"A nail buffer. You haven't one of your own, have you? I thought you might like it."
I rose and went off to put on my loose morning gown. I knew Morag was desperate to question me, but she was careful to slip the buffer into her pocket first.
"There are colds going round," she said with a doubtful look at me. "Are you feverish?"
I sighed as I wrapped the sash into a loose bow. "No, I am happy, that is all."
And the surprising thing was, I was speaking the truth. I could not imagine why it should be so—I was mired in an investigation that I did not particularly want to continue. I had a partner I did not fully trust. And it could well be that the appointment I was to keep that afternoon would bring everything crashing down on my head.
But at least my head would be prettily hatted, I thought that afternoon as I tipped the rose-strewn chapeau at a rakish angle. I put my hand out for my plain black silk parasol and twirled it. I felt confident that whatever the news Doctor Bent would bring, whatever the answers Brisbane and I unearthed, all would be well.
If I have not said so before, let me say now—I was sometimes very stupid. My exhilaration that afternoon only proves it. Why did I have no inkling of the danger? I had seen all the signs—I could have put the thing together even then had I known how to read them. But how does one learn to read shadows? I think of that morning as the last truly innocent time of my life. I wonder sometimes if I would have trod another path had I known what lay in wait down the one I had chosen. It is painful to lose one's illusions. I like to think I would have chosen to learn, even through extreme danger and despair, whatever lessons life has to teach. But every now and then, I wonder what my life would have been had I broken that appointment with Brisbane, had I never gone back to Chapel Street, had I never learned the truth about Edward's death. It would have been quieter and simpler and more peaceful, I know that much. And I like to believe I would have scorned these placid virtues in favor of adventure, in favor of life itself. But even still, every now and then, I wonder…
I arrived on Brisbane's doorstep at the same moment as Doctor Bent. He lifted his battered hat, smiling his charming, puppy-dog smile.
"Lady Julia. I hope you are well."
"Very much so, Doctor. And you?"
He grimaced. "I am behindhand as usual. I sometimes despair of ever catching up with my work."
I took him in from his unpolished shoes to the bit of jam that had dribbled down his shirtfront. Doubtless he had eaten on the fly and his clothes bore the unmistakable rumpled air of being slept in. He made an interesting contrast to Brisbane, I thought as the latter admitted us to his rooms.
There was no sign of Monk, for which I was mildly grateful. I had seen him just once since that unimaginable scene in Brisbane's bedchamber, and the feeling between us had been strained. People often regret confidences given in a time of trouble, and I suspected that Monk might well resent me for receiving his.
Brisbane bade us be seated, offered us refreshment, and seemed pleased when it was rejected. I understood his satisfaction at this. He had on his bloodhound look and he was ready for the trail. Doctor Bent seemed aware of it, too, for he began without preamble.
"The powder was arsenic."
I felt myself deflate, like a child's pricked balloon. I had known it, of course. Magda had confirmed it herself. But I suppose somehow I had held out hope that Doctor Bent would find otherwise. Impossible, I knew, but still I had hoped.
Brisbane gave a little animal sound of satisfaction, something like a grunt. But Doctor Bent held up his hand.
"But it does not matter in any case. Sir Edward was not poisoned with arsenic."
I could not speak. I felt a ferocious surge of joy. Magda had told the truth. She had not murdered Edward.
Brisbane had opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Doctor Bent was handily holding his own. "I am sorry, Nicholas, but it is a matter of scientific fact. I have compared your account of Sir Edward's symptoms with her ladyship's. They tally perfectly, yet they do not match any recorded case of arsenical poisoning that I can find. Sir Edward experienced symptoms that are inconsistent with arsenical poisoning, while the symptoms that are most indicative of arsenic were simply not present."
Brisbane said nothing, but sat looking mightily displeased, the muscles of his jaw working furiously. Doctor Bent turned to me to explain.
"My lady, you described convulsions, vomiting. You say he had pains in his chest and that he was sweating freely."
"So he was," I agreed.
Doctor Bent plunged on. "You also told me that he complained of feeling cold, a sensation of iced water flowing in his veins, although the evening was warm."
