On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

  He was about to descend the stairs when the surgeon emerged from a bedchamber at the end of the hall and moved toward him down the darkened corridor, the only light provided by a lamp that burned on the landing.

  “How does your patient, doctor?” said Buckler.

  The surgeon, whose look of gloom sat oddly on his pleasant features, balanced two sealed containers in his hands. “Which one? If you mean Mr. Garrod, he’s in dire straits, I fear, sir.”

  “Is such variation usual?”

  “Quite. Any poison’s effects would be unpredictable, depending on the amount ingested as well as the general health and age of the patient.”

  “Is there any way to know whether the poison was in the sugar?”

  “Tests may tell us.” Caldwell held up the containers. “I’m on my way to deliver these samples to the Runner. I’ve cut out fragments of the clothing stained with effluent to add to the samples.” Shaking his head, he turned to go. “I must oversee the preparation of a concoction that may be of help in binding and bringing up the poison. Moreover, I have a message from Mr. Garrod—against my advice, I may add.”

  “I’ll deliver your message, sir.”

  The surgeon set the containers on the parapet for a moment and rubbed his tired eyes. “I should be obliged. Mr. Garrod labors under a degree of inquietude that can only worsen his state. He insists upon seeing the legal man in the house.”

  “Legal man? He means me, I suppose. I am Edward Buckler, a barrister of the Inner Temple. But surely Mr. Garrod should summon his own counsel?”

  “It may be too late. Will you go to him? Reassure him if you can, but try not to tax him further.” He took his jars and descended the stairs.

  When Buckler entered Garrod’s room, an exhausted and disheveled maid looked up. She had a cloth in her hand, which she was using to wipe the patient’s face and neck. A basin of water sat on the table next to her along with a vomit and blood-soaked cloth. Garrod’s arm was bandaged where the surgeon had bled him. The room was close, the stench hitting Buckler like a blow as he approached the bed. He considered asking the girl to open the window but decided he shouldn’t, in case the doctor had ordered otherwise.

  “Sir?” said the maid.

  “The doctor asked me to step in.” His eyes were on the bed, where Garrod writhed in his sheets, moaning and thrashing his limbs. Shocked, Buckler thought that any attempt at coherent conversation was likely to be fruitless. Death already hovered, setting its stamp upon the sick man’s recumbent form.

  “He has a terrible thirst on him,” whispered the maid, seeming glad of another human presence. “I keep giving him a drink, but it does no good. He just brings it up again.” She held a cup to his lips, but he rolled away from her, his claw-like hands plucking at the bedclothes.

  “Let me try.” Taking the cup, Buckler leaned over. “Mr. Garrod, I am sorry to see you suffer. What can I do? Take some of this, sir.”

  Garrod opened his mouth and tried painfully to swallow. “Buckler?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “He don’t see you proper-like,” said the maid. “His eyes ain’t right, gone dim or some such.”

  Buckler said, “Shall I summon your solicitors, sir?”

  “You may be…chamber counsel. Need you to act.” Getting out the words with difficulty, Garrod moved his head on the pillow restlessly. Then he seemed to realize that the maid watched them with avid interest, and his eyes glittered with hostility. “Get rid of her.”

  The girl looked affronted. “The doctor bid me stay. I am to keep him cool and watch for any change.”

  “Withdraw,” said Buckler. “This won’t take long.”

  When she had flounced to the window, the sick man seemed to gather himself, drawing upon reserves of strength that would not last. “A foolish and insane impulse…why did I—?” he said in a lather of torment and self-punishment. A spasm contorted his features, and it was a full minute before he could resume. “That…codicil. Must make a new one.”

  Buckler’s heart sank. This would set the cat among the pigeons with a vengeance. Though he had no experience with estate and trust law, he knew that deathbed alterations to a will could be tricky—very tricky. If it could be shown that the dying person was not in his complete senses, such a change might lead to endless litigation in the Chancery court. “Let me fetch a paper and pen,” he said, backing away from the bed. When consulted, the girl directed him to Garrod’s dressing room, where he kept a writing desk. But by the time Buckler returned to the sick man, a new pang of agony had overtaken him so that any opportunity for further speech was lost. Hastily, Buckler summoned the nurse. And at that moment the surgeon came back into the room and waved him off in no uncertain terms.

