Here the dowager entered a caveat. “But the fellow appeared perfectly well only minutes before, for we all saw him in this very room.”
Tillie cut quickly in. “He was sweating, however, for I noted beads of perspiration upon his brow and his palm was damp. I thought it had been from his exertions in hunting for Tamasine.”
“And he fell down the stairs,” added the dowager. “Surely that must have hastened his death?”
“It will certainly have been a contributory factor,” Patrick agreed. “Had he collapsed without that complication, and an emetic had been given, it is possible he could have survived. And death would have been delayed, even had he died in the end.”
Ottilia was frowning, her fingers shifting in a way that suggested she was performing a rapid calculation in her head. “Then could we at least surmise he ingested the poison in the early hours of the morning? Around five or six o’clock? For it must have been nine or later when he died. Do you not think so, Fan?”
Thus appealed to, Francis frowned. “I never looked at my watch and you were up early.”
“You may take the time from Teresa’s being downstairs,” his mother offered. “She is always up by eight and thirty.”
“Half an hour or so to the time Sir Joslin arrived then.”
“It does not matter, Ottilia,” said Patrick. “You may be reasonably confident of having the time of death as precisely as one could hope, having come upon the scene within minutes. But that brings us no closer to the precise time at which Sir Joslin took the dose.”
“But at least we can assume he had taken it on an empty stomach, do you not think? Even if he subsequently breakfasted.”
Patrick gave her a rueful look. “I’m a man of science, Ottilia. I assume nothing without proper evidence. There are far too many factors to be taken into account.”
Francis saw the look of disappointment sweep over his wife’s face, and eyed her with concern. She caught the look and gave him a tentative smile.
“We must bow to Patrick’s dictum, I fear, and let it go. What is more to the point is the question of whether the poison was self-inflicted or administered by the agency of another.”
A sense of outrage began to overtake Francis. Was there to be no conclusion? What in the world was the point of doing a post-mortem if it told you precisely nothing? “Then we are no further forward.”
Tillie got up abruptly from her chair. “Oh, yes we are, Fan. We know how Sir Joslin died. The details, the minutiae that will keep Patrick and Sutherland from careless speculation do not matter. Opium was the cause, and that is sufficient to tell me that someone in that house, whether the dead man or another, has been either careless or downright malicious.”
Her beloved features took on that look of determination that Francis had come to dread. “And I mean to find out who.”
Chapter 9
There was a brooding sense of tension pervading Willow Court, although the place was quiet. Ottilia found it almost tangible. Lomax, upon opening the door, did not speak for a moment, instead passing a steady gaze, in which she read hostility, from Ottilia’s features across to Francis and Patrick. Having agreed beforehand that her brother should take the lead, she was free to observe.
Informed the visitors wished to question Cuffy, the butler’s gaze narrowed and his tone was nothing if not insolent. “Upon what occasion?”
Patrick raised his brows, preserving his usual mildness of voice. “That you may learn in due course.”
Lomax did not shift to open the door, instead posing another question. “Upon what authority?”
“I am acting for Doctor Sutherland,” Patrick said without hesitation. “We are as yet wanting certain information for his report to the coroner.”
“Information?” The one word held a derisory note and a muscle flickered faintly in the butler’s cheek.
“As to the apparent cause of death.”
Lomax’s eye grew suspicious and Ottilia was aware of Francis pokering up. His temper, already uncertain, was obviously chafing at the man’s attitude. No clear evidence pointing as yet to murder, their situation was peculiarly sensitive and it was imperative, in Ottilia’s view, to maintain stable relations with the staff. This could not be done by using the high-handed coercion Francis was apt to adopt when annoyed. And Ottilia knew too well how any form of disrespect, especially towards his wife, was like to drive him into fury. Especially now, when Giles’s involvement was liable to make anything rouse him.
To her relief, Patrick’s calm assurance carried the day and Lomax consented to allow them entry, showing them into the front parlour.
“I will send Cuffy in to you.”
The moment the door closed, Francis broke out. “That fellow is riding for a fall. How dared he address you in that discourteous fashion, Patrick? I was within an ace of planting the wretch a facer!”
