Murder at Teatime

by Stefanie Matteson

  “Exactly,” said Fran. “In fact, monkshood is still used in some places for dental surgery. Here, try rubbing some on your gums.”

  “No thank you,” said Charlotte, “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “The numbing effect is what makes it so effective in the treatment of rheumatism,” Fran continued. “The danger is in getting the dose too strong.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Tom, who was rubbing a small piece of leaf on his upper gum. “The poison might be absorbed through the skin?”

  “Yes. Witches used to rub their skin with an ointment made from monkshood and other plant poisons. They called it flying ointment because it caused the sensation of rising and falling—a hallucination, really.”

  The same sensation her uncle had had on his deathbed, but Fran didn’t mention that. She spoke even more rapidly than usual. Charlotte wondered if she was nervous. In addition to rounding out the list, they had another reason for wanting to talk to her: Tracey had told them that the handyman, Maurice Deslsles (he pronounced the name Dezizzle, with the Yankee talent for making a hash of French names), had reported seeing Fran digging in the monkshood patch a couple of weeks before the murder. Initially he had refrained from saying anything out of loyalty to Fran, but had finally decided to come forward. The fact could mean nothing—Fran would naturally spend time working in her garden—but it could also mean that she had dug up the roots with the intent of poisoning her uncle. She had motive—no groom, no wedding. It was true that she would lose the herb garden either way, but with Thornhill dead she would at least have a stake to get started somewhere else. But despite her motives, she didn’t strike Charlotte as a murderer. It seemed a fair enough assumption that the person who took out her anger against herself, which was what the herb garden was, would be unlikely to take it out against someone else.

  They were still standing in front of the monkshood bed, which Maurice had replanted. Looking at the flower, Charlotte thought how menacing it looked now that she knew that it carried the deadly alkaloid in its delicate veins. Even the color seemed sinister: the luminous dark blue of nightmares, and death.

  “Is this the black witches’ garden, then?” asked Tom.

  “Yes,” replied Fran. “The poisons and drugs that do harm. The cauldron is to suggest the witches’ brews,” she said. “I’ve given Maurice instructions to tear out the whole bed, though. I—” She shook her head. “I don’t want to be reminded.” She looked disgusted with herself, as if her uncle’s death was her fault. Which, in a sense, it might have been.

  “I know monkshood is often grown in herb gardens,” said Charlotte. “But I’m surprised. Why do people grow a plant that’s so poisonous?”

  “Because the flower’s so beautiful. On account of beauty, we’re willing to overlook a lot of dangers, are we not?” she said. “However,” she added, “there are precautions that should be taken. For instance, monkshood should never be grown by people who have young children.”

  “What about people who have pets?” asked Charlotte, thinking of Jesse.

  “Pets aren’t a problem. Animals know instinctively when a plant is poisonous. Cows will graze all around monkshood, but they won’t eat it. The same goes for field mice, who will eat just about anything. It’s only man who’s deceived.” She blinked, as if startled by her words.

  “As you probably know,” said Charlotte, coming to the point, “Chief Tracey has asked us to look into your uncle’s death.”

  “Yes. I’ve already spoken with the police, but I expect you’d like to ask me some more questions.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  Explaining that she was in the middle of drying some herbs, Fran invited them to talk with her in the barn. This was herb-gathering season, she said, the busiest time of her year. Following her through wide doors flanked by barrel planters overflowing with herbs and flowers, they entered the barn, whose dim interior was redolent with the scent of drying herbs. Charlotte still thought of Fran’s herb business as something of a glorified hobby, but this was clearly not so. Herbs were everywhere—in baskets, tubs, and boxes. They hung from the rafters in bunches, creating a sweet-scented canopy in shades of green and brown. The room was set up like a store: one wall was lined with shelves displaying herb products—potpourris, herbal teas, herbal vinegars, herbal moth preventatives; another wall was lined with shelves of gift items—herbal wreaths, witches’ brooms, dried herb arrangements, herbal sachets in calico bags. In a corner, a rack displayed pamphlets with titles such as Halloween at Ledge House, The Witches’ Handbook, and Favorite Ledge House Recipes (this was co-authored by Grace). At the back stood a wood cookstove, above which were suspended several tiers of wooden screens on which herbs were spread out to dry.

