by Joan Smith
Deirdre’s color faded to white. She felt weak in the knees and knew that a film of perspiration had blossomed on her forehead. She couldn’t speak, but she nodded her head in affirmation.
“Damnation! Do you think it’s possible she did kill her brother?” he asked.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Deirdre answered. Her voice was shaking and weak.
“I wouldn’t put much past her where money’s concerned.”
“But that’s just it! She thought Uncle Dudley had changed his will in Nevil’s favor. She’d never kill him till she talked him around to changing it, Dick. Oh, it sounds horrid the way I said it! I only mean that . . ."
“I know what you mean,” Dick said, and patted her arm.
“Can you do something?”
He was touched by her faith in his ability. “There’s nothing to be done as yet. An autopsy will be performed, and we’ll learn whether there was any poison present at all in what he ingested. If there isn’t, then it was a natural death or possibly an accidental choking. Whatever the cause, the autopsy will show it.”
“But the arsenic is gone,” she reminded him.
“When is the last time you saw it?”
“We’ve been away for over a month, and I hadn’t looked since we came home. I couldn’t tell you within a year when I last saw it, Dick. It was just always there, the way the pictures were on the wall, but less visible because it was hidden in the vase."
"The servants might have used it to kill rodents,” Dick suggested.
"I don’t think they would. We put the cat up in the cheese room once a month and have another in the stable. We never use poison for anything,” she admitted.
“The most damning thing of all is Charney’s denial that she took that stew to her brother when Réal saw her going with the bowl, and I saw her return without it. It was on the table at the Grange. If it comes to an interview with Straus, Deirdre, I hope you can talk her out of denying it. Lies make such a terrible impression. I mean people don’t lie when they’re perfectly innocent.”
“Oh, Dick, you’re saying she’s guilty!” Deirdre said. Her face screwed up and a sniffling sound came forth.
All of Belami’s gallant instincts were aroused at the sight of the woman he loved in such trouble. What first attracted him to Deirdre was her cool, reserved air, but he discovered now that she was even more lovable in this guise. And whatever mess Charney was mixed up in, obviously Deirdre was as innocent as a babe. She took a hesitant step toward him, and he took her in his arms to comfort her.
She was tall, but her head still only came to his chin. He inclined his head and felt the silky smoothness of her hair against his cheek. His hands moved over her back, gradually pulling her more closely against him. When she offered no resistance, he put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to him. Tears pooled in her great gray eyes and clung to the sweep of long lashes. The weak sun shone, causing a prismatic effect, as though her lashes were bedizened with diamonds.
His gallantry swelled to utter folly, and he whispered, “Don’t worry, darling. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Then he lowered his head and kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm and sweetly innocent. Belami had known many women, including some of the most beautiful and experienced women in the country, but he had never before felt this sense of total fulfillment with any of them. She was the dearest, most precious thing in his life, and he treasured her accordingly. Something in him swelled and grew as their lips clung together.
Deirdre pulled away at last and gazed at him with trusting eyes. She was much less experienced than Belami, but even in her ignorance she knew that she had captured the prize of the marital market. She felt terribly frightened that something would arise to make her lose him, and unconsciously she held him more tightly.
“Whatever happens, Dick, we won’t let it come between us, will we?”
“Sweetheart, we’ll run out and get a license this very day if you like,” he replied ardently.
Reassured, she smiled. “Well, this doesn’t seem quite the proper moment, but very soon, Lord Belami. Very soon, indeed. And now I’m going to go and tell Auntie that she must own up to having given Uncle Dudley the stew. What will you be doing?”
“I have a few matters of business to take care of. I’ll be in my room if I’m wanted. You’ll call me if Straus comes?”
"Of course."
Belami regretted that he had no laboratory facilities at Fernvale. To test the samples for arsenic would require granular zinc, dilute hydrochloric acid, a glass tube, and a heater. He had no laboratory there, but he had far-flung associations in the world of chemistry and could post the samples off. Young Marsh at the Woolwich Arsenal was working on an excellent test for the presence of arsenic in even the smallest quantities. It was Marsh’s method that he wanted to use, so he packed the samples in small bottles obtained from the kitchen, protected them in cotton wool, and wrote off a letter, requesting a reply as soon as possible.