I nodded, confirming this as well.
"And you say he had difficulty in speaking, although he remained conscious."
"As far as I know," I reminded him. "My father sent me from the room shortly after Edward's collapse."
Brisbane stirred slightly. "He was conscious, giddy even. What does that signify?"
"It signifies that it was not arsenic," Doctor Bent said, with only the faintest air of triumph. "Did he pass blood?"
Brisbane frowned. "Mordecai, I hardly think that Her Ladyship wishes to know—"
"But I must!" Doctor Bent countered fiercely. He tugged at his hair, leaving it standing electrically on end. Brisbane sighed.
"No."
"And was there an odour of garlic?" the doctor demanded.
"No."
"There would not have been," I put in suddenly. "Edward could not abide garlic. He would never have eaten it."
Doctor Bent's face was shining evangelically. "The odour of garlic is not from the plant itself," he explained. "It is from the arsenic. Do you not see, Nicholas? Victims of arsenical poisoning almost always sink into a coma before dying. There is—" he paused with an apologetic glance in my direction "—usually considerable bloody offal, smelling heavily of garlic."
Brisbane fetched out one of his slender brown cigars and lit it, smoking energetically. "That is acute arsenical poisoning—a massive dose, administered all at once. What if he were poisoned slowly, over some months?"
"You are determined to see Magda hang," I burst out.
"I am determined to find the truth," Brisbane returned coldly. He fixed his attention on the doctor, who was looking uncomfortably from one of us to the other.
"When arsenic is administered in small doses, over a long period of time, it produces jaundice and episodes of gastric distress. From those symptoms one might make an assumption of gradual arsenical poisoning, although I must warn you, those findings are my own. I hope to publish them one day, but they are not universally accepted in the medical community."
"It does not matter," I said, jubilant. "Edward did not suffer from gastric distress, and he certainly was not jaundiced. Magda is acquitted," I finished with a jerk of my chin at Brisbane.
He ignored me, which was probably for the best. "What could it be, then?"
Doctor Bent shrugged. "Without a proper postmortem, I can only offer the broadest suggestions. Perhaps some sort of plant poison. But I cannot tell you how it was administered. If I had seen the contents of his stomach, or the pallor of his skin…" He threw up his hands helplessly.
"What about Doctor Griggs?" I put in. "Surely he would know those things. I mean, not the stomach, of course—" I felt slightly queasy discussing this, but I pressed on "—as there was no postmortem. But he might have noticed something during the examination that would shed some light on matters."
Doctor Bent and Brisbane shared a look.
"What is it?" I demanded.
"Mordecai wrote to Doctor Griggs regarding another patient. I had him test the waters a bit to see if perhaps he could form some sort of professional relationship. A means to eventually questioning him informally about Sir Edward."
"And?"
I looked from one to the other. Doctor Bent did not meet my eyes. Brisbane's handsome mouth had curled into a sneer.
"Do
ctor Griggs does not associate with Semites, professionally or otherwise," he said flatly.
I swore softly and Doctor Bent's head came up. He smiled.
"Thank you for that," he murmured. "But really, it is nothing new to me. Besides, there are many others who do not share his views. The real difficulty is that it means we are at a loss. We have no way to proceed without some detailed knowledge of the state of Sir Edward's body."
I looked again from one to the other.
"Why not ask Mrs. Birch?"
Brisbane pulled lazily at his cigar. "Who is Mrs. Birch?"
"The parish worker who washed his body, of course," I said impatiently. "Really, you didn't think I did it, did you?"
Slowly, dazzlingly, a smile—a real, bone-deep expression of violent joy spread across Brisbane's face. It was perhaps the first time I had seen him really smile. I had been so accustomed to his scowls and frowns that the effect was rather unsettling.
"And you know how to find this Mrs. Birch?"
"I should think so. She is on the charity list for Grey House."
"The charity list?"
I waved a hand. "Yes, of course. There are a number of people within the parish who are what the vicar calls the 'deserving poor,' you know, people who work, but who still half starve. Those of us who have the means send along blankets, meat, soup, clothes for the children, that sort of thing. Mrs. Birch has been receiving baskets from Grey House for years."
