Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  We were carefully not looking at each other. I think, for all his medical training, he was embarrassed. And for my part, I only knew I could not bear to look into those wide green eyes, so like my own, and find pity. Or worse.

  “Sometimes it is difficult to diagnose,” he said softly. “He might easily have mistaken the first attack for a touch of influenza. The second time, it is usually more certain. In the interim, he would not have been contagious. It was best he left your bed, you know. It is possible he would not have been able to father children in any case once the disease set in. It takes some that way.”

  I think he meant to comfort me, but I barely heard him. All I knew was that the man I had grown up with, married, thought I knew, had in fact been a stranger to me.

  “There is more,” I told him. He tightened his grip on my hand, mooring me to the bench. “He went to the attic.”

  I heard the sharp, low intake of breath, the muttered curse. I thanked God I did not have to explain it further. From his association with the brothel, Val knew exactly what to infer.

  “Oh, Julia. Little wonder you cannot remember loving him. He must seem a stranger to you now.”

  “Yes.” I felt my earrings swing against the silk of my veil. I must have nodded, but I do not remember moving at all. I felt nothing but the pressure of his hand on mine and the light whisper of the earrings brushing the veil. “I thought I knew him, Val. We grew up together, for God’s sake. How could I not know that he preferred boys?”

  “Men,” Val corrected. For the first time I looked at him. He met my eyes squarely, to his credit. I doubt many could have under the circumstances.

  “Victoria—Cass, said there were boys in the attic.”

  He shook his head, his dark hair glossy even in the gloom. Why did he never wear a hat, I wondered inconsequentially.

  “They call them that in the Box, but they are men. Young ones, seventeen, eighteen and older. There are no children kept there.”

  “Thank God for that,” I said with feeling. “I thought she meant—”

  “No. Edward’s preferences might have been unorthodox, but they were not criminal.”

  “But they were,” I pointed out quietly. “Sodomy is against the law.”

  “We condone Portia’s behavior. Is this so very different?”

  He was trying to be fair and evenhanded—probably with an eye to making me feel better about the situation. I did not.

  “Portia is in love with Jane,” I hissed at him. “She does not pay strangers for their favors.”

  “Does that mean that you would find it more excusable if Edward had loved one person, instead of satisfying himself with prostitutes?”

  I snatched my hand back. My breath was coming quickly, puffing out my veil in little waves. “It is not excusable in any event. He broke his vows to me, vows he never should have made, given his proclivities.”

  Val made to speak, but I continued on, ranting him to silence. “A year ago, I buried him, and I was relieved, I confess. His health had grown so poor, and his temper so uncertain, that I had learned to fear him. He even struck his valet on occasion, and once, just once, he raised his hand to me. He did not hit me, but I saw the struggle within him to stay his hand. He had become violent, Val. And every day after that one I wondered, was this the day he would lose that last, desperate bit of control? Was this the day he would beat me or kill me?”

  Val did not try to speak now. He simply sat and listened, letting the pain pour out of me as poison will from a lanced boil. “By the time he died, I was prepared to let him go. I had mourned the boy I loved because I had already lost him. But at least I had the memory of what he was, what he had been, to console me. But now, when all his sins have come to light, I have not even that small solace. I cannot ever again grieve that he is gone, miss his ways and his smiles, without thinking of the lies and the deceit. Do you not understand, Valerius? Every memory I have of my husband is a lie.”

  I rose, shaking off his protective arm. “Leave me. I will make my own way home.”

  “Julia, please. I did not wish to hurt you. I thought only to console, and in my clumsiness I have wounded you. I am truly sorry.”

  He was penitent, but not pleading. He had learned pride and he wore the dignity of the Marches like a mantle.

  I nodded in acceptance. “This is too raw, yet,” I said by way of explanation.

  He enfolded me in his arms, the second time in two days, I marveled. I stepped back, feeling marginally better.

