by Issy Brookw
The sanatorium was a pleasant grey stone building, with large windows and high hedges around the well-kept gardens. Stanley helped her from the carriage and she approached the wide stone steps. There were bay trees in pots to either side of the double door, which stood open to reveal a dark, cool interior. She was greeted by a matron in starched white linens before she even managed to step within.
Cordelia introduced herself swiftly to the smiling matron. The more she talked about herself as a detective, the more real it seemed to become. And, she was finding, if she acted with confidence, it rubbed off on the people she spoke with, too.
The matron led her inside. “Please, I shall have to ask you to wait in a private room. I must run this past the director. You do understand, I am sure. Our patients’ safety is of the utmost concern.”
“Naturally,” Cordelia said, stepping into a comfortable waiting room. “I should be shocked if you did not run such precautions.”
The wait was alleviated by a smart maid in black, with flashing black eyes and hair to match, who brought her a pot of tea and set out a small table for her.
And then Edith Scott arrived. She was led into the room by the original matron, who fussed around her charge with a charming devotion. Miss Scott took a seat by the large window, and sat up straight, but there was something in the clutching of her hands that showed she was either still in pain, or ill at ease.
The matron withdrew.
“Miss Scott,” Cordelia said at one. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. Oh … you did agree, did you? They have not forced you?”
“No, madam, they suggested I should meet you, but I have my free will, even here,” she said, and her voice was low and strong. “I could have refused. They said you were a detective.” She smiled then. “A lady-detective. How perfect.”
“Yes. I am Cordelia, Lady Cornbrook, and I have had some success in these matters. May I pour you some tea?”
“Me, waited on by a lady? That will not do,” Miss Scott said, and leaned forward to perform the office, but something made her stop and gasp and clutch her side. “Oh, bother—”
“Absolutely not.” Cordelia waved her back and poured the second cup. “You are ill.”
“They say that I will make a full recovery, in time,” she said. “I do hope so.”
“So do I. Milk?”
“Yes, please.”
“I thought so.”
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Scott said, accepting the cup and saucer.
Cordelia could not resist a slightly knowing smile. “And Miss Walker did not take milk, did she?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“And you both took sugar?”
“Yes. She had more of a sweet tooth than I. It is dreadfully expensive and we are not rich.”
“Have they told you what poisoned you?”
She grimaced. “I heard the coroner had said it was something in the scones. Or the sandwiches. The prawns. I don’t know.”
“But you had not eaten, had you?”
“No. But we must have. It is a blur. The pain did confuse me.”
Cordelia said, “You were poisoned by sugar of lead, and you are alive because you had been taking Epsom Salts, and you have less sugar in your tea.”
“Oh!” The teacup clattered in the saucer as she took it in. “How thin a thread we hang on. Such a small chance, such an accident, and now she is dead, and I am alive. Oh!”
“Now listen,” Cordelia said. “You were both the intended victims. And it cannot have been an accident. It was put there quite deliberately. There was nothing in the food, and you recollect correctly; you had not eaten. Who could possibly have wanted to poison you both?”
The teacup clattered again. Miss Scott tried to lift it and sip from it, but it was shaking. She had to put it down on the table, and she hung her head. “I am sorry,” she said. “Please. It is a big thing for me to take in. I had convinced myself it was an accident. But if it was not, then someone wanted to do this, to both of us.” She raised her head and met Cordelia’s eyes. “Both of us. That is … awful. I cannot countenance it.”
“I understand,” Cordelia said. “But I am sure that you will be quite safe here.”
Miss Scott shook her head. “Are you?”
In truth, Cordelia was not. Why, if she had gained access to Miss Scott so easily, so could anyway with a plausible reason. Suddenly the openness and friendliness of the sanatorium was a bad thing indeed.
“Let me ask a different question,” Cordelia said. “The day that this terrible thing happened, I believe I saw you both in the druggist’s shop. Could you tell me about the whole day, from the moment you woke, and who you saw and spoke with? I am looking for little hints and clues which might give me a starting point to investigate.”
Miss Scott sank into thought for a while. Then she shook her head. “I am not entirely sure that I wish you to investigate,” Miss Scott said. Her rich voice was a husky whisper. “If this really was an attack, not an accident, then I should simply leave. Fade away somewhere else. If they know I was targeted and they have said it is not to be officially looked into, then …”
“Who are they? What do you mean?”
“The council. The coroner and his men. They say it’s the prawns, and there’s an end of it, don’t they?”
“They do. But listen. The head constable, Frank Evans, he does not believe that. He came to me and asked for my help. He wants to investigate. That’s why I am here.”
“But you two, against everyone else…”
“I am a lady.”
“You are English, and on holiday. I cannot see how…” Miss Scott’s voice became fainter and fainter until she sank back in her chair, and closed her eyes. For a moment, Cordelia wondered if she was suffering an attack. She was about to go to the door and raise the alarm, when Miss Scott spoke again.
“Patience would want me to do this,” she said, and her voice was strong once more. “Patience would say, push on, do it for justice. It’s just that without her, my closest friend, I … I am scared. I cannot do it.”
