On a Desert Shore (7 page)

As Chase passed a lady and a gentleman promenading arm-in-arm and bantering in cheerful fashion, he felt his irritation mount. The woman sent him a haughty glance, and Chase realized he was scowling. If he'd done his job and gained Marina Garrod's trust, this wouldn't be happening. The truth was that he hadn't handled her well thus far. He'd glimpsed her with Lewis during the exodus to the gardens and had expected to find her in the hothouse with everyone else. She must have turned off somewhere, he decided, retracing his steps. This time he spotted a door in the wall and opened it.

He found himself in an orangery with tall windows on three sides, a roof lantern, and a stove at either end. Tubs of orange trees as well as pots of myrtles, olives, and cactuses filled the space. There were blank spots where some of the orange trees had apparently been removed to summer outside in the garden.

Ned Honeycutt had Lewis backed up against one of the glass windows while Marina tugged ineffectually at her cousin's arm, tears of distress shining on her cheeks. Honeycutt brushed her off and tightened his hold, his hands pressing against the boy's collarbone. No match for the older man, Lewis managed to land a kick on Honeycutt's shin as he twisted to one side. None of them noticed Chase's approach until he reached out an arm to drag Honeycutt away.

The boy gave Chase one look out of flaming eyes and renewed his attack, his fist landing a sharp blow to Honeycutt's cheek. Honeycutt reared back, snarled something, and closed again.

“No, damn it,” Chase said. “Leave off, you idiots.” He hadn't realized that Penelope's brother had such a temper. He thrust Lewis behind him and stepped between them. “What are you doing?”

Honeycutt snarled, “I followed them. This young sprig needs to be taught a lesson. He's not fit to touch the hem of my cousin's gown.”

“And you are?” said Lewis, panting with rage. “Let's settle this, sir. Name your time and place.”

“I fight with gentlemen. You are a bastard and a low worm. I'll oblige you with a good thrashing if that's what you want.”

Marina flinched as if she'd been struck. “You say that in front of
me
? How could you, Ned? If Mr. Durant is a bastard, what, pray, am I?”

“I didn't mean that…I wasn't referring,” stammered Honeycutt, aghast.

“At least I don't tyrannize over women,” interrupted Lewis. “She doesn't want to talk to you. Leave her alone.”

Marina turned a frightened face to Chase. “My cousin is a regular at the boxing saloon,” she whispered. “He'll hurt Mr. Durant. Don't let them fight, Mr. Chase.”

Chase thought Honeycutt was more likely to be a fighter who started strong but quickly lost his wind and his science, whereas Lewis was intelligent enough to correct any mistakes and persist doggedly. But he said, “Don't worry, Miss Garrod. There will be no brawl today.”

Catching these words, Lewis held himself very straight. “He has insulted me and frightened Miss Garrod, Mr. Chase. I demand satisfaction.”

Chase wanted to shake the boy until his teeth rattled, though there was something in his bearing that commanded respect. “Look,” he said quietly, “why care for his opinion? Your sister will be wondering where you are, Lewis.”

“Yes, go find your big sister, Lewis,” said Honeycutt, sneering.

Marina said, “Oh, do be quiet, Ned. You are being tiresome. Mr. Durant is right. I don't want to talk to you, not when you're in this humor. Besides, we have nothing to talk about.”

Ned Honeycutt contemplated her. “But we do. Marina, you know we do,” he said, pleading.

She shook her head. “As usual, you think only of yourself. It's your own fault if my father is angry with you, not mine. Speak to him.”

Lewis put a hand to his disordered hair and straightened his cravat. “You're right, Mr. Chase. We'll go.” He offered his arm to the girl. “Miss Garrod?”

She accepted Lewis' escort and went off without another look at her cousin, who stood gazing after her, his expression enigmatic.

Chase said, “Was there a particular reason you wished to see Miss Garrod?”

Honeycutt's eyes dismissed him. “No concern of yours, is it?''

“Her welfare is my concern,” said Chase mildly. “She doesn't seem to like you much.”