Patrick grinned. “Yes, I thought you were growing a trifle restive.”
“Restive! I should like to have him under my command for a single day. I’ll warrant that would mend him. If this is a sample of Barbadian manners, I thank God I was never tempted to adventure there.”
“I doubt he is typical.” Ottilia went up to her husband and laid a calming hand to his chest. “I wish you will not get up into the boughs, my dearest. We are treading difficult ground.”
“Yes, well, if I have to endure much more of Lomax,” said Francis, not in the least mollified, “I promise you I shall make it more difficult yet.”
“That is just what I’m afraid of, Fan. Do pray calm yourself. After all, we are not intending to question Lomax —”
“As yet.”
“— and Cuffy is perfectly courteous.”
“He had better be, by God!”
At which point, the door opened to admit him and Ottilia turned with relief to greet him. “Ah, Cuffy, thank you for coming to talk to us.” The footman’s large frame was poised in the doorway, his dark glance going from one to the other. Ottilia smiled at him. “Come in and shut the door, if you please.”
While he did so, she threw a meaning glance at Francis, who threw up his eyes, but evidently understanding her, retired to the fireplace and rested his arm along the mantel. Patrick shifted out of the centre of the room, thankfully taking his cue from this manoeuvre.
Cuffy still looked apprehensive, but the menace of the two gentlemen being reduced, he ventured a step or two into the room. With the view of making him more comfortable still, Ottilia seated herself on a chair nearby before opening negotiations. She did not beat about the bush.
“Cuffy, it has been found that your master died from opium poisoning.”
Consternation leapt into the fellow’s eyes and his big face crumpled a little. His deep voice was hoarse with emotion. “Master never takes too much. He takes enough medicine to give him a good feeling. When he has much pain, he took it.”
Ottilia seized on this. “But he took more ‘medicine’ than he needed for the pain, did he not, Cuffy? He was what we call an opium-eater, I think. An addict?”
Cuffy’s eyes rolled and tears squeezed out, tracing down his cheeks. “He starts to take it for pain only. It makes him feel too good. He likes too much to take. I say to him many times, don’t take this medicine. Master Jos tries to stop, but he cannot stop.”
Ottilia felt for the man, his affection lacerated by his master’s habit. “You were the only one he would allow to be with him at such times, am I right? He relied on you, Cuffy, to keep him from harm.”
Cuffy nodded, lifting his thumbs to dash the tears away, though they kept coming. “Master Jos does not like anyone to see him bad with this medicine. I stay by him, I do not let anybody come. He is happy for a few hours before he goes to sleep.”
“And you remained with him all the time, until he returned to his normal state?”
Cuffy nodded. “He gets too bad. He needs help. If I do not stay, he gets dirty, he forget to eat.”
Ottilia could well imagine it. But there was a more
urgent question to ask. “Did your master take opium the night before he died, Cuffy?”
Puzzlement crept into his features and he sniffed as at last his tears ceased to fall. “He did not call me.”
At this Francis intervened. “Did he always call you? Is it not possible he took the stuff without calling you?”
Cuffy started, as if he had forgotten the presence of the gentlemen. His tone immediately became more subservient. “No, sir. He calls me every time.”
Ottilia found her brother’s eyes on her and looked a question.
“Are you supposing that he took the dose unknowingly?”
“Just so,” she agreed, returning to the footman. “Cuffy, how did he take the medicine? Was it the laudanum?’
“He takes it from the bottle,” Cuffy replied, and then put his fingers a couple of times to his mouth in a gesture of eating. “Sometimes he likes to take a sweet.”
“A confection?” asked Ottilia. Excitement rode her as she recalled Ben’s words about Simeon, who would only distil rum and make confections. The image of the wrapped sweets in Sir Joslin’s drawer leapt into her mind. She threw a glance at her brother. “Can it be taken so?”
“Oh, yes. You may readily obtain opium in the form of a confection, for it is an easy way to get children to take it. But the dose in a sweetmeat would be minimal.”
