On a Desert Shore (22 page)

Chase addressed the shop-boy. “You weren't here?”

“No, sir,” the boy replied, puffing out his narrow chest. “Himself had sent me on an errand, and I come in just as she was going out the door. But I know what she bought. If there's trouble here, you won't find me mixed up in it.” He jerked a thumb at his master. “You won't credit what this one gets up to in my absence.”

Pope wrung his hands. “What could I do? How was I to know? I made her a batch of my restorative tonic. No harm there. Tincture of Peruvian bark, one dessert spoonful. Ten drops of aromatic elixir of vitriol. An ounce of pure water. Sugar and ginger to taste.”

Chase and Caldwell exchanged a glance. “He's right, Chase,” said the surgeon. “Nothing out of the ordinary in that. You can buy such nostrums at any druggist.”

“Ah, but you see, that wasn't all.” Chase turned to Pope. “You sold her a packet of arsenic, didn't you?”

“A packet of arsenic,” Pope echoed in desperation. With a heroic effort, he pushed the writhing hands down behind the counter. “She said the young lady had a rash. She meant to add some of the arsenic to water for a wash and mix the rest in lard for an ointment. Less caustic that way. I warned her, sir. I warned her, and I wrote ‘POISON' on the wrapping.” He shuffled back and forth on his feet and avoided looking at any of them. “I am not to blame. I serve the customers. How can I help it if they ask for it? She…she has used the arsenic to destroy herself?”

“No,” said Chase wearily. “To murder.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Penelope and Lewis entered Hugo Garrod's property at a side gate that led into one of the wooded walks formed of slender birch trees. The weather was gloomy, a summer shower threatening to descend. Lewis was quiet, apparently occupied with his own thoughts, and Penelope's heart sank to see again that closed expression that had so often daunted her since they had been living under the same roof. In the last few days she'd observed his animation when in the company of Marina Garrod. Penelope had grown, if not exactly to love the girl, at least to appreciate her resilience and strength of character. And Penelope had learned that guiding her brother would be a difficult task.

All her old worries about Lewis' future came swarming back as they trudged in silence. If he didn't want to go to university as their father commanded, he must be established in a profession, though what that was to be, and where the money would come from, she had no notion. She'd been wondering whether that profession could possibly be the law. But she knew Lewis had been disappointed in Buckler today. He had wanted Buckler to suggest a clever legal maneuver likely to achieve a brilliant success and a heroic rescue of a damsel in distress. Now it seemed a defeat to walk through these grounds, go tamely into the house, pack their bags, and go. She felt that too.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and a ray of light gleamed in the rivulet that trickled along the path. Penelope's hopes quickened. Lewis was young. If his heart had been touched by Marina Garrod—so far above him in station—he would recover, and Penelope would find a way to solve their other problems. They emerged from the shrubbery, and the house appeared above them like a pearl in its elegant setting.

She broke the silence. “They want us gone, Lewis. We'll wait as long as we can for Mr. Chase. Then we'll gather our things and make our farewells. Agreed?”

He sent her an inscrutable glance. “Agreed.”

“Lewis?”

“Go upstairs and pack, Penelope. I'll meet you in the hall.”

“We promised Mr. Chase we wouldn't do anything foolish,” she reminded him.

“And we won't.” He smiled, and she was so sharply reminded of her father that her throat tightened. She gazed up into his face, trying to decide if he could have grown another inch in the last week, and saw that he was already a man. More of her burden lifted. She could not be his mother. She must instead be counselor and trusted friend and sister.

“What are you going to do?” Penelope asked.

He told her. “Lewis!” she said.

“Don't worry. I'll rejoin you soon. I promise.”

She sighed. “Be careful.”

***

Penelope thanked the footman for carrying her valise and fumbled in her reticule for a coin. It seemed absurd that she had been worrying about the proper gratuities to bestow on Garrod's servants, but so it was. She didn't think she had forgotten anyone who had waited upon her. She would keep the rest of her cash for the coachman who would drive her and Lewis back to town. When she got downstairs, she found Niven, the butler, waiting.

“It's been a pleasure to serve you, ma'am, even under these distressing circumstances,” said Niven, bowing.

She smiled at him. “Thank you. May I say that you and your staff have been magnificent? It can't have been easy.”

Something flickered in his eyes. She thought he likely knew more of Marina's plight than he would own to an outsider; no doubt all the servants did. “No, madam,” he agreed. “Some of the younger housemaids have been quite upset, but we are returning to our usual routine.”

