On a Desert Shore (10 page)

“I very much hope not,” she said, her mouth prim.

“Did anything in particular happen during the season to distress Miss Garrod?”

“No, sir, not to my knowledge. You will have heard that her debut was not a success, but, as to why, we none of us have a clue.”

“Not even your brother, Miss Honeycutt? I'm told he aspires to the lady's hand.”

“If you mean to suggest that he may be responsible for her conduct, you are out there, sir. He has been a model gentleman. None of this is Ned's fault, I assure you.”

Chase said, “But your brother has been at odds with his uncle? Mr. Honeycutt told me about his debts.”

“I'm afraid that's all too true, Mr. Chase,” she said, sighing. “And yet I do not entirely blame Ned. His wildness started with our mother who doted on him excessively and gratified his every whim. By the time she died, the seeds of his character had been planted.” Her eyes fell to her hands, which lay across the bedcovers. “Perhaps I am lucky to have been less favored.”

Next Chase went in quest of the model gentleman himself. At first unable to locate Honeycutt, he was eventually directed by a servant to walk through a second conservatory, which led off the drawing room. On the other side was a billiards room, where he was surprised to find his quarry at play with Lewis. Wearing a pair of Turkish embroidered slippers with curled toes and smoking a Havana cigar, Honeycutt looked annoyed at this interruption.

Chase said, “A word with you, sir?”

Lewis leaned his stick against the table. “Shall I go, Mr. Chase?”

“For a few minutes. I won't keep him long.”

Lewis drew him aside to tell him that Penelope was resting in her bedchamber since a professional nurse had arrived to care for the patients. “She asked me to take note of anything that might prove of interest,” confided Lewis in a lowered tone. “That's why I sought Honeycutt's company. I thought you'd want me to make all smooth so that I could keep an eye on him. I still don't like him much.” He wrinkled his nose to indicate his disapproval of the expensive Spanish cigar and cast a scornful look at the Turkish slippers.

Just what Chase needed: a would-be conspirator who could be trusted to complicate rather than simplify matters. “Avoiding fisticuffs with the man is one thing, Lewis, but don't strain your good nature. I'll be glad when you and your sister are out of this mess. It won't be long if I can help it.”

Lewis caught this note of irony. He chose to ignore it. “How is Miss Garrod today? I've not seen her. She must be deeply upset about her father.”

Chase considered his reply. From the moment he'd first met Penelope's brother, he'd liked the young man, found in him a combination of integrity and quixotic ambition that reminded him of Penelope. But he couldn't have Lewis interfering with Marina or coming between him and the girl. “Did Miss Garrod say anything to you last night about what troubles her?” he asked sternly. “I need to know.”

Lewis hesitated, obviously unhappy, then said: “Ask her, Mr. Chase. You won't expect me to betray a lady's confidence.”

“By God, Lewis, this is a serious inquiry. Your sister would be the first to tell you to cooperate. What if Miss Garrod should be in danger?”

“Truly, she didn't say much, but…you see, she made me promise.”

Chase moved away. “You'd better hope she'll talk to me.”

When Lewis had closed the door behind him, Chase rejoined Honeycutt, who said with some constraint, “I couldn't think of anything useful to do, other than entertain our guest. Mrs. Wolfe has been an angel in the sickroom, so I thought smoothing things over with Durant was the least I could do.”

“Good of you. Answer a few questions, sir. Where were you between nine o'clock and about three yesterday?”

Honeycutt lifted his brows at Chase's tone and blew out a cloud of smoke before replying. “Asleep. I'd had rather a night of it with some friends the prior evening. I don't think I climbed out of bed until after eleven. Had my chocolate, ate my rolls, growled at my valet, as I'm sure he'll tell you.”

“The rest of the day?”

“I saw my uncle in his study and, at about two o'clock, went up to town to see about a horse. Stopped at my club, where I was detained rather longer than expected. That's why I was late to dinner.”

His account could be verified. None of it mattered much, Chase judged, except for the period when the key ring had gone missing. Honeycutt could easily have slipped down the corridor and taken it from his uncle's dressing room, though he'd have risked an encounter with other members of the family or Garrod's valet. “Who do you think did this, sir?”