Which disposed of that theory. Unless — could someone with knowledge of the sugar trade make up a sweetmeat with sufficient opium to kill? She resolved to show Patrick the prize in her pocket and the empty papers. She opened a different line. “I notice your master was partial to tobacco, Cuffy. He took snuff, did he not?”
“Sometimes he takes tobacco,” the footman admitted. “It is bad for his lung, it makes him cough. He does not take too much.”
Francis entered a caveat. “You are surely not suggesting he could have ingested opium by that means?” He glanced to Patrick for an answer.
“Unlikely, I submit,” returned her brother. “But possible.”
“Well, by what other means might it be introduced?”
Ottilia noted Cuffy’s puzzlement increasing, but she said nothing, only waiting for Patrick’s response to her spouse’s question.
“A number of ways, although one must remember opium has a bitter taste. And again, which form of opiate are we discussing? Some forms are stronger than others.”
“Might one disguise the taste with sugar?” asked Ottilia.
“If enough was used. Or alcohol.”
“What, wine?” suggested Francis, jumping on this. “Or, no. What did the boys say last night? Rum?”
Ottilia’s mind leapt. The distillery! Did those who knew how to boil sugar also make alcohol? Could they mix opium with rum without it being detected? Who then? The fellow Simeon, and Sir Joslin himself. Though why should he trouble to make such a mix if he was in the habit of taking opium as laudanum? Who else? Hemp or Cuffy?
She turned swiftly to the footman. “Cuffy, did you used to make rum?”
A flare of anger lit the fellow’s eyes. “You think I give Master Jos bad rum?”
Ottilia held his gaze, but did not answer directly. “Was Sir Joslin in a habit of drinking rum?”
For a moment she thought the man was going to refuse to answer, perhaps stalk out of the room. His eyes burned. “Master Jos does not drink rum too much.”
“But he did drink it?”
Cuffy growled low in his throat. “I do not put medicine in the rum so I can cheat Master Jos, so I can make Master Jos more sick. Master Jos takes rum when he wish to take too much medicine. He puts a little medicine in the rum. Sometimes Miss Tam makes too much trouble for Master Jos, he get too angry. He takes rum to forget this anger with Miss Tam.”
Then all Tamasine had to do was to ensure she infuriated her guardian more than usual. Assuming she knew enough to be aware of his habits. But then she must also have knowledge of distilling, must she not? Or did she simply have to tip a large measure of laudanum into a bottle of rum? Which presupposed she knew where it was kept — if indeed such existed. On impulse, Ottilia addressed something of this quandary to Cuffy.
“Was Miss Tam ever allowed in the distillery?”
This turn threw the man into evident confusion. He blinked, looking from Ottilia to the faces of the men in mute question. Both Francis and Patrick were frowning, and she realised neither had made the same mental jump.
“Bear with me, Cuffy,” Ottilia said gently. “There is a reason for my asking. Could Miss Tam have ventured there?”
Cuffy seemed to sink a little. “Miss Tam goes all over the plantation. Master Roy says she can go where she want. She follows Mister Simeon sometimes.”
“Which took her into the distillery?” pursued Ottilia relentlessly.
He nodded. “Yes, madame. Sometimes she goes there. But she likes more to go in the cane fields. All the slaves look out for her, to see she is all right. Sometimes the slaves chase her out from the field.”
“Did anyone go with her? Was she constantly watched by one particular person perhaps?”
“When Miss Lavinia has come, yes. Before she comes, Miss Tam just goes all over.”
“Alone?”
Cuffy shrugged. “Slaves are everywhere, they watch her good. She is never alone. Sometimes she goes along with Hemp. He looks out for Miss Tam.”
“You mean he looked after her?”
“Yes, madame. I look out for Master Jos. Hemp looks out for Miss Tam.”
Light clicked in Ottilia’s brain. “Which is why the two of you were chosen to come to England with the family?”
A huge sigh wrenched out of Cuffy’s throat. “It is not good to come here. It is too cold. Master Jos’s chest was very bad.”
“But not the night before he died,” Ottilia pointed out drily.
Comprehension dawned in the dark gaze. “You think Master Jos is killed.”
