“I didn’t call on her; I called on her father, and it was just my bad luck that she happened to stop by for a visit while I was there. And no, I didn’t find out much of value today, so I shouldn’t think a second visit would be any more productive than the first was.”
They had reached the bedchamber by this time, and after following Julia into the room and closing the door behind them, Pickett stripped from the waist up, then poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and sponged himself off before putting on a clean shirt and breeches before attempting to do something with his hair. It was yet another indication of his sudden rise in the world, this nightly ritual of dressing for dinner.
“I hate that spot,” he grumbled, stooping so that he might glare at his reflection in the mirror atop his wife’s delicate rosewood dressing table.
“What spot?” asked Julia, who had watched his ablutions with an appreciative gleam in her eye, and had seen nothing in his person to provoke such an outburst.
“That spot.” He poked disapprovingly at the crown of his head, where a tuft of hair much too short to be tied back into his queue stuck up through the longer strands, a lingering reminder of the injury he had suffered following the Drury Lane Theatre fire.
“I’m sorry for it, John, but the doctor had to shave that spot in order to clean and treat your wound.”
“I know,” he conceded with a sigh. “I know he did what he had to do, and I don’t blame you for giving him permission. But now it’s grown out just enough to make itself a nuisance.”
She gestured toward the chair before the mirror. “If you would care to sit down, I’ll see what I can do with it.”
“I wish you joy of it,” he said, taking the seat she indicated and surrendering his head to her ministrations.
She untied the ribbon holding back his queue, then picked up her silver-backed hairbrush and began running it through his long brown curls. “Of course, the one short spot might be less noticeable if the rest of your hair were not so long,” she pointed out. “I confess, I have sometimes wondered why you still wear a queue, when most men your age cut their hair years ago.”
His eyes met hers rather sheepishly in the mirror. “I’ll tell you, if you really want to know, but you’ll laugh,” he warned her.
“No, I won’t.”
“It has to do with my days delivering coal.”
“For the beauteous Sophy’s father,” she said, nodding sagely. “Yes, I remember.”
“My hair was already rather long—Moll, my father’s woman, couldn’t often be persuaded to put down the bottle long enough to cut it—but once I started working for Mr. Granger, I let it grow and began tying it back. It made sort of a shield, you see, for keeping the coal dust from getting down the back of my neck.”
She set the brush down and picked up a fresh ribbon of black velvet. “And after you left Mr. Granger for Bow Street?”
“Habit, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “My landlady, Mrs. Catchpole, would give me a trim when I needed it. But if ever I had it cut short, I’d have to keep it cut. Besides the time and expense involved, I wouldn’t even know where to go,” he confessed.
“John, you don’t have to ‘go’ anywhere,” she pointed out, regarding his reflection with some exasperation. “Every gentleman I know arranges for his barber to come to him.”
She tied the ribbon, gave one last tweak to the loops of black velvet, and stepped back to survey her handiwork. “There,” she pronounced. “It isn’t perfect, but it’s better than it was, and you are tall enough that unless you are seated, few people can see the top of your head in any case. Shall I send a message to Monsieur Albert, requesting him to wait upon you? He was always used to cut Frederick’s hair you know. I’m afraid I don’t know any other barbers, but I can always inquire of Emily who cuts Lord Dunnington’s hair, if you prefer.”
“That—that won’t be necessary,” Pickett said, and was both surprised and relieved when Julia accepted this answer without protest.
Having completed his toilette, Pickett rose from the dressing table and rang for Thomas to help him into a coat and waistcoat more suitable for dinner than his brown serge had been. Julia pronounced him presentable, and both Picketts, man and wife, quitted the bedchamber and descended the stairs to the dining room.
From the day she had installed her low-born husband in her Curzon Street residence, Julia had been careful to see that he was afforded every courtesy which the master of the house might expect as his due (and indeed, more than one servant had been quietly dismissed for failing to obey this stricture), including surrendering to him the seat at the head of the table which had been her own place since she had first taken up solitary residence there some months after her first husband’s death. Pickett seated himself there now, and she eschewed the corresponding place at the opposite end of the table in favor of the chair at his right hand, as was her usual habit. Conversation was temporarily suspended while Rogers served the evening meal, assisted by Andrew, the footman who had been hired to replace Thomas upon that young man’s promotion to valet. Once the servants were dismissed and they were once again alone, however, Julia resumed the thread of their earlier discussion.
“What did you hope to discover? From Sophy’s father, I mean.”
He sighed. “I can’t understand why Lady Washbourn is so determined to stay with her husband, even though she thinks he may be trying to kill her.”
“And you thought Sophy’s father would know?” she asked, bewildered by this leap in logic. “Are they acquainted, then? I didn’t know coal merchants moved in such exalted circles.”
“No, but I hoped he might be able to offer some insight into what financial arrangements might have been made, having negotiated a similar marriage for his own daughter.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to ask Lady Washbourn?”
“Of course it would—if I could be sure that she knew, or would tell me the truth if she did. But when I suggested she might remove herself to Brighton or Bath for a few weeks, she refused even to consider it. I thought perhaps she couldn’t afford to set up an independent household. After talking to Mr. Granger—Sophy’s father, that is—I still think that is the most likely explanation.”
