“It’s the last door on the left, sir.” Crocker spoke at my shoulder. George gave me one more warning look before pushing the door open and stepping inside. I followed.
The two small windows near the ceiling did little to illuminate the room, which was just large enough to hold a cabinet, two beds, one bedside table, a cane-backed chair, and a trunk at the end of the bed nearest to the door. The bedside lamp was dark. It would have been gloomy even without the smell of death, and vomit, and the body lying in the bed. Perhaps I should have allowed George to coddle me this time.
He’d pulled the straight-backed chair next to the bed and bent forward, examining the boy’s eyes. He glanced up when I walked in and gave me a look that said, I warned you. I squared my shoulders and advanced to his side.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Signs of what might have killed him.”
“He obviously had some sort of stomach distress.”
George wrinkled his nose and nodded in agreement before turning back to the body and lifting Michael O’Brien’s hand. “I was annoyed when Crocker said the room had been cleaned, but as I can still smell the aftermath, I can only be relieved that he did so.”
Crocker poked his head around the door. “It was just a cursory cleaning, sir, as no one wanted to spend much time in here.”
“When you had the room cleaned, Crocker, did you remove anything—food, drink, perhaps a pitcher of water?”
“No, sir. Nothing was removed.”
“When did he first mention his illness?”
“From what I understand, he was perfectly healthy yesterday, sir.” Crocker maintained his post at the doorway. “He didn’t fall ill until evening.”
The poor footman had been young, and it looked as though his death had not been easy. His face was still drawn in a grimace as if he’d been in pain. Otherwise, he’d been a handsome young man, tall and well built, as a footman ought to be, with fair skin and dark hair.
George interrupted my assessment. “What was his complaint?”
“A stomach ailment, sir. His face looked rather red, and with guests in the house, I worried he might have something catching, so I relieved him of his duties for the rest of the night and he retired to his room.”
“Did no one check on him? Or call for the doctor?” I couldn’t believe the poor man had been left to die alone.
“Of course, my lady, but I must remind you with the guests, the staff were run off their feet, and it was quite late to send for the doctor. I knocked at his door before I retired for the night. When he didn’t answer, I assumed he was sleeping.”
“He might well have been gone already, Crocker.” George rose from his examination and faced us. “The doctor will be able to tell us for sure, but from the description of his symptoms, and since the young man went from healthy to sick, to dead in such a short time, I’d suspect arsenic.”
I heard an intake of breath and glanced at Crocker, who backed away from the doorway, his lips moving soundlessly. Turning back to George, I found the words the butler could not. “Are you saying someone murdered him?”
He blinked and jerked his head back. “Of course not. At least I have no reason to believe so.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you? What have you heard?”
“Nothing. The entire hall was in an uproar when Mrs. Ansel brought me there. I’d only just settled them down when you arrived.”
“I suppose we should inquire if anyone had a score to settle with poor O’Brien, but I’d imagine he ingested it accidentally.”
“How does one ingest arsenic accidentally?”
“Arsenic, you say?”
I started at the sound of a new voice from the hallway, then stepped around the second bed to allow the man to enter. The doctor, I presumed. A large man with a mix of sandy and gray hair, and a bit more bulk than brawn, though I could imagine twenty years earlier that would have been reversed.
George presented the man as Dr. Woodrow and shook his hand. He moved aside to allow the doctor access to the body. “It’s more that I suspect arsenic, Woodrow. I’ll leave it to you to make the determination.”
Dr. Woodrow bent to examine the body, muttering to himself while George pulled me aside. “I’m going to look around the room for anything that might contain arsenic. Why don’t you return to the hall and see what you can learn about O’Brien?”
I’ll admit, it was a relief to be out of the room. Crocker looked positively green as I passed him in the hallway. I found Mrs. Ansel waiting at the bottom of the stairwell and pulled her aside, suggesting she and I have a cup of tea in her parlor. She seemed reluctant to leave her post but agreed.
In the few minutes I waited in Mrs. Ansel’s cozy parlor, while she prepared the tea in the kitchen, I devised some questions that might lead me to a better understanding of the late Mr. O’Brien. Unfortunately, Mrs. Ansel was anything but loquacious, rarely answering with more than a single word. I learned Mr. O’Brien, though of Irish descent, hailed from no farther than London, and had only twice returned to visit his family. He’d worked at this house for a little more than a year. He performed his duties well enough to become second footman, and to the best of her knowledge, rubbed along with the rest of the staff.
“Did he spend much time in the village?” I asked, wondering if perhaps someone outside of the staff might have had a disagreement with the young man.
She frowned and considered the question. “I suppose he did, at least this past month. With the master gone, the footmen’s duties would be over by early evening. There’d be no dinners to serve after all. As long as they didn’t come back with gin on their breath, they could visit the village until Mr. Crocker locked up the house. That would be about ten.”
“And did he ever return with gin on his breath?”
She raised her brows. “Not that I ever heard, and I think I would have as Mr. Crocker’s not one to tolerate the footmen drinking.”
