by Liz Carlyle
She forced a light laugh. “Oh, that feeling is just fleeting male gratitude,” she murmured, “and if those were your old tricks, you may rest comfortably upon your laurels. Besides, Napier, I ask nothing of you.”
He relaxed against the rug, pulling her hard against his chest. “Let’s hope you never have to,” he said quietly.
But when she asked him what he meant, Napier’s gaze turned inward and he made no reply. Lisette did not press the point. Instead, they lingered a little longer in each other’s arms, her cheek pressed to the wide plane of his chest as she listened to his strong, steady heartbeat.
Soon, however, the rain had stopped altogether and dawdling further was out of the question. Concern—perhaps even alarm—might be raised at Burlingame if they did not soon turn up.
But there was one last thing she wished—no, needed—to say.
She lifted her head and smiled down at him. “You wanted to know, Napier, the last time I was happy,” she said, stroking a finger through the dark hair that dusted his chest. “And I think I lied to you.”
He crooked one eyebrow, his expression a little wary. “Did you now?”
“Yes,” she said pensively, “because strangely, I’ve found a sort of happiness in all this—in coming here to Burlingame with you, I mean—and in having a sense of purpose again, for however long it lasts. And I am happy now—in this moment, I mean—sublimely happy. And I thank you.”
“I hope,” he said quietly, “that you will always thank me. That you will never have cause to regret, Lisette, what we did here together.”
“Will you regret it?” she asked, holding his gaze.
He shook his head, his dark hair scrubbing a little on the old rug. “No,” he said solemnly. “I very much fear I won’t regret it—however it all turns out.”
Then, after a few last lingering kisses, Napier drew on his shirt and drawers and went out the back, the cottage door slamming after him. He returned with a bucket of cold water for washing—but it might have been better used, Lisette inwardly considered, to dash her silly daydreams, for she was suddenly and foolishly caught up in them.
They drove back to Burlingame in near silence, Napier taking more care, perhaps, than was strictly necessary in cutting his team around the wide puddles. Lisette sat quietly on the seat beside him, the enormity—and the risk—of what she’d just done slowly sinking in on her.
She did not regret it, no. She had done it with her eyes wide open. But she understood, she thought, the reason for Napier’s quiet curse. Were they to go in this fashion, she would have to learn to look at her calendar, Lisette realized, and for that she would require Fanny’s advice.
It was a lowering thought. And beneath it lay a frightening uncertainty.
For her, their afternoon interlude had not been simply a matter of physical pleasure and Lisette was not fool enough to think otherwise. She had begun to lean on Napier—to take from him a sort of strength and emotional sustenance she had not known in a very long while.
A frightening uncertainty indeed.
CHAPTER 10
In Which Dr. Underwood Makes a House Call
Royden Napier spent the next three miles of his life in a pair of sopping wet boots and a state of inner frustration. Of the two, he far preferred the boots. A resulting bout of pneumonia, he inwardly considered, might have laid him up long enough to regain his senses.
He was to be temporarily distracted from this mental flagellation, however, for when they arrived at the house it was to find a black cabriolet sitting at the foot of the steps, the calash thrown up against the weather and a pretty gray waiting in its traces. Just as he spun the curricle around the monstrous statue of Hades, a thin gentleman carrying a black bag came out the front door, then stopped and turned around as if to address someone within.
A waiting groom took Napier’s horses and by the time he’d lifted Elizabeth down, holding her as near as he dared, the gentleman was coming swiftly down the steps with a fretful expression and a dark look in his eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he said, approaching with one hand extended. “I think you must be Assistant Commissioner Napier?”
Napier was taken aback to be addressed professionally, but threw out his hand. “Indeed, yes.”
The gentleman swept off his hat. “I’m Dr. Underwood,” he said, then bowed when Napier introduced Lisette. “Mr. Napier, I hate you waited in vain for me last week. I was detained with a patient far more ill than I anticipated.”
