The Perfect Poison (33 page)

“What the devil is that?” he asked.

“Gymnogramma triangularis,” she said, not looking up. “Gold fern.”

“Not the fern, the instrument you are using to examine it. Looks like a little spyglass.”

“It’s a folding brass linen prover. Those in the cloth trade use such devices to count the number of threads in a square of cloth. Very handy for looking at fern spores. One can carry it around in a pocket. Mr. Marcus E. Jones recommends it highly in his book Ferns of the West.”

He smiled. “Is that so?”

She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I wonder if he is a relation of yours?”

“Marcus E. Jones? I don’t think so.”

“Pity,” she said. “He is a very well-respected pteridologist, you know.”

“Jones is a common name.”

“Yes,” she said, “it is. So common, in fact, that a firm that specializes in a field as unusual as psychical investigations might want a more striking name than, say, Jones and Company.”

“I disagree. The name, as it stands, provides a degree of anonymity that I think will prove very useful in the future.”

“Hmm.” She went back to peering through her glass again. “Any news on Hulsey?”

“Nothing, damn it. He and his son have disappeared. They’ll no doubt be looking for new patrons soon.”

“Not if word gets out that they poisoned their last financial backers.”

“With luck, it won’t. I told Gabe about the poison that was given to Thaxter and Norcross but he has decided not to inform the Council. He’s convinced there are other highly placed members of the Society who are involved in the Cabal. Doesn’t want to warn them that Hulsey might be a somewhat unreliable employee.”

“So the case of the poisoned formula becomes yet another deep, dark agency secret?”

“At this rate it is going to be difficult to keep an account of all the secrets of the Jones agency.”

Lucinda paused again, the little glass poised in midair. “Hmm.”

“What?” he asked.

“I wonder if Dr. Hulsey and his son are using the formula.”

“Good question. I’ve got one, myself.”

“Yes?” she prompted.

“I keep thinking about the third snuffbox.”

“What do you mean? Thaxter must have given it to Hulsey. He will have absconded with it even if he wasn’t using it to keep a supply of the drug. After all, it was quite valuable, and Hulsey appears to be always in need of money.”

“Maybe,” Caleb said.

She beetled her brows. “You never say maybe, Caleb Jones. When it comes to assessing possibilities and probabilities, you always give numerical answers.”

“Sometimes.”

She cast her eyes up toward the roof of the conservatory in a silent plea for patience. “Well then, do you think Hulsey and his son have left London?”

“I’m almost ninety-nine percent certain that if they have left, it will be a temporary hiatus.”

“Why temporary?”

“It would be difficult to find the kind of patrons they require in the wilds of Scotland or Wales. The problem is that the Jones agency isn’t a police force, damn it. I don’t have hundreds of agents to send out to scour the streets, let alone the countryside. And it is not as though I don’t have other cases to see to. Got a new one this morning, in fact.”

She looked up quickly, her eyes bright with interest. “Does it involve poison?”

Her enthusiasm was gratifying.

“I’m afraid not. Evidently someone endowed with a fair degree of talent is posing as a medium.”

“What is so unusual about that? There must be several thousand people posing as mediums in London these days. They’re all frauds.”

“This one actually possesses some talent.”

Lucinda gave a ladylike sniff. “Well, she certainly isn’t using it to contact spirits in the Other World. That is quite impossible. Anyone who claims to speak with the dead is an out-and-out charlatan.”

“Apparently this medium is supplying her own ghosts.”

“What do you mean?”

“The client is convinced that the medium murdered one of the members of her séance group. The victim is certainly dead, so I agreed to look into the situation.”

Lucinda pocketed the little glass and looked at him. “You don’t have time to investigate every case personally, Caleb Jones. You are going to have to learn how to delegate. In addition, we really must build up a roster of agents who can be brought in to assist in various investigations.”

He looked at her.

“We?” he repeated carefully.

“I’ve decided to accept your offer of a partnership.” She smiled serenely. “Provided, of course, that my name will also go on the firm’s cards.”