Penelope studied him. Garrod's butler was typical of the breed. He had a forgettable face and a manner so assured as to be undentable. Even a flicker was a response from him. “Has a tray been brought to Miss Garrod this morning?” she asked.

There was a pause. He said, “No, ma'am. We've been told she is asleep and not to be disturbed.”

They regarded one another somberly. “Will you give her my regards and thanks?” said Penelope, feeling awkward. “I can't be sorry to have come to Laurentum and made the acquaintance of the family. I hope they will soon find…peace.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. We all hope that.” He glanced toward the staircase, obviously curious about where her brother could be, so she hurried into speech. “Can you tell me where Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Yates are? I'd like to make my farewells in person.”

“I believe Mrs. Yates is below-stairs, but Miss Honeycutt has gone to the hothouse to walk among the plants. Shall I call the coach for you and Mr. Durant, ma'am?”

“In half an hour,” she replied coolly.

Thanking him, she went down the passage and into the drawing room. The curtains had been drawn to protect the furniture, and the room, though immaculate, looked somehow pathetic. She was remembering Hugo Garrod's immense pride in his house and gardens. He had created something beautiful at Laurentum, with attention to every detail, and now even the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece managed to look forlorn, as did the Sevres porcelain and the rich blue of the Axminster carpet showing the moon and a glittering constellation of stars. She did not linger but crossed the room and opened the door to the garden.

The sun strove through the clouds, too weak to warm the day. Rain spattered her gown as she followed the path, admiring the way the softer, gray light revealed the subtle hues of the greens, yellows, and browns in the flowerbeds. As she approached the hothouse, she encountered a bright-faced old man who materialized from a smaller side path, carrying a spade over his shoulder. On an impulse she stopped. “You're Higgins, aren't you?”

Lowering the spade, he touched his hat. “Yes'm. Do something for you?”

“Some information, if you please. You were the one who found the seeds of the exotic plant in the boiler room?”

He nodded, wary.

Penelope gave him a smile. “Mr. Garrod showed me and my brother the mechanism on the day of the party. My brother was terribly interested, though I confess it was all a little technical for my tastes.”

“Yes, ma'am. It do take some learning to understand all that.”

“Indeed. Mr. Garrod was justly proud of his modern improvements, wasn't he?”

The gardener's face fell, and Penelope caught the sheen of tears in his eyes. To give Garrod his due, he had earned the loyalty of his staff. He had drawn the servants into his schemes; he had inspired them to do all they could to make his dream perfect. She thought this odd, considering that the dream's riches could never drop down upon them. “He was a good master to you?” she said softly.

Stroking his chin, Higgins pondered the question. “That he was, ma'am,” he said at last. “He liked things just so. Cut up rough if one of his people didn't follow orders or do his part. But he was fair, and he had a pleasant way about him. I'm old, see. Never expected he'd be in his grave before me.”

“No one ever does expect someone younger to die, Mr. Higgins. I'm curious. Did Mr. Garrod mention a problem with the steam mechanism that heats the hothouse? I understand you were told to go down and inspect it on the day before the inquest?”

“Mrs. Yates mentioned the matter to me, ma'am. She was busy with the preparations for the funeral and came to discuss the flowers needed for the laying out o' the corpse. She recalled as how Mr. Garrod had told her the water pipe was leaking. Imagine that, ma'am—he was worrying over such a thing while mortal ill. Surely that were his way. But he were mistaken. Not a thing wrong with that pipe or anything else. I made just a few adjustments, and it were tip-top.”

“Mrs. Yates? Was she alone when she said this to you?”

Higgins' white eyebrows wiggled in surprise. “She was, ma'am. She were that fretted on the matter.”

***

Thanking the gardener for his time, Penelope stepped into the hothouse. She heard voices but could not immediately see the speakers who stood behind several tall plants. After a moment, she picked out a voice that was pitched low and penetrating, familiar yet unfamiliar. It wasn't until it lifted into a higher register that she recognized it as that of Anne Yates. Then she identified the second voice: Beatrice Honeycutt. Penelope glanced down at her feet. Today she had worn her soft leather slippers instead of her half boots, not having expected to do any walking. As she crept closer, she gripped the folds of her dress to stop it from rustling against the urns on the walkway, her pulse quickening with excitement and fear.

“What are you doing in here, Beatrice?” Mrs. Yates scolded. “I need you in the house.”

Beatrice was harder to hear, her responses high and pleading, but Penelope caught her next words. “…promised she would not be harmed. It's not right, ma'am.”