Cordelia’s heart swelled for her. “Of course. And you deserve honesty. Perhaps you are not safe here. Is there anywhere else you might go?”
“I have little money,” she said, “and I am ill most of the time. Even this conversation is taxing me. But I hope to be able to leave soon.”
“If I can aid you, I will. I cannot make you well, but I can give you money when you need it,” Cordelia promised. “So, are you able to tell me all about that fateful day?”
“I do not wish for charity. As for the day, well, I will try to speak of it.” Miss Scott composed herself. Cordelia could see that the effort was telling upon her, and that the reality of her situation was sinking in. She waited quietly.
Finally, Miss Scott told her about the day. “We heard about the floods early on Friday morning, from our neighbours. We always talk to them in the morning. Patience had said she thought something like that would happen. So much rain onto the hard ground! Where else will the water go? So immediately, we thought, we must go and help. We often assist with church and mission efforts, but they can be slow, you know? Slow to react. They must do everything by committee. But we thought, well, the need is immediate, so let us go, right now.”
“Of course, and highly commendable.”
“We took our cart and put everything we could think of in it. Tools, blankets, and food. And we tried to make our way south. But it was slow going, and still it was raining, and my stomach was hurting, I know not why. And we had to make many detours due to the bridges and the damage to the roads. Eventually we had to give up, for we knew we’d not make it, and we were going to need rescuing ourselves. Oh, do not judge us too harshly, but we were rash, weren’t we?”
“You acted out of a fine impulse,” Cordelia assured her.
“Hindsight fills me with regret,” Miss Scott said sadly. “We made slow progress back to Aberystwyth. We passed through the boatyard on the way
back, and there … well, you want to know who might have felt badly towards us? In truth, I can understand Gareth Mogg’s anger. He was there checking his wine stocks, and he waylaid us, and spoke with us, and offered us shelter. Our cart has no roof or cover, and we were soaked through to our very skin. He said we should drive it into his warehouse and he would help us. He said we could unload and spread everything out to dry.”
“That was a kind offer indeed,” Cordelia said. “I am confused. Why would he feel badly about you?”
“We rejected him. There is a history between us and it is not a fine one. He is so quick to anger, and he began to shout at us, and I am sure there will be witnesses to that. He can have a foul tongue in his head if he does not get his way. He is a foolish man.” She drew in a shuddering breath. She was flagging, visibly drooping before Cordelia’s eyes. “So we went on. I was feeling so ill by then that we called at the pharmacy on the way back. And that is where you saw us.”
“I did, indeed. And that brings me to the other suspect. The pharmacist himself, a Mr Scott. Leopold Scott. He is your brother, I believe?”
Miss Scott was growing paler by the moment, and now she was stark cold white. She pressed her hand to her side. “He is,” she said, weakly. “But I cannot speak of him.”
“I am aware that you both are estranged.”
“He cannot be a suspect. No! Surely he would not stoop so far. So far.”
Her voice was faint. “Miss Scott, should I call for help?”
“Please do. Yes. I am so sorry … you have come all this way … perhaps you should drop the case.”
Cordelia rose to her feet and opened the door, looking out. She saw an orderly, a man with a long white apron, and she beckoned him over. She turned back to face Miss Scott. “Someone is dead, and as you have realised, you are still at risk. I aim to get to the bottom of this. I am lodging in town, and I shall leave all my details with the matron or the director here. You can contact me and send for me at any time.”
The orderly bustled past Cordelia and shot her a dark look, as if it was her fault that Miss Scott was now drooping to one side and gasping for air.
In a way, it was Cordelia’s fault. She stepped to one side and let him take Miss Scott away, back to her dormitory.
But now she had two suspects. There was Leopold Scott, who had access to sugar of lead, and a family reason to resent both ladies. He had spoken of a “burden”. And then there was the man with the warehouse at the docks, Gareth Mogg, though there were holes in Miss Scott’s recount and she knew there was something about him that Cordelia had not been told.
And what of that Scavenger, Dafydd Davies? Though Miss Scott had not mentioned him at all.
Cordelia had to wonder if her suspicion of Davies was simply because she didn’t like him.
Chapter Thirteen
Stanley was happy to drive her to the docks. She told him a little about what she had discussed with Miss Scott. He was uncomfortable with the conversation, as he always was when she dared to address him almost as an equal. She liked to think of all human beings as equal in humanity, even if society and birth then assigned different ranks that one had to stick to, generally. She was a little like Twm Sion Cati in that respect, though as a rich man he could get away with more impropriety than she could. Even so, she knew that she had grown more and more loose in her dealings with the lower orders, and she was thrilled to discover that the world had not ceased to spin, nor had the earth split open to swallow her whole.
Some people didn’t speak with her any longer, of course, but she hardly missed them. In some circles, she knew that they whispered about her, labelling her shockingly European in her manners.
She liked that.
Stanley, alas, was slower to adjust from his old way of thinking and feeling. He listened politely but offered no insight into the case. She let it lie. She knew the boy’s mind. He would mull it all over, pray upon it, and quite likely surprise them all.