Brisbane stubbed his cigar out slowly. "Then we shall call upon her at once. Well done, madam."
I preened a little. Doctor Bent rose, a trifle uncertainly. "I suppose I had better be off, then. I've left a clinic full of patients. They'll not thank me if I stay away longer."
I rose and extended my hand. "Doctor Bent, I know you are quite busy, but I wonder if you could perhaps see your way to taking on another patient? I am in need of a doctor, my own has proven unsatisfactory."
He patted his coat, finally extracting a creased, grimy card. "There is the address of my rooms," he said, flushing a deep, becoming red. "I know you will not wish to go there, but if you will send for me, I will come."
I smiled. "You are very kind."
The blush deepened and he stammered a little as he let himself out. Brisbane sat, regarding me thoughtfully.
"I rather think you've made a conquest of poor old Mordecai," he said finally. "Pity you are not a daughter of Leah. You might have made him a rather fine wife."
"Do not be nasty, Brisbane," I returned, refusing to rise to the bait. "It does not suit you." I rummaged in my reticule. "Here is the completed inventory of Grey House. It is the only copy."
He took it from me and scanned it quickly, thumbing through the pages. "Good. Not that I think it will lead us to anything, but one never knows."
I felt a rush of irritation. That inventory had taken hours to complete, dreary, dull hours of copying out endless lists of what Aquinas and I had found in every room. To have those interminable hours referred to so lightly was more than I could stand. I would not be made to feel like his pet clerk.
"Brisbane, you are being churlish. Now, if you mean to call upon Mrs. Birch, get your coat. I will wait."
He arched an imperious brow at me, but obeyed. I had not liked his little jest about Doctor Bent. I knew it was intended flippantly, but why then had I felt a thorn beneath the smooth words?
He returned a moment later, shooting his cuffs. "My lady?" He lifted his hand, indicating the door. I preceded him out and into the hansom that he hailed. I gave him the address to give to the driver and we proceeded in silence, the air thick with questions that went unasked. Brisbane said not a word, but sat like a great black bird of prey, watching out the window of the cab. His pose was relaxed, but his hands were tensile, clenching his walking stick until the knuckles went white.
In the end, I could not bear the silence.
"You are angry."
He sighed. "I am not. I am intensely irritated. If a quantity of poison is discovered amongst the private possessions of a suspect, it should bloody well be the murder weapon, don't you think?"
It was a symptom of his mood that he swore. Brisbane had frequently been quite rude, but he rarely cursed in my presence. Most ladies would doubtless have been horrified by such a breach in manners. I did not mind. It made me feel more of a comrade-in-arms. "Don't be peevish. I know you wanted Magda to swing, but you will simply have to knock your arrow in someone else's direction."
He flicked me a cool, almost dismissive look.
"Your metaphors are deplorable, my lady. I assure you I had no evil intentions toward your laundress."
"Former laundress," I said without thinking.
His gaze sharpened, and I spoke quickly to extricate myself.
"She left Grey House. So it is just as well that she is not the murderer," I said lightly. "As a Roma, I imagine she could hide herself quite handily. I would not have relished smoking her out once she's run to ground."
"Indeed not," he said finally. "Were you planning to keep that little nugget of information to yourself?"
"Of course not," I said sharply. "Had the arsenic been the cause of Edward's death, I would have told you instantly. But it is all very much moot, as Doctor Bent has just informed us."
He was silent a long minute, and I began to feel uncomfortably warm in my new finery. He was staring out of the window again, but I felt quite certain he was not seeing the streets outside. When he spoke, he kept his face turned toward the glass.
"If I find that you have hidden anything else from me, hindered me in any way," he said softly, "I will not be responsible for my actions."
I did not reply, but merely turned my head to look unseeingly out of my own window. And between us the silence grew thick again. He did not speak when I ordered the hansom to stop at a bookshop, nor did he say a word when I returned to the cab a moment later with the parcel I had purchased. He kept silent until we reached the modest home of Mrs. Birch, and it occurred to me then that Brisbane might be a prodigiously good holder of grudges. Yet something else to worry about, I thought irritably as he reached out to knock at the peeling door.