“But not the only possibility,” Julia remarked.
“No, but I’ve been at a loss to think of anything else that might keep her in Town against her own best interests.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to leave her husband because she loves him.”
He paused with a forkful of roast beef halfway to his mouth. “Julia, she thinks the man is trying to kill her!”
“And of course no one ever loved someone who was no good for them! John, our own histories must tell you such things do happen, and more often than one might think.”
He had to acknowledge this home truth, but was still not entirely convinced of its application to the Washbourn case. “To Sophy’s credit, she never tried to kill me, at least not to my knowledge. I think that would have ended my calf-love in very short order.”
“And you say she married into the aristocracy?” Julia asked thoughtfully.
Pickett nodded. “She is now Lady Gerald Broadbridge.”
“Sophia Broadbridge? Oh John, you didn’t!”
He grimaced. “I did. Julia, I’m afraid your husband is a fool.”
Julia did not know Lady Gerald well—in fact, they had never been formally introduced—but she did remember her own first Season in London as the bride of Lord Fieldhurst, and she well recalled witnessing the spectacle of the former Miss Sophia Granger pursuing the middle-aged Lord Gerald Broadbridge from Tunbridge Wells to London, until at last he caught her. Given her own husband’s background, Julia suspected he would have stood little chance against Miss Granger if that rather ruthless young woman had set her sights on him.
In fact, knowing of his past history with the merchant’s daughter gave Julia some unexpected insight into his character: she remembered his conviction (still not entirely banishe
d, she feared) that he was unworthy to aspire to marriage with her, and wondered to what extent the faithless Miss Granger was responsible for his feelings of inadequacy. In the light of this revelation, Julia revised her earlier thinking: instead of presenting Lady Gerald Broadbridge with flowers, she contemplated with pleasure the thought of putting her hands around the woman’s throat and choking the life out of her.
Although she said none of this to her husband, something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, for Pickett set aside his fork and laid his hand over hers. “My lady, don’t think you need have anything to fear from Sophy, for nothing could be further from the truth! What I felt for her—it seemed real to me at the time, but only because I had no idea then—” His voice was filled with wonder. “I didn’t know how it could be, between a man and a woman.”
She turned her hand over so that she might give his a little squeeze. “No more did I, and I had been married for six years! You need not regret Sophy, for she and Frederick were necessary, in their way, so that we would recognize what we’d found in each other.” Turning back to the business at hand, she asked brightly, “What will you do now? About the investigation, I mean.”
“I’d like to learn a bit more about poisoning with prussic acid, if I can,” he said. “What was the name of the doctor who treated me while I was injured—Portman, was that it?”
“Good heavens, no! Dr. Portman was that horrid man who wanted to drill a hole in your skull. Dr. Gilroy is the one you want—Thomas Gilroy. I believe he has offices in Harley Street.”
Pickett made a note of the name, and the conversation turned to other things. It was not until much later that Julia’s thoughts turned again to her husband’s first love. She had got up in the middle of the night to use the chamber pot—an increasingly frequent occurrence of late; really, it was no wonder she was tired so much of the time—and had just come back to bed. The evening was mild for late April, and so the bed curtains had been left open. Curzon Street had not yet been fitted with the gas street lamps that lit Pall Mall near St. James’s, but the moon was almost at the full, and its silvery light spilled through the window and illuminated the face of her sleeping husband. The sheer beauty of the man took her breath away, and she stood there for a full minute, just watching him as he slept.
Be kind to him, the magistrate had said, and she realized that he, too, knew about Sophy, who had not been kind at all. Small wonder Mr. Colquhoun had disapproved so strongly of her own friendship with his protégé! She hardly knew whether to curse the girl for hurting him, or to bless her for the ambition that had blinded her to the treasure that might have been hers. But as for her own treatment of him, she might have assured Mr. Colquhoun that they were two very different things. Sophy had only been out for what she could get; she, Julia, wanted only to lavish on him all the things that life had heretofore denied him. Unfortunately, it appeared that her stubborn, foolish love had no desire to be lavished upon. She stifled a sigh and climbed back into bed.
“Julia?” Pickett mumbled. “Is anything wrong?”
“It’s nothing, darling, only answering nature’s call.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
He muttered something unintelligible and rolled over, apparently taking this advice to heart. But she lay awake for some time afterward, thinking of a pair of mocking black eyes and a nineteen-year-old boy with a broken heart.
12
Which Finds Mr. and Mrs. Pickett at Cross-Purposes
The following morning, Pickett stopped in Bow Street only long enough to acquaint Mr. Colquhoun with his plans before setting out for the Harley Street office of Mr. Thomas Gilroy, Physician. His recollections of the doctor were of necessity vague, given the fact that he had been unconscious during much of his time under Dr. Gilroy’s care, but at the sight of the doctor’s tall, lean figure and wire-rimmed spectacles, what few memories Pickett retained emerged from the fog. By contrast, the physician seemed to remember him quite well, as was evidenced by the warmth with which he was greeted.