Now he simply urged the horse into a smart trot and took her to Tan-y-Cae once more.
***
The large wooden warehouses had no signs or marks upon them to indicate who they belonged to. Some doors stood open, and some were closed, locked and barred. The business of the docks was bustling as usual. It was a male space, and a working one. Stanley halted the carriage on the bridge and she alighted. He then drove it on a little way, to a flat piece of scrubby grass alongside the road, where he could wait for her without blocking the thoroughfare. Cordelia remained on the bridge, watching the general activity down below.
No, she realised as she looked more closely. It was not entirely a male space. Wives and daughters passed through the docks, too, bringing food or taking goods or sitting to help with the nets or creating wicker pots and creels. She looked down at her own clothing; her gown was dark, as she was not young and she was a widow. She couldn’t carry off pale pastel colours now. She wore a fine bonnet, and good shoes, and had a rich shawl over her shoulders. She couldn’t go down there and pass as one of them.
But she waited until a trio of young women with red woollen skirts and white lace around their necks came past, and she stopped them with a cheery good morning.
The three girls, all tanned and with laughing eyes, dipped a ragged array of curtseys. One said, “Good day to you, madam. Are you making a holiday here?”
“I am,” she said.
“Well, you are lost, begging pardon,” said the spokeswoman of the group. “The beach, such as it is, is behind you. There’s nothing more this way but more boats and more boats.”
One of the other girls jabbed her and spoke in Welsh; the spokeswoman answered at length and all three looked at Cordelia then, smiling.
“Sorry,” the talkative one said. “Cerys speaks no English. Turn you around and you will find the town, madam.”
“Thank you. I am not lost, however. Tell me, which of those warehouses belongs to Gareth Mogg?”
“The wine man? Oh, it is third from the left, madam. But you cannot buy wine from him. He just imports it. He sells it on. You must go to the shops.”
“Thank you. I think I will stay here for a while. Don’t worry; my man is just down the road there.” She pointed at Stanley.
The girls giggled, dipped their heads, and went on about their day.
The warehouse they had indicated had a large set of double doors which were closed, but in the larger doors there was one smaller opening, about the size of a man, which was open. There was a path which ran down from one side of the bridge and fanned out to take different routes through the docks. The left hand fork went by the warehouse backs, and she gathered up her skirts to follow it. She would not be walking too far into the dockyard on her own, and so she decided she was safe and still within the bounds of propriety — just. Depending on who was judging.
She was not going to succeed by standing there and dithering. She stopped thinking too much, and strode down the path. She didn’t look back in case Stanley was glaring after her. She followed the path that wound around the rear of the wooden warehouses, and counted her way to the third one along.
There were no back entrances, and she was disappointed. She examined the wood and tried to peer through cracks and holes, but to no avail. It was a well-made and solid structure. She worked her way along the side and came towards the front of the building, keeping in close to try and evade notice.
Everyone seemed very busy, and no one glanced her way. She sidled along towards the open doorway.
She had a definite plan. She knew that Gareth Mogg imported wine, and she knew that he had argued with the women. She knew that wine was often adulterated with sugar of lead, and that the women had been poisoned with that substance.
It was clear, then, that she had to discover if Gareth Mogg was the sort of man to artificially sweeten his wine with the chemical. It would not be definitive proof that he was the murderer, but it would be a good start for the constable to begin his investigations.
Heart pounding,
she reached the door, and peered inside.
The darkness of the interior was too much of a contrast from the sunlight outside. She blinked and narrowed her eyes, trying to force them to adjust quickly to the gloom. There was a woody, winey smell in the place that was very appealing. She took a step into the warehouse, and was able to make out piles of barrels on the left hand side. On the right there was a cart, its shafts lying on the floor. There were piles of broken barrels, sorted into planks of curved wood, and a heap of metal hoops.
Think logically, she told herself. Where and how would he adulterate the wine? Surely he would have a system. He would not only have bad wine. There must be a range of types here, and some would be good, and expensive. Where would he keep the worst stuff?
She strained her ears to any noises from within the warehouse. She could still hear general chatter and the cries of seagulls from outside.
Then she noticed a different barrel on her left, by the door. All of the other barrels were lying on their sides. But this was larger, and it was upright. The lid was a loose circle of wood, and she lifted it up carefully.
Her heart thudded. It was filled with a pale, grainy-looking substance. She sniffed it but could detect no especial odour about it. She took off her left glove and held it carefully by the wrist, folding back the material to protect her fingers. Then she used it as a kind of scoop, wriggling it to get some of the powder into the glove itself. She lifted it up, and unrolled the long material of the wrist once more, so she could tie it into a knot. She shook it, letting the powder collect in the fingers.
She pushed the lid back into place, and crept back to the doorway, which was a brilliant rectangle of light now that she had finally got her night vision. She could not see anything with clarity outside, and she squinted in pain.
“Hey!”
She didn’t recognise the rough male voice which had called out, but it came from outside and not behind her. She froze, just inside the doorway. Perhaps it had not been directed at her at all.