The fact that Mrs. Birch washed the bodies of the dead of the parish speaks eloquently to her financial necessity. She was a widow of little means, with seven children to bring up, and she applied herself diligently to whatever work could be found for her. Mending, charring, brewing and a little baking kept her children fed and clothed and with a dry roof over their heads. She was not above any honest work that might purchase a scrap of beef or crust of bread for them or, to my delight, a book.
Once I discovered her determination to educate her young, I made a habit of tucking an inexpensive volume or two into her baskets from Grey House. A costly book would have brought with it the temptation to pawn it for the cash. A cheap edition could be kept for the pleasure of reading alone, by Mrs. Birch as well as her children. She spoke plainly, her speech liberally sprinkled with the profanity she had learned from her sailor husband. In all, she was rough and crude and common. I liked her immensely.
And most of all, I liked her for her naturalness. It would have been a great day for her if the vicar himself called, rather than sending the curate. But faced with a gentleman of Brisbane's elegance, and myself, she did not turn a hair. She simply threw open the door, smiling and motioning us inside.
"Good day to you, my lady—that is quite a fine hat if I may say it."
"You certainly may, Mrs. Birch, and I thank you. I hope you are well?"
She stepped aside, letting Brisbane enter the narrow hall.
"As well as God ever made a body," she said heartily.
"Mrs. Birch, please forgive the spontaneity of our call," I began, but stopped when I saw her brow begin to crease. "That is, we have called without sending ahead, unforgivably rude, I know. I hope you will understand when I tell you it is a matter of some importance to us. Otherwise I would not dream of interrupting you when I know you must be very busy."
She flapped a plump hand. "Don't you worry about that, my dear lady. Always welcome you are, it is true. And whatever I can do for you, you've only to ask."
She looked at me expectantly and I hastened to make introductions.
"Mrs. Birch, this gentleman is Mr. Nicholas Brisbane. Mr. Brisbane, this is Mrs. Birch, a widow of this parish."
Mrs. Birch thrust out a thick hand. Brisbane, taking her in from untidy cap to worn shoes, did not hesitate. He took her hand warmly in his own.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Birch. You are very kind to see us."
Mrs. Birch turned and led us down the passage. "I've all the time you like, so long as I can keep on with my stitching. I've a dozen more shirts to get to the tailor, so I must not stop."
We followed her into the overheated kitchen, which was the heart of her little kingdom. Unlike its mistress, the kitchen was spotlessly tidy. The few utensils were gleaming, as were the pots and floor. A few small children were scattered about, learning their letters on a slate wielded by their elder sister, but Mrs. Birch made short work of shooing them out. As the last one—the eldest girl—was scuttling out, I handed her a package in brown paper. She looked at me inquiringly.
"A few new books. Some Shakespeare and a volume of fairy stories. Some of them are rather gruesome, so mind you don't read them to the little ones."
She did not smile, but her expression was one of pure rapture. She held the books close to her body, ignoring her mother's admonition to thank me.
I waved it aside. "Never mind, Mrs. Birch. I was shy myself as a child." Brisbane coughed, I think to cover a snort.
The girl threw me a grateful look and scurried out. I made a mental note to inquire when she would be ready to go into service. Another employer might mistake her shyness for backwardness and shove her into the scullery. But she had a good mind, that much was clear from the flicker of quicksilver intelligence behind her eyes. With a proper hand, such as Aquinas', she might make a good chambermaid, perhaps even a housekeeper in time. She could learn enough there to keep her own shop someday if she had ambition.
But I had more pressing matters to attend to, and I turned my attention back to Mrs. Birch, who was bustling about, putting the kettle on the hob and cutting off a few slices from a new loaf. She spread them with thrifty scrapings of fresh butter and assembled miscellaneous bits of crockery, some of it chipped and carefully mended, together with a small packet of sugar and a tiny pot of jam.
Lady Julia Grey Bundle Page 24