  “There is a call I must make now.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  I opened my mouth to refuse, then thought better of it.

  “Yes. There is someone I should like you to meet.”

  THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER

  Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,

  Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow…

  —William Shakespeare

  Macbeth

  Mordecai Bent’s rooms were exactly as I had expected. Tiny, overwarm, and so cramped with books and medical equipment that it was difficult to move. But the fire was cheerful and Mordecai was hospitality personified, as if entertaining angels unaware.

  “This chair, my lady,” he said, sweeping up a pile of papers and an errant sock. “It is the most comfortable and nearest the fire. Mr. March, may I offer you the bench by the bookcase?”

  Val, mesmerized by the contents of the bookcase, barely waved a hand. “If you do not object…”

  Mordecai flushed with pleasure.

  “Oh, no! Please, look at anything you like. It is so seldom I have the pleasure of speaking with another medical man.”

  This time Val flushed, and it occurred to me that introducing them might have been a tiresome mistake. If I was not quite careful, the conversation could easily move into deeper and duller waters than I could navigate with patience. I cleared my throat delicately.

  “Doctor Bent, we have called because I recently discovered something concerning my husband’s health. Something that might have bearing upon this case.”

  Bent’s eyes flew to my brother’s tall figure, silhouetted against the bookcase. “He is entirely in my confidence,” I assured him. Bent smiled. There was a dot of custard on his lapel, and a button swung gently from a single thread at his waistcoat.

  “I shall be too happy to help,” he told me. “But Nicholas wrote that he was going to Paris, and that the investigation was in abeyance until his return.”

  “Oh, of course. But this information just fell into my lap, most unexpectedly, and I thought I might save him a bit of time by consulting you in his absence.” The lie fell smoothly from my lips.

  He seemed satisfied with that and sat forward, his eyes gleaming with interest behind his spectacles.

  “It appears that my husband suffered from syphilis, Doctor Bent. He had had it for some time.”

  He considered this a moment.

  “Hmm. Yes, that does complicate matters,” he said, his brow furrowing. If I had not been so humiliated by having to tell him, I might have been amused. He did not consider the personal ramifications of the syphilis, only its application to the case—a true medical man.

  “Do you know how long he had the disease?”

  I shrugged. “He contracted it sometime before we were married, a few months, perhaps. I am told he experienced a relapse of sorts some months after we married.”

  Bent nodded. “Yes, although it isn’t precisely a relapse. From what we understand of the disease, it normally follows a pattern—an initial infection, then a period of dormancy, followed by another outbreak. Then a second period of dormancy. These quiet periods can last for years, during which time the patient is completely asymptomatic.”

  I must have looked blank, for he amended the word quickly. “Without symptom. The second phase of dormancy can even last the duration of the patient’s natural life. But in most people, the second dormancy is followed by the most extreme symptoms of the disease—a breakdown in general health,
uncertain temper, that sort of thing.”

  I thought of Edward’s turns, his periods of malaise, his little black rages, and that short, terrible moment when we had looked at each other, the bits of broken vase littering the carpet between us, his hand raised, poised and twitching at my cheek….

  “Doctor Bent, is it possible that Edward did not suffer from heart trouble?”

  “But he did,” Valerius put in quietly. “He’d had it from boyhood, don’t you remember? Old Cook always saying he’d never make old bones, just like all the Greys?” I did remember. I had told Brisbane of it only a few weeks before. But I had felt the ground shift under me when Cass had bestowed her revelation, and I found myself wondering which memories were true and which were lies. And I knew I would continue to do so for many years to come.

  I turned to Bent, who was nodding, his eyes shrewd.

  “Yes, sometimes syphilis will lodge in a patient’s heart or lungs, especially if there is an underlying ailment. It is possible that the disease worsened his heart condition, or perhaps it affected it not at all. It is impossible to say without a proper postmortem, and of course, it is too late for that.”