I wondered if there was someone else I could talk to about O’Brien. If Crocker was a strict taskmaster and had no tolerance for drink, it was possible the footmen covered for one another. Now might not be the right time, but if need be, I should talk to one or two of the lower servants. Meanwhile, I confirmed that after serving our dinner, O’Brien had dined with the rest of the staff, and claiming illness, went to bed shortly after, as Crocker had said.
“The outside servants had only just arrived, so we all stayed in the hall to visit with them a bit and swap stories.”
The visiting servants. How could I have forgotten? I’d brought my own maid with me. Most of the guests would have brought a valet or lady’s maid. Perhaps Bridget could give me her impressions of Mr. O’Brien. Though her acquaintance would have been very short, she was keenly observant. I filed the thought away for later.
“About what time did the evening end and everyone go off to bed?”
“Well, the lady’s maids and the valets left to see to their people about ten o’clock. Peter, the under-butler, and Ben, the other footman, left about the same time to pick up in the dining room. To collect glasses and such.” Mrs. Ansel laced her fingers around her cup and gazed up at the ceiling as if to recreate the scene in her mind.
“Cook and her girls retired to their rooms first. I’m not sure exactly who left when, but by the time I went off to bed, about half-past ten, it was just Ben and Peter who were still about, and they hadn’t come back to the hall yet.”
“O’Brien remained in his room?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who found him this morning?”
“Mr. Crocker. That was about six o’clock.”
I had no idea how quickly arsenic would work on a person’s body. If, in fact, George was correct, and arsenic was the culprit. At any rate, it would be good to know if the cook could be eliminated as a suspect. “All the staff were present for dinner?”
She nodded, then guessed my next question. “We all ate the same food.”
I could think of nothing
else to ask, so I thanked her for her time and returned to O’Brien’s room to see how George and the doctor were faring. There was no sign of Crocker in the hall. When I peeked inside the room, it was to see the two men rooting through O’Brien’s things—Dr. Woodrow digging through the drawers in a bureau, and George practically crawling under the bed.
“I think I have it,” he said, lifting his head too soon and banging it on the slats beneath the mattress. “Argh! Bloody hell!”
“What on earth are you doing? Mr. O’Brien deserves more respect than this.”
Dr. Woodrow started and spun around, O’Brien’s small clothes still in his hand.
I shot a scowl at George. “What is wrong with the two of you? Why are you going through his things?”
“Apologies, Frances.” George had crawled out from under the bed and sat on the floor with his back against it, a green glass bottle in his hand.
I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. “I am not the one who requires your apology.”
With his free hand, he pushed himself to his feet. “I meant for my language. As for O’Brien, I believe he’d understand we are looking for evidence.” He held up the bottle by the neck. “And I think I’ve found it.”
Woodrow crossed the tiny room in two steps and took the bottle from George. Pulling out the cork, he gave it a sniff. “Ah, ginger beer.”
I had no idea why this revelation so excited them. “Are you saying he died from too much ginger beer?”
George pursed his lips. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose we are. That is if this ginger beer contains arsenic.”
“How is that possible?”
“If the water it was made from contained arsenic. Woodrow says there’s been a well or two closed down nearby, due to contamination. This particular beverage is not distilled. If the water was tainted, so would the drink be.”
Woodrow eagerly took up the explanation. “If O’Brien felt unwell when he retired to his room, he might have had a healthy sip of this. Ginger beer is often used to treat stomach upsets. However, if this were tainted, the more he drank, the worse he’d feel as he consumed the arsenic.”
I understood all too well. “And the worse he felt, the more he’d drink. Is that it?”
George nodded. “Until he’d taken in far too much arsenic to survive.”
Though both men appeared confident in their theory, it seemed far too simple to me. “But you don’t actually know the ginger beer is tainted.”
“No, we don’t, but I’ll take it with me for testing.” Woodrow packed the bottle into the leather bag he’d brought. “I’ll have to conduct some tests on the body, but I’m quite confident he died from ingesting arsenic, poor boy.”
I blinked. Something about this situation disturbed me. Perhaps because to my mind, Mr. O’Brien had been the victim of foul play. In less than a minute, George and the doctor had turned my theory upside down. Theirs was an entirely plausible explanation. Why didn’t it sit right with me?
Chapter 7
The doctor agreed to take custody of the body and arrange to have it prepared for burial. I informed Mrs. Ansel and requested information on the boy’s family. In the countess’s absence, I was certain Fiona or George would want to write them.
As I’d yet to eat anything this morning, and last night’s dinner felt like a distant memory, I peeked into the breakfast room only to find the table and breakfront cleared, and the room empty. A glance at the clock told me it was already half-past noon. Hoping Fiona had planned something for luncheon, and she and the other guests would be home from their morning outing soon, I trudged up to my room where Bridget waited to help me change out of my riding habit and into a suitable gown.
She assisted me with the dozen tiny buttons on my jacket, her brow furrowed with concern. “Can you believe that poor footman dying last night, my lady?” She shook her head and let out a few tsks.
“A tragedy indeed,” I said. “Did you have a chance to meet him yesterday?”
“Yes, ma’am. He seemed a nice enough fellow and quite handsome, too. Such a shame.”