“If you think for one minute I’m going to order a supply of calling cards with Bromley and Jones imprinted on each one—”

“Oh, very well.” She held up a hand, palm out in surrender. “I’m willing to compromise. I’ll accept Jones and Bromley but, really, Caleb, that just doesn’t sound right. Admit it.”

“No,” he said. “It sure as hell doesn’t.”

“And neither does Jones and Company.”

“Damn it, Lucinda—”

A movement in the doorway made him look around. Victoria stood in the opening. She had a very determined look about her.

“Victoria,” he said. “A pleasure to see you today. But why have I suddenly been overcome with a sense of dark foreboding?”

“Very likely because you have psychical talents, sir.” Victoria walked into the conservatory. She looked around, her expression lightening. “This is the first time I’ve been in here. I must say, the atmosphere is quite refreshing.”

“Thank you,” Lucinda said. “I take it you are here to speak with Caleb. I will leave so that you may have some privacy.”

“No need.” Victoria paused to admire a large cluster of ferns. “As it happens, I would appreciate your assistance in this conversation.”

Caleb watched her warily. “What is it you want me to do, Victoria?”

She turned away from the ferns. “I want you to find Mr. Fletcher a permanent position within the Society.”

“He’s already a member.”

“You know very well that is not what I mean. He requires a steady, respectable income.”

“Why?” Caleb asked.

“Because he is going to marry quite soon.”

Later that day Lucinda sat with Victoria in the library, drinking tea.

“I am making plans to introduce Mr. Fletcher to Patricia’s parents in about a week’s time,” Victoria said. “I will have everything well in hand by then.”

“How will you explain Mr. Fletcher’s past to the McDaniels?” Lucinda asked with great interest.

“There is really very little to explain when one comes to the heart of the matter. Mr. Fletcher is a very talented gentleman, an orphan from a good family. He was born into the Arcane Society, of course, as was Patricia. For some time now he has been conducting clandestine investigations on behalf of the Council. Very hush-hush. The Master considers him invaluable.”

“You make him sound like an agent of the Crown.”

“Well, it is all true. I won’t go into detail concerning his previous experience in the field.” Victoria raised her cup. “I strongly advised Patricia and Mr. Fletcher not to mention such details, either.”

“I’m sure they won’t.”

“I will also make it clear that Mr. Fletcher has been received in the homes of certain distinguished members of the Jones family.”

“In other words, Mr. Fletcher has connections.”

“At very high levels,” Victoria added smoothly. “That should erase any lingering doubts the McDaniels might have concerning his respectability.”

“Brilliant work, madam. Absolutely brilliant. I am very impressed.”

Victoria allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. “I did tell you these things have a way of working out.”

Lucinda picked up her cup. “Things did not work out by themselves. You are the one who is orchestrating the happy ending for my cousin and Mr. Fletcher.”

“Well, one could hardly stand by and allow two young people to come to grief simply because the parents didn’t approve of the marriage.”

“You know as well as I do that a vast number of people would have had no problem doing precisely that. Most would consider other priorities such as social rank, inheritances and income to be far more important.”

“Yes, well, I think I do have a certain talent for finessing those sorts of issues.”

“Indeed,” Lucinda said, filled with admiration. “It is always a pleasure to watch an expert at work.”

“The final touch, of course, will come when I inform the McDaniels that the Master and the Council consider Mr. Fletcher’s talent to be of such critical importance that he has been appointed to head the new Bureau of Museum Security, which will be under the auspices of the Jones agency.”

“That should go far to reassure the McDaniels that Mr. Fletcher has an income of his own and is not marrying their daughter for her money.”

“I must admit that I had Caleb’s help on that last bit.” Victoria arched a brow. “And yours, as well, I believe.”

“I assure you it was not difficult to talk Caleb into creating the Bureau of Museum Security. He is starting to realize that if it is to accomplish its mission, the Jones agency will require extensive resources and a number of consultants and agents. He cannot continue to oversee every investigation by himself.”

“Indeed.” Victoria took a delicate sip of tea and looked at Lucinda over the rim of the cup. “Now that I’ve finished with Patricia and Mr. Fletcher, what about you and Mr. Jones?”

“What of us?”