“The perils of a doctor’s life, I’m sure,” said Napier, taking in the man’s obvious disquiet. “Tell us, how did you find Duncaster’s footman?”
“Very ill, sir. Very ill indeed.” Dr. Underwood’s gaze shifted uneasily to Elizabeth. “Might we speak in private?”
“If you prefer,” said Napier, “but you may certainly speak plainly in front of Miss Colburne.”
“Very well.” Dr. Underwood still looked unhappy. “But we had better go inside.”
Napier knew with a policeman’s instincts that something was wrong. They hastened up the steps and Napier turned into the first private room to be found, the narrow butler’s office off the grand entrance hall. It was unoccupied.
“Your being from home, I was just on my way to see Squire Tafton,” said the doctor when Napier had closed the door. “He’s the nearest justice of the peace since your Uncle Harold’s death.”
Surprise sketched over Napier’s face. “I didn’t know Saint-Bryce had been a justice,” he said. “But why do you need one? What has happened?”
The doctor glanced back at the door. “I cannot like Walton’s symptoms,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I am most uneasy. I greatly fear, sir, that he . . . well, that perhaps he has been poisoned.”
This Napier had not expected. “Good God,” he murmured. “By whom? Or was it accidental?”
“It mightn’t be either,” said the doctor. “But he has become very ill, and I’m given to understand that . . .”
“Well, go on,” said Napier impatiently.
The doctor set his bag down with a thud atop the butler’s chest, which was folded open to reveal the green leather writing surface. “Oh, dear, this is most awkward.”
With a solicitous smile, Elizabeth leaned in and patted him lightly on the hand. “I was just telling Mr. Napier earlier that Walton had been less than circumspect in matters of the heart,” she murmured. “One must consider the postmistress’s husband, mustn’t one?”
The doctor’s eyes widened, his pallor whitening even further. “I mustn’t,” he said. “That is for the justice to decide—or for you, Mr. Napier.”
“I fear I’ve limited authority in Wiltshire,” said Napier, not entirely sure that was true. He had come at the behest of Sir George Grey, who had tremendous authority. “What are Walton’s symptoms?”
“On its face, it looks a bit like cholera morbus,” said the doctor, again glancing uneasily at Elizabeth. “But . . . it just isn’t. I know it isn’t.”
“He suffers from purging? Vomiting?” said Napier flatly. “Acute gastric pain? Rapid heart rate?”
Underwood looked relieved. “You’ve seen it, then?”
“More times than I care to count,” said Napier, cutting a speaking glance at Elizabeth. “Arsenic, most likely. My men in Scotland Yard call it inheritance powder. But if he is no longer convulsing, and if he ingests no further poison, he might recover.”
“My assessment precisely,” said Underwood, “if it’s poison at all.”
“How does one make sure?” asked Lisette.
Again, Underwood’s gaze shifted back and forth. “Without a suspicious compound to test—and I found nothing at hand—one can be certain only by postmortem. But my apologies, Miss Colburne. I’m sure your delicate sensibilities preclude such a discussion.”
“Oh, not in the least,” said Lisette with a breezy wave. “You’ll notice Napier here doesn’t hesitate to throw out purging and vomiting.”
“Don’t forget th
e acute gastric pain,” added Napier dryly. “Underwood, I fear my future bride comes from a newspaper family and—so far as I’ve seen—possesses no delicate sensibilities.”
“Oh.” Underwood gave a withering smile. “That’s . . . convenient, I daresay, given your line of work.”
“Well, there is that,” Napier acknowledged. “So, have you performed such a postmortem?”
“No, no, merely read about them,” the doctor confessed. “But I’m given to understand the damage will be primarily gastrointestinal, presenting with a reddening of the lining of the esophagus.”
“And it will be streaked with bloody mucus, most likely,” Elizabeth interjected. “One might even see the appearance of coffee grounds in the stomach—the bits of digested blood, you see.”
Napier turned to stare. “Really, my dear?”
