A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Nurse Delacy set off into the churchyard and returned barely a minute later, a jagged hunk of limestone in her hands. “Will this do?”

  Phoebe led the way around to the front door. “You do it,” she said to the nurse. “You have the largest hands among us.”

  Nurse Delacy nodded. She raised the stone to shoulder level, and brought it crashing down onto the door latch. The rock against metal rang out and bits of limestone crumbled away, but the door remained steadfastly shut. “It’s made of iron,” she pointed out, “as are the hinges. And the door is solid oak. I’m sorry, Lady Phoebe, but I don’t suspect we’ll get in this way.”

  Blast and damn. Of course it wouldn’t have been as easy as breaking the latch on a storage shed. “Then we’ll break a window and crawl inside.”

  “I can hurl the stone through,” Nurse Delacy said, but Phoebe shook her head.

  “No, that might send glass or the rock itself flying to hit the girls. Eva, lift me up again.”

  “The windows swing outward,” the nurse told her. “The latches are old and often stick fast.”

  “We have no choice but to try.”

  Back at the side of the building, Eva once more boosted Phoebe up. Once Phoebe established her balance, she reached down and took the stone from Nurse Delacy’s outstretched hands. She nearly dropped the stone, but managed to fumble it against her with one hand while steadying herself against the window ledge with the other. Then, gripping the stone so tightly its jagged edges threatened to cut into her palm and fingertips, she raised it to the height of the window, drew it back, and smashed it against the glass.

  An entire pane fell from its mullioned frame. Phoebe struck again, this time shattering a pane and sending it clinking to the chapel floor. Beneath her, Eva wavered. Phoebe struck a third time, cracking a portion of the leaden frame itself. More panes fell to the floor inside.

  Phoebe peered in, hoping against hope the noise had roused her sister and Jane. They remained as limp and lifeless as before. Phoebe’s throat closed around her growing fear.

  Then a sound seized her attention. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what, my lady?” Eva wavered slightly again.

  Phoebe pressed her ear to the opening she had created. A sound like water in a cave echoed against the vaulted ceiling. “It’s a hissing sound.”

  “Lady Phoebe, are there any lights on inside?” Nurse Delacy spoke with an urgency that produced gooseflesh on Phoebe’s arms.

  “No, I told you. It’s dark. Why—”

  “Never mind trying to get in,” the nurse interrupted her. “We need to break as many windows as we can. Lady Phoebe, climb down. Quickly now. We need more rocks.”

  Phoebe hesitated, confused and alarmed at this sudden turn. “But the glass might hit the girls.”

  “There is no time for caution.” The nurse gazed up at her with clear and determined purpose. “We must break those windows.”

  Her decisiveness spurred Phoebe action, though she still didn’t understand. She practically leapt down from Eva’s laced hands. “What is it?”

  “Oh, my lady.” It was Eva who spoke. Her face paled, and she nipped her bottom lip bright red as she turned to the nurse. She spoke without inflection. “How are the lights powered?”

  “Gas,” the nurse replied. “And it is pouring from the jets.”

  The blood in Phoebe’s veins plummeted to her feet.

  * * *

  Lady Phoebe’s legs swayed beneath her. Even as Eva thrust out her arms to catch her, a faintness claimed her as well. Her dearest Lady Amelia . . . This couldn’t be happening. Lady Phoebe’s eyes fluttered, and almost as quickly as she had collapsed, she became lucid again. Bracing her legs beneath her, she grasped Eva’s hands and squeezed, her face filled with urgency. Then she broke away and hurried into the churchyard.

  Eva followed, bending to pick up rocks along the way. She moved as an industrial machine would, by automation rather than thought. Inside her, her world threatened to shatter. This family—the Renshaws—could not endure another tragedy, especially not one as horrific as losing the youngest daughter. Sweet, darling Amelia.

  The very ground seemed to tremble beneath her feet, and perversely she remembered reading an account of the earthquake in San Francisco more than a decade ago. A survivor had likened the tremors to the sensation of the world, the very bedrock of life, breaking apart beneath one’s feet. Eva felt that way now. A glimpse of Lady Phoebe’s mottled, tearstained face attested to the young woman experiencing the same surreal kind of terror.