“I wish I knew. Look, I'm eager to assist with your inquiry, Chase. We must do everything we can to catch the villain responsible for this heinous crime. You should look into my uncle's business affairs. One doesn't achieve what he has without making lots of enemies. It could have been one of the guests at the party, for instance.”

“It was someone who had access to Mr. Garrod's teapoy. Most likely a member of the family.”

Anger flashed across his face, but he said evenly, “No. It can't be. Whom would you suspect? Me perhaps?”

“No one in particular yet. Tell me one thing. At the party why did you go in search of Miss Garrod instead of into the hothouse for tea?”

“I was with my aunt and Beatrice during the concert. Afterwards, we saw my cousin slip into the orangery with Durant. Hardly proper, was it? She was unchaperoned.”

Chase opened his occurrence book and flipped to the appropriate page, thankful again for Buckler's detailed notes. “Describe the meeting with your uncle in the study earlier in the afternoon. What was the argument about?” He quoted, “‘Raised voices were heard. Mr. Honeycutt left in a temper.'”

“I'm sure you can guess. Word about a few post-obit bonds had come to my uncle's ears.”

A post-obit bond was money borrowed on the expectation that it would be repaid with substantial interest when the borrower came into an inheritance. It seemed that Ned Honeycutt had got himself into the clutch of moneylenders. Chase had always found post-obit bonds to be peculiarly distasteful, depending as they did on the ghoulish expectation of stepping into a dead man's shoes. And what if the borrower angered the person who had the power to bestow the money in the first place? Casually, he said, “Not content to wait until the body is cold, eh?”

Ned Honeycutt winced at this deliberate insolence, his amiability falling away like a cloak. “My uncle was angry, yes, and I can't say I blame him. Nothing new, Chase. Uncle Hugo and I have had this conversation many times over the years. You can't think I would—”

“Poison your uncle if you thought he meant to alter his will? I admit it's a possibility that has occurred to me. At the moment I can see a motive for you, or for your cousin Miss Garrod. The ostensible heirs.”

Honeycutt regarded Chase with a glint in his eyes. “So that's the way the wind blows. Marina's a child, incapable of harming anyone. While I know you won't believe the same of me, I can assure you of my complete innocence in the matter.”

“Did Garrod say anything about his financial arrangements?”

He tapped the ash from his cigar in a dish that sat on the edge of the billiards table. Leaving the cigar burning there, he said, as if suddenly weary, “Nothing outright. My uncle likes to play games. He's had us dancing to his tune for years. If someone did kill him, it will be because of that. But it wasn't me, and it wasn't Marina. I told you before that she and I are as good as affianced.”

“Mrs. Yates seems to suspect Miss Garrod of trickery and malice.”

“Nonsense. The trickster will prove to be one of the servants with a grudge. Do your job and find out who it is, Chase. This person may be your poisoner.”

Chase had already considered the possibility. Either the poisoning had nothing to do with the malicious tricks, or there was some relationship between the two that eluded him, unless their motive was to discredit Marina. But the attack on Garrod had to be about money at the bottom. So what was he left with? A mentally unstable girl who could have poisoned her own father? Or another person acting for reasons of his or her own?

Garrod's nephew had nothing more to offer, so Chase went upstairs to check on the sickrooms. As he passed his employer's bedroom door, his eyes slid by the lintel—and stopped. With a muttered exclamation, he thrust up his arm, swearing as his finger snagged on something sharp. Chase worked his hand back and forth as he tried to yank out an object stuck above the door, and in an instant he had it free. It was a black feather that had been held in place by a rusted nail.

Chapter Ten

John Chase wrapped the feather and rusted nail in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket. He went downstairs to eat some cold meat and cheese in the servants' dining hall while pondering his next step. He'd been able to tease a memory of his time in Jamaica to the surface. It had bothered him ever since Marina Garrod had emptied that pile of rubbish from her reticule at Vauxhall Gardens. Then the significance had eluded him; now a glimmer of understanding dawned.

Finished with his meal, he glanced at his watch and saw that it was past two o'clock. He ascended to the ground floor and made his way to the morning room, which was tucked behind the drawing room. He thought about knocking but changed his mind, instead putting his head around the door. He saw an ordinary room, less grand than the more public areas he'd seen. A print of Nelson presided over the mantel. A low table held several books, a quick scan revealing that these included the Bible as well as works of history and botany.