  ***

  “What do you think he was trying to tell you?” asked Chase.

  “I don’t know. He was delirious. I think he regretted some recent change to his will and wished to reverse it. Poor devil. I doubt he will rally enough. But you’d better send for his lawyers.”

  Chase uttered a groan, his hand groping at the back of his head for the queue that was no longer there. “It only needed that. Packet told me Garrod likes to keep the family guessing. Played one too many rounds of his game.”

  “A codicil or a new will won’t hold up in court unless he had it properly drawn. I’ll ask around among the servants to see if Garrod mentioned any plans to alter his will, shall I? You can bet the lawyers will be close-mouthed on the subject.”

  Chase opened his mouth to argue, then gave a reluctant nod. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. I imagine you’ll be staying close by. You won’t want to leave Penelope here on her own even with me.”

  “No, I won’t. I thought I’d take a bed at the local pub until this matter is resolved.”

  They were in Hugo Garrod’s immense library, which opened from the picture gallery. The man owned as many books as costly objets d’art and botanical specimens. Many of the expensive volumes had actually been read, their pages cut and markers placed in their pages, the books left lying about in stacks on the tables. Gazing up at the high shelves, Buckler reflected that if Garrod should die, the task of cataloging his possessions prior to his estate’s being settled would be massive. This task would likely fall to his secretary, a thin, sensitive young man now sleeping off the worst of his nerves.

  All the secretary had been able to tell them was that, despite the press of business on the prior afternoon, his master had sent him away for an hour to see Mr. Honeycutt. No, Mr. Garrod hadn’t mentioned wishing to alter his will, though he’d met with his solicitors several times in the last week. Yes, in addition to the desk and cabinet in his study, he had a portable writing desk. Yes, Mr. Garrod sometimes forgot to secure this desk since he kept it in his private dressing room. This was the writing desk where Garrod stored his personal ring of keys, including the key to the teapoy, when not carrying them.

  The box in question, a rectangular mahogany traveling desk with brassbound corners, sat on the table between Buckler and Chase. They’d lifted its lid to display the baize-covered writing surface and emptied its leather pockets of their papers. Its drawers, including four “secret” compartments concealed behind a spring-operated panel, gaped wide. Next to the box Chase had stacked and restacked the letters, pens, sealing wax, and inkbottles, as if they could tell him something. Three of the hidden compartments had been empty; the fourth held only a signet ring, a few seashells, and a lock of dark hair tied up in faded ribbon.

  For the last half-hour Chase had been pacing the carpet in the library, his cup of coffee left untouched on the mantelshelf. Now he went to the window and thrust the curtains back, allowing the feeble light of a gray dawn to trickle into the room. Worried, Buckler studied his friend’s rigid shoulders. Neither of them had closed their eyes that night. He’d never seen Chase, a man of inner stillness and absolute focus, so restless. The focus was there,
but Buckler, having learned to know his friend better, could see that he was profoundly disturbed.

  “Garrod’s will could be a motive for the murder,” said Buckler. “I’ve been thinking…why attack him now in the middle of an evening party with two score witnesses on hand?”

  Chase let the curtain drop and turned around. “To prevent him from changing his mind if someone wished to preserve the will’s current arrangements? It could be any of them. Honeycutt is a wastrel in no good odor with his uncle. Miss Garrod continually worries and disappoints her father, and I would not trust her mental state. Mrs. Yates and Miss Honeycutt—who knows how they are left in the will? Though we could be on the wrong track entirely, and the motive has nothing whatever to do with inheritance. In that event, I suppose the poisoner might even have been one of the servants or guests.”

