The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (33 page)

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow…

—William Shakespeare
Macbeth

 

M
ordecai Bent’s rooms were exactly as I had expected. Tiny, overwarm, and so cramped with books and medical equipment that it was difficult to move. But the fire was cheerful and Mordecai was hospitality personified, as if entertaining angels unaware.

“This chair, my lady,” he said, sweeping up a pile of papers and an errant sock. “It is the most comfortable and nearest the fire. Mr. March, may I offer you the bench by the bookcase?”

Val, mesmerized by the contents of the bookcase, barely waved a hand. “If you do not object…”

Mordecai flushed with pleasure.

“Oh, no! Please, look at anything you like. It is so seldom I have the pleasure of speaking with another medical man.”

This time Val flushed, and it occurred to me that introducing them might have been a tiresome mistake. If I was not quite careful, the conversation could easily move into deeper and duller waters than I could navigate with patience. I cleared my throat delicately.

“Doctor Bent, we have called because I recently discovered something concerning my husband’s health. Something that might have bearing upon this case.”

Bent’s eyes flew to my brother’s tall figure, silhouetted against the bookcase. “He is entirely in my confidence,” I assured him. Bent smiled. There was a dot of custard on his lapel, and a button swung gently from a single thread at his waistcoat.

“I shall be too happy to help,” he told me. “But Nicholas wrote that he was going to Paris, and that the investigation was in abeyance until his return.”

“Oh, of course. But this information just fell into my lap, most unexpectedly, and I thought I might save him a bit of time by consulting you in his absence.” The lie fell smoothly from my lips.

He seemed satisfied with that and sat forward, his eyes gleaming with interest behind his spectacles.

“It appears that my husband suffered from syphilis, Doctor Bent. He had had it for some time.”

He considered this a moment.

“Hmm. Yes, that does complicate matters,” he said, his brow furrowing. If I had not been so humiliated by having to tell him, I might have been amused. He did not consider the personal ramifications of the syphilis, only its application to the case—a true medical man.

“Do you know how long he had the disease?”

I shrugged. “He contracted it sometime before we were married, a few months, perhaps. I am told he experienced a relapse of sorts some months after we married.”

Bent nodded. “Yes, although it isn’t precisely a relapse. From what we understand of the disease, it normally follows a pattern—an initial infection, then a period of dormancy, followed by another outbreak. Then a second period of dormancy. These quiet periods can last for years, during which time the patient is completely asymptomatic.”

I must have looked blank, for he amended the word quickly. “Without symptom. The second phase of dormancy can even last the duration of the patient’s natural life. But in most people,
the second dormancy is followed by the most extreme symptoms of the disease—a breakdown in general health, uncertain temper, that sort of thing.”

I thought of Edward’s turns, his periods of malaise, his little black rages, and that short, terrible moment when we had looked at each other, the bits of broken vase littering the carpet between us, his hand raised, poised and twitching at my cheek.…

“Doctor Bent, is it possible that Edward did not suffer from heart trouble?”

“But he did,” Valerius put in quietly. “He’d had it from boyhood, don’t you remember? Old Cook always saying he’d never make old bones, just like all the Greys?” I did remember. I had told Brisbane of it only a few weeks before. But I had felt the ground shift under me when Cass had bestowed her revelation, and I found myself wondering which memories were true and which were lies. And I knew I would continue to do so for many years to come.

I turned to Bent, who was nodding, his eyes shrewd.

“Yes, sometimes syphilis will lodge in a patient’s heart or lungs, especially if there is an underlying ailment. It is possible that the disease worsened his heart condition, or perhaps it affected it not at all. It is impossible to say without a proper postmortem, and of course, it is too late for that.”

I shuddered, thinking of Edward’s corpse, moldering away, the evidence quietly decaying during the months that I had wasted.

“Is it possible that Edward was not poisoned, after all? Could not the disease have accounted for his symptoms and the, er, discoloration?”

Val looked away and Doctor Bent reddened slightly. “No, my lady, I fear not. His symptoms were clearly those of poisoning. In fact, I think I have discovered the cause.”

He put his hand out to rummage through the papers stacked precariously on his desk. After a moment he grunted
in satisfaction. He extracted a single paper, an illustration of a flower. He handed it to me and Val came to look over my shoulder. There was a Latin inscription at the bottom of the page.

“Aconitum napellus,”
I read out. “Monkshood.”