  I shuddered, thinking of Edward’s corpse, moldering away, the evidence quietly decaying during the months that I had wasted.

  “Is it possible that Edward was not poisoned, after all? Could not the disease have accounted for his symptoms and the, er, discoloration?”

  Val looked away and Doctor Bent reddened slightly. “No, my lady, I fear not. His symptoms were clearly those of poisoning. In fact, I think I have discovered the cause.”

  He put his hand out to rummage through the papers stacked precariously on his desk. After a moment he grunted in satisfaction. He extracted a single paper, an illustration of a flower. He handed it to me and Val came to look over my shoulder. There was a Latin inscription at the bottom of the page.

  “Aconitum napellus,” I read out. “Monkshood.”

  Bent nodded. “It is the only natural poison I could find that fits both the symptoms and the method. It is absorbed through the skin, and ferociously deadly in quite a short period of time.”

  “Wolfsbane,” Val murmured, peering at the tall stalk of the capped blue flower.

  “I remember it,” I told him. “Do you? The werewolf stories they used to tell at the Gypsy camp.” I turned to Doctor Bent. “My father always permitted Gypsies to camp on his lands in summer. One of the old men used to tell us tales of werewolves on the nights of the full moon.”

  “To what purpose?” Bent asked, smiling. “Simple campfire pleasures?”

  “Hardly. His wife sold charms—little bags stuffed with flowers of wolfsbane and a silver coin for protection. As I recall she charged a fine price for them and always sold quite a few. But we always felt better for walking home with those little bags tied around our necks. Nanny always made us throw them away, of course. She was quite right to do so, I imagine, if the stuff is really absorbed through the skin. How stupid we must have been!”

  Bent shrugged. “Safe enough, if the flower only was used, and it was kept in a bag. No, the greater danger by far is the root. When it is dried, the poisonous effects are greatly heightened. It can be reduced down to its most venomous components by careful preparation. Dangerous, of course, for the hands preparing it, but quite simple so long as certain elementary precautions are followed.”

  “So you are saying that anyone could have done this,” I said slowly.

  “I am afraid so. All it would take is a little privacy, a spirit lamp and some time. The rest of the ingredients would be perfectly innocent to procure from a chemist—a compound to dissolve the aconite into to spread it onto a sheath, and so forth. As for the monkshood itself—” he shrugged “—it grows in nearly every garden and often without.”

  “But the knowledge,” I protested, “surely someone would have to have specific knowledge of deadly plants to attempt such a thing.”

  “You would be surprised, my lady. Such knowledge is not hard to come by, nor particularly difficult to understand. I warrant any good herbal would give the specifics on monkshood—and nearly every household I know possesses at least one herbal.”

  “Even mine,” I said ruefully.

  He smiled, a bright, comely thing in his dark face. “Just so. Of course, mistakes can be made, quite easily. If our poisoner was not careful, he could have poisoned himself without difficulty. I think you must look for a cautious but audacious man. An interesting combination, I should think.”

  I thought of Brisbane’s observations about poison being a woman’s weapon. “A man? Are you convinced it was a man?”

  “No, I—”

  There was a rustling sound from the next room and I saw Bent start a little, his eyes flicking to the barely open door. “The cat, probably after a mouse…pardon me, my lady.”

  He rose and went into the adjoining room, speaking sharply. He returned a moment later, carrying a large white Persian cat. He closed the door behind them, scolding her softly. She looked up at him with wide, cool eyes the colour of seawater.

  “What a lovely creature!” I exclaimed. I put out a hand to pet her, but she swiped at my glove, hooking it with a claw.

  “My lady, I am sorry—she is an ill-tempered beast, and not worth her keep.”

  Gently, he unhitched her paw from my hand and dumped her onto his desk where she sat, watching me, flicking her plumy tail with disdain.

  “No matter, Doctor Bent. It was my own fault for attempting to pet her without asking. Cats never seem to like that, do they? No, do not be so hard on her. She must be worth her keep if she brings you mice.”

