by S K Rizzolo
“Of course, you must ask, sir, but my answer is no. My uncle was looking forward to his party. He was in good spirits. We all were. In truth, we’d been finding the days a little quiet and welcomed the diversion.”
“You know of no threat? Nothing had disturbed him?”
She thought a moment. “We had a brief conversation that indicated a certain uneasiness. I can’t say much more than that. I’m sorry to be of so little use.”
“No, no, ma’am,” the coroner said graciously. “When was this conversation?”
“The day before the party. I shouldn’t think it could have anything to do with…what happened. A remark or two in passing.” Her voice trailed off, and the surgeon Caldwell hastened to pour a small amount of a cordial in a glass for her.
The coroner waited while she took a sip; then he said, “Mr. Garrod had been worried? About what, may I ask? Business affairs or family?”
A hint of alarm showed on her features. The pause stretched to the breaking point. She finally said quietly, “He was worried about his daughter.”
“Ah,” said the coroner, and he flashed a gleam of triumph at Tallboys as if to suggest his own efforts would be crowned with more success than had yet been achieved. “The charming Miss Garrod. What reason did he give, ma’am?”
“He’d hoped her sojourn in Clapham would restore her to health. She found the bustle of town rather a trial, I’m afraid. Uncle Hugo had been concerned with keeping her safe—and well. That’s why Mr. Chase was hired.”
“Safe? From what? You alarm me exceedingly, ma’am.”
She slumped against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I really don’t know, sir.”
Mrs. Yates said, “All that can have nothing to do with Hugo’s death. Sir, I beg that you proceed cautiously with Miss Garrod. Her grief is profound. As Beatrice has mentioned, we do not wish to see her more disturbed.”
“But what’s this about malice?” The coroner’s brows drew together in an assumption of authority Chase thought ludicrous in a man of less than thirty years.
He stepped forward. “Mr. Garrod employed me to inquire into some nasty tricks played on his daughter. I have yet to determine who is responsible, nor can I tell you what bearing, if any, this malice has on the murder.”
“Why, none,” cried Mrs. Yates. “Foolish games, that’s all.”
Obviously startled, the coroner said, “You must leave these matters to me, ma’am. We shall hear from Miss Garrod at the inquest.”
Chase’s foreboding intensified. How much had Tallboys, eager to avoid scandal, told the coroner about Marina Garrod? And was Beatrice Honeycutt artfully planting insinuations to force the fruit of suspicion against her cousin—with the aid of her aunt Anne Yates and perhaps her brother Ned Honeycutt? Though Chase himself had reluctantly handed over the seeds of wild licorice as evidence, he intended to say as little as possible on the subject. He hadn’t thought much about why this should be so. He just knew the decision felt right.
***
“Chase,” a voice hissed as he stood in the taproom at the Wind-
mill, where the jurymen had stopped for refreshment. He lowered his tankard to the bar and turned to see Noah Packet at his elbow. Packet had oiled his dirty brown hair and trimmed his side-whiskers so that for once his angular face was perfectly clean.
“Come to pay your respects?” said Chase.
“How’d this happen? I nearly bust my breeches when I heard the news. You might’ve sent word.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Not busy enough,” said Packet bitterly. “Too late to cry over spilled milk, ain’t it? What do you mean to do now?”
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
At this Packet sighed, letting his glance stray to the sawdust strewn floor. “Ain’t often I find myself a prime rig. Mr. Garrod might’ve let me put my hand in his pocket for years. I’ll be shivering in my boots come winter, thanks to you.”
Chase shook his head. “There for a minute I thought you actually had a heart, Packet, but you’re just sad your milk cow is dead.”
“Well, I am. Ain’t I been telling you as much? Not but what I thought right highly of Mr. Garrod.”
“Did you catch your thieves at the docks?”
“One or two. Enough to earn my keep, at any rate.” Packet indicated the jurymen, who had retired to several tables to drink and converse boisterously, the coroner big among them. “Fools. I’d better stay to make sure they do this right.”
“You are going back to town.” Chase took out the unidentified medicine bottle and handed it to him.
After he’d described the task, Packet snorted. “You don’t ask much, do you? A bottle with no label, and you want me to find where it come from. Why? This the poison?”
“No, but it doesn’t fit, and I want to know. Just do it. See if you can get the address of the chemist where this bottle was purchased. Try the printers of medical labels on Fetter Lane.”
“Why there?”
“It’s a guess. Look closer. A few letters of the address at the bottom are intact. Might be Fetter Lane, might not. I seem to recall some printers there.”
Packet folded his arms over his stomach. “Who’s to pay my fee, is what I want to know.”
“Don’t I always take care of you?” Chase extracted a few coins from his pocketbook, which he tossed over.
As Packet was following him out, they met one of the Bow Street officers, who took one look at Chase’s companion and bristled with suspicion. “Friend of yours, sir? I saw this man skulking in the inn yard and was about to send him to the rightabout. A patron complained she was the mark for a pickpocket.”
Observing that Packet had swept off his hat and was about to address the officer, Chase took his elbow with one hand and opened the door with the other. “He was just leaving,” he said.