“If he did not take a dose of opium himself, Cuffy, it looks that way.”
“He did not take it.” Cuffy spoke slowly, his brows drawing together. “He calls me if he takes it.” A pause as he eyed Ottilia. “Nobody hates Master Jos. Nobody here.”
“Someone elsewhere then?” Ottilia demanded instantly. “Simeon perhaps?”
But here the footman balked. His mouth clamped shut and his gaze dropped from Ottilia’s to the colourful rug on the floor. He shuffled a little and then edged towards the door.
“I have plenty of work. I will go now, madame.”
Ottilia made no attempt to stop him, but watched as he crossed quickly to the door and left without a backward glance. Turning, she found her brother’s questioning gaze on her, while Francis was staring at the now closed door, a frown between his brows.
“Are we to infer from this retreat that Simeon, whoever he is, did indeed hate Sir Joslin?” asked Patrick.
“Is it not plain enough? Though how the devil the fellow did the trick from a distance is beyond my imagining!”
“Oh, it is not impossible, Fan.”
“Well, if he did, he must at least have had an accomplice,” suggested Patrick.
Francis cocked an eyebrow. “Tamasine herself?”
“Scarcely a reliable partner in crime. It has given us food for thought, however.” Ottilia made for the door. “Meanwhile, it behoves us to take another inspection of the bedchamber.”
Her brother stared. “For what purpose?”
“The rum, Patrick. In case Sir Joslin has a bottle stashed away. Besides, I have something to show you there.”
Sounds from within Sir Joslin’s chamber alerted Ottilia before the trio entered the room. She glanced at her husband, raising her brows and then looked through the open doorway.
The press was open, one tray pulled out from which Mrs Whiting was in the act of removing an item of clothing. A trunk stood nearby and Miss Ingleby was standing above it, evidently engaged in folding and packing away items of clothing from a pile laid upon the bed.
Both women looked round as O
ttilia entered and the companion uttered an impatient exclamation, throwing down the garment she held in her hands.
“Not again.” She came towards the intruders, arms akimbo. “What does this mean, if you please? Why are you here?”
Ottilia stood back and gestured towards her brother. “Patrick.”
He strode nonchalantly into the wider space. “Our purpose is sufficient, ma’am. I am acting for Doctor Sutherland in gathering evidence against a possible inquest.”
The woman blanched. “Inquest?”
“Into Sir Joslin’s death. Surely you must know that until the coroner has all the facts as to the cause of death, he cannot decide whether an inquest need be held.”
Miss Ingleby hissed in a breath and shot a look of venom at Ottilia. “I need not ask from whence came the spur for such a move. Are you determined to discover evil, Lady Francis? Is it not enough that we are bereft?”
Francis swept past Ottilia. “Mind your tongue, ma’am! You will accord my wife a proper respect.”
Miss Ingleby faced him without fear, much to Ottilia’s admiration and interest. “Or what, sir? Will you see me in the stocks? Raise a hand against me?”
“I will face you down, ma’am,” said Francis furiously, “before I allow you to address my wife in such terms.”
The companion came back strongly. “Your wife, sir, has interfered here beyond what may be tolerated. We neither sought nor desired your assistance, and you will oblige me by removing her forthwith.”
“I will do no such thing.”
Patrick harrumphed loudly, drawing Francis’s attention. “If I may, Fan.”
To Ottilia’s relief, the mild tone served to curb her spouse’s ire a little and he stood back, though he nevertheless kept a choleric eye upon the companion.
“Miss Ingleby,” Patrick said coolly, “I’m afraid it may come as a shock to you, but I am bound to inform you that the post-mortem carried out upon Sir Joslin’s body revealed conclusively that he died from poisoning by opium.”
A gasp escaped the woman and she stared at Patrick in the numbness of shock, looking much as if she had been struck in the face.
Glancing quickly at Mrs Whiting, up to now a helpless and bemused spectator of the proceedings, Ottilia saw apprehension leap into her features. Neither woman, it was evident, had been ignorant of Sir Joslin’s habit.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 86