  “She is an aristocrat,” he said, putting a finger out to rub her under the ears. She purred softly. “She eats better than I do and looks down her nose at the world.”

  “But she is pretty, surely that is reason enough to keep her.”

  She squeezed her eyes at me and I thought I might be forgiven for my initial faux pas. I glanced at Val, who had wandered off to the bookshelves again and was fingering a gruesome-looking volume on skin lesions.

  “Valerius, would you wait in the carriage, please? I would like a few minutes more with Doctor Bent, nothing that touches the case, I promise.”

  He replaced the book he was perusing and came forward to shake Bent’s hand. They made pleasant noises at one another, and after several attempts, I finally succeeded in getting him to leave us in privacy.

  We resumed our seats and Bent fixed his attention carefully upon his cat, avoiding my eyes. He knew what I was about to ask.

  “Surely, you are not concerned,” he began.

  “Of course I am. How am I to know without a proper examination?”

  He shook his head. “My lady, you have complained of none of the symptoms. Sir Edward, for his faults, was careful to avoid passing the contagion on to you once he knew of it.”

  “That does not mean I am free of it,” I said softly. “Surely you do not expect me to take my good health for granted. I cannot sit and wonder, waiting for the symptoms to appear, wondering if I shall go mad.”

  He looked up sharply.

  “Yes, I know that much,” I told him. “Edward was barely spared that. I might not be so fortunate. I must know.”

  He rose suddenly. “My lady, I cannot. Not now, it grows late. I have patients I must attend to. If you are troubled, certainly Doctor Griggs must be the physician—”

  “No,” I said sharply. “He knew of Edward’s disease and did not see fit to warn me. I have no trust in him.”

  His warm brown eyes were sad as a spaniel’s. “I am more gratified by your trust than I can possibly express. I cannot, not today. But if you are still determined—tomorrow, perhaps. I could come to Grey House.”

  I rose and extended my hand. “Thank you. I know you do not wish to do it, but I also believe that if you discover the worst, you will tell me. I have no such faith in the honesty of others.”

  He nodded sadly and let me out. Neither of us was a
nticipating our next meeting with any pleasure, but I knew I could rely upon him and I was determined that we would keep our appointment for the following day.

  But Fate, and the murderer, had other plans for me.

  THE THIRTY-NINTH CHAPTER

  When men a dangerous disease did ’scape

  Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape;

  Let me give two, that doubly am got free

  From my disease’s danger, and from thee.

  —Ben Jonson

  “To Doctor Empirick”

  The last person I wished to see upon entering Grey House was Doctor Griggs. But there he stood, retrieving his hat and stick from Aquinas. He regarded me coolly.

  “Good afternoon, your ladyship,” he said with exaggerated formality. He was marginally more cordial to Val.

  I returned the greeting and flashed Val a meaningful look. He withdrew at once and I turned back to Griggs.

  “Doctor, I hope you can spare me a few minutes. There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

  He assented, reluctantly, I fancied, and followed me into the drawing room. It was cold. No fire had been lit, but I did not wish to receive him in the comfort of my study. It seemed an intrusion even to have him in my home now, and I hoped the chill formality of the drawing room would convey the disdain in which I held him.

  I turned to face him as soon as the door shut behind us. I did not bid him to sit.

  “Doctor Griggs, I shall be brief. How long have you known that my husband had syphilis?”

  He blinked slowly, as a tortoise will, and gave a deep sigh, of resignation or perhaps annoyance. It was impossible to tell.

  “Five years, more or less.”

  “I suppose I must thank you for your honesty, if nothing else. I rather thought you might try to deny it.”

  “There would be little point in that,” he said, his expression sour. He was finding this distasteful, at the very least. “Clearly you have discovered it for yourself. And your manner makes it quite apparent you have lost any ladylike scruples that would have kept you from pursuing this highly inappropriate matter.”