  It was here that Fran took her place. She was stirring the herbs vigorously with a wooden spoon. “Most herbs dry perfectly well by themselves,” she said. “But a few—like chervil, dill, and fennel—have to be helped along.”

  Charlotte took a seat on a ladder chair next to the stove, while Tom leaned up against a counter displaying packets of herb seeds. The heat of the stove felt good. The weather had turned damp and chilly.

  “Have you found out anything?” asked Fran as she stirred. “I was curious about … about how the investigation is going.”

  “Nothing significant,” replied Charlotte vaguely. “One question we have,” she continued, “is whether you remember discussing monkshood with anyone.”

  “I talk about its being used by witches in my lectures. And of course, I talk about the plants in the witches’ garden being poisons and drugs, but I don’t say anything about monkshood specifically. Unless someone asks, but I don’t remember anyone asking recently.”

  “About the monkshood … I noticed when I was here for the Midsummer Night festival that someone had dug up the bed.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I don’t know who. I checked with Maurice to see if he had any idea, but he didn’t.”

  “That’s funny,” said Charlotte. “He told the police that he saw you digging in the monkshood bed a couple of weeks before the murder.”

  Two bright pink spots appeared in the center of Fran’s papery-white cheeks. “Oh—oh,” she stammered. “I forgot. I guess I was. I was …” She paused. “That’s right. I guess I was dividing the roots. The plants don’t flower properly if you don’t divide the roots now and then.”

  “I see,” said Charlotte.

  So she had lied. But that didn’t necessarily mean she was guilty. It might only mean that she felt guilty, and guilt was a feeling that, like good luck and good health, often seemed to be meted out in inverse proportion to the degree in which it was deserved. The mere fact of being under suspicion was enough to induce guilt in sensitive people, and if Fran had dug up the monkshood bed, she had reason to feel guilty. Surely she must have wished her uncle’s death, if only subconsciously. How must she have felt, then, when her wish was fulfilled, and with an herb husbanded by her own hand?

  “I understand you were in the kitchen on the afternoon your uncle was poisoned,” said Charlotte.

  “Yes, I brought Grace a new blend of tea that I wanted Frank to try: liberty tea, made of tansy and some other herbs. The colonials used it instead of China tea, which was banned from many households. The colonials considered China tea unpatriotic, because of the tax.”

  “Was the liberty tea very bitter?” asked Charlotte. “What I mean is, could it have camouflaged the taste of monkshood?”

  “Oh, yes, I never thought of that,” she answered. “Very hot and peppery. Though the colonials used to enjoy it tremendously. I’ve often thought its lapse in popularity said something about how accustomed our tastes have become to sweets. Would you like to try some?”

  “No thank you,” said Charlotte, who considered herself a trusting soul, but not trusting enough to try some tea offered by the person who had prepared the fatal tisane for Thornhill.

  “Is there anything else?” prompted Fran.

  “No, I g
uess that’s all,” replied Charlotte, rising from her seat. “Thank you very much.”

  Fran showed them to the barn door, where she stood waving goodbye with the wooden spoon that she still held in one hand.

  “Bubble, bubble toil and trouble,” said Tom as they closed the garden gate behind them. “You half expect her to start casting spells.”

  “It’s ‘double, double toil and trouble,’” corrected Charlotte, who hated to see the bard mangled. And then: “Yes, she is a bit much, isn’t she.”

  As they headed down the road Daria emerged from the gardener’s cottage. She was carrying a thick book under one arm. At the sight of her, Tom looked disheartened, as if he thought he was losing out in his bid for her affections. He wasn’t one to give up easily, however. After excusing himself, he crossed the road to talk with her, leaving Charlotte to continue on. He caught up with her a few minutes later wearing an expression of smug success.

  “Good news on the love life front?” asked Charlotte.

  “On that front and on the book thief front,” replied Tom. “At least I think it’s good news. Daria says she meant to tell us about it when she saw us out on the East End. She says we should call Tracey right away.”