Bent nodded. “It is the only natural poison I could find that fits both the symptoms and the method. It is absorbed through the skin, and ferociously deadly in quite a short period of time.”

“Wolfsbane,” Val murmured, peering at the tall stalk of the capped blue flower.

“I remember it,” I told him. “Do you? The werewolf stories they used to tell at the Gypsy camp.” I turned to Doctor Bent. “My father always permitted Gypsies to camp on his lands in summer. One of the old men used to tell us tales of werewolves on the nights of the full moon.”

“To what purpose?” Bent asked, smiling. “Simple campfire pleasures?”

“Hardly. His wife sold charms—little bags stuffed with flowers of wolfsbane and a silver coin for protection. As I recall she charged a fine price for them and always sold quite a few. But we always felt better for walking home with those little bags tied around our necks. Nanny always made us throw them away, of course. She was quite right to do so, I imagine, if the stuff is really absorbed through the skin. How stupid we must have been!”

Bent shrugged. “Safe enough, if the flower only was used, and it was kept in a bag. No, the greater danger by far is the root. When it is dried, the poisonous effects are greatly heightened. It can be reduced down to its most venomous components by careful preparation. Dangerous, of course, for the hands preparing it, but quite simple so long as certain elementary precautions are followed.”

“So you are saying that anyone could have done this,” I said slowly.

“I am afraid so. All it would take is a little privacy, a spirit lamp and some time. The rest of the ingredients would be perfectly innocent to procure from a chemist—a compound to dissolve the aconite into to spread it onto a sheath, and so forth. As for the monkshood itself—” he shrugged “—it grows in nearly every garden and often without.”

“But the knowledge,” I protested, “surely someone would have to have specific knowledge of deadly plants to attempt such a thing.”

“You would be surprised, my lady. Such knowledge is not hard to come by, nor particularly difficult to understand. I warrant any good herbal would give the specifics on monkshood—and nearly every household I know possesses at least one herbal.”

“Even mine,” I said ruefully.

He smiled, a bright, comely thing in his dark face. “Just so. Of course, mistakes can be made, quite easily. If our poisoner was not careful, he could have poisoned himself without difficulty. I think you must look for a cautious but audacious man. An interesting combination, I should think.”

I thought of Brisbane’s observations about poison being a woman’s weapon. “A man? Are you convinced it was a man?”

“No, I—”

There was a rustling sound from the next room and I saw Bent start a little, his eyes flicking to the barely open door. “The cat, probably after a mouse…pardon me, my lady.”

He rose and went into the adjoining room, speaking sharply. He returned a moment later, carrying a large white Persian cat. He closed the door behind them, scolding her softly. She looked up at him with wide, cool eyes the colour of seawater.

“What a lovely creature!” I exclaimed. I put out a hand to pet her, but she swiped at my glove, hooking it with a claw.

“My lady, I am sorry—she is an ill-tempered beast, and not worth her keep.”

Gently, he unhitched her paw from my hand and dumped her onto his desk where she sat, watching me, flicking her plumy tail with disdain.

“No matter, Doctor Bent. It was my own fault for attempting to pet her without asking. Cats never seem to like that, do they? No, do not be so hard on her. She must be worth her keep if she brings you mice.”

“She is an aristocrat,” he said, putting a finger out to rub her under the ears. She purred softly. “She eats better than I do and looks down her nose at the world.”

“But she is pretty, surely that is reason enough to keep her.”

She squeezed her eyes at me and I thought I might be forgiven for my initial faux pas. I glanced at Val, who had wandered off to the bookshelves again and was fingering a gruesome-looking volume on skin lesions.

“Valerius, would you wait in the carriage, please? I would like a few minutes more with Doctor Bent, nothing that touches the case, I promise.”

He replaced the book he was perusing and came forward to shake Bent’s hand. They made pleasant noises at one another, and after several attempts, I finally succeeded in getting him to leave us in privacy.

We resumed our seats and Bent fixed his attention carefully upon his cat, avoiding my eyes. He knew what I was about to ask.

“Surely, you are not concerned,” he began.

“Of course I am. How am I to know without a proper examination?”

He shook his head. “My lady, you have complained of none of the symptoms. Sir Edward, for his faults, was careful to avoid passing the contagion on to you once he knew of it.”

“That does not mean I am free of it,” I said softly. “Surely you do not expect me to take my good health for granted. I
cannot sit and wonder, waiting for the symptoms to appear, wondering if I shall go mad.”

He looked up sharply.