Honeycutt strode to a bench against the wall. He sat down, stretching out his long legs and leaning his shoulders back. Slowly, the anger drained from him to be replaced by calculation. “I've known that girl all her life,” he said at last. “My uncle intends for me to wed her. How can you think I could ever harm her? Durant annoyed me and I only wanted to protect her. How do I know whether he might be a rogue or a fortune hunter? I doubt Uncle Hugo would have invited him had he known his hospitality would be abused.” He raised his brows. “Besides, isn't it your job to watch her?”

Chase sat down next to him on the bench. “I am talking about you,” he said as if commenting on the weather. “Garrod not willing to pay your shot anymore?”

“Something like that.”

“So you mean to make all secure with the heiress before he tosses you out, or a rival gets in your way.”

Honeycutt gave a bitter laugh. “Rival? Do you think my uncle would allow that insolent puppy within ten feet of Marina were Durant in earnest? She'll never marry against her father's wishes. Don't you know a good marriage is the only way to wash the blackamoor white and carry on the family line? Here I am, a willing sacrifice, ready to do my duty.”

“You will speak of Miss Garrod with respect or not at all.” Disgust welled up in Chase, and his fists flexed at his side.

Honeycutt's color rose. “You don't have to tell me that. I'm fond of her, always have been.”

Chase had encountered men of Honeycutt's stamp among the Creoles of Jamaica. Proud and vain men, they lived indolent lives, primarily occupying themselves with whoring, drinking, and gaming. They kept their slave concubines and allowed the children of these unions to tumble about their plantations. The Creoles sometimes subsided into an early grave after their bodies sank beneath their excesses and gave out. Chase supposed it could be said in their favor that, in their natural setting, these men were often hospitable to an extreme and elegant in their manners, not that these particular qualities drew his approbation. It occurred to him that Ned Honeycutt might be just as out of place here in England as his cousin. Certainly, he lacked his uncle's energy and powerful will to direct complex business interests.

“Tell me about your debts,” said Chase.

“What of them?” Giving a shrug, he crossed one foot in its black pump over the other. “Hugo always forgives me in the end. What choice does he have? You should have seen him trying to match Marina with London's finest. What a joke! The girl couldn't string two words together, let alone bring the more eligible gentlemen up to scratch.”

An enormous estate was at stake. What would Ned Honeycutt do to ensure he received what he no doubt deemed his rightful portion? It suddenly struck Chase as surprising that Honeycutt had gone after Lewis Durant with so little provocation. This hadn't endeared him to Marina; if anything, his tactics would only throw her the more into the boy's arms. Either Honeycutt was an immature fool—evidently more than possible—or he had another reason to pick a fight during his uncle's evening party.

Chase got to his feet. “Debts aren't the only thing I'll lay to your account. You've been playing tricks on Miss Garrod to frighten her and stop her from marrying anyone else.”

“You're mad.” Honeycutt's face had gone white, but Chase could have sworn the man had not been surprised by this accusation.

When Chase started to walk away, Honeycutt called after him, “Do you mean to tell my uncle about our little chat? Don't bother. I'll tell him myself.”

“Leave Durant alone, and stay away from Miss Garrod,” Chase said over his shoulder.

Before he could reach the door, he was brought up short by a sudden racket. He heard the shrieking of many voices and a loud clatter, as of several dozen chairs being drawn back at once.

Chapter Seven

Velvet curtains had been drawn back to expose a centrally mounted trellis. Penelope could see what everyone had been looking at: a tangle of thick vines that snaked around the lattice, climbing fully eight feet. The tip of each vine bore great white flowers at least a hand's breadth across with stamens of bright yellow. Perhaps a dozen of these flowers glowed like a cluster of jewels on the vine, and an intense scent wafted toward her as she approached. Hauntingly fragrant, it was both innocent and cunning in the way it teased her senses, initially strong and then slipping away.

“This plant blooms only once each year during the full moon of high summer.” Hugo Garrod's outstretched finger hovered close to the white petals but did not touch them. Softly, he recited, “
Queen of the dark, whose tender glories fade
/
In the grey radiance of the noon-tide hours.”
He smiled at her evident admiration, adding, “Night-blooming cereus. It will bloom a few hours and wither at first light.”