“In cases of direct ingestion, yes.” Lisette shot him a bland smile. “In fact, I once wrote—I mean read—about a case in which grains of arsenious acid had adhered to the victim’s stomach lining. That was a dead giveaway—no pun intended.”
“Hmm,” said Napier darkly.
Underwood had gone a little pale, and was staring at her.
Then Napier’s expression relented. “But let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said, raising his hand. “We’re supposing a malicious and deliberate poisoning. Arsenic poisoning is more apt to be slow, and by exposure or some sort of accidental absorption.”
“In which case,” said the doctor glumly, “a postmortem will be of far less use.”
Lisette felt a heavy uncertainty settle over the small room. Dr. Underwood was looking less happy by the minute. Napier had paced to the narrow window designed to give the servants a discreet vantage point from which to observe approaching carriages.
One hand was set on his hip, pushing back the dark fabric of his frock coat to reveal the athletic turn of his waist. He was scrubbing the other hand around the faint shadow of his beard in a pensive gesture and staring out at Hades and Persephone with a distant look in his eyes.
Their passionate interlude, it seemed, was forgotten.
Lisette tried to take no offense; she’d known from the first Napier was driven by his work. And just now the whole of his focus had returned to the strange goings-on at Burlingame.
When he turned from the window, his expression was sober. “We can certainly search the house top to bottom,” he said, “and throw the entire household into disarray in doing so. Then we can go into the village and do the same at the Duck and Dragon, even inside the post office itself. But we will almost certainly find some sort of arsenic compound in both places. Nearly every large establishment keeps it. And what will that have gained us? We will merely be fueling—or worse, giving rise to—dangerous speculation.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Underwood grimly. “Mr. Boothe—the innkeeper—is a nasty piece of work. I’d fear for his wife if we raised suspicions. That’s why I thought of Tafton. But what he would be able to do differently is . . . well, nothing, I suppose. Not unless Walton dies.”
Napier just shook his head. “A grim business,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “And it brings us, I suppose, to my reason for calling on you last week.”
“I thought perhaps it might,” said Underwood a little glumly. “You look in the pink of health.”
“Quite, thank you,” said Napier. “I came in more of a professional capacity. I’ve seen the coroner’s reports, of course, but I wanted your more specific opinion—or even your honest guess—as to what killed my uncle, and Lord Hepplewood before him.”
Underwood looked horrified. “As the records state, Hepplewood suffered a bilious derangement,” he said. “At least, that was my assessment at the time. It came on slowly, a sort of chronic condition, before suddenly and acutely worsening. Have you reason to suspect something else?”
“Did you ever see Lord Hepplewood alone?” Napier barked.
The doctor shook his head. “Not that I recall,” he said. “His wife was always present.”
“Hepplewood wrote to his friend Sir George Grey expressing fear for his life,” said Napier, “though not very coherently or specifically. That, you understand, was what first brought me to Burlingame. I was sent. By the Home Secretary. As I am now.”
Implicit in his words was the fact that Napier had not come to dance attendance on his cantankerous grandfather, or to hang about awaiting some sort of family largesse. And for the first time, Lisette wondered what that had cost him; to swallow his pride and come all those months ago to this place where he had not been not wanted. To this house and this family—this life of aristocratic splendor—from which his father had been so coldly banished.
But he had come, because it was his duty. Napier was the sort of man who would always do his duty, putting it before his personal wishes—and perhaps even before his heart.
To Lisette, that knowledge was a harsh reminder of her reality—a fact as admirable as it was chilling.
But Underwood was slowly shaking his head. “I knew Hepplewood was fearful at the end,” he said. “But dying men often become fanciful, particularly the elderly. He did sometimes babble things that made no sense.”
“So was it bilious disease?” Napier demanded. “Or just the senility that comes with old age?”
Underwood flashed half a wince. “Lady Hepplewood believed the latter,” he said, “but in my experience, senility tends to make the elderly childlike. They recall the past better than the present, as Hepplewood seemed to do. Toward the end, you see, he . . . well, he kept calling out a name.”