It was necessary to conciliate Pierre Réal to ensure that the parcel reached the mail in good condition. Réal was in a high dudgeon after having to walk to Fernvale in disgrace. His swarthy face was rigid, and his black eyes snapped.
“I will be returning immediately to Canada, milord” were the first words he uttered. “H’as soon as it is convenient for you, I go.”
“That’ll be the twelfth of never, Pierre. Sorry I ripped up at you, but in future don’t call in the constable till I ask. All right?”
“Certainement. We are changing our rules then, non? The earliest possible start on every case before the clues grow cold? Now we are to wait till they are frozen like a sorbet?”
“Only when my particular friends are under suspicion."
“La Mégère is not among our friends.”
“What makes you think she’s the culprit?” Belami asked, really only prolonging the conversation to cement the seal.
“This is what the Constable Straus believe. He h’asked many questions about what I see in the stable. La Mégère taking the bowl . . ."
“Christ on a crutch! I hope you didn’t tell him that!” Belami exclaimed.
“He asked. Never to tell the lies without your orders,” Réal reminded his master. “This rule also is now gone?” he asked.
“When did you talk to him?”
“He called at me as I walked home. If I was in my carriage, he wouldn’t have h’asked,” he added, his black eyes flashing.
Belami sighed and resigned himself to this new blow. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“I see a little cut at the back of the leader’s mouth where someone is pulling too hard on the reins. Not myself,” he added pointedly. The state of the horses loomed quite as large as murder in Réal’s view.
“Someone must have a good reason to be in a temper!” Belami replied. “I wonder if I should mail this parcel or have you drive it over to Woolwich.”
“C'est à vous.”
“Better send it. I might need you here. Do it right away, and don’t stop to chat to any constables en route.”
“I’ll ride and let the carriage horses’ mouths heal today,” Réal retaliated. But he knew he was in deep disgrace. Not only had he called in the constable too soon, but he had also told him the truth when it was a lie that was wanted. He was on fire to atone for these sins and resume his customary seat on a pedestal.
Flying into Banting at forty miles an hour to post the parcel didn’t begin to do it. But when he returned to Fernvale to discover another rig in the stable, he had some hopes of making up his lapses. It was quite a dashing black carriage, and the team, while limited to two, were good bits of blood. The lack of a crest on its side told this inveterate snob that the owner was not noble, but on the off chance that he figured in the case, he decided to befriend the groom.
Within ten minutes he was in a position to inform his master that a Sir Nevil Ryder, K.B.E., had left Bath early that morning, bringing with him as far as the Green Man Inn a
t Banting a female, possibly a lady of ill-repute, though she resided in a semi respectable apartment building in Bath. Adelaide was the female’s first name, and Sir Nevil called her Addie, which indicated a close connection between the two.
He was uncertain whether this was important enough to go to the house and have his lordship called down to the kitchen. All his crimes thus far were on the side of hastiness, so he held his hand, fearing that Belami was even now learning these facts for himself. But in the duchess’s dismal saloon, Sir Nevil Ryder found it prudent to omit certain of the more interesting facts.
Chapter 4
“Pray don’t feel that because you have finally managed to nab a fellow you are now the mistress in my home, miss!” the duchess answered when Deirdre told her that she must own up to having taken the stew to Dudley. But she didn’t say it with her usual venom, which gave Deirdre some hope of success.
Their conversation was interrupted by Belami’s return from the stable. “Is there something I can do to help out with the funeral arrangements, your grace?” he asked. His eyes slid to Deirdre. She hunched her shoulders, and he concluded that she had not quite succeeded in her aim. The best thing would be to avoid the subject of mulligatawny for the present then and hope for common sense to sway Charney’s decision. She wasn’t a fool by any means and would see where this lie might lead her.