Tallboys said, “In Jamaica it is thought that the strong odor of this plant may attract spirits or, as the slaves call them, the duppies. Some say it should not be placed too close to a house.”

Obviously much moved, Garrod paid scant heed to this remark. After a moment he said in a more natural voice, “I have a special blend of Pekoe and Congo to share with my guests of honor.” He looked around peevishly. “Where has my daughter got to? She was to help me serve.”

Mrs. Yates seemed unconcerned. “I believe she conducts Mr. Durant on a tour of the orangery. Ned has gone to fetch her and will bring her along shortly, Hugo.”

“We won't wait for them.” He smiled at his sister. “You won't object, my dear, if I call upon Mrs. Wolfe to assist me? I know you are already familiar with my teapoy. I think it would amuse her to view its interior.”

Mrs. Yates acquiesced graciously, but Penelope, enduring another glance from Tallboys as well as an indrawn breath from Buckler, tried to think of an excuse to refuse. None presented itself. With extreme reluctance, she went to stand next to a three-legged mahogany table, which was topped by a built-in tea caddy. Garrod used the key from his watch fob to unlock the caddy. As he lifted the lid, a painting on the interior was visible, showing Roman captives with cropped hair, kneeling. Penelope saw that the cut-glass bowls of the velvet-lined tray held a miniature sugarloaf wrapped in blue paper next to a pair of sugar nippers. A second glass bowl contained a larger loaf of a slightly darker variety, unwrapped. On another table next to the teapoy, a teapot, a dish of lemon slices, a cream jug, an urn of hot water, and a slop basin waited.

Finished blending the tea, Garrod warmed the pot, then poured water over the leaves, as Mrs. Yates supervised the footman to arrange the chairs and set up at each guest's side simpler teapoys with octagonal tops, each designed to hold an individual service. As she busied herself, Penelope found that Garrod compelled her attention strangely: his tall and elegant figure; his ruddy skin that glistened in the lamplight; his prominent nose and wide-set, glittering eyes.

She forced herself to attend to her task. Finally, Garrod broke off in the middle of a humorous story about Jamaican duppies to demand, “Where can your brother be, Mrs. Wolfe?”

“He'll be here shortly. He'll want his tea.”

About to add sugar to the cups, Penelope hesitated over the two varieties. Seeing her difficulty, Garrod said, “Use the sugar wrapped in blue paper. It is royal sugar, Mrs. Wolfe, the finest grade available. It has been melted with weak limewater and clarified three times, passing it through a cloth coated with the very best clay. The result is a sugar whiter than snow. Hold up your hand to the thickest part of the loaf. It is so transparent you can see your fingers on the other side.”

“Not for me, thank you, sir,” put in Tallboys. “You know I always take the refined instead. The royal is far too rich for a clergyman, sir. The refined will do well enough for me.”

“Your principles do you honor, sir,” said Beatrice Honeycutt.

“Nonsense, Tallboys,” said Garrod. “I'll not indulge your beggarly whims on this occasion. Take your tea and be thankful. Now to work, Mrs. Wolfe.”

Two spoons of sugar went into Garrod's tea; one into Miss Honeycutt's, Tallboys', and Buckler's. Into her own, Penelope put a dollop of cream. She handed Buckler his cup without a word, avoiding his eyes. She also looked inquiringly at Anne Yates, who smiled her thanks but approached the teapoy to add her own sugar and cream. Feeling unhappily self-conscious, Penelope carried around the rest of the cups.

Later she would tell Chase that Hugo Garrod had drunk his tea to the bottom, as if so thirsty he could not wait for the liquid to reach a more comfortable temperature. Tallboys, too, seemed to relish his but drank only about half, as he consumed several cakes. Beatrice Honeycutt took a few sips, folded her hands in her lap, and put aside her cup to engage Penelope in a stilted conversation. Still feeling anxious about Lewis, Penelope nibbled a cake and drank her own tea to the dregs. She noticed that Mrs. Yates, who had moved away to attend to one of the other guests, did not drink her tea, nor did Buckler, still absorbed in contemplation of the night-blooming cereus that seemed to have caught his imagination. After a while, without asking, she took his first cup away, emptied it in the slop basin, and used the tea strainer to fix him a fresh one. He smiled his thanks.