“She won't be, you foolish girl. You didn't answer my questions. Was Marina sleeping when you left her? Is there any sign of that John Chase? Did you tell the servants that he must not be allowed on the property?”

“No…when…”

“Beatrice! Go back at once. Did you tell Todd to give Marina more laudanum?”

“….we dare not…dangerous for her.”

Mrs. Yates became caressing. “Oh, my dear, it will soon be over. Marina will receive excellent care, and you'll assume your rightful place in the world. You and Ned both. You'll have years to bless me once matters are settled.”

Beatrice's reply was lost as a groundskeeper, passing outside, whistled a tune and called out a remark. Penelope heard Mrs. Yates say, “Where is Mrs. Wolfe, and where is that rogue, Lewis Durant? Have they gone at last?”

To Penelope's frustration, the two women moved into a more open position next to the pelargoniums, where she could not follow, but she remembered the boiler room under this building and the gratings through which she'd heard voices during Garrod's tour. If she could get into that room, she might be able to hear more. She retreated like a ghost, pausing at the side door to listen. The voices had moved even farther away. Penelope edged the door open and slipped around the rear of the hothouse to approach the cellar doors. They were stiff, but she dragged one door open so that she could wedge her body onto the stairs. She left the door ajar behind her so that some gardener would not come along and shut her inside. There was no lock, and she felt reasonably sure she'd be able to get out in any event.

The heat in this underground place struck her like a blow. Sweat broke out all over her body. In a hunched position she moved forward cautiously, her hand groping the wall for balance. When she stood on the floor, she looked around. There was the massive boiler with its cistern. There was the furnace, which on this chilly summer's day had a crackling fire burning inside it. As she advanced several paces, her slippers left black smudges on the stone. Her gaze traveled, first to the little window above the cistern, which allowed light to trickle in, then to the gratings. She could hear the voices, but the bubbling of the boiler made it hard to distinguish the words. Then she remembered the ladder used to service the cistern and dragged it to the back wall as quietly as she could. Climbing up, she shoved her hair out of the way and put her ear to one of the grates.

“Ned and Mr. Tallboys will return soon,” Mrs. Yates was saying. “I want the coach away before they come if possible. If not, leave Ned and the lawyers to me. You stay with Marina. When the keepers arrive, I'll bring them upstairs to you. Go now.” It seemed the women had altered their position, for Mrs. Yates' next few sentences were lost. As Penelope craned her neck and shifted her body to thrust her head next to another grate, her foot slipped from the rung, and the ladder scraped against the wall. She froze. But the voices overhead grew stronger again and continued without interruption. Penelope drew a breath of relief. She hadn't been detected.

Beatrice said shrilly, “Why didn't you arrange for the madhouse keepers to come after the reading of the will? The lawyers will object to your plan.”

“No, my dear, they won't. Marina won't be seeing them. She is unwell today. The lawyers will understand that we have nothing to hide in our arrangements, that we act for the good of the family.”

“But how long will Marina be gone, ma'am? This seems wrong. Let me speak to Mr. Tallboys myself.”

Anne Yates laughed, a chilling sound that made Penelope grateful to be hidden from view. “Why do that? He knows all about it. He thinks it was his idea to lock her up.” After a pause, she added, “Besides it's only until she is better. What can you be thinking of me, Beatrice? You are not yourself. Your nerves are disordered. You know what Marina has done. What if she were to play more of her tricks or, worse, harm someone else? What other option do we have but to put a stop to her wickedness before we are all disgraced?”

This time the silence stretched for so long that Penelope thought the conversation must be over. Finally, Beatrice said, “Aunt, you must listen to me.” The footsteps retreated, their voices fading. Though Penelope shifted her position and strained her ears, she heard no more.

Assuming that the women would make their way out of the hothouse, she decided to allow them a head start. After a minute or two, she descended the ladder. She must find Lewis and go to the inn to wait for Chase and Buckler. With her testimony and perhaps Beatrice's, who seemed to be having second thoughts about her cousin's treatment, Marina's removal could be delayed if not stopped altogether. But as Penelope went to the stairs, the door above her head slammed shut. The clang of metal striking metal hit her ears.

Penelope called, “Someone's here. Don't go away.”

She pushed both hands against the door but could not budge it. Suddenly she understood the significance of that clanging sound. Someone had jammed the handles by thrusting an object between them. She called again, her heart pounding, her body breaking out in a fresh sweat. Already her breath came in gasps. She had been so focused on listening to the women's conversation. Now she noticed that there was a sharp metallic smell; the air seemed denser and smokier. Surely that apparatus ran too hot.