  “Unlikely. A successful poisoning must be premeditated and carefully planned, the poison purchased in advance. The culprit chose this moment, perhaps counting on the screen provided by many people even though he or she had no way to know who else might die. Brazen—the poisoner was not deterred by the presence of Bow Street. You’re certain Garrod was the target?”

  “I can be sure of nothing,” Chase said heavily. “Never mind that now. I must trace the purchase of the poison. Garrod has gone to the City and out to the West India Docks a few times in the last two weeks and Honeycutt has had social engagements in town, but the ladies of the family have been here in Clapham for the most part. Surely anyone wishing to escape detection wouldn’t buy a poison locally? I’ll check, of course.”

  “No, you’d think the villain would go further afield. But it’s likely the druggist didn’t record the purchase even if you can find him.”

  Chase threw himself into the armchair and lowered his head to peruse the witness statements for the third time. “Get some rest, or you’ll be of no use to me,” he told Buckler.

  He was right. Buckler decided he would take himself to the inn, sleep for a few hours, send to his chambers at the Temple for a change of clothes, and eat a fortifying breakfast. Then he’d be back. He opened his lips to suggest a similar course of action for his friend and closed them again. Instead Buckler said, “You’ll look in on Penelope?”

  “Every hour,” Chase replied without looking up.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day John Chase was relieved by reinforcements. He instructed the two constables from Bow Street to search the house, cautioning them to be discreet and asking them to compile an inventory of any potentially suspicious substances. They were to avoid the sickrooms but explore the rest of the house and grounds. And at mid-morning, two of Garrod’s lawyers arrived from the City, but though they spent the day outside the patient’s bedchamber, he was too ill to see them. Cagey, suspicious men, they gave only vague replies to Chase’s inquiries.

  When the constables had finished their search, Chase took the lengthy inventory and sought the housekeeper Mrs. Yates. With him, he carried Garrod’s antique key ring of Italian workmanship that was decorated with a nobleman’s coat of arms. He found Mrs. Yates supervising the maids as they put the ground floor in order. She took him down to her private room in the basement and offered him a seat. Gratefully, he lowered himself into one of her overstuffed armchairs. He knew he would have to sleep soon as he didn’t want exhaustion to dull his wits, but the tea the housekeeper served from a freshly purchased supply soon revived him. As he sipped, she perused the inventory. Donning a pair of spectacles, she turned the pages with an age-spotted hand.

  At length, she shook her head. “I see nothing unusual here.”

  “Miss Garrod has been prescribed a composing draught?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chase. Her rest is often disturbed. It helps her to sleep.”

  “Laudanum?”

  She glanced up. “I take it myself on occasion and keep another bottle of drops among my stores in case someone gets the cough or some other ailment. But it wasn’t laudanum that sickened the victims surely?” Mrs. Yates didn’t wait for an answer but returned her eyes to the list. She sat in her chair, her face grave, her back very straight. On her head rested a starched bit of lace, and she wore a black silk gown covered by an apron, which was embroidered in white silk sprays of flowers, twining stems, and leaves. The hand not occupied with the inventory smoothed this apron continually, a motion that seemed only half conscious.

  Chase said, “The constables found a full bottle of some sort of tonic in the rubbish. It had most of its label scraped off. Can you explain why someone might have discarded it? Medicine is expensive. It seems unlikely a prescription would go completely unused.”

  “I suppose the purchaser changed his mind. He or she distrusted its purity or potency.”

  “The label doesn’t match the others we’ve found. Who is your chemist, ma’am?”

  “We get our prescriptions from the apothecary in the village. A Mr. Willis.” She put aside the inventory and pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Have you found the source of the poison, sir?”

  Chase set the ring of keys on the table between them. “Not yet. But I have some other questions. You know Mr. Garrod hired me to inquire into a series of malicious acts destroying his daughter’s peace of mind?”

  “Yes, Hugo told me.”

  “What can you tell me about these incidents?”

  “Oh, sir, she’s young. She likes a bit of fun, though she goes too far for my tastes. Don’t think for a moment there’s anything more to it than that.”

  “Are you telling me Miss Garrod herself carried out the tricks?”

