by Dean James
The police would be better equipped to discover the source of the poison, once of course they knew for sure just what poison it was. That would be the key, along with opportunity.
When had Luke eaten the poisoned pastry? And who’d had the opportunity to give it to him?
I mulled over these questions as I made my way back to the crime scene. As I neared Totsye Titchmarsh’s pavilion, Robin Chase came out. Catching sight of me, he changed direction and strode forward to meet me.
“And where, might I ask, have you been, Simon?”
From the tone of his voice I could tell he was rather annoyed with me.
I held up the bag of pastries. “Just looking for something to eat Robin. After all, our dinner was interrupted.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “If I didn’t know you better, Simon, I would believe you.” He raised an eyebrow. “But I do know you, and I rather doubt it was food you were after. Hazarding a wild guess, I’d say there are fig pastries in that bag.”
“Touche, Robin, touche,” I said. “It’s a fair cop.”
He ignored my witticisms. “Why must you always stick your nose into my investigations, Simon? You have been of considerable help in the past, I will admit, but this is becoming rather tiresome.”
I affected a hurt look. “Why, Robin, I’m beginning to get the idea you don’t like me after all. I should think you would be pleased to have the willing assistance of a member of the interested public.”
Robin snorted. “Come off it, Simon. Liking has nothing to do with it. Your name keeps cropping up in the reports of my murder investigations, and my superiors aren’t too keen on that.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Then why mention my name, Robin? I’m perfectly happy for you to take all the credit.”
“That’s not what I mean, Simon, and you know it I’ve kept your name out of things as much as I can, for your sake as well as my own. But people are beginning to notice that you’re always around when there’s a dead body somewhere.”
“I’m just an innocent victim of Jessica Fletcher Syndrome, Robin.”
“And what is that when it’s at home, might I ask?” Poor Robin was looking increasingly frazzled.
Laughingly, I explained. “She was a mystery writer in a popular American television show, and in every episode she found another dead body, or two or three. She couldn’t help it that, everywhere she went, people died.”
“At the rate you’re going,” Robin said, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “they’ll soon be calling it Simon Kirby-Jones Syndrome instead.”
I smiled.
Robin closed his eyes, obviously counting to ten before he spoke again, but before he could say anything, someone else spoke.
“You’re needed in here, guv.” One of Robin’s men was calling from the opening of Totsye’s tent.
Frowning, Robin said, “We’ll finish this later, Simon.” He turned and walked away.
He didn’t notice that I was following him. He stopped just inside Totsye’s pavilion to examine something one of the crime scene boffins was holding in a latex-gloved hand.
“What do you think of this, sir?” the man asked.
“What is it?” Robin said, still not having realized that I was practically peering over his shoulder. “It’s some kind of plant, but what is it?”
“I think it’s foxglove,” I said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Robin stiffened, no doubt about to offer a rebuke for my sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Perhaps because he had a witness, however, he contented himself with a loud, exasperated sigh.
“I think he’s right, guv,” the boffin said, not batting an eyelid at Robin’s obvious irritation.
Moving to stand beside Robin, I peered more closely at the bell-shaped, tubular flowers attached to the stem. Three of the five crimson blossoms had been slightly crushed.
“Why are you so certain it’s foxglove, Simon? I had no idea you were an expert horticulturist.”
“I’m admittedly no expert, Robin,” I said, “but I do have a garden at Laurel Cottage. I did have some foxglove growing there, but I had it taken out several months ago.” Along with a few other plants of a similarly harmful nature, I added silently. I hadn’t even thought about it until now, but Tris had obviously been interested in poisonous plants. But had he used his knowledge to do away with Luke?
Robin nodded, accepting my statement, at least for the moment. “Where did you find this, Haines?” he asked.
“Under a pile of pottery in the back of the tent, guv. There’s a pot with a bit of liquid in it, and we’ve bagged it, just in case.”
“There are no leaves on this stem,” I said.
