have been trouble at some point. But Nolan was always in Nigel’s shadow—it was Nigel who made all the decisions no one liked—so overall, everyone is withholding judgment while they wait to see how, to use Sean’s words, Nolan shapes up.”
Like Niniver, Thomas was studying Nolan as he interacted with other local landowners.
After a moment, Thomas stirred. He looked down and caught Niniver’s gaze. “If you and the clan need help, know you have only to ask.”
Lucilla added her voice in support of that offer, as did Richard and Catriona, who had joined them in time to hear it.
As did Marcus.
Niniver cast them all a small, grave smile, at the last glancing rather shy
ly at Marcus, then she ducked her head. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” Raising her head, she looked across the lawn, then drew in a deeper breath. “And now, if you will excuse me, I should join the others. No doubt they’ll soon be wanting to return home.”
With murmurs of farewell, they let her go. As Thomas, Lucilla, and his parents moved on to speak with others, Marcus hung back, watching Niniver as she found Norris in the crowd, linked her arm with his, and drew him to join Nolan. But Nolan she didn’t touch, not even his sleeve; it seemed to Marcus that there was a schism there, between Niniver and Norris on the one hand, and Nolan on the other.
It had been agreed—in the vague way that consensus among the families of the district was usually reached—that given the nature of Manachan’s death, his wake should be private, restricted to the clan. Feelings within the clan were unsettled and potentially difficult; best that the clan as a whole had a chance to get together and come to a consensus of their own, literally in the wake of Manachan’s passing, when his steadying influence was still fresh. No one in the district wanted to see the Carricks riven by factional disputes.
Watching Niniver, and studying Norris, and even more Nolan, most especially how Nolan seemed to struggle to find his social feet with the others of the district—and how his expression blanked and he all but withdrew when faced with members of his own clan—Marcus had to wonder, as, from her earlier repetition of Sean’s words, he suspected Niniver was wondering, too, just how Nolan would shape up.
And what would happen if he didn’t.
* * *
Four weeks later, Marcus took a small pack of his dogs out hunting.
Although he carried his gun, he wasn’t truly intent on bringing down any game; the excursion was merely an excuse to go walking in the peace and soothing silence of the forests.
The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Page 38