  Mrs. Yates broke into an agitated speech, though all the time her eyes remained steady on his face like twin beacons. “You must understand how trying the season was for her. That must be some excuse. She was a good deal exhausted and overwrought. Parties and balls and trips to the opera—she didn’t seem to enjoy herself in the slightest. I often wondered whether Hugo was wise to demand this heroic effort of her when she’d be happier living a quiet life. The dear girl wanted to please her father, of course. But it was all too, too much. Is it any wonder—?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “It was a fearful struggle for a girl like Marina. Many and many a time I came upon her crying when she’d said a wrong word, forgotten the proper form of address for a viscountess, or some such thing. She’s of a retiring disposition, sir. Who can be surprised that her appearance in society should often raise these fears? All those eyes on her, waiting for her to make a mistake and deem it a flaw in her breeding that could never be erased for all her father’s wealth. Who can blame the child? Not I, Mr. Chase. But Hugo—he is a man and would have it his own way. I understand him well, but love is blind, do you not agree?”

  “Mr. Garrod is blind to his daughter’s faults?”

  She lifted her teacup and took a small, precise sip. “We all have them, don’t we? I find human nature so interesting with its glorious inconsistencies, its foolish pride and petty concerns. Poor Hugo. None of it can matter to him now. I do pray for his recovery, Mr. Chase.”

  “You’ve lived with your brother for some years?”

  “Since my widowhood. I had married Major Yates out of the schoolroom, but when he died at Saratoga, I was left destitute. Hugo took me in despite the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in years. After the major’s death, I went out to Jamaica.”

  “An adventure.”

  “I had never thought to see foreign parts. But I tried to repay Hugo by being of use to him, especially with the children. First Ned and Beatrice. They are the children of our sister, whose husband had been a merchant in Kingston. Poor things—they were orphaned quite young. Then came Marina. I’ve been a lucky woman, Mr. Chase.”

  It seemed plausible enough. But had Mrs. Yates grown tired of being a dependent, forced to work for her own bread while Garrod’s niece, nephew, and daughter enjoyed a life of luxury? Why did he sense that u
nder all her busy compassion for Marina—her excuses and justifications for the girl’s conduct—lay a stagnant pool of dislike? Chase finished his tea and said, “Speak plainly, ma’am. Of what do you accuse Miss Garrod?”

  But she would by no means go further. The flow of confidences dried up. Folding her lips together, she said, “You misunderstood me, sir. I accuse her of nothing.”

  “Tell me this. Do you know of a reason why anyone should wish harm to your brother or the other victims?”

  “Oh, none,” she replied. And when he asked her whether she was aware of her brother having made recent changes to his will, she denied any knowledge of such matters. “That’s for the gentlemen, isn’t it, sir?” she said comfortably. “All I can tell you is that Hugo is a man to do right by his family. He’s mentioned to me that I can expect a small annuity to warm my declining years.”

  Chase nodded. “I need to ask you some questions about Mr. Garrod’s teapoy. When was the last time he brewed tea from these stores?”

  “The night before last. He usually brewed a pot for us in the drawing room after dinner. He’d been out, but he fancied a cup when he came home.”

  “He used the supply in the teapoy?”

  “Why, yes, and locked the caddy when he was finished.”

  “Which variety of sugar did he use?” inquired Chase, consulting his notes. Penelope had described the scene in the hothouse with admirable detail.

  “The royal.”

  “So there was nothing amiss with the sugar the night before,” he mused. Chase isolated the relevant key on the ring and showed it to her. “Where did your brother keep the ring that holds this key?”

  “In the writing desk in his dressing room or sometimes in his pocket.”

  “The writing desk he sometimes neglected to lock?”

  She looked surprised. “I couldn’t say.”

  “When was the teapoy carried into the hothouse?”

  “Yesterday morning after breakfast, around eleven o’clock. Hugo had given me my instructions, and we were making preparations for the party. I myself accompanied the footman who placed the teapoy. But it was locked. I can verify that.”