Dressed in a simple blue cambric gown that pooled around her on the hearthrug, Marina Garrod sat on a low stool by the empty grate. Today she wore her hair loose, letting it tumble about her shoulders in a mass of dark curls. Mrs. Yates would not approve of Chase seeing her alone, but he could not summon the will to care.

“May I speak to you, Miss Garrod?”

“Come in, Mr. Chase. Have you come to give me a report of the patients?”

“Miss Honeycutt is on the mend, and the doctor believes Mr. Tallboys' strong constitution will prevail. But I won't lie to you. Your father is seriously ill.”

“Will he die?” She cast him a melting look that made his throat tighten with emotion. Light filled the room so that the shadows had been banished; her face seemed open and vulnerable.

Chase took her hand, bowing over it. “I don't know, but you should prepare yourself for the worst. I must talk to you. If something—or someone—has been troubling you, Miss Garrod, tell me now. It's my responsibility to ensure your safety and discover the poisoner.”

Marina appeared to listen to the silence. “I'm not sure what I can tell you, but I'm willing to try, especially if I can help you find the person who has done this terrible thing. My aunt always wants me to take the air. Shall we go for a short drive in my gig, that is unless you object to being driven by a lady?”

“I've no objection.” He stepped back.

She rose to her feet in a graceful motion. “I'll get my bonnet and join you in the stable yard.”

A quarter of an hour later he went outside. Marina was already seated in a pony-chaise that was hitched to a sweet-mouthed gray that looked fresh and eager to depart. Chase eyed the girl's arms with trepidation, but he needn't have worried. She proved an excellent whip, controlling her horse effortlessly as they bowled down a green lane and took the carriage road through the Common, passing poplar groves and a pond with a pagoda and pleasure boats.

Marina snapped her wrists, and the chaise picked up speed. Chase thought of telling her to slow down; instead he bit his lip and gripped the seat. The breeze carried a pleasant coolness, and from somewhere cows lowed. On the hillside above their heads, laundry maids stretched out garments to dry in the sun. Marina pointed out the elm trees her father had planted to beautify the Common and indicated the parish church of Holy Trinity. Here, not far from Garrod's front door, stood the modern brick church where the Clapham evangelicals had worshiped and prayed for the day that ended the British slave trade.

She checked her horse as a drover with his herd of cattle came into view. Chase gave her time to negotiate the obstacle; then he retrieved the feather and nail from his pocket. “I need to show you something. Do you know what this is?”

Her hand yanked back on the reins so that the chaise veered toward some trees at the side of the road. “Where did you get it?” she said, correcting course.

“Someone nailed this feather above your father's door. I didn't see it last night, and the constables didn't notice it when they came through this morning. Who can say when it was put there, but I do know that it's an Obeah charm.” Chase watched with amazement as she quickly masked her surprise.

Marina sent him a quick, sidelong glance. “Why ask me if you've already written your own story?”

“I let the facts—the evidence—dictate the story.”

“Don't you see that facts can lie like truth?”

“I'm right, aren't I? This is an Obeah charm.” He knew a bit about Obeah but wanted to hear what she would say. It was an African spiritual practice, which had been adopted by the Jamaican slave population and which the planters were determined to eradicate. Obeah men and women were rumored to have the power to inflict curses, issue protective charms, or communicate with the dead. Despite the intervening years, Chase recalled the young boy with the fan, who had been in the room when he lay ill of yellow fever. Joanna—Marina's mother—had frightened this boy.
John Crow
, he had whispered to her before he fled after Chase had unwisely joked about poisons. The Jamaican vulture with its black feathers was associated with Obeah, as was the use of poisoning to strike back at enemies. So now Chase wondered: had Joanna once been suspected of being an Obeah woman? Did someone take advantage of that connection now?

Marina replied, sounding reasonable, “Here? Impossible, Mr. Chase.”

“What would be the purpose of such a charm?”

“I suppose it would be intended as a key to the world of spirits, a protection from evil or a curse.”

He studied her profile. “Charms? You don't believe in such stuff?”

As if reciting a memorized lesson, she said, “Belief is an ever-shifting thing. We have our beliefs in the light of day, as well as those arising from darkness. These are equally, sometimes more, potent. They can do harm or good.”