***
Upstairs, John Chase contemplated the room where the inquest would be held: a long, narrow rectangle with broad overhead beams and paneled walls emitting the reek of many years’ accumulation of stale tobacco smoke and beer. Notebooks poised, the journalists had gathered under the single, high window. At the front next to the coroner’s table, the jurymen fanned themselves and squirmed in their seats. Opposite the jury sat the members of Hugo Garrod’s family, with the exception of Beatrice, who had given her testimony at Laurentum. Chase’s eyes sought and found Marina Garrod among them.
As he watched, she edged her chair a little farther away from the clergyman Samuel Tallboys, though she seemed to listen politely to his speeches. It was difficult to tell for sure because Marina was swathed in black from head to foot and wearing a veil to cover her face. She presented a small, touching figure that drew the regard of the crowd. There was a heavyset man a few feet away keeping his head cocked in her direction. A sharp-faced woman in an ugly gown loitering nearby. A boy with a shock of red hair making faces at his sister and pointing. And there were Mr. Garrod’s servants ranged in prim rows—all focused on Marina Garrod. It seemed impossible that she would not feel the power of those eyes. Her handsome cousin Ned Honeycutt drew some of the attention too, especially when he made his way to Marina’s side and stood guard over her chair.
Edward Buckler rose from his seat behind the servants to approach Chase. “Quite a crowd, isn’t it? Are you ready?”
“Ready to get this done so that I can get back to work,” said Chase.
“You don’t expect our coroner to solve the murder single-handedly?” Buckler nodded toward the young man basking in his pomp. When Chase merely raised an eyebrow, Buckler went on. “Penelope and Lewis can go home today or tomorrow, don’t you agree?”
Chase followed Buckler’s glance to Penelope. She smiled, a militant sparkle in her eyes. Clearly she was ready to tell her story, but he also thought she looked brittle and that the smile seemed forced.
“The sooner the better.”
“Good God, yes,” Buckler said. He added, “The poisoner must have been someone close to Garrod. Which means you and Penelope are likely sharing houseroom with a killer.”
“She’d better not fight me when it’s time to go.”
“I don’t think she will. But Lewis—the boy has appointed himself Miss Garrod’s champion. He sees her as some kind of romantic heroine, a young girl alone in the world. You won’t easily convince him to abandon her.”
“Reminds me of someone else I know. Chivalry must be a disease that’s catching.”
Buckler’s smile was wistful. “Point taken.”
Chase immediately dismissed the matter from his mind. He had no time to worry about whatever had gone wrong between Penelope and Buckler, and it wasn’t his place anyway. The tangled strings of the heart’s desire were beyond his unraveling, even when it came to his own heart. No, his business was to protect Joanna’s daughter and solve this murder, thereby paying his debt to the woman who had saved his life. But he sensed malevolent forces around Marina, forces that masked harm with dagger smiles and hatred with venomous love. He wished he could be entirely confident of her innocence, but that wasn’t his way. His way was to follow the trail of evidence to the end, let his personal feelings be what they would.
In an undertone, he said, “Miss Garrod must confide her secrets without delay. You tell Lewis that for me.”
“I’m sure Penelope already has. Chase, we need to know what’s in Garrod’s will. I suspect—”
Chase stopped him. “Better sit down. The coroner is ready.”
Buckler strolled away to take his place in the chair Penelope had saved for him, though Chase noticed that their greeting was stiff. Irritated, he returned his attention to the table at the front. Two men had approached to engage the coroner in conversation. They were Garrod’s solicitors, who had been closeted with Ned Honeycutt and Samuel Tallboys earlier that morning to discuss the arrangements for the reading of the will. Now Honeycutt and Tallboys also joined the group.
“There’s no provision for it,” Chase heard one of the lawyers say. “How could Mr. Garrod have foreseen—? You must understand, sir, our hands are tied.”
“What Mr. Dudley tells you is true enough,” said Honeycutt. “Apparently, the will does not provide for the settling of a bill likely to exceed 150 pounds. The expenses would have to come out of the executors’ pocket, and Mr. Tallboys, for one, is not able to meet them from his own purse. I’m afraid it’s on the parish this time.”
The coroner did not like this response. “But the family. Naturally you’ll wish to…”
“My pockets are to let, sir,” said Honeycutt. “We none of us have independent resources. It will take some time for the will to be given probate and my uncle’s affairs wound up.”
“It’s too bad,” agreed Tallboys pettishly. “How we are to pay for the postmortem and the chemical tests is more than I can tell you.”
The solicitors offered regretful bows and moved away. Honeycutt and Tallboys resumed their seats. The coroner opened the proceedings, first calling upon the surgeon Aurelius Caldwell to relate the progress of the victim’s final illness, then summoning the physician from St. Thomas’ hospital to report on the autopsy.
After describing the inflamed digestive tract, excess blood in the lungs, and yellowish spots in the stomach lining, the physician concluded: “Hugo Garrod’s death resulted from a general disturbance of the constitution produced by the introduction of irritating matter into the stomach.”
“Poison, in fact?”