“Your point being?” Robin asked, his temper under tight rein.
“I believe it is the leaves one uses if one wishes to extract digitalis from the foxglove plant,” I said, “and not the blossoms.” I had done a bit of reading on each of the plants before I’d had them removed from the garden, and I still remembered bits of what I had read about them.
“Thank you, Professor,” Robin said dryly. “Now, Haines, I think I had better have a look at that pot.”
“Right away, guv,” the man replied. He was back very quickly with the pot and extracted it from its evidence bag. He held it in his gloved hands, and Robin peered inside. He sniffed at the contents.
“A bit of a strong odor,” was Robin’s comment.
“Then it’s probably distilled from the foxglove leaves,” I said, dredging more facts from my memory. The leaves have a bitter taste and pungent smell, from what I read about foxglove.”
“Thank you, Haines,” Robin said, and Haines went back to his work, taking the pot and the foxglove with him.
“That seems a bit too obvious, don’t you think, Robin?” I said, when I thought Haines was safely out of earshot.
“Why are you still here, Simon?” Robin asked.
My, my, his patience with me really had worn thin. I was not in the least offended, however. “Just doing my bit to help,” I said, smiling brightly.
Robin simply grunted at that.
“Very well, Robin,” I replied, “have it your way. I’ll go away now, but if I discover anything of use to you, I’ll let you know.”
“Simon, there are limits,” Robin began, then threw up his hands. “Oh, what’s the bloody use. Nothing I do or say will stop you, even if I threatened to arrest you, so you might as well bloody get on with it.” He stomped off toward the back chamber of the tent where his boffins were still working.
Suppressing a smile, I left the tent. The sun was waning in the sky. There was less than an hour of light left. Still plenty of time to nose around a bit further.
Now, where could Giles and the others have got to? I peeked inside the tent of the solicitous neighbor, who informed me that Lady Prunella had taken Totsye with her to Blitherington Hall when the police had finished questioning them. She had no idea where Millbank, Tris, or Giles had gone. I thanked her and withdrew.
Giles might have gone home with his mother, but he might still be around the encampment somewhere. I walked back down the lane toward the main thoroughfare and glanced into the various shops as I moved along.
My search led me eventually to The Happy Destrier pub, and upon entering, I found more than I wanted. Giles and Tris were seated at one of the tables, and from the looks of things, Giles had imbibed a bit more mead or ale than was good for him. Yet again. When would the dratted boy learn that he couldn’t hold his liquor?
Tris, of course, merely pretended to drink. Even as I watched from the opening, I saw him surreptitiously pour some of his drink onto the ground beneath the trestle table. This really was the limit. My temper rising with every step, I moved through the crowded tent and sat down next to Giles on the bench. “Really, Tris, when you have to get them drunk, it doesn’t speak well for you, now does it?”
“Shall I order you a saucer of milk, Simon?” Tris said, then laughed at his witticism.
Ignoring him, I turned to Giles, who was trying vainly to focus his eyes on my face. “Giles, I thought you had learned your lesson earlier. Why are you drinking so much?”
Giles frowned in concentration. “Dunno, Simon,” he said. “Bloody thirsty, that’s what Still thirsty.” The rest of what he said was lost in a mumble. He tried to get up from the bench with his tankard in his hand, but he was tottering so, I had to catch him to keep him from falling and hitting his head on the next table. I grabbed the tankard away from him once I had him seated safely beside me again. He leaned tipsily against my side.
“Tris!” I practically hissed at him. “This is ridiculous. What have you done to him?”
“Just a little sport to pass the time, Simon,” Tris said. “Don’t be so wet.”
“Whatever you’ve done to him, Tris, you undo it now.” A red haze seemed to alter my vision. My right hand squeezed the pewter tankard, and I could feel it crumpling. “Don’t make me any angrier.”
