Mystery Loves Company

by Sheri Cobb South

  But it appeared Mr. Bagley had made his point, for he apparently lost interest in Pickett’s age, clothing, and marital status. Pickett could only hope the jury realized that Mr. Bagley did not believe the wild theories he had proposed, that they were, in fact, nothing more than an attempt to discredit his own testimony, just as Mr. Colquhoun had predicted.

  “You examined the dead girl, as Miss Soames claims?”

  Pickett nodded. “I did.”

  “Tell us, if you will, the result of your examination.”

  “Her face was flushed, as Miss Soames said, and there was no sign of a wound—no blood, nor any visible bruises.”

  “It appears you can tell us very little that the jurors could not see for themselves,” observed the coroner.

  “Perhaps not, but there was one curious circumstance that has not been mentioned,” Pickett said. “When I bent over Miss Barton’s body, I detected an odor of bitter almonds.”

  “Interesting, Mr. Pickett, but hardly surprising under the circumstances. We know from Miss Soames that the girl had been drinking the same peach and almond ratafia that Lady Washbourn had offered her guests.”

  “Yes, sir, but I had taken a couple of glasses of that same ratafia myself.”

  “Drinking on duty, Mr. Pickett? Fie on you!”

  “As you have said yourself, I was present in both a professional and a social capacity,” Pickett pointed out, “and it would have been very unusual for a guest not to avail himself of the refreshments his hostess offered. Since I must drink something, I judged the ratafia a safer choice than the champagne.”

  Mr. Bagley nodded in agreement, muttering something about casting pearls before swine. “And your point, Mr. Pickett?”

  “If I’d had the same almond odor on my own breath, how could I have smelled it on Miss Barton’s?”

  “Exactly what are you suggesting, Mr. Pickett? That Miss Barton was killed by eating bad almonds?”

  There was another smattering of laughter from the assembly, which Pickett ignored.

  “No, sir. But there is a particular poison—prussic acid, to be exact—that leaves behind it an odor of bitter almonds.”

  “I see,” Mr. Bagley said with a sneer. “And supposing that one were inclined to go about poisoning housemaids, how do you suggest someone at the masquerade contrived to obtain this prussic acid?”

  Pickett regarded him with limpid brown eyes. “I shouldn’t like to offer personal opinion as testimony, sir.”

  Muttering under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like curses, the coroner instructed him to step down. Pickett’s victory, however, was short-lived as Mr. Bagley called for his next witness.

  “Will Dr. Edmund Humphrey please take the stand.”

  8

  In Which a Verdict Is Rendered

  It was a name Pickett had hoped never to hear again. Humphrey is a common name, he thought desperately. Surely it can’t be—

  It was. The middle-aged man who rose to his feet, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles as he made his way to the front of the room, was no stranger. Pickett had met Dr. Humphrey only once before, but that one time had been more than enough. The feeble hope that the physician might not remember him died when they passed one another in the makeshift aisle. Their eyes met, and the doctor smiled toothily at him.

  “Friend of yours?” Mr. Colquhoun asked, when Pickett collapsed onto his chair.

  “We’ve met,” Pickett muttered.

  It had been the worst time of his life, that period when Julia had sought an annulment of their accidental marriage. The only grounds available to them had been impotence—his, to be exact, since she had been married for six years, while his capabilities in that regard had been at that time still unproven. He’d been obliged to submit to a particularly humiliating physical examination, quite literally at the hands of two prostitutes enlisted for the purpose. That the examination had in fact proved quite the opposite had been small comfort, since Dr. Humphrey had been bribed by the Fieldhursts to falsify the results.

  Now, as the physician took his place in the witness’s chair, Pickett wondered if Dr. Humphrey had made a lucrative career of telling the aristocracy what they wanted to hear. As the direction of the coroner’s questioning became clear, Pickett became certain of it.

  “Your name and residence, please?”

  “Edmund Humphrey, physician, of Harley Street.”

  “You have examined the body of Ann Barton?”

  “I have, although not until some time after these gentlemen did,” Dr. Humphrey said, indicating the men of the jury.

  “Tell us, if you will, your conclusions regarding that examination.”

  Dr. Humphrey removed his spectacles and peered through them at the light streaming through the windows, then polished them on the tail of his coat, peered through them again, and replaced them on the bridge of his nose. “Most of what I could detect has already been described by other witnesses: the patient’s, er, the deceased’s unnaturally flushed face, the lack of any blood or bruises which might indicate a wound—”

  “And this almond scent that Mr. Pickett mentioned?”

  The physician shook his head. “I noticed no such scent, but as some time had elapsed by the time I was summoned, it is possible that any odor might have dissipated.”

  “I see.” The drooping of his mouth indicated that Mr. Bagley was not best pleased with this disclosure. “Tell me, Doctor, are you familiar with the acid described by Mr. Pickett?”

  “I have read about it in medical texts, but I have never come in contact with it, sir.”

  The coroner pondered this admission for a long moment before asking an apparently unrelated question. “Dr. Humphrey, how long have you practiced medicine?”

  “More than thirty years.” He flashed the toothy smile Pickett remembered so well. “With so much practicing, perhaps one day soon I’ll perfect it.”