  “That’s enough,” the nurse shouted. “We must start breaking the windows.”

  With her hands filled with stones, Eva circled to the far side of the chapel and began hurling as forcefully as she could. The first two missed their mark and clunked against the stones of the chapel wall. She gave herself a hard shake. She must do better. There was no time for mistakes. She hurled again, and this time succeeding in breaking a middle section of stained glass. Only the briefest remorse for the beautiful artistry grazed her mind. She threw again and struck home, opening another portal for fresh air to travel inside, and the dreaded gas to flow out.

  The clatter of splintering glass carried on the air. Finally, Eva and Nurse Delacy met at the rear corner of the building. Lady Phoebe appeared a moment later.

  “I think I hear something inside,” she half cried out and half sobbed. She raised her face to yell. “Amelia? I’m outside. Can you hear me?”

  All three of them went utterly still and pricked their ears. Did Eva hear a faint mewling from inside? She couldn’t be sure. Lady Phoebe moved closer to the building. “Lift me up again.”

  Once Eva and the nurse boosted her up, Lady Phoebe released a tearful burst of laughter. “They’re moving. Amelia! Jane! We’re here and we’re going to get you out.”

  The putter of an engine reached Eva’s ears. “My lady, come down. I hear a motorcar out on the drive.”

  Lady Phoebe jumped down and then froze, listening. “Do you think it could be whoever locked Jane and Amelia inside?”

  “I’m going to run and see.”

  Lady Phoebe stopped her by clutching her wrist. “You might put yourself in danger.”

  “I might.” Eva slipped free of her lady’s hold and hastened down the walkway, picking up speed as she went. Relief flooded her when she caught a glimpse of Miles Brannock’s black police vehicle through the trees. She waved her arms and shouted, “Constable! Over here. Miles!”

  The motorcar skidded to a stop some dozen yards beyond the chapel path. Eva kept running, turning her ankle and nearly going down on the gravel. Her ankle shrieked with pain but she didn’t slow until she came to a breathless halt behind the vehicle.

  “Thank goodness you’re back. Come, we need you. Lady Phoebe and Nurse Delacy are at the chapel. Miles, do you have your sidearm with you?”

  The idea had just occurred to her how they would break the lock on the chapel door. To both Miles’s and Lord Owen’s credit, neither stopped to ask questions but ran on ahead of her. She limped after them as fast as her ankle would allow.

  The crack of gunshot echoed through the trees. By the time Eva reached the chapel, Miles and Lord Owen were inside the sanctuary. Moments later Lord Owen hurried out with Lady Amelia half-limp in his arms. Miles came right behind him with Jane. They set both girls down on the grass a good dozen yards from the open front door and each went to work on the ropes that bound the girls’ wrists and ankles. Weak with relief, Eva sank to the grass as well. Her ankle throbbed but she barely noticed.

  Once freed, Lady Amelia rolled onto her side, coughing violently. Jane lay faceup, gasping. Lady Phoebe rushed over and sat between them. She reached for each of their hands. “Are you both all right?”

  Lady Amelia coughed and sputtered, then managed to speak in a murmur. “My head is pounding.”

  Miles, standing nearby, nodded. “It will for a while yet, I’m afraid. Take deep breaths, slowly, and let each one out before bre
athing in again. The fresh air will help.”

  Nurse Delacy crouched at Jane’s side and took the hand not held by Lady Phoebe. She placed her middle and ring fingers over the pulse point in the girl’s wrist. Then she moved to Lady Amelia and did the same.

  She pushed to her feet and started down the path. “Where are you going?” Eva called after her. Was she having another of her episodes where she couldn’t bear to perform her duties? But if not for Nurse Delacy taking charge as she had, Jane and Lady Amelia might have suffocated. Eva shuddered even as the nurse turned around and replied to her question.

  “To let the others know the girls were found, explain the gunshot, and collect blankets and a pitcher of water. We’ll also want to call an ambulance. The girls should be seen in hospital as a precaution.”

  Gone was all hesitancy in her manner. Eva watched her retreat down the walkway, until Lady Amelia roused herself from her stupor. “No ambulance. Jane and I just want to go home.”