“Yes, I know that much,” I told him. “Edward was barely spared that. I might not be so fortunate. I must know.”

He rose suddenly. “My lady, I cannot. Not now, it grows late. I have patients I must attend to. If you are troubled, certainly Doctor Griggs must be the physician—”

“No,” I said sharply. “He knew of Edward’s disease and did not see fit to warn me. I have no trust in him.”

His warm brown eyes were sad as a spaniel’s. “I am more gratified by your trust than I can possibly express. I cannot, not today. But if you are still determined—tomorrow, perhaps. I could come to Grey House.”

I rose and extended my hand. “Thank you. I know you do not wish to do it, but I also believe that if you discover the worst, you will tell me. I have no such faith in the honesty of others.”

He nodded sadly and let me out. Neither of us was anticipating our next meeting with any pleasure, but I knew I could rely upon him and I was determined that we would keep our appointment for the following day.

But Fate, and the murderer, had other plans for me.

When men a dangerous disease did ’scape
Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape;
Let me give two, that doubly am got free
From my disease’s danger, and from thee.

—Ben Jonson
“To Doctor Empirick”

 

T
he last person I wished to see upon entering Grey House was Doctor Griggs. But there he stood, retrieving his hat and stick from Aquinas. He regarded me coolly.

“Good afternoon, your ladyship,” he said with exaggerated formality. He was marginally more cordial to Val.

I returned the greeting and flashed Val a meaningful look. He withdrew at once and I turned back to Griggs.

“Doctor, I hope you can spare me a few minutes. There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

He assented, reluctantly, I fancied, and followed me into the drawing room. It was cold. No fire had been lit, but I did not wish to receive him in the comfort of my study. It seemed an intrusion even to have him in my home now, and I hoped the chill formality of the drawing room would convey the disdain in which I held him.

I turned to face him as soon as the door shut behind us. I did not bid him to sit.

“Doctor Griggs, I shall be brief. How long have you known that my husband had syphilis?”

He blinked slowly, as a tortoise will, and gave a deep sigh, of resignation or perhaps annoyance. It was impossible to tell.

“Five years, more or less.”

“I suppose I must thank you for your honesty, if nothing else. I rather thought you might try to deny it.”

“There would be little point in that,” he said, his expression sour. He was finding this distasteful, at the very least. “Clearly you have discovered it for yourself. And your manner makes it quite apparent you have lost any ladylike scruples that would have kept you from pursuing this highly inappropriate matter.”

I lifted my chin and drew myself up as Aunt Hermia had taught me.

“Inappropriate? The question of Edward’s syphilis touches on my own health, health that you endangered by your silence.”

He opened his mouth, aghast. “But I could not tell you! Such things are private between a man and his doctor.”

“But not a man and his wife,” I said bitterly.

He cleared his throat and attempted a mollifying tone. “It was an unfortunate thing that Sir Edward contracted this disease. I did not feel it warranted distressing your ladyship by revealing it.”

“Do not, I beg you, dress your cowardice in the cloth of compassion. You kept your silence because it was the simplest thing to do. You told Edward to abandon my bed and any hope of an heir, but you never once thought what it might cost me. For him to leave my bed on the grounds of mortal illness is a thing I could have borne. For him to have left it, left
me
thinking it was because of my barrenness, was too cruel.”

“It might have cost you your life or your sanity if he had not!” Griggs returned hotly, his plump cheeks trembling with rage. “Would you have rather he kept at you, trying for a child that would surely have been diseased and infecting you in the process? For that is what would have happened, my lady. I see it was too much to think that you might appreciate my efforts on your behalf.”

We stared at each other a long moment, so far apart that we both knew the gulf could never be bridged. There was anger and bitterness and righteous indignation on both sides. Finally, I took a step backward, my hand on the doorknob.

“You may continue to treat Sir Simon until his death. After that, you will not come here again.”

He gave me a bow from the neck, coldly furious. His mouth worked, as if he wanted to say something, but resisted it. I stepped aside to let him pass. I did not want even my skirts to brush against him as he left Grey House.

After Griggs left, I sat for a long time in the dimly lit drawing room, thinking over everything I had learned that day, none of it pleasant, perhaps some of it useful. I had been dealt a number of blows, to my pride, my vanity, my smug sense that I knew those about me. I had been so secure in my certainty, and yet there had been secrets, swirling about me like fog-bound shadows the whole time, while I stumbled, blindly oblivious to it all.

