Death of a Dowager (24 page)

Chapter 51

As we walked into the library, I thought back again to Lucy’s lecture that day in Lady Grainger’s room. What I needed was a weapon. Something within reach. Something unexpected. I surreptitiously glanced around. Immediately my eyes went to the hearth, as I remembered Lucy’s story about having thrown cinders at an attacker. But when I glanced toward the bucket of ashes, my heart sank. Lucy’s maid of all work, Sadie, had already removed all the leftover grime and grit from the night before.

I would have to come up with something else to press into service.

“That is the painting I told you about.” I tipped my head toward the landscape. “First I must lift it down. Then I must retrieve the key.”

“Where is it?”

“Mrs. Brayton has told me it’s in the desk, but I don’t know which drawer.”

“Move that way slowly,” Mrs. Biltmore said. “I shall stay at your side—and don’t forget this blade is very sharp. I only need to stab you once and you won’t live to see another day.”

You must prevail!
I told myself.
And you can only prevail by thinking clearly and calmly.

To further put Mrs. Biltmore at ease, I began to narrate my actions. “First I shall unhook the painting.”

The seascape was on a wall perpendicular to the desk. With both hands, I struggled to lift the heavy painting, freeing the wire on the back from its hook.

“Now I shall set it down.” Moving slightly past Mrs. Biltmore and facing the piece of furniture, I rested the painting at one end of the blotter. From the vantage point of someone behind the desk, the Turner now occupied the upper left hand quadrant, while in the right hand quadrant sat all the necessary writing accoutrements: inkwell, box of blotting sand, and slotted letter holder filled with fresh stationery.

I turned back to face the bare wall. “As you can see, the box is exposed, but it is locked. I must remove the container from its hidey-hole to gain access.”

The oak strongbox was securely wrapped with brass straps. A heavy lock dangled from a D-shaped ring on the front, where all the straps met. To set the heavy object in the middle of the desktop, I needed to maneuver around Mrs. Biltmore.

My goal was to force the woman to become accustomed to my movements. Lucy had counseled me to put distance between myself and the knifepoint. To do so, I needed Mrs. Biltmore to let down her guard.

During all my machinations, she had remained right with me, glued to my side. Now, to get a better look at the strongbox, she stepped back a foot or two. But the distance between us worried her.

With a quick move, Mrs. Biltmore yanked me close to her. Since she was a big woman, she had the advantage of me, and I stumbled. But she had a good grip on my arm with one hand, and the other kept the knife pointed at my waist. She put her mouth to my ear and hissed, “Beware! That key better be there. You had better not be lying to me!”

“I am not lying about the key,” I said. I felt a burning sensation along the back of my waistband—and when I touched that spot, my hand came away covered in blood. Fresh crimson.

“I only pricked you.” She wore an expression of contentment. “Dear, dear.”

I stood staring at the bright red blood coating my fingertips. Curiously, the jab had not hurt as much as I would have reckoned, but I knew from previous injuries that the body has a strange way of forestalling pain until later. I pulled out my handkerchief and scrubbed my fingers, while growing keenly aware that my side was bleeding profusely. There was a curious gathering of dampness along my waistband, a mix of hot and cold, as the hot blood leaked out and then cooled when it touched the air.

“Hurry up,” she snapped at me. “I don’t have all day.”

I put my handkerchief back in my pocket, and while doing so, I felt such a pinch of pain that I fought the urge to retch. I swallowed hard and said, “I’m going to open the desk and search for the key. Lucy told me that it’s in the top drawer, but as you can see, that could be any one of these three, and I don’t know which one.”

This was a lie. I knew perfectly well which one held the key: It was inside the bottom right-hand drawer, behind the secret compartment. But I recommitted to my goal of lulling Mrs. Biltmore into false security. I wanted her to think she had total control of me, so I added, “Please don’t stick me again,” in a plaintive voice.

“Then get to it,” she said.

“I need to switch sides,” I said. Mrs. Biltmore followed my lead around the desk. But our half circle ended when we came to the ottoman that Lucy used for propping up her feet. I stepped over the low footstool, but Mrs. Biltmore did not. That put the hassock between us.

“Go right ahead. You’re doing fine,” said Mrs. Biltmore, her voice sounding confident.

I was facing the kneehole when I opened the drawer on my far left. Mrs. Biltmore stood as close as possible to watch what I was doing, but she did not step over the hassock. I rummaged through the drawer, making much of my effort and muttering, “Where is it?”

I moved on to the middle drawer. The clutter in this drawer allowed me to slow down as I murmured, “She said it was here,” but I did not dare to drag my charade out too long. With each minute that passed, the pain below my ribs hurt more. My waistband grew steadily colder, as it became wetter and wetter with blood.