  The nurse stopped again, her expression hinting at what she thought of that idea. Lady Phoebe intervened. “It’s all right. My grandparents will send for their physician. If they need to go to hospital, he won’t hesitate to say so.”

  The nurse nodded and resumed her trek. Meanwhile, Lady Amelia tried to sit up, but Lady Phoebe held her shoulders to keep her down. “Don’t stir just yet, Amellie. You need more time for your head to clear.”

  Lady Amelia struggled against her. “You don’t understand. Elliot Ivers is still inside. Miss Sedgewick, too.”

  That sent Lord Owen and Miles dashing back into the chapel. Miles issued an order over his shoulder. “Stay here, all of you.”

  When they reappeared, they carried Elliot Ivers between them, Miles at the young man’s shoulders and Lord Owen at his feet. He, too, had been restrained by ropes.

  “What about Miss Sedgewick?” Eva called to them. “Did you see her?”

  While Lord Owen worked at the knots in Elliot’s restraints, Miles pushed to his feet, met her gaze, and nodded somberly. “We saw her. There is no hurry to bring her out.”

  Eva’s blood chilled, but she hadn’t time to reflect on the macabre scene inside the chapel. Miles beckoned to her, and when she made her way over to him, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Are you quite all right?”

  “Me? Certainly, now that I know the girls are safe. But what about Mr. Amstead? Did you find him? Do you think he’s responsible for this?”

  “He was not at home, and all signs indicated a hasty departure. And Elliot’s presence here suggests the vicar may well be responsible for what happened. But don’t worry. I’ve alerted Inspector Perkins, who in turn will have alerted the constables in every village for miles around. He won’t get far.” He surveyed the scene around them. “Will you help us with Elliot?”

  She darted a gaze at the young handyman, sitting up with Lord Owen’s help. He coughed raggedly and rested his forehead in his hands as if feeling ill, which he probably was. “Of course I will.”

  “See if you can find out what happened. I’ll question the girls.”

  Eva’s hand came down on Miles’s wrist, not half as gently as he had touched her shoulder. “You are not to upset them. Do you understand? There is time enough for questions once they’ve recovered.”

  A slight smile tilted his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Eva went to sit beside Elliot on the grass. “How are you, dear?”

  “Miss Huntford.” He didn’t merely pronounce her name, he added a world of meaning to each syllable. Relief filled his expression, and he inched his hand along the grass until his fingertips touched hers.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  In his features, obvious resistance warred with a desire to please. He whispered, “Bad man.”

  “Mr. Amstead? Did he do this?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Yes, what he did was very wrong, Elliot.”

  He shook his head. “No. Wrong to speak.”

  “To speak of . . . what?” When he remained silent, the truth slowly dawned on her. “Were you told, years ago, not to speak about what happened? The church fire at St. James?”

  He rocked forward and covered his ears. “Never speak.”

  “It’s all right now, Elliot. It’s safe to speak of it.” He shook his head and she reached out, stroking his shoulder. “You’re quite safe now. I would never lie to you, Elliot. You must believe that.”

  Gradually, as she spoke comforting words, he raised his head and turned his face to her. Long moments stretched, and then he said, “He hit Mother.”

  “Mr. Amstead?”

  “The curate. She pushed him. Bad words. Both said bad words.”

  “What was this curate’s name? Do you remember?”

  He shook his head and clamped his mouth shut. Did he not remember, or was he afraid to tell her? Eva let it go for now.

  “Then what happened?” she asked.

  “Father sent the bad man away.”

  Eva considered that a moment. Elliot’s mother had been a widow. Sickening heat crept up her face as she imagined the curate making unwanted advances toward the rectory housekeeper. “What about the fire, Elliot? How did it start? Was it an accident?”

  “He came back.”

  “The bad man?”

  Elliot nodded, looking almost childlike in his docile effort to be cooperative.

  “He came back and lit the fire that killed Father Jessup,” Eva murmured more to herself than to Elliot. He watched her closely, but made no reaction. “He let it be known he was away, as if on business, but he’d been banished. He got his revenge with the fire.” Her gaze met Elliot’s, and for an instant she glimpsed the terrified boy who escaped the flames with his mother, only to be blamed for what happened. But had his mother moved them to a new town and changed their names to protect Elliot from the law, or from the curate, who might have gone after them?