Either Tris had tired of his prank or he didn’t care to push me any further, for after rolling his eyes, he muttered, “Very well, Simon.” He leaned across the table and took Giles’s head in his hands. Gazing into Giles’s eyes, he stared deeply into them for at least a minute, perhaps more. Then he released Giles and sat back.
Giles shook his head. He turned slowly to look at me. His eyes were clearer, but he was still under the influence of the drink. “What’s going on, Simon? Where are we?” He caught sight of Tris. “And why is he here?”
Before I could respond to any of these questions, Giles got unsteadily to his feet. “Going to be sick,” he said as he stumbled out of the tavern. Moments later, I could hear him retching in the alley between the pub tent and the next.
“This is the absolute bloody limit,” I said to Tris in an undertone, ignoring the amused and interested stares of those around us. “What the bloody hell are you playing at, man? Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can,” Tris said coolly. “But if you’re going to overreact like this, I’ll leave the boy alone. Really, Simon, you are becoming too, too tedious.” I made a concerted effort to rein in my temper. There seemed little point in continuing this discussion. Besides, I was more concerned at the moment with Giles’s welfare. “We will continue this discussion later.” I stood up. “I have some questions for you, and you will bloody well answer them. And you can pay for that tankard I ruined.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turned my back on him. I pushed my way through the crowd to the bar and asked the tavern keeper for two cups of water. With those in hand, I left the tent I found Giles in the alley, sitting on the ground with his head between his knees. I squatted beside him and touched his arm.
“Giles, are you all right?”
He raised his head to look at me. “I’ll be fine, Simon. I think I rid myself of most of whatever it was I was drinking.” He managed a weak grin. “Though I pity the poor person who stumbles through this alley.” He nodded his head sideways to indicate the patch of grass onto which he had heaved up the contents of his stomach.
“Yes, well,” I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust, “I’ll see if I can’t find someone to take care of that.” I handed him the first cup of water. “Here, take some of this, and clean up a bit.”
“Thanks, Simon,” he said. He rinsed with a mouthful of water first, spat that out in the grass, then repeated the process. He poured the remainder of water in the cup into his hands, then splashed his face. I gave him the second cup, and he drank it down. He set this cup on the ground next to the first one.
I stood up and held a hand out to him. “Now let’s get you on your feet.”
Giles clasped my hand and pulled himself up. Without my realizing what he intended, he pulled me into an embrace and rested his head, his face still slightly damp, on my shoulder. In the shadows between the tents, I doubted anyone could see us that clearly, but I kept my back to the lane to shield us from view.
“That’s much better, Simon,” Giles said, his voice muffled. “I feel better just being with you.”
I tightened my arms around him. His warm breath tickled my neck. He raised his mouth to mine, and we kissed. Then he tucked his head back into my neck again and sighed with contentment.
We stood that way for a few moments longer. I wished the rest of the world would go away for a while, but the sounds of the encampment around us intruded on our privacy. Reluctantly, I pulled Giles loose from me. He grinned sleepily up at me. “Time to go,” I said gently. “But you wait here for a moment.”
After retrieving the empty cups, I stepped inside the tavern, where it took a moment to catch the eye of Mine Host. I explained about the mess in the alley and handed across the cups and a fiver, and he promised to take care of it. As I turned to leave, I espied Tris, still at his table, now chatting up an attractive young man in soldierly garb. That should keep him busy for a while.
Giles was steadier on his feet now, and he fell in beside me as we walked toward the entrance to the encampment. “I think you had better go home and get some rest Giles,” I said.
“Not a bad idea,” he said, yawning. “This day has rather taken it out of me.” He yawned again. “But would you first mind explaining to me what it was that happened to me back there? I have no memory of going into the tavern with Professor Lovelace. The last thing I remember is being dismissed by Chase and seeing my mother off with Totsye.”
I was half hoping that Giles would forget about asking me for an explanation. What could I tell him that would sound reasonable?
“Simon,” Giles said, prompting me when I had remained silent too long.