  As they entered the Saunders’ kitchen a short while later they were surprised to find Tracey sitting at the table, “mugging up”—Maine parlance for a coffee break—with Kitty. They were discussing the Gilley Island Fourth of July clambake, an annual event that was being hosted for the third consecutive year by the Saunders. Kitty reported that Tracey would be coming but that he wouldn’t be able to stay because he was needed in town. The Bridge Harbor fireworks, he explained, attracted viewers from all around. And with so many people, some were bound to “get notional,” as he put it.

  Charlotte and Tom joined them at the long pine table. “What brings you over here?” asked Charlotte, curious about the news.

  “I guess you could say that we’ve solved the case of the missing books,” he replied. “Though its not going to help us a whit with the murder.”

  “Really!” exclaimed Charlotte. “Who took them? Donahue?”

  “A Donahue,” replied Tracey, “but not the one you’re thinking of.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, baffled.

  “Kevin Donahue.”

  “The son!”

  “Ayuh. Last night while I was at the hearing the partner of one of the rare-book dealers I had talked with called. When I called back, he said that a kid had been in with an old herbal. He described the kid as looking like a juvenile delinquent, and right away I thought of Kevin.”

  “Did the dealer buy the book?” asked Tom.

  “No. The kid said his grandfather had given it to him as a junior high-school graduation present. The dealer thought the book might have been stolen, and asked him to leave it, using the excuse that he would have to consult with his partner. But the kid got suspicious and left.”

  “And here we thought it was Chuck,” said Charlotte, shaking her head. She was pleased, though, that Tracey’s diligence had paid off, even if it hadn’t brought them any closer to the solution of the murder.

  “It turns out that he has a juvenile record as long as your arm,” continued Tracey. “Petty vandalism, possession of marijuana, breaking and entering. Just goes to show that you should always be thorough. I checked the criminal records of everyone on the dad-blamed island but him.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that,” said Charlotte drily.

  Tracey smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling.

  “Did Thornhill know he’d taken the books?”

  “Ayuh. And so did his parents.”

  No wonder Thornhill hadn’t reported the theft. He would have been accusing his grandson of a crime of which he was also guilty. There was something Gothic about it: the sins of the fathers being visited on the sons.

  “I went out to Donahues’ as soon as I got off the phone,” Tracey continued. “The minute I asked to see Kevin, I knew I had the right person. Chuck owned up to the theft right away. Evidently he’d found the books in the boy’s room. He’d discussed the matter with Dr. Thornhill. In fact, that’s what they were arguing about on the day of the murder. Chuck had promised Dr. Thornhill that Kevin would return the books himself, but the kid was stalling, and apparently Dr. Thornhill was tired of waiting.”

  Then, the words “Leave it to me, you understand?” had referred to Chuck’s efforts to discipline his son, rather than to the will, Charlotte thought. “Why didn’t Chuck and Marion say anything after Dr. Thornhill died? They knew we were looking for the book thief.”

  “I asked the same question. I was some put out, let me tell you. After all that work. They’d planned to make Kevin return the books to his grandfather himself, but after the old man died, they didn’t know what to do, so they didn’t do anything. I think they were happy to turn them over to me, which is probably what they would have ended up doing anyways.”

  “So he just lifted the books from the vault when he was visiting his grandfather, on impulse?” said Tom.

  “Ayuh. Just stuck them in that knapsack he was always carrying around. The amazing thing is that he actually sold a couple. Not the herbals, but some of the less valuable ones. A dealer gave him a hundred and fifty dollars for them. He used the money to buy a radio for one of the Gilley girls. He’s a generous kid, anyways, even if he is a peck of trouble.”

  Charlotte remembered Kim telling her that Kevin had given Tammy the radio. She should have wondered where he got the money. She felt totally confused: for nearly a week, she’d been operating under the assumption that the book theft was related to the murder. But she also had the feeling that if she tugged on the right string, the complex knot that was Thornhill’s murder would start to unravel. The news about Kevin simplified the matter enormously. In fact, it was a philosophical maxim of some kind that the simpler an idea is, the closer it is to the truth. It was called Occam’s razor—Tom was always quoting it. For instance, they could throw out the theory that Felix or Chuck had stolen the books to pay off their debts, as well as the theory that Thornhill had been murdered by a book thief who had been caught in the act. They could also throw out the farfetched theory that Thornhill had been accidentally poisoned by someone who had really wanted to induce a heart attack with the aim of getting everyone out of the house. Which didn’t leave them with much.