  Then, with a start, she remembered the chain he wore around his neck. She pointed to his collar. “Elliot, what is it you’re wearing beneath your shirt? Is it a memento of your mother? Or of Father Jessup, perhaps?”

  In answer, he reached two callused fingers into the collar of his work shirt and tugged the chain free. A small silver medallion dangled from the end. Sections of the chain were blackened—permanently charred, she now saw. “May I?”

  When he nodded, she grasped the medallion between her thumb and forefinger and leaned closer to see the etching. She immediately recognized the figure it depicted.

  “Saint Cuthbert.” She turned it over and read, “For Ward, 1902.” Her fist closed around the charm. Ward Amstead. A wave of realization crashed through her, threatening to drown her in its intensity. Given the date, this could have been a gift when the vicar completed seminary school.

  “Here is the proof,” she said, “that Mr. Amstead was at the church that night. You’ve had it all along. Your mother must have told Miss Finch the entire story before she died. But how did Mr. Amstead discover you were that same boy?”

  * * *

  Phoebe stayed with Amelia and Jane while the constable quietly asked them questions. Owen, meanwhile, returned to the chapel to carry out the lifeless Miss Sedgewick. He laid her limp form beneath an oak tree close to the building, well away from the girls.

  “We were on our way back to the trail, just like you told us to, Phoebe,” Amelia was saying, “when we heard someone cry out from inside the chapel. We had to pass right by it, after all,” she added defensively, as if Phoebe would censure them for doing so.

  “Of course you did, Amellie,” she said. “Tell us what you heard inside.”

  Amelia frowned at Jane, who said, “We couldn’t make it out, exactly, but it sounded like a fearsome argument. A man and a woman. We stopped to investigate.”

  “Then what?” Constable Brannock resumed the questioning with a slightly exasperated look at Phoebe.

  “We ran up the steps and opened the door a crack.” Amelia gesture
d toward the chapel entrance. “We could see them—Miss Sedgewick and Mr. Amstead. It was her voice we’d heard. She said, ‘You told me it would only make her sick, as if she were in her cups. You said she’d be discredited and I’d be given her position afterward. You didn’t tell me it would kill her. You lied and you used me.’ ” Amelia paused and swallowed. “Mr. Amstead laughed at her and said words I cannot repeat. Oh, Phoebe, they were having such a frightful row, and then suddenly they were struggling with each other. Grasping and pushing and—” Amelia broke off with a shudder.

  “It was beastly behavior,” Jane continued. “It frightened us. We didn’t know whether to go directly in to stop them, or run back to the school for help. Suddenly, the vicar brought out a flask from his pocket and forced it to Miss Sedgewick’s lips. She scratched him—a vicious swipe across his face. He uttered more vile words at her.”

  “Then the vicar backed Miss Sedgewick up against the altar step and she fell. That’s when he poured whatever was in the flask into her mouth.” Amelia threw her arms around Phoebe and buried her face against Phoebe’s shoulder. “It was horrible. He held her mouth closed and forced her to swallow. We’d waited too long. If we’d only run for help sooner.”

  “Don’t you dare blame yourselves for this, either of you,” Phoebe said sternly, and hugged her sister tightly in return. “Miss Sedgewick and Mr. Amstead brought all of this about.”

  “How did you two end up inside?” the constable asked.

  “As we were backing away, the vicar heard us and came out after us. Grabbed both our arms. It still hurts.” Jane freed one arm from her coat sleeve and pushed up the sleeve of her blouse to expose her forearm. “Look, he left a bruise. You’re sure to have one, too, Amelia.”

  Some quarter hour later, more vehicles drove up Haverleigh’s drive, including Grampapa’s midnight blue Rolls-Royce. Grampapa apparently instructed Fulton, the chauffeur, to drive onto the grass, for the automobile pulled up close to where Phoebe sat with the girls. When its doors opened, more people than she expected poured out. Following Grams and Grampapa were Zara, Lilyanne, and even Julia. The five of them hurried over and surrounded Phoebe and the girls.