  The coroner was in no mood to be amused. “And in more than thirty years, you have never come in contact with this prussic acid Mr. Pickett describes. One must suppose, then, that such poisonings must be quite rare.”

  Some spark of professional integrity must have remained, for Dr. Humphrey apparently felt compelled to add a qualifier to this assumption. “They are certainly not common, but one must bear in mind that death comes so swiftly that there is no time to send for a physician—except, of course, for a post mortem examination.”

  “In your professional opinion, then, could Miss Barton have died of such a poison?”

  Dr. Humphrey pondered the question with a thoughtful frown. “I suppose she might have done, although such a conclusion must raise more questions than it answers: who would have wished to kill a humble kitchen maid and why, as well as how they might have obtained the poison—”

  “Yes, Doctor, may I remind you that I am the one conducting this inquest,” Mr. Bagley said impatiently. “You said most of your observations had already been made by others. What additional facts can you relate that the other witnesses might have missed?”

  The physician gave a self-satisfied smile. “I meant no disparagement of young Mr. Pickett’s powers of observation, you understand. It is only that I have the advantage of him in one regard—that is, a professional acquaintance with the risks associated with early pregnancy.”

  “You believe, then, that Miss Barton’s death is related to her, er, unfortunate condition?”

  Dr. Humphrey inclined his head in agreement. “I think it very likely. The first trimestre is of particular danger to both mother and child, particularly since the mother may yet be unaware of her condition, and may fail to care for herself and her unborn child as she should. Indeed, in such cases as Miss Barton’s, where there is no father, one wonders if such a tragic conclusion may be a judgment of God.”

  The coroner nodded soberly. “Indeed, one does. Thank you, Doctor, you may step down. Gentlemen of the jury, let me remind you that it is your duty to render one, and only one, of the following verdicts as to the
cause of death.” One by one, he ticked them off on his fingers. “Natural causes; accident or misadventure; suicide; or unlawful killing. Are there any questions? No? Good.”

  Having been dismissed, the jury rose as a body and shuffled out the same door through which they had entered at the beginning of the proceedings. With their departure, most of those remaining (including the coroner himself) adjourned to the public room to fortify themselves for the verdict. Left in relative privacy with his mentor, Pickett found himself the recipient of a look of silent sympathy.

  “Sir?” he asked, having a very fair idea of what was coming.

  “I did warn you,” Mr. Colquhoun pointed out.

  Pickett nodded glumly. “You did, sir, but—well, I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t told what I know.” He sighed. “Whether the jury chooses to believe it or not is another matter. What verdict do you think they’ll bring in?”

  “You already know, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  After a brief silence, Mr. Colquhoun spoke again. “The physician, Dr. Humphrey—I gather he’s the same doctor who, er—”

  “Yes,” Pickett said, flushing. “And while he didn’t go quite so far as to say, ‘Pay no attention to that fellow from Bow Street; he’s impotent, you know,’ he might as well have done. I expect the result will be the same.”

  The magistrate stared fixedly straight ahead. “And does Mrs. Pickett have any complaints in that area?”

  Pickett gave him a rather smug smile. “She does not.”

  Chuckling under his breath, Mr. Colquhoun patted him on the knee. “Good lad!”

  The jury had been gone for hardly a quarter-hour before the door opened and they filed back in. Pickett could tell nothing from their bland expressions, and reminded himself that these men regularly played cards for exorbitant stakes in the gentlemen’s clubs of St. James’s and, sometimes, the gaming hells of Jermyn Street; they would have long since learned to school their features so as not to give anything away.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” Mr. Bagley paused to set down the tankard from which he’d fortified himself during the jury’s deliberations, and wiped the foam from his upper lip with his sleeve. “Have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have,” declared the fat Friar Tuck of the previous evening, who had obviously been delegated as spokesman for the group. “We find that the deceased, Ann Barton, died of natural causes.”

  * * *

  Julia was in consultation with the cook regarding meals for the coming week when she heard the front door open and then close with unusual force.

  “That will be all for now,” she told the woman. “We’ll finish up later.”

  She dismissed the cook hastily and hurried to the hall, reaching it just in time to see her husband casting off his hat and gloves as if their very existence offended him.

  “Welcome home, darling. How did the inquest go?” Even as she asked, she knew the answer would not be good.

  “Natural causes,” he announced, with contempt in every syllable.

  “John, no!”

  “Surely you don’t mean to doubt the judgment of seven good men and true,” he said bitterly, bending rather mechanically to receive her kiss.

  “But there must have been some mistake!”

  She followed him into the drawing room, where he collapsed onto the sofa.

  “If there was a mistake, then I’m the one who made it. After all, who cares whether a mere housemaid gets justice, so long as there’s no scandal to spoil Lord Washbourn’s government appointment?”

  “You care,” she said softly. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  He took her hand and drew her closer, then pulled her down onto his lap and buried his face in the curve of her neck. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” he said, his voice muffled by her shoulder.