The duchess welcomed this topic. “Mrs. Bates is seeing to the hanging up of the hatchment. I’ve sent for the minister, who should be dropping around any moment. You might use that little Frenchie you have in your employ to notify a few of the neighbors. Till we hear what caused Dudley’s death, there is no point discussing where funeral visitors will be received.”
This was as close as any of them cared to tread regarding what caused Dudley’s death. “I expect we’ll be hearing from Straus, the constable,” Deirdre mentioned. “Sir Nevil ought to be notified, too, if we knew where he was staying.”
“Bath, the servant told you, did she not?” the duchess replied.
“Yes, but she didn’t say where in Bath. He was to return soon, so—”
Deirdre was interrupted by a sharp rattle of the door knocker. The duchess practiced many economies, but she did at least have a butler, who shuffled to the door to admit the caller. The three in the saloon waited in suspense to learn who had come to call. They all feared it would be Mr. Straus, but the cultured accents wafting in from beyond allayed their fears. It was Sir Nevil Ryder who was soon being announced.
He had been talked up more than once as a possible husband for Deirdre, and she found herself comparing him to Belami. The ladies called Nevil “handsome,” but any tendency to use this adjective faded when he stood beside Dick. Sir Nevil was the taller by two inches. His figure was impressive enough with a good set of shoulders and no tendency to stoutness. His jacket lacked the fine touch of Weston’s tailoring, and the brass buttons were a shade larger than she liked, but his neckcloth was unexceptionable and his Hessians had a good sheen. He had inherited something of the Patmore looks from his mother. His eyes were gray and set a little closer than the ideal, the nose large but shapely, the mouth thin.
He wasn’t at all bad-looking, yet Deirdre had never been able to warm to him. Perhaps it was his fawning attitude that distressed her. He made a great show of rectitude as well, yet his reputation was far from pristine.
He strode into the room now, wearing a hearty smile, and scraped a leg to the duchess. “I’ve just arrived from Bath, madam, and made it my first object to call on you when I learned you were at home.” Next he turned his attention to Deirdre and greeted her. Lastly, he stepped forward to pump Belami’s hand and be introduced.
“And is the delightful rumor true, then, that there is a betrothal in the air?” he asked archly.
“I have the honor to be Miss Gower’s fiancé," Belami replied.
“How happy Uncle Dudley will be to hear it!” he exclaimed, smiling comprehensively on them all.
“You mean you haven’t been to the Grange!” the duchess exclaimed. “Why, that is always your first stop when you’re in the neighborhood, Nevil.”
Any inconsistency in behavior, however slight, was considered noteworthy in Belami’s sleuthing, and Deirdre noticed this one. She looked at Belami, who was looking at Nevil with already a bright question in his eyes.
“I plan to go there from here, duchess. He is expecting me. I had some business in Bath, but I promised Uncle I’d be here for his birthday. They have such a lovely assortment of gifts for invalids there that I made the trip expressly to buy him a Bath chair. I think getting out in the fresh air would do him a world of good. Don’t you agree?”
Such an expensive item was little less than bribery, in the duchess’s estimation. She had planned to give her brother a pair of home-made slippers. It was with the greatest relish that she announced, “A coffin would have been more to the point. He’s dead, Nevil.”
Sir Nevil’s reaction had much in common with the inferior sort of acting found in the counties. His eyes grew; his jaw fell open. He clamped a hand to his heart and exclaimed, “No!” The only reaction that couldn’t be simulated was the blanching of his cheeks. He turned quite pale and soon staggered to a seat. “When . . . how . . .”
“Sometime last evening, but it wasn’t learned till this morning. Did you not see the crape on the door as you drove by?”
“I didn’t notice it. I suppose it was his heart that finally failed him."
“We don’t know for sure what caused the death. Dr. Lethbridge is . . . examining the body now,” Deirdre told him. Was she imagining that alert look in Nevil’s eyes?