But after a while I grew tired of feeling sorry for myself and I rose, intending to go and change for luncheon. At the door I collided with Desmond, his head down, looking neither right nor left. He collected himself with a shudder.

“My lady! I am so sorry—please, I was not attending.”

I brushed at the crease in my skirt. “It was nothing, Desmond. Do not trouble yourself. How is Sir Simon today? I thought to look in on him after luncheon.”

The comely face clouded a little. “Not well. Doctor Griggs was discouraged at his lack of appetite.”

“Well, I suppose that is to be expected.” I looked closely at Desmond. His own face seemed thinner to me, his eyes ringed with shadow. “Are you eating enough yourself? I daresay your rest is broken with caring for Sir Simon. Perhaps the task is too great for one person. We could engage a nurse.”

Desmond swallowed thickly. “No, my lady. I am quite well. The city air does not always agree with me.”

“Ah, yes. You are country-bred, I know. Well, we shall soon have you back in the countryside. I have spoken to his lordship and he is very happy to have you come and tend the dogs for him at Bellmont Abbey.”

Desmond bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Are you certain you don’t mind the duties? Tending the kennel is a bit of a comedown from a footman’s lot. And you won’t have any livery to lord over the rest of the staff,” I said, smiling.

He smiled back, blushing a little. “I do not mind that, my lady. I am out of my livery now, and the more comfortable for it. I look forward to tending his lordship’s dogs. I think the country is where I belong.”

“Well, it is settled, then. When your duties here with Sir Simon are concluded, I will send you down to the Abbey.”

He looked distraught for a moment, doubtless thinking of the difficult days ahead as Simon’s life drew to a close. I moved on, leaving him to his errand, and went to luncheon, making a mental note to myself to make certain that Aquinas had raised Desmond’s pay. He was working himself to death for the Greys, and the poor boy should be compensated for it.

Luncheon was dull, or perhaps I was. I had no taste for the salmon and left the fish almost untouched on my plate, picking instead at my peas. Aquinas clucked softly as he removed my uneaten food, but did not scold. We talked briefly of Desmond and other household matters, but I had little interest in any of it. I was still quite overwhelmed by all that I had learned of Edward. I was thinking of Edward, in fact, when Aquinas brought my pudding, and something else.

“A list of supplies that Desmond has drawn up at Doctor Griggs’ direction, my lady. With your approval I shall dispatch Henry after luncheon to the chemist.”

He busied himself whisking crumbs from the tablecloth while I looked over the list. “It all seems in order, I suppose.” It was written in Desmond’s simple, painstaking hand, a holdover
from his days at a village school, no doubt. His writing was plain and serviceable, meek even, nothing like Brisbane’s bold scrawl. But Brisbane’s hand would have left no margin at all, I thought with a smile, where Desmond’s had left him a good four inches for a bit of doodling. He had a fair drawing hand, but his subjects were a touch morbid—understandable, I supposed, given his current post in a dying man’s room. There was a tiny horse, plumed in funeral black, and a hideously accurate undertaker’s mute with large, sorrowful eyes. It must have taken tremendous skill to infuse the little drawing with such mournfulness, I thought, raising the paper to scrutinize it more carefully.

Aquinas set his mouth in disapproval. “I know, my lady. I already spoke to the lad about using house paper for his drawings. That is the trouble with country-bred servants. They none of them know the cost of things in town.”

“It isn’t that, Aquinas. Look at the figure of the mute. He’s obscuring something, but you can just see it, there.”

Aquinas bent swiftly, peering at the page.

He paled, as white as the table linen.

“It is a gravestone, my lady.”

I nodded. “Exactly like the one in the last note Edward received. I think I shall keep this, Aquinas.”

He came near to me. “My lady, I shall send for the police.”

“No!” I did not mean to thunder at him, but I think the silver rattled on the table. He stepped back sharply.

“As you wish, my lady.”

I rose. “This must not become public, Aquinas. I could not bear that. I will speak to him myself first.”

“My lady, you must permit me to be present when you interview him. For your own protection.”

“You may wait outside. He will not harm me.” I still do not know what made me so certain of that, but I believed it then.

I rose, having no appetite for pudding, and beckoned Aquinas to follow me out of the door and up the stairs to
Edward’s room. Once there, in those still, quiet rooms, where Edward seemed to linger, I hesitated, then gave Aquinas his instructions. He raised a brow, but did not demur. I moved across the hall and waited. After a moment, there was a soft scratch and Desmond entered. He did not look about him, but stood, staring at the floor.