“Come now, Lucinda. You know as well as I do that you and Caleb belong together.”

Lucinda blushed. “How odd that you should mention that. As it happens, I agree. Mr. Jones, however, is still coming to his senses.”

“I see.”

“Until he does, you will be interested to learn that I am to become a full partner in the Jones agency.”

“Good Lord,” Victoria said.

“The firm will henceforth be known as Bromley and Jones. Or, perhaps, Jones and Bromley. We have not come to an agreement on the matter of the name.”

Victoria was dumbfounded.

“Good Lord,” she said again. “Either way, I cannot imagine Caleb Jones agreeing to change the name of his firm.”

Lucinda smiled. “Neither can I.”

“It was very kind of you to call on me today, Miss Bromley,” Ira Ellerbeck said.

“I came as soon as I got your message,” Lucinda said. “I was so very sorry to learn of your grave illness, sir.”

They were seated in the oppressive shadows of Ellerbeck’s large library. All but one of the high Palladian windows was covered with heavy, blue velvet curtains, effectively shutting out most of the early afternoon sunlight. A pot of tea had been brought in shortly after Lucinda arrived.

“I appreciate your concern,” Ellerbeck said. He sat behind his desk, as though he needed the large piece of furniture to support him. He sipped his tea and lowered the cup. “I confess I have not been up to receiving visitors in recent months but I fear the end is not far off now. I wanted to say farewell to some of my closest friends and associates.”

“I am honored that you included me, sir.”

“I could hardly overlook the daughter of a man who was one of my dearest acquaintances. In spite of what happened, I want you to know that I always respected your father.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I confess that, in addition to wanting to say goodbye, I asked you here today in hopes of obtaining your advice. The doctors have told me that there is nothing more that can be done. Indeed, my own talent confirms that opinion. I do not expect a cure, of course.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Although you and I share similar talents, there are some distinct differences. It occurred to me that you might be able to suggest some therapeutic herb or plant that might alleviate the pain.”

“I will do my best. Please describe your symptoms.”

“They are both psychical and physical. My senses are failing quickly, Miss Bromley. They have become erratic and unreliable. I suffer from terrifying hallucinations and disturbing dreams. My nerves are shattered. In addition, I am experiencing severe headaches.”

“I assume you have tried morphine or some other opium concoction?”

“Bah. You know how it is when it comes to the milk of the poppy. The quantity required to bring relief from the physical symptoms puts me into a deep sleep.” He grimaced. “That is when the dreams come. I do not wish to end my life in a nightmare. I am seeking an alternative.”

She glanced down at the satchel that she had placed on the carpet near her feet. Then she raised her eyes to meet his again. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I have anything that will be effective in easing your particular symptoms.”

“I was afraid of that. Well, it was worth a try.”

“May I pour you another cup of tea?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“Thank you, my dear. Forgive me for not rising. I find myself quite exhausted today.”

“Please don’t concern yourself.” She crossed to the desk, picked up his cup and saucer and carried it back to the tea tray. “Do you have any notion of what brought on your unusual illness? Was it preceded by a severe fever or an infection of some kind?”

“No. The first symptoms appeared several months ago but I was able to keep them somewhat under control for a time. Gradually they have worsened, however. The doctors are at a loss and so am I. But enough of such depressing conversation, my dear. One hears that you have become a close friend of Mr. Caleb Jones.”

She carried the cup and saucer back to the desk. “The fact that you have been housebound has obviously not kept you from hearing the latest news.”

“Gossip has a way of filtering in everywhere, does it not?”

She returned to her chair, sat down and picked up her own cup. “Indeed it does.”

“Dare I presume on my old friendship with your father to ask if Mr. Jones has honorable intentions?”

“Mr. Jones is a very honorable man,” she said politely.

Ellerbeck’s mouth tightened. He appeared to hesitate. Then he heaved a deep sigh. “Forgive me, my dear, but if you are entertaining a marriage offer from Jones, I feel I must bring up a very unpleasant subject.”

“What is that, sir?”

“There have been rumors over the years that there is a streak of instability on the Jones’s side of the family.”