“It must be in the third drawer,” I said, for effect.

The far right top drawer was my last chance, or so I would have Mrs. Biltmore believe.

“Hurry up,” she said.

“I’m trying.” I managed to sound frightened, knowing full well that I would have to act soon—and act decisively.

Footsteps echoed outside the door.

Mrs. Biltmore half turned to listen.

In her distraction, she allowed the knife to stray away from my ribs.

This was my chance. I grabbed the box of blotting sand and tossed it in her face.

Chapter 52

“Ouf!” Pansy Biltmore sputtered as her hands flew up to her face. Her knife clattered to the floor. With a swift kick of my foot, I shoved the ottoman as hard as I could. The footstool screeched away from me, hitting Mrs. Biltmore right around the knees, and propelling her backward. Her arms circled in a windmill-like motion as she fought to regain her balance, but the urge to brush the sand from her eyes was equally compelling, and she lurched to one side, crashing against the brass fireplace fender. The loud crash startled both of us, and she blindly groped toward me, but I shied away, staying just out of her reach.

“Jane!” Edward came through the library door with Bruce Douglas right behind. Higgins followed closely.

“Grab her knife,” I yelled to Mr. Douglas. “There! On the floor!” I pointed as he followed my fingers with his eyes.

“Got it!” He snatched it up even as Edward ran to me, instinctively shielding me with his body.

“Darling! Are you? Good Lord! What is this? You’re bleeding!” Edward’s hand recoiled from its purchase on my waist.

Mr. Douglas now turned upon Mrs. Biltmore. In a swift and graceful move, he grabbed one of her flailing arms, twisted it behind her back, and smashed her facedown onto the desk. She screamed and shouted obscenities at him, but he held her steady.

“We need rope,” he told Higgins. “Plenty of it. Get Williams. He’ll have rope and he can help. Then go and fetch Mr. Waverly at Bow Street.”

“Let me go!” screamed Mrs. Biltmore. But the words were muffled because her face was turned to the desktop.

“Unhand me!” snarled Mrs. Biltmore.

Edward had one arm around my waist. He touched his fingertips together, tentatively. “Blood? Jane! You’re hurt.”

“I’ll send someone for Mr. Lerner,” said Higgins, coming back into the room with Polly, Williams, and a length of rope.

“I’ve got you.” Edward scooped me up and carried me to the settee. Mrs. Biltmore kept screaming, her cries becoming louder as she discovered that Mr. Douglas was not to be swayed.

Under Mr. Douglas’s direction, Higgins and Williams soon had Mrs. Biltmore trussed up against a straight-backed chair. The whole time, she gnashed her teeth and tried to slam her head into her captors. She continued to caterwaul, so Higgins untied his cravat and stuffed it into her mouth.

Polly had dropped to her knees to get a good look at my wound. Her expression turned grave. “I’ll go get towels and water. Perhaps it looks worse than it is.” As she peeled back the fabric at my waistband, her face went white with worry. She turned to Edward. “Sir? I hope the doctor hurries. This don’t look too good to me.”

In an attempt to free herself, Mrs. Biltmore began to rock the chair she was in back and forth. The scheme did not work. When Mr. Douglas noticed the trajectory of her struggles, he and Edward repositioned the woman and her chair in the far corner of the room where her gymnastics could not have much effect.

Mr. Waverly arrived shortly thereafter. The man from Bow Street took one look at the blood seeping from my wound and started swearing under his breath. “How did this happen?”

“The King summoned me to Carlton House,” I said, although I was panting with pain. “When I was leaving, Mrs. Biltmore jumped into my hackney and held a knife to my side. She told me she had been in league with the jarvey. I presume they were watching me and chose that time for an attack.”

“Was she after the letter?”

“Yes,” I said. “As is Lady Conyngham. She diverted me on my visit to the King. Unless I give her the letter, the Marchioness told me she plans to claim that Lucy poisoned Lady Ingram.”

“Blast her to Kingdom Come,” said Edward.

“Mrs. Biltmore accosted you at knifepoint, demanded entrance to a home that isn’t hers, and wanted you to open a strongbox that isn’t yours on penalty of your life?” Mr. Waverly summed up the crime. “And then she stabbed you.”

“Yes.” I grew weaker by the minute.

“The doctor has just arrived,” said Higgins.

As Mr. Lerner approached, Polly ceded to him her position at my side. When he crouched down, papers fell out of his bag.

We need to buy him a bag that closes properly.

After a quick exam, he said, “I would appreciate better light. Any chance we could move Mrs. Rochester onto a bed in a room with a west-facing window?”