“A name?” said Napier. “What name?”
Here, the doctor blushed faintly. “Jane,” he said, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “ ‘Jane, Jane, Jane,’ he would say, ‘I think they are trying to kill me.’ And it was said most pitifully.”
“Jane?” said Napier. “Who the devil is Jane?”
Underwood lifted both shoulders. “That’s the thing,” he answered. “According to Lady Hepplewood, her husband had an aunt Jane to whom he was deeply attached. But she’s been dead thirty years.”
“Are there no other Janes? It’s a common-enough name.”
“Burlingame has a housemaid named Jane who sat with him occasionally when Miss Jeffers and Miss Gwyneth were unavailable. But by then Hepplewood was near insensible. And he was so . . . fretful. Almost fearful.”
“Could he have been poisoned?”
His expression faltering, Underwood opened both hands almost plaintively. “Possibly, but as I said, he died slowly, and at the end, in a vast deal of distress.”
“Physical distress?”
“Yes, mostly,” said Underwood. “But there must have been something going round at the time. For a few days, Miss Gwyneth Tarleton felt unwell, too, with similar but far milder symptoms. She recovered quickly, but Hepplewood, given his already frail condition, seemed unable to shake it off.”
“What about Saint-Bryce’s death?” Napier pressed. “Hemorrhagic apoplexy, the coroner’s report said.”
“Now that one, I stand by that,” said Underwood firmly. “All the symptoms were present, and I have no doubt a postmortem would have revealed excessive blood in the brain.”
Lisette had been wondering about something. “Doctor, can hemorrhagic apoplexy be caused by poison?”
The doctor shook his head. “There are theories, unproven,” he said. “Most commonly the cause is a head trauma or Bright’s disease. Or, if one suffers from brittle arteries, an extreme exertion or an emotional outburst might precipitate such a hemorrhage.”
Napier’s brow was deeply furrowed. “Did Saint-Bryce quarrel with any—”
Just then they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
“Marsh isn’t here,” Napier called, his voice sharp.
But the knock came again. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said an irritable voice, “but this is Marsh.”
Napier strode to the door and yanked it open.
The butl
er stood straight as a soldier on the threshold, his face bloodless, his eyes going straight to Underwood’s. “I very much fear, Doctor, that you are needed back upstairs,” he said.
“Oh, God,” Lisette whispered. “Is Walton—?”
Marsh gave a tight shake of the head. “Not Walton,” he said. “Prater.”
Life at Burlingame took on a more subdued rhythm over the next few days. Mercifully, perhaps, circumstances prevented Napier from wallowing mawkishly in the memories of his interlude with Elizabeth. Walton lingered at death’s door, often rambling incoherently and lashing out at those who nursed him.
Prater was less affected but still violently ill, his symptoms identical, the doctor said, to those Gwyneth had suffered before Hepplewood’s death.
Underwood came each day, always pausing to exchange words with Napier. But in reality there was little to talk about. To Napier’s frustration, the doctor immediately retreated from his diagnosis of poisoning in favor some sort of contagion since the two footmen shared a bedchamber. Napier was not so sure.
But the strapping young footmen were far more resilient than the aged earl had been, and all scenarios of gloom and doom were to go unrealized. After a good deal of nursing and a near constant infusion of fluids, Prater was hitching on his livery by week’s end, somewhat worse for wear, and soon Walton was alleviating his boredom by pinching the bottom of one of the less charitable housemaids while she was bent over by his bed.
It was a grave misjudgment. The maid popped back up, backhanding the fellow with his own chamber pot, fracturing his nose.
Mrs. Jansen could barely contain a smile over dinner upon hearing of this contretemps, and the following morning, to no one’s surprise, Underwood pronounced Walton fully recovered—save for his nose, which was accounted likely never to be straight again.
Gwyneth laughed out loud at the news. “One can only hope,” she crowed, “that a lumpy black-and-yellow nose will not put Mrs. Boothe off too badly.”