Penelope felt her nerves stretch almost to the breaking point. Finally, she said, “Mr. Buckler, will you find Lewis and tell him I'm waiting for him?”

Buckler bowed. “Of course, Mrs. Wolfe.” His eyes began to scan the crowd.

Hugo Garrod glanced up, seemed as though he meant to speak, and vomited over the side of the stage, the liquid striking one of the shepherdesses. The maid jumped and emitted an involuntary sound of disgust. Quickly, Mrs. Yates moved from her position by the urn to help her brother, who was bent over, clutching his gut. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders to support him. “You are ill, Hugo,” she cried in a high, frightened voice. “Come, we'll return to the house.”

Tallboys clutched at his throat, choking on a morsel of cake. Appalled, Penelope looked at Buckler. His attention still focused on the crowd, he hadn't noticed anything wrong.

“I see Lewis and Miss Garrod. They're in that alcove over there,” he said. “I'll fetch them.” Buckler got to his feet and raised his cup to his lips, about to take a hurried sip. Obeying an instinct, Penelope jerked out of her chair to leap toward him. She dashed the cup from his hand, and liquid spilled down his shirtfront. He gave a yelp as it scalded him. “Penelope!”

She shook her head and went to kneel by the Reverend Tallboys' chair. “What's wrong? Can you speak, sir?”

“I don't know. I feel so strange. The tea—it tasted too hot, like pepper, maybe.” His eyes seemed to bulge. He gripped her arm so hard she winced.

Penelope looked around wildly. “Someone help us, please,” she called. She approached Miss Honeycutt, who sat in her seat, moaning and pressing her hands against her abdomen. The woman's face was so white it seemed she must faint, but, though she slumped, she managed to keep her seat.

Around them the voices stilled and erupted again, louder. Spectators surrounded the dais, holding their hands to their mouths, radiating incredulity and dismay. For a moment no one moved. Then Lewis was there with Marina, their faces perfect pictures of horror.

Buckler's terrified eyes searched Penelope's. “What is it?”

“There's something very wrong here, Edward.”

Groaning in pain, Hugo Garrod looked up at them piteously while the Queen of the Night continued to breathe its sweet scent over them all.

***

A cacophony of voices met John Chase when he entered the hothouse. A string of faces suspended in the murky air flashed by his eyes as his feet pounded down the walk. He stepped around a turbaned woman sitting on the gravel next to a toppled cane chair and paused briefly by a round-faced, pimply boy emitting spasmodic screams. Maids dressed as shepherdesses huddled under an archway bursting with flowers. Ladies and gentlemen streamed past, heading toward the exit; other guests blocked Chase's way, goggling at the illumined stage where figures milled about. Someone shoved at him with both hands, and Chase's arm snaked out to steady a hollow-eyed man.

“Out of my way,” snarled the man. He yanked his arm out of Chase's grip.

Garrod's butler, whose name was Niven, lingered nearby, wearing a look of utter bemusement. “No one is to leave,” Chase told him. “Station someone at the door. Gather all the manservants to assist me.”

The butler blinked. “Yes, sir.” He hurried off.

Ned Honeycutt was suddenly at Chase's elbow. “What the deuce? What's happened here?”

“I am about to find out.” Chase ignored the steps to the dais, which were congested, and jumped up the side, his knee giving a protesting twinge. He went to Penelope, who held a clergyman's head over a basin, her hands wrapped over his cravat to shield it from the vomit. She looked up.

“You're not hurt?” He felt a tug at his heart when he saw her look of fear fade to be replaced by trust and relief.

“I'm fine, John. But Mr. Garrod, Miss Honeycutt, and Mr. Tallboys have taken ill.”

Buckler approached them. “I don't like this, Chase. You'd better call a doctor, and get these people out of here.”