  “Is the botanical society going to press charges?” asked Tom.

  “No,” replied Tracey. “I don’t think they could. The books were stolen from Dr. Thornhill, not from them. All they’re interested in anyways is getting the books back in good shape. They suggested that Daria examine them to make sure none of the plates had been cut out or anything. Which she did.”

  “And they’re okay?” asked Charlotte.

  “Ayuh. I took them over to her last night after I left Donahues’. She’s locked them up in the vault until someone from the botanical society can pick them up, except for the one that John has been working on.”

  “You can tell her to lock this up with them,” said Charlotte, removing the binder’s report from her purse.

  “What’s this?” asked Tracey.

  “A binder’s report,” said Charlotte. “It’s further proof that Dr. Thornhill stole the books.” She explained about the dates. “We were out at Donahues’ earlier this afternoon. Tom found it on Chuck’s desk. He thought Chuck might be using it to blackmail Thornhill into selling out to Chartwell.”

  Tracey looked up at Tom. “You took it from his desk?”

  Tom nodded.

  Tracey’s mild blue eyes turned cold with disapproval. “I don’t approve.”

  “Kevin took it, didn’t he?” said Tom. Then he shrugged. “I’m sorry. I guess we should have notified you.”

  “I guess you should have,” said Tracey.

  “This changes the whole picture, doesn’t it?” said Tom, artfully changing the subject. “The fact that it was Kevin who stole the books, I mean.”

&n
bsp; “Yes, but maybe it will simplify matters,” said Charlotte. “We’ve gotten rid of one messy complication.”

  “Entia non multiplicanda praeter necessitatem,” he said. “Occam’s razor: all unnecessary facts in the argument being analyzed should be eliminated.”

  Charlotte smiled with the triumph of a trainer who has successfully put a performing seal through a difficult trick.

  “What’s going to happen to Kevin now?” asked Kitty, who had returned to the table. She had been making arrangements for the clambake.

  “Nothing,” said Tracey. “But I don’t think he’ll cause any more trouble. He’s had the living daylights scared out of him.”

  “How’s that?” asked Tom.

  “The State police really put him through the wringer this morning. They thought he might know something about the murder.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” said Kitty. “He must be a confused boy.”

  “I can’t say that I disagree with you there, Mrs. Saunders,” Tracey concurred. “The problem is that he hasn’t got anything to occupy his time. His father doesn’t pay any attention to him, and his mother’s still so torn up over the other boy’s death that she isn’t able to.”

  “Maybe he should get a summer job,” said Kitty, who could always be depended on to look for the bright solution.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking into that,” said Tracey. “I’ve asked a friend of mine who does some lobstering to take him on as bait boy. I’d ask Wes Gilley, but he’s already got his girls helping him out. Some honest work won’t do Kevin any harm, and it might just do him a lot of good.”

  As Charlotte was getting ready for bed she stood looking out at the cove. A full moon hung above the black tips of the spruces on Sheep Island, bathing the room in its soft light. She felt as if she could walk out to the island on the flickering silver path of its reflection. She loved the cozy room, with its lovely view, its antique furnishings, and its wide plank floors; it was gracious and unassuming, like the people of Maine. Tracey, for instance. How many police chiefs would have taken a juvenile delinquent under their wing? The people of Maine were often like that, noble and generous. She thought of them as natural aristocrats. They had little, but they were rich in spirit—the legacy, it was said, of the days of the great sailing ships. The sailors of that era had visited hundreds of ports in a lifetime, and knew that the world was bigger than their own little towns. Their wide horizons lived on in their descendants. Of course Maine, like anywhere else; had its share of bigots and backbiters, but it was nevertheless remarkably free of the narrow-minded prejudice typical of other rural populations.