Chase's head pounded, and frustration built within him like a storm. “We speak in riddles. Who's been telling you these tales, Miss Garrod?”

This time she answered without evasion. “The Reverend Tallboys. He is quite knowledgeable on the subject.”

“I don't think your father would approve of your interest.”

“No, but I was curious.”

They continued along the graveled road that traversed the Common to a clearing, where the elevation of Clapham above the Thames laid before the viewer the gray and smoky city. It seemed incredible that the metropolis, that endless expanse of pavement, could be a mere few miles away from this verdant suburb.

“Pull up here,” he said roughly. When she'd brought the pony to a halt, he set the feather and nail in her lap. She couldn't hide her instinctive recoil, but she did not remove or touch them.

“This feather is a message,” Chase told her. “I saw the John-Canoe dancers once in Jamaica. They decorate their headdresses with the black feathers of the John Crow vulture. And feathers and seeds, as well as fish bones and cats' teeth and other such things, form the bundle of an Obeah man—or woman. Did you know, Miss Garrod, that these native doctors are also suspected of murdering with plant poisons?”

She sat upright on the bench, gazing out over the Common. Chase put a hand to her cheek to turn her face toward him. Marina confronted him proudly, though Chase could see the fear behind the pride. It was there in the tight chords of her delicate neck and in her frozen look.

He cleared his throat but somehow couldn't remove the hoarseness. “I met your mother in Jamaica. She saved my life when I was ill. I intend to repay that debt by helping you. That's why your father chose me to protect you.”

The blank look fled, and light flooded into her eyes. She said, “You astonish me, Mr. Chase. My father didn't tell me you knew my mother. What is she like? I don't…remember her.”

“I didn't know her well, but I can tell you that she used her great skill with plants to cure disease.” He hesitated, struggling to find the words to describe Joanna. His memories of that time were fragmented, but he could recall one thing plainly. “When she was busy with the other patients, I used to wait for her to come back into the room. I believed she would not allow me to die because she was a staunch ally of life, Miss Garrod. Or perhaps just stubborn.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Chase handed her the handkerchief that had held the feather and nail. She mopped her tears, gave a sniff, and offered him a tremulous smile. “No one has ever spoken of her to me as if she were a real person, who might enjoy the company of a friend, lose her temper, or take a walk in the sun—no one except my father sometimes when the mood was on him. I won't forget what you said, sir.”

“Then help me find your father's attacker. Have you been dabbling in superstition? Playing a game? I could understand that you might have wanted to return some of the insults you've received. Were you upset with your family?”

She pulled away. “Don't be ridiculous. In Jamaica, to possess an Obeah charm would bring the penalty of transportation at the least. Not so long ago a slave might have been gibbeted alive or burnt by a slow fire. In England this charm means nothing.”

“Even when left above the door of a dying man?”

She stared at him woodenly. After a moment she said in a small voice, “You think I put it there. You think I invent stories and do harm to others.” Her hands were clenched on the reins. “You think I was the one to put the poison in the tea.”

He tried to reassure her, but it was no good. The truth was that he didn't know how to talk to a seventeen-year-old girl. She was right to question his belief in her innocence. But was she disturbed enough to murder the father who had used her as a pawn? Poison was often considered a woman's method, a devious way of exerting power. This thought brought him to Beatrice Honeycutt. She had lived for years on her uncle's bounty. How might she benefit from his removal and the chance to make a life for herself? He supposed the same could be true of Anne Yates. Where did her loyalties lie?

And Chase knew that a man could poison as well as a woman. There was Ned Honeycutt, at loggerheads with his rich uncle and fearful he would be cut out of his inheritance should the heiress wed someone else. There was also the Reverend Samuel Tallboys. Chase had learned that the clergyman was to be one of Garrod's executors and a trustee of the estate. Should Garrod die, he would be in control of a massive fortune. But Tallboys and Beatrice Honeycutt were ill from the poison. Surely this must exclude them from consideration, though Chase could not be sure of that.

On the way back to Laurentum, the doubts and worries circled in his brain. When they pulled up in the yard, a groom came out to take the chaise, and Marina went upstairs to remove her bonnet, leaving him without a backward glance.