Ned Honeycutt was helping his sister toward the stairs. Mrs. Yates crouched over Hugo Garrod's prostrate form, guarding him. A few feet away Marina Garrod stood, irresolute, under a guttering lamp that cloaked her expression. Then she moved out of the shadows, and Chase glimpsed a gem-like hardness that jarred him. But as she knelt at her father's side, her face crumpled with distress.

Chase faced Buckler. “Escort Penelope and Miss Garrod to the house. Lewis must go with you. Take statements from the guests. Have the footmen help you.”

“Consider it done,” said Buckler grimly.

Chase moved to the edge of the dais, pitching his voice to carry over the hubbub. “Is there a doctor here?”

A man bending over the hysterical boy straightened. “Here, sir.” He made his way to Chase's side, a gaunt, balding figure in an old-fashioned black coat. “I am Aurelius Caldwell, surgeon.”

“What's wrong with that boy?”

“Nothing, so far as I can tell. Thinks he's been poisoned.”

“Leave him. What must we do to help the sufferers?”

Caldwell had already gone to support Tallboys, who was racked with nausea, his eyes rolling in his head as he tried to speak. The surgeon said, “We must get these patients to bed so that I can examine them. Send a servant to my house in the village to fetch my bag.”

“Is it a poisoning?”

Somber gray eyes met his. “That would be my guess with several people taken so violently all at once. That is unless they have all been struck down by tainted food.” He threw a glance at the teapoy and tables and the litter of abandoned cups. “Do not allow anybody to clear the debris. I must collect samples.”

“You attend to the patients. I'll get your samples.”

Caldwell seemed to assess Chase but gave a curt nod.

A row of sturdy footmen and several gardeners had assembled in front of the stage. Chase sent a footman to fetch the surgeon's kit and instructed others to start urging the guests back up the path toward the house.

“They call for their carriages, sir,” said a servant.

“No carriages yet,” said Chase. “Take the guests into the drawing room with the overflow to wait in the library.”

He took possession of the teapoy, instructing Niven to lock it up in the pantry along with the plates of cakes, the saturated tea leaves, the urn, the waste basin filled with vomit, and all the crockery. Next, he accompanied Mrs. Yates and Niven to confront the tearful cook in the basement kitchen. The cook had retrieved the household's stores of sugar and flour, which were added to the stash of suspect items. More than half convinced she was under suspicion and would be hauled off to prison forthwith, the cook sobbed, crying out repeatedly that there was nothing wrong with the food when it left her kitchen. Finally, Chase rapped out an exasperated rebuke, and the sobs subsided into gulps.

“Anyone else been ill recently? Any food that had turned or spoiled?”

“No, sir,” she said, sniffling.

“What poisons do you have on the property?” Chase asked. “Arsenic? Corrosive sublimate?”

“None in the kitchen,” said the cook.

“Shall I inquire of the head gardener?” asked the butler.

“Do that.” Chase reached into his pocket for the hastily written note he had prepared. “Have this delivered to Bow Street. I have requested the assistance of additional constables. When they arrive, they will need to search the house and account for every medicine vial, pill box, and cosmetic bottle.”

Niven took the letter and bowed. “Sir.”

The next few hours were a blur. Further consultation with the surgeon brought little reassurance. Had there been only one sick person, Caldwell said, they might suspect an attack of the English cholera, common in the summertime, or perhaps a bloody flux, but for three people to fall into sudden and severe affliction pointed to a contaminating agent. “An irritant poison administered either accidentally or deliberately, most likely arsenic,” he said.

“What's the name of the local magistrate?” said Chase.

“Why, it's the Reverend Tallboys. He's in no condition to speak to you now, sir.”

“Will he survive?”

“I think he will, he and Miss Honeycutt both. I understand that neither of them drank all their tea. As for Mr. Garrod, that, sir, seems much less certain. He is advanced in years, which must make a difference.”

When Chase went to check on Edward Buckler, he found that his friend had followed his instructions. The guests waited in the drawing room with footmen helping Buckler keep order while he conducted interviews. It would be wise to release these people, Chase decided, for their complaints and lamentations grew to deafening levels. He couldn't blame them. It was getting late, and everyone was tired.