“There can be little doubt.”
“You are satisfied it was not the ordinary species of English cholera that sickened the victims?”
“Quite. For one thing, there was blood in the stool, which is not usual in the case of English cholera.”
The coroner indicated the beads and the powder from the crushed seed, which now sat in a small glass jar on the table. “Can you be more precise, sir? I am told that these seeds found near the spot where the victims took ill are a virulent poison. Could this powder have done the mischief?”
The doctor took his time in examining the specimen, taking off his spectacles to peer into the jar in a vague, nearsighted fashion. “What are they? I am unfamiliar with this substance.”
The coroner consulted his notes. “Abrus precatorius, also called wild licorice or the rosary pea.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said the physician doubtfully. “The agent, whatever it is, has scoured the intestines and the stomach, causing ulcers. As to what it was, we must await the test results and hope they are conclusive.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Yes, sir,” said Garrod’s sister Mrs. Yates, “on Thursday last, I restocked the teapoy with tealeaves and sugar from the pantry stores and sent a maid to return the key to Mr. Garrod. I never touched the key after that, though I knew it went missing for a few hours on the last day.”
“He brewed a pot from this tea the day before the attack?”
“And locked up the teapoy afterward. Then on that terrible night, Mrs. Wolfe drank her tea without sugar and did not fall ill. That’s why we all think the poison was in the sugar.”
“So, as far as you know, the tea was fine?”
“Yes, sir.”
At this juncture one of the jurymen asked leave to pose a question, which was granted. “Could the sugar have been contaminated before it came into the house, or could it have been got at before it left the kitchen?” asked the man.
The cook, who had already testified, opened her mouth to protest, but the coroner waved her to silence. “We’ve already heard that the sugar was locked up,” he said, answering the man’s question with some impatience. “We’ve no reason to question the cook’s testimony. Sugar from this same supply had been used in the kitchen for several weeks. No, the tampering must have occurred while the teapoy sat in the hothouse.” He turned back to Mrs. Yates. “What time was it that Mr. Garrod missed the key?”
“Close to ten o’clock. It was found again by three.” At the coroner’s prompting she detailed the members of the household who had access to Hugo Garrod’s dressing room.
“Why, that could be anyone,” said Mrs. Yates.
“But, to be more precise in regard to the family, Miss Garrod was in her father’s bedchamber that morning?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “And the valet.”
Hugo Garrrod’s valet added little to this account except to offer that his master had been so fond of the “cunning” teapoy as to make it unlikely he would be careless with his key. The valet was certain the key had been in the writing desk in the dressing room when Garrod went to bed the night before. As to his own movements on the morning of the poisoning, the valet testified that he had left the bedchamber around the same time as his master and had gone down to the servants’ dining hall for a cup of coffee and a roll. But he thought he was gone for only about a half-hour. After that he’d returned to his work upstairs.
To Penelope, who had taken the valet’s place in the witness chair, the coroner said, “You’re quite sure it was this key Mr. Garrod discovered on the dais, ma’am?”
She nodded. “I noticed it particularly because the ring is distinctive, and he was so pleased to find it again. He attached the teapoy key to his watch fob and put the ring in his pocket.”
“Later when you helped serve the tea, did you notice the key?”
“Mr. Garrod used it to unlock the teapoy.” Penelope paused, looking uncertain. Her gaze sought and found Chase’s, and he gave her a nod of encouragement.
“Who was present on the dais, ma’am?”
She listed the names; then the coroner said, “Not Mr. Honeycutt?”
“No, he had gone to look for his cousin Miss Garrod.”
“And where was she?”
Addressing him
calmly, she replied, “In the orangery with my brother, Lewis Durant. She was conducting him on a tour, and Mr. Honeycutt went to remind her that her father wanted her.”
“So neither Mr. Honeycutt nor Miss Garrod was present when the poisoning occurred? How fortunate for both of them,” murmured the coroner.
Penelope described the scene in the hothouse: the displaying of the teapoy, the dispensing of sugar and cream, the handing round of the cups. The coroner seemed interested that she had been asked to serve but accepted her explanation, saying only that he thought it a pity she would not be able to write her sketch of Hugo Garrod, after all.
“As to that,” she said, “my plans are uncertain.”
He nodded and returned to the tea party. “You noticed nothing out of the way, ma’am?”
“Nothing. No, that is not strictly accurate. I observed every detail with an unusual clarity. Afterward I wondered why I was not more surprised by what happened.” She shook her head in frustration. “It’s difficult to explain it to you, sir.”
The coroner leaned forward in some excitement. “You can’t mean you had a premonition?”
“Hardly that, but I suppose I was nervous. I’d been feeling that from the first moment I entered Mr. Garrod’s home. It was…is…an unhappy one,” she returned.
“Why unhappy?” inquired the coroner, seizing on this remark. “One of our most prosperous and well regarded families?”
“Mr. Garrod is dead, most likely at the hand of someone in his household. Nothing else makes sense. That is all I meant.”
“Have you any suspicions to share with us, ma’am? Speak out if you do.”
“I do not,” she answered in a resolute tone.