Edward and Mr. Douglas used their arms to fashion a hammock. As they carried me down the hall, I rested my head against my husband’s chest, letting the beat of his heart soothe me. “You will be fine, darling Jane. You have to be, because I cannot live without you,” he said as he kissed the top of my head.

Polly brought more towels and a fresh basin of hot water. To a glass of water, the doctor added several drops of laudanum and then suggested that Mr. Douglas leave the room. Asking for Polly’s help, Mr. Lerner cut my dress away from my body.

I regretted that. The frock was ruined, but I had rather liked the color. I said as much to Edward, and he responded with, “I would be happy to buy you an entire warehouse full of silk for more dresses.”

Rolling me onto my uninjured side, Mr. Lerner said, “Next to the drops, distraction seems to help my patients deal with pain. Therefore, I suggest you talk to me about anything, anything at all that suits your fancy.”

“Why?” I gasped.

“Because this is going to hurt like the dickens.”

Chapter 53

He was not lying. A white-hot splinter of pain jabbed me in the side. Edward offered his hand for me to grip, which I did. I winced and said, “Mr. Lerner, tell me more about your studies as a Lunartick. What sort of things have you found most intriguing?”

The doctor’s forehead creased in thought. “Recently I did learn from one of my fellow society members how a simple garden plant can help a weak heart. The tincture could have helped Lady Ingram, for example, live more comfortably. But it would have required careful monitoring.”

“So you could have helped her?” Edward asked.

Mr. Lerner nodded slowly. “I think so. It would have taken daily visits and much attention, because of the precise calibration necessary. Too much would have caused her heart to stop, but a small amount would have helped regulate it. Rather a tricky balance was needed.”

“Then you are saying that this tincture could act both as a poison and as a cure?” I found this idea fascinating. Typically, I thought of poisons as only hurtful.

The doctor said, “Yes,” before instructing Polly to bring a lamp closer to give him even more light.

“So the trick would have been making sure that Lady Ingram received neither too much nor too little of this cure,” Edward continued, more to keep me occupied than from real interest.

“Absolutely. First it must be prepared properly, and those calibrations made, and then administered in minute doses, while recording the patient’s response. You see, it could encourage a weak heart, but too much would be like giving a stallion a sharp jab with spurs. He would run away and perhaps kill the rider.” The doctor stood to talk, and now bent to resume his probing of my wound.

“But if you treated Lady Ingram, it would not have saved her from poison,” I stated the obvious.

Despite my pain, or maybe because of it, my mind functioned with unusual clarity. Suddenly, I could postulate a theory as to what happened to Lady Ingram. But first I needed to ask a few more questions. “Did anyone know about the use of these common flowers?”

The pain was a living creature, a green dragon loose inside my skin.

“I told the Ingram daughters about the remedy in general terms,” he said. “Lady Grainger was not a party to the discussion. Do try to remain still for me, as I have a bit more digging to do.”

“All right.”

The pain worsened, and I found it hard not to pull away from its source, but Mr. Lerner murmured encouragements and Edward gripped my hands with all his might. “How does one prepare this tincture?” Edward asked.

“First the leaves must be picked on a dry day. They must be allowed to dry further, and then an extract is prepared. A small amount of the leaves will go a long way. At each step, one must take careful notes. As the tincture is administered, more notations must be made, so that the dosage and preparation are precisely monitored.”

“But you did prescribe rose hips,” I said, although the effort cost me dearly. “To help Lady Ingram.”

“Yes, roses are another common garden flower with medicinal uses. However, rose hips are not harmful in any dose. But this other flower I’m speaking of has long been thought to be toxic. Only after my friend diluted it, could he see its beneficial use.”

“But that’s the rub, right? Finding the right dilution,” said Edward. “Not much longer now, Jane.”

“Right. If the dosage is wrong, obviously the patient could die, but otherwise a person might feel nausea. He or she might faint and have bouts of dizziness. At times it could be difficult for the person to catch his or her breath. The heart might race or alternately slow down.”

“Uh.” I allowed myself a small gasp of pain. Tears welled up, and I bit back the urge to cry.

“Very good. Very, very good. We are all done with that,” he said, and he waved a small pair of bloody tongs near my face. “See? The tip of her knife rammed a bit of fabric into your flesh. If I had not found it, it would surely have festered and given you a fever. Fortunately, the wound gaps such that finding the cloth was none too difficult. I would have hated to poke and prod at you much longer.”

My eyes had grown so heavy that I could barely stay awake.

“Does it have a common name?” I wondered.

“Does what have a common name?” He was sewing my wound closed.

“That plant. The one that could have . . . helped . . . Lady . . . Ingram . . .”

“Several common names. Some call it lady’s glove. Others call it fairy thimbles. We are done here. He’s there.”

“My brave, brave girl,” whispered Edward.