She moved behind me and peeled off my jacket, a process that would be far easier if my arms could be detached from my shoulders. I stumbled forward as my hands freed themselves from the now-turned-out sleeves. Why on earth were those garments made so tight?
“How did he act with the rest of the staff? Could you tell if he got on with them?”
I tried to keep my tone casual, but after an automatic shrug, Bridget’s eyes widened, and a slight gasp escaped her lips. “Are you thinking someone murdered him? Will you be investigating?”
The question was not entirely surprising. If I did suspect murder, and if I were investigating, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Nor would it be the first time I’d enlisted Bridget in my surreptitious sleuthing.
If I suspected murder that is.
And I shouldn’t. At least not yet. George and Woodrow could be correct; the poor boy may have brought on his own death quite by accident.
Bridget watched me with raised brows, waiting for an answer. “No, on both counts.” I worked to unfasten my skirt as she righted the sleeves of the jacket. “Mr. Hazelton and the doctor both believe Michael nursed an ailing stomach with ginger beer made from contaminated water. If their theory proves to be true, then it will certainly be an accidental death.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you?”
I nearly tripped as I stepped out of the skirt. Bridget placed a hand on my shoulder to steady me. The woman knew me far too well. “I have no reason not to believe them.” I might have been trying to convince myself as well as her. “At any rate, the doctor will test the drink, so we’ll soon find out if his theory is correct.”
“Hmph.” She examined my face for the truth before retrieving the skirt from the floor.
“Honestly, Bridget. I’m telling you everything I know. You have no reason to suspect anyone here of murder.”
“Glad to hear that, ma’am.”
She ducked into the dressing room and returned with a blue, wool walking dress, stopping short upon seeing my confusion. “I understand the ladies will all be walking to the village this afternoon. I just assumed you’d be going, too.”
“Ah, I’d wondered what Lady Fiona had planned. Please tell me we’re to have luncheon first.”
She bit her lip. “That I couldn’t say, but if you’re hungry, I could nip down to the kitchen and have tea and cakes or sandwiches for you in just a moment.”
“That’s kind of you, but I can hold out until I’m dressed.”
While she helped me step into the fresh gown, my mind wandered back to the footman. “You never answered my question, Bridget. Could you tell if Michael got on with the rest of the staff?”
She turned me around and began working up the buttons. “It’s hard to say if any of the staff had a problem with him, but I wouldn’t be too surprised if he got on better with the females than the males.”
“Truly? Why do you say that?”
“A handsome face and a flirtatious manner.” She tugged at the fabric between my shoulders until I straightened my posture. “That’s likely to earn him more lady friends than men. Though I suppose if he flirted too much, it could earn him more lady enemies as well.” She shrugged and finished doing up the buttons. “I only spent an hour or so in his company, so I can’t claim to understand his character all so well. He might get on with everyone just fine. It’s only my impression.”
An impression about a man from Bridget was as good as a fact from anyone else. She had a pretty face, a fine figure, golden-blond hair, and an engaging personality. Bridget had been attracting men since she came to Harleigh Manor at the age of fifteen. In the intervening ten years, she’d gained a thorough understanding of them. I was fortunate she intended to retain her single status until she met one willing to go into business with her. Sadly, I knew it would happen one day.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Bridget, and please understand this is j
ust idle curiosity on my part. I’m certain the boy’s death will be determined to be an accident.”
A knock sounded at the door. Bridget stepped away to open it, only to jump back as Fiona launched herself in the room with her usual energy.
“Frances, how can I ever thank you for stepping in for me this morning?”
“Think nothing of it, dear. I take it you’ve met with Mrs. Ansel, and she’s given you the details.”
“Indeed, such a horrible accident.” She frowned and perched on the bench at the end of the bed. “I hear the staff was in quite a tizzy before you settled them down.” She gave me a curious stare.
“What is wrong?”
Raising her hands to her head, she pulled a face. “Your hair, dear. What on earth happened to it?”
Remembering the loss of my hat this morning, I reached up to touch the tangled mess as I moved to the dressing table. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I let out a shriek. It looked as if I had a bird’s nest on my head, and the nest seemed to have suffered from a windstorm. Lovely. Not only had I presented myself to the servants thus, but to George and Dr. Woodrow as well.
Bridget came up behind me, comb in hand. “I’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy, ma’am.”
I eyed the instrument of torture in her hand, seating myself in front of the glass. Needs must, I suppose.
“What do you think happened?” Fiona asked.
I waved her question aside. “I know what happened. I lost my hat on our ride this morning and didn’t retrieve it until we were on our way back to the manor. Which reminds me, we met one of your neighbors today. That is to say, the nephew of your neighbor, Lady Esther.”
Fiona raised her brows. “I was actually inquiring about the footman’s death, but now that you mention it, who is Lady Esther’s nephew?”
“Percy Bradmore. Are you acquainted with him?”
She tapped her fingers against her lips for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t believe I am.”
I raised my hand again only to have Bridget fill it with hairpins. Perhaps I was gesturing too much. “He said he hasn’t visited her here since he was a child, but it seems she is recovering from some illness.” I shrugged and handed Bridget a pin. “Apparently his presence is required while she does so. I must confess, I invited him to call on us.”
A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Murder Page 7