“Why, Mr. Pickett, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” he exclaimed, offering Pickett a firm handshake. “But you need not have come in person. A message would have brought me to you. Tell me, are you still troubled by headaches? They will pass with time, I assure you.”
“Only very rarely,” Pickett answered him. “I can’t even remember the last time I had one. But I’m in no need of medical care today. In fact, I wanted to consult with you on a—a matter of some delicacy.”
Dr. Gilroy’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Pickett, then? Is she—?”
“No, no,” Pickett put in hastily, eager to put an end to any expectations the doctor might have of ushering a bouncing baby Pickett into the world. “Nothing like that.”
“Ah well, it’s early days yet. I daresay it will happen in its own good time.”
Privately, Pickett rather doubted it. After all, six years had not been enough time for Julia and her first husband to conceive a child. But he had not come to Harley Street to discuss his wife’s fertility or lack thereof.
“Actually, I wonder if you can advise me regarding a case I’m investigating,” he said.
“I can certainly try,” the doctor promised, waving him to a chair. “Pray sit down, and tell me what it is you would like to know.”
Pickett sat. “I should like you to tell me the symptoms of poisoning by prussic acid.”
The physician gave a short laugh. “The most striking symptom is death.” Seeing Pickett rather taken aback by this speech, Dr. Gilroy hurried to explain himself. “That is, death usually occurs before any symptoms can manifest themselves. Consequently, its influence is easier to identify after death than before.”
“I see,” Pickett said, rather daunted by this information. “And what identifiers might one expect to see then?”
The physician regarded him keenly. “If you examined the victim shortly after death occurred, you probably know them as well as I do: the unnaturally flushed face, the almond odor—” Pickett’s eyes lit up in recognition, and Dr. Gilroy added, “Perhaps it is I who should be asking you. I must confess that although I recall studying that particular substance in medical school, I have never actually seen a case.”
“Then Dr. Humphrey—Edmund Humphrey, that is—he was correct when he said such occurrences are rare?”
The doctor hesitated a moment before replying. “Professional ethics make it impossible for me to tell you what I think of Edmund Humphrey, but in this instance, at least, he was telling the truth.”
Pickett was as gratified by the knowledge that someone shared his low opinion of Dr. Humphrey as he was by the information itself. “And where might one obtain such a poison? From an apothecary?”
“I suppose one might ask,” Dr. Gilroy said, with such a lack of conviction that Pickett put no very great faith in this source. “Better yet an artist, or a seller of art supplies.”
“An artist?” Pickett echoed incredulously. “Why would an artist be in possession of a deadly poison?”
“Because the substance is derived from the pigment Prussian blue, which may be found in any artist’s paint box.”
“An artist,” Pickett repeated thoughtfully, recalling the large portrait holding pride of place over the mantel of the Washbourn drawing room, the portrait in which Lady Washbourn was depicted wearing a dark blue gown. It would be interesting to know who had painted it and when, and how active Lord Washbourn had been throughout the process: if he had observed the painter at work; if he had asked any questions or otherwise taken an unusual interest in the proceedings; or, perhaps most intriguing of all, if the artist had noticed his blue paint missing at the conclusion of this commission.
* * *
Pickett returned to Curzon Street that evening eager to share his findings with his wife over dinner; however, it soon transpired that Julia had made other plans. She usually greeted him at the door, having kept an ear cocked for his return, but on this occasion he was met by Rogers, who reliev
ed him of his hat and gloves and informed him that the mistress awaited him upstairs with what she termed a “little surprise.”
“A surprise?” echoed Pickett, regarding the butler with an arrested expression. “Upstairs, you say?”
Rogers inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
As most of the rooms on the upper floors were still unfurnished, “upstairs” could only mean the bedchamber. Pickett promptly lost all interest in dinner. He stammered his thanks to the butler and climbed the stairs, resisting the urge to take them two at a time. He reached the door to the bedchamber and froze on the threshold. The room was empty.
“John, is that you?” Julia called from a room further down the corridor. “I’m in here.”
Pickett followed the sound of her voice, and found her in one of the unfurnished spare rooms. A large white sheet had been spread on the floor, and the chair that usually stood before her dressing table had been brought from the bedchamber and placed squarely in the middle of the sheet. Julia stood at one corner, smiling proudly up at him—and she was not alone. She was accompanied by a dapper little man wielding a hairbrush in one hand and a scissors in the other.
“John, this is Monsieur Albert. Monsieur, my husband, Mr. Pickett.” As if further explanation for the Frenchman’s presence was required, she explained, “Monsieur Albert is going to do something about that spot you dislike so.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Pickett.” He pronounced the name “pee-kay,” as if Pickett were as French as himself. “If it will please monsieur to take off his coat and sit down?”
He gestured toward the solitary chair. Feeling rather foolish (to say nothing of sexually frustrated), Pickett shrugged out of his brown serge coat and sank numbly onto the chair.
“As for you, Madame Pickett,” he continued in a heavily accented mixture of English and his native tongue, “if you will please to leave us?”
Mystery Loves Company Page 12