“It was Tris’s idea of a prank, Giles,” I said. “He fancies himself as a hypnotist, you see. Merely a parlor trick, but he does it to amuse himself. I’m sure you’ll suffer no ill effects from it, and I’ll see to it that he doesn’t try it with you again.”
“I should bloody well hope not, Simon,” he said, but without much rancor.
“Whatever you do, just don’t gaze into his eyes again for more than a second or two,” I said, trying to make light of it. “He’s like a little boy, he can’t resist temptation.”
“And I suppose I make rather an easy target for him,” Giles said. He tucked his hand into the crook of my arm. “But if I do any more soulful gazing into someone’s eyes, Simon, I promise they will be yours.”
“Yes, well,” I said, not wanting to encourage the drift of this bit of conversation. I decided to change the subject. “Tell me, Giles, what do you know about Totsye Titchmarsh?”
“What do you want to know, Simon? She and my mother are old school friends, and she has visited us at Blitherington Hall two or three times over the years. I can’t say, however, that I know her that well.”
“What does she do? How does she afford to take part in all this?” With a sweep of my arm, I indicated the encampment around us.
“She’s actually a well-known gardener and herbalist,” Giles said. “She even had her own gardening program on the telly a few years ago.”
That was certainly interesting. As an herbalist Totsye would know all about foxglove and digitalis. Could that be the answer? Would it were so simple. Totsye the herbalist used foxglove to poison Luke de Montfort.
No, that seemed too simple. It looked a bit too much like a frame-up job to me. But Totsye would most definitely bear further investigation.
“Why are you so curious about Totsye, Simon?” Giles asked.
By this time we had reached the entrance to the encampment, and I waited until we had passed through the guard post before I answered. “It could have some bearing on Luke’s death, Giles. If he was poisoned with digitalis as Tris suggested, Totsye very well could be a suspect, thanks to her knowledge of plants and herbs.”
“But why on earth would she want to kill him?” Giles asked. “She was plainly barmy about the man.”
“That might be it exactly,” I said. “King Harald could be right. She could be so insanely jealous she dec
ided that, if she couldn’t have him, no one would.”
“I can’t quite see that,” Giles said. “She didn’t seem that barmy.”
“Maybe not,” I replied. “But it’s a possibility we can’t ignore.”
Just ahead, coming down the hill toward us, ambled Adele de Montfort and Murdo Millbank. Millbank had an arm around Adele and was leading her carefully to the encampment.
I stopped walking, and Giles halted beside me. When Millbank and Adele were close enough, I said, “Adele, I’m so very sorry about your brother. This has all been a terrible shock.”
“Oh, yes, Simon, it has,” she said, her voice breaking. “Poor, dear Luke. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“There, there, lassie,” Millbank said, his Scots brogue becoming thicker as he spoke. “Don’t distress yourself, now. You need to rest.”
Adele patted his hand, the one tightly clasped to her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Millbank. You’re being so kind.” She looked at me with tears glistening in her eyes. “Mr. Millbank came to fetch me from the hospital to bring me back here. And he said he would help me take care of Luke’s... arrangements.” Her voice again broke on a sob.
“There, there,” Millbank said. “We must get you back to your tent, lassie. I’m sure you gentlemen will excuse us.”
“Of course,” I said. “And if there’s anything either of us can do, Adele, please let me know.”
“Yes, certainly,” Giles said. “Your servant, ma’am.” Adele smiled prettily, if sadly, at Giles’s courtly bow, then allowed Millbank to lead her slowly on to the encampment. Giles and I resumed our walk up the hill.
“He’s being quite the solicitous attendant,” I said.
“He is that,” Giles agreed. “If I were of a suspicious nature, I’d say he has an eye on Adele’s share of the family business.”
“What do you mean, Giles?”
He laughed. “Surely you’ve realized by now who Adele is, Simon. She’s the sole owner, I expect, of the d’Amboise chain. You know, the ‘Cuisine d’Amboise’ French restaurants. They’re everywhere. She must be worth millions now.”