“I couldn’t be more shocked if you’d told me my own father had passed on. And just the day before his birthday, too,” Nevil lamented.
“Maybe they’ll take back the Bath chair and return your money,” the duchess said, and made a mirthful sound not unlike a hen’s cackling.
Sir Nevil gave her a rebukeful stare. “Ah, well, I suppose his time had come. No one lives forever. We must all be ready to meet our Maker when he calls, as I’m sure Uncle was.
Deirdre suppressed an impulse to add “Amen.” What she said instead was “Where will you be putting up, Nevil?”
“Naturally I had planned to stay with Uncle. I hardly know now . . . What has been done in the way of funeral arrangements, Duchess?”
“Not much till we learn for sure whether or not he was murdered,” she told him.
“Murdered!” he exclaimed, and jumped up from his chair. If his shock wasn’t genuine, it was certainly well acted. “What makes them think that? Surely it wasn’t a violent sort of death—a shooting or . . ."
“If it was murder, poison would be the culprit,” Belami told him.
There was a touch of condescension in Nevil’s voice as he turned his attention to Belami. “A crime—that would be your field, Belami. I expect it was you who first suspected any foul play. Is there any real, hard evidence to indicate such a thing, or have you, perhaps, let your wonderful imagination lead you astray?”
Belami suppressed his anger and answered politely, “We shan’t know till the autopsy’s been performed.”
“But what made you suspect murder?”
“The symptoms indicate there is a possibility of it, no more.”
“May I know what these symptoms are and what kind of poison you suspect?” Nevil asked.
Belami had rather hoped Nevil might be led to mention the word “arsenic” without first hearing it, but a direct question was difficult to evade. “Arsenic. It’s fairly tasteless, which would account for Dudley’s having eaten his whole meal without noticing anything. It takes an hour or so to act.”
“But how did you suspect arsenic? Does the face turn blue or something?”
“It induces nausea, like cyanide, and, as I said, it’s tasteless and odorless.”
“I’m sure I know nothing of these matters, but it seems quite ludicrous to me to suggest that anyone poisoned Uncle. It may have happened
accidentally, but who would purposely kill the dear old fellow?”
“When the victim is wealthy, as Lord Dudley was, the motive is usually financial profit,” Belami said.
“Good God, we’d best work ourselves up an alibi then, eh, Duchess?” Nevil said, and started to utter a laugh till he remembered the solemnity of the occasion. The laugh spluttered into a cough at that time.
“My brother never told me what he planned to do with his estate,” she answered. So great was her curiosity that she could hardly remain seated. “The servants tell me he had his lawyer out while you were visiting, Nevil. Was that to do with his will?”
“He was looking into a legal detail related to the will yes, but it had nothing to do with you or me. Actually, I know nothing more about his intentions than you. He has seemed, in the past, to favor me somewhat, and naturally you, his closest living relative, would be expected to come into a good share of his estate as well.”
The duchess weighed this uninformative statement but could come to no conclusion as to its veracity. “What detail was he looking into?” she asked.
“It had to do with—well, that old business, you know. Miss Pankhurst,” he said vaguely, his eyes darting toward Deirdre.
Deirdre resented being treated as a child still and spoke up to show that she was now an adult. “Naturally he must make some provision for Adelaide.”
“Yes, I believe he did so just before I left,” Nevil said. He then glanced at his watch and arose with a stream of condolences to the duchess. “I shall drive over to the Grange now and see if there’s anything I can do to lend Mrs. Haskell a hand.”
“She’s not there unless she returned in the last hour or so. She was called home yesterday,” Deirdre said. “What do you think we should be doing, Auntie?”
“I don’t plan to stir a finger till I hear from Straus and see what we have to contend with. Nevil will do what needs doing at the Grange. You can send Mrs. Bates home now, Nevil. Anna and Polly can take care of you till Mrs. Haskell returns. I sent a note off to her family. If the emergency there isn’t serious, she’ll come back immediately. Mrs. Haskell is a most conscientious woman.”