  She stroked his hair, recalling Lady Dunnington’s advice. She’d thought her friend was merely being outrageous, but now she realized she’d been given a very sound piece of wisdom. In her six years of marriage with the late Lord Fieldhurst, the sole purpose of intercourse (indeed, its only purpose) had been the conception of an heir—the long-awaited event that had never taken place. By contrast, the consummation of her second marriage had been the joyful and passionate expression of a deep and unexpected love. It had never occurred to her that a woman might comfort her husband through the conjugal act, and she found the realization curiously empowering.

  She cupped his face in her hands and set herself to the sweet task of comforting.

  * * *

  “So, what happens now?” she asked some time later, lying within the circle of his arm in drowsy contentment.

  He idly twisted one long golden curl around his finger. “I suppose we’d better get dressed and go back downstairs before we shock the servants.”

  “Not that, silly!” She gave his bare chest a playful swat. “I meant the case. What will you do now?”

  His smile faded. He disentangled himself from her with a sigh, then sat up and reached for his breeches. “There isn’t a case, Julia. ‘Natural causes,’ remember? A jury has said so.”

  “But Lady Washbourn—?”

  “I’ll have to see her sometime—preferably when her husband isn’t at home—and arrange to return the rubies to her. And pray to God that if Lord Washbourn was behind that maid’s death, then his accidentally killing the wrong person will make him afraid to try again.”

  It was, he feared, a very slender thread to which to tie a woman’s life.

  * * *

  Pickett awoke the following morning filled with a vague sense of dread. As the sleep cleared from his brain, the events of the previous two days came back to him: the maid’s death, the jury’s verdict, and, still ahead of him, the meeting with Lady Washbourn, at which time he would have to tell her ladyship that there was nothing more he could do for her. Conceding reluctantly that there was no point in delaying the inevitable, he pushed back the counterpane and sat up. A slender white hand emerged from the covers and trailed its fingers down the length of his spine. He captured the hand and raised it to his lips.

  “You make it very hard to leave,” he said.

  “You don’t have to, you know,” Julia’s voice came from somewhere beneath the counterpane.

  “Mr. Colquhoun might have something to say about that.”

  She pushed the covers off, revealing a head of tousled blonde curls. “Really, John, you don’t have to,” she insisted.

  He realized with some consternation that she was quite serious. “Give up my position at Bow Street? What would I find to do all day?” In answer, she arched one provocative eyebrow at him, and her lips curved in a seductive smile. “Yes, but not all day, every day,” he said hastily.

  “If you are unhappy in your work there—and after yesterday, you cannot deny it—you can walk away any time you wish. We could live quite well on my jointure, you know.”

  It would have been a delicate subject to broach under any circumstances; coming on the heels of the coroner’s inquest, it was a disastrous one. Pickett stared at her with something akin to revulsion. “Is that what you think of me? That I could be content to live as my wife’s pensioner?”

  “But you already are, in a way,” she pointed out with unassailable logic. “After all, your wages wouldn’t begin to cover the cost of this house, much less the servants, or—”

  “I thank you, my lady, for the reminder,” he said, tight-lipped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll away to Bow Street without further ado. I wouldn’t want to trespass in your house any longer than I must.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, John,” she insisted, watching helplessly as he dressed hastily in his old brown serge coat and its usual accoutrements. “You know I didn’t.”

  “I know,” he conceded with a sigh. “I can hardly fault you for speaking the truth.”

  Still, the kiss he gave her was rather perfunctory, and he left the house without eating breakfast.
>
  Alas, no relief was to be found in Bow Street. As he entered the Bow Street Public Office, he was hailed by a couple of Runners, along with several members of the night patrol just going off duty. All were several years his senior, and between them were exchanged several bawdy references to “Lord John, the blushing bridegroom.”

  “Pay them no heed,” recommended Mr. Colquhoun, when Pickett joined him at the magistrate’s bench. “They don’t mean any harm, you know. It’s only that most of them have known you since you were nineteen years old. They’re not accustomed to thinking of you as a married man, let alone the husband of a viscountess.”

  “And they would be right,” Pickett grumbled, leaning against the wooden railing as was his usual habit. “I may be married, but I’m no husband. I’m a petticoat pensioner, a kept man, a—”

  Mr. Colquhoun’s eyebrows rose. “Nice work, that, if one can get it.”

  “You might think so, but I can assure you it’s nothing of the sort.”

  “John”—the magistrate’s use of his Christian name, particularly at the Bow Street office, was enough to capture Pickett’s attention—“may I suggest that your wife is the proper person to whom you should voice these complaints?”

  “I have tried,” Pickett confessed, recalling several aborted conversations that had taken place—or rather, that had not taken place—over the past six weeks. “But whenever I broach the subject, she—she—”

  “She what?”

  Pickett flushed scarlet. “She seduces me.”

  “The harpy!” exclaimed Mr. Colquhoun, the revulsion in his blue eyes utterly belied by the fact that he was struggling, not entirely successfully, to keep a straight face.

  Pickett grinned sheepishly in answer. “Yes, well, laugh if you must, but it’s—it’s emasculating, living off my wife’s income—particularly when that income is derived from her first husband.”

  “Has she given any indication that she resents the fact that you cannot support her in the style to which she is accustomed?”

  “No,” he admitted.