“Does it make you uncomfortable, to be here? In his room?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply in his slender throat.

“My lady?”

“Do not pretend with me, Desmond.” I held out the list of supplies with its tiny testimony of his guilt. “You should never have put one of your drawings on the note you sent to threaten Sir Edward. It was foolish.”

I do not know what I had expected. Angry denials, violence, insults? Instead he crumpled inward, folding himself over like a wounded animal. He hugged himself tightly with both arms, as if to contain the pain.

“I never meant it,” he said, so softly I had to move nearer to hear him. “Not really. I meant only to frighten him, to make him see what he had done to me.”

“What had he done to you?” My voice would not go gentle. It cracked, and through the cracks, I could hear my own anger and disgust. But there was pity there, too, in spite of myself.

He shook his head angrily and scrubbed at his tearing eyes. “Oh, do not make me say it, my lady. You must know.”

I did not make him say it. I did know, and that was enough. “When did it begin?”

He took a deep, shuddering breath and his head fell back, tears slanting backward down his cheeks. “Two years back,” he said finally. “I did not wish it, but he was so kind when he wished to be. It was as if he cast a glamoury over me.”

I started at the word, so old-fashioned. But then I recalled
where Desmond came from—a tiny village, buried in the countryside. They still believed in such things, I had seen it in my own village of Blessingstoke. We even had our own white witch there. Why should Desmond not believe that Edward could ensorcell him into lovemaking against his will?

Of course, if he believed himself bewitched, it excused him from the greater crime of wanting it, I thought cynically. I looked at him carefully, from his pretty hands to his lightly-limned profile and wondered. How much force had Edward had to use? Persuasion, certainly, but force? I did not believe it.

“Why the notes? Was it really necessary to torment a dying man?”

He went all sorts of unnatural colours. White about the nostrils and fingers, red everywhere else. He wiped again at his eyes, shaking his head. “I was angry, my lady. There is no excuse for it.”

“Angry? Why, then? By your own reckoning you had been his lover for a year already. Why then?”

He gave a shudder, like a tiny convulsion of pain.

“Because it was then that I fell ill,” he said softly.

I felt my own breath leave in one sharp exhalation, as if I had been struck hard and fast in the stomach.

“You have syphilis.” It was not a question; I stated it flatly, knowing it.

He nodded. “We were not always careful about using the sheaths. Sometimes, we were overhasty together.”

If I had doubted this boy’s passion for the affair before, I did not now. He had convicted himself with a pronoun. We.

“Were you angry enough to kill him?” I asked blandly. He stared at me, as if I had suddenly begun speaking another language, a foreign tongue he had never heard.

“Kill him? My lady, I loved him. I could not raise my hand against him enough to leave this house as I should have done, as I prayed to do so many times. How could I want to kill him?”

He still had not grasped the truth, and I watched him carefully as it was borne in upon him. A paleness washed over him, and a stillness with it, of so profound a shock and despair that I knew it could not be feigned.

“My God,” he said softly. “Tell me this is a poor jest, my lady, for pity’s sake.”

“I wish that I could,” I said evenly. “But my husband is dead by another’s hand.”

He started, violently, but I raised a placating hand.

“Not yours,” I told him, holding his gaze with my own. “Not yours, you have not the stomach for it. But you must tell me this. Were you with him, as lovers, the night that he died?”

He hesitated, biting at his lip. He would have liked to refuse the question, but he knew that he could not. Finally, he nodded slowly, fresh tears coursing slowly down his cheeks.

“Half an hour before,” he said softly. “The house was in such a bother about the party, it was easy to slip away. We had not been together for months. I had missed him so.”

I remembered then what I ought to have recalled before. Desmond had been at Grey House while Edward and I wintered in Sussex, at my father’s estate. We had only been in London a few days before we planned our entertainment. There would have been little opportunity for these tempestuous lovers to have renewed their relationship. But this brought a new question.

“Why did you lie with him if you were angry enough to send those notes?”

He flinched at my plain speaking, but he answered quickly enough, smiling a little at the memory.

“I was angry before because I had just learned of my illness. I learned I had not been the only one for him. I was jealous and angry. We were parted for the winter, and my bitterness was everything to me. I sent him the notes, but smiled to his face. He never suspected I was angry with him. But when he
came back, and still wanted me—” He paused, his face rapturous. “I could not believe he had chosen me. He said we would be together, that he was finished with the others. I loved him, my lady,” he ended on a sob.