The Tainted Snuff Box (10 page)

Several people glanced in Petersham’s direction.

The Prince of Wales began to sob into his hands.  “Someone tried to kill me.  God help us.  Maria, Maria, I need Maria.  Oh, God, I could be the one dead.”

I rose and helped him to his feet.  “Come, sir, I shall see you to your chamber.  Word will be sent to Mrs. Fitzherbert.  Her current illness is not contagious, is it?”  I inquired more to take his mind away from Sir Simon than anything.

“No, no a mere disorder of the stomach.  Send for her, Brummell, do.  Oh, how my pulse gallops,” the Prince moaned.

I had never seen him so agitated.

I looked toward Doctor Pitcairn.  “Perhaps it would be best for you to see to the Prince.  I shall send for Mrs. Fitzherbert and the magistrate as well, and then join you.”

Doctor Pitcairn nodded his agreement to the plan.

“Not that fool Kearley,” the Prince protested weakly.  He leaned against me, and I supported his weight.  “Jack Townsend.  I want Jack Townsend here.  He’s the principal officer in the Bow Street Police Office in London and handles all matters relating to the royal family.  Send for him.  And no one is to leave Brighton,” he ended, his gaze resting for the briefest of moments on Lord Petersham.

“You may rely upon me, sir,” I assured him.

“Can I?” the Prince regarded me dubiously.  He waved a plump hand to encompass the room, complete with dead body.  He cut me a desperate look before Doctor Pitcairn led him away, followed by a retinue of footmen.

I felt the sinking sensation of despair.  Did the Prince of Wales think I could have prevented what happened here tonight?  Worse, did he think Petersham responsible?

* * * *

Despite the Prince’s request for Jack Townsend, Mr. Kearley had to be informed of the assassination attempt.  After all, it was a six-or-seven hour ride to London.  Mr. Townsend could not be expected to arrive until one or two the following afternoon.  We could not wait that long for an official to take a report on Sir Simon’s death.

I gave orders for one footman to run to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s and another to Mr. Kearley’s.  This done, I turned to the gentlemen.  “We should join the ladies and break the news.”

Everyone rose stiffly, averting their eyes from where Sir Simon lay slumped over the table.  The baronet’s two burly footmen were standing over his body, grim-faced.

“You must watch over your master until the magistrate arrives.  Do not move him,” I told them.  Then, motioning to one of the Prince’s footmen, I said, “Remain here.  See that nothing in this room is touched, especially that snuff box,” I directed, pointing at the box, open and lying on its side on the Persian carpet. 

“What about my snuff box, Brummell?  You can’t expect me to leave it abandoned on the floor,” Petersham complained.

I took him by the arm and spoke in a low voice.  “You had best not say another word about that snuff box.  Do you not see that people will think it was the snuff that was poisoned?”

Petersham looked at me as if I had sprouted another head.  “Fiddle-faddle!  Why would they think that?”

Making sure to keep my voice as soft as possible I said, “Because it is the most plausible explanation.  The snuff is the only thing that Sir Simon was alone in consuming.  All the food and drink was shared amongst us.”

“But I mixed the snuff myself,” Petersham said, obviously bewildered.

Struggling for composure I said, “I know.  So does everyone else for you said it was a new, special blend the Prince must be the first to try.”

A sudden thought occurred to me.  Could Petersham have unknowingly mixed a poisonous blend?  I needed to speak with Doctor Pitcairn to find out if that was possible.

“If there was poison in that snuff, someone else put it in there.  At any rate, who would want to poison my snuff?” Petersham said incredulously.  “I don’t have any enemies.  Takes too much effort to make people angry.”

“The poison was meant for the Prince, not you, my friend.”

“Oh,” Petersham replied.  “That makes more sense.”

I heaved a sigh.  It was clear the viscount felt no responsibility for the tainted snuff and could not see how others might think differently.

Before I could say more, Lord Munro placed a possessive hand on Petersham’s sleeve.  “Charles, let us go into the Saloon and have another drink.  We can collect the snuff box later.”  He shot an accusatory glare in my direction before leaving the room, Petersham in tow, as if I were somehow at fault for the evening’s events.  Sometimes I cannot help but associate the phrase “devil’s spawn” with Lord Munro.

On my way down the Long Gallery to find Freddie and tell her what had happened, my pace suddenly slowed.  Petersham’s denial that anyone would want to poison him rang in my head.  Could it be that the poisoned snuff was indeed intended for Petersham?  I discarded the idea almost instantly.  The viscount was correct, in that he possessed not a single enemy.

I recalled that the snuff box had remained unattended on the sideboard, prominently displayed on top of the epergne.  Assuming Petersham had tried the snuff before putting the box into his pocket and coming to the dining room—and I would have to ask him if he had done so—then the killer would have had to have added the poison sometime afterwards. 

I thought back over the evening.  Petersham had placed the box on the sideboard while everyone was already seated at the table.  Everyone had remained seated while the ladies were present, but once the ladies had withdrawn to the Saloon, the gentlemen had moved freely about the room.  Any of them could have slipped a poison into the snuff box at that time. 

Including Arthur Ainsley. 

I remembered how last night Petersham had declared that the Prince would be the first to try his new snuff.  Several people heard him say so, including the resentful Arthur Ainsley.

Then, just before we ate, Petersham had again announced that his new blend was ready for the Prince to try.  If the killer had been biding his time, carrying a snug little vial of a poisonous powder, waiting for an opportunity to poison the Prince, what better chance would he have than to place the poison in the snuff?

Questions swirled in my head as I entered the circular Saloon.

Victor Tallarico sat on a small settee with a distraught Lady Bessborough.  The Italian held a vinaigrette in one hand, offering it to the lady.  She nodded gratefully, and he waved the tiny silver box under her nose, then handed her a glass of wine.  Obviously, it did not matter that Lady Bessborough possessed a daughter, Caroline Lamb, not much younger than Signor Tallarico.  He could charm a lady of any age.

Across the room, Petersham and Munro huddled together downing a bottle of Madeira and admiring an ormolu-and-porcelain clock.

Arthur Ainsley stood alone brooding by the fireplace.

This presented me with a good opportunity to question him, but the sight of Freddie, ashen-faced and surrounded by Lord and Lady Perry and Lord St. Clair caused me to temporarily abandon any thoughts of speaking with Mr. Ainsley.  I surmised Lady St. Clair had taken her daughters to their rooms.

“Two deaths in one day.  If this continues, Brighton shall have only sea-gulls for visitors,” I said wryly.  Managing to position myself next to Freddie, I gazed reassuringly at her.  She favored me with a warm look, but I could tell she was concerned for her brother-in-law.

“Unrelated though the deaths were, they are both tragic,” Lady Perry said.  Lord Perry had a supportive arm about her waist.  I would wager he did not share his wife’s view where Sir Simon’s death was concerned.  But then, she did not know of the baronet’s ugly remarks about her nor about her husband’s subsequent challenge.

Lord St. Clair looked skeptical.  “With all due respect for Doctor Pitcairn, I wonder if he is mistaken about this being a case of poisoning.  Sir Simon was a fine fellow, doing his best to serve his country and such, but he did have a great fondness for rich food.  Mr. Brummell, I cannot help but think your initial assessment of a heart seizure might be accurate.”

“If it was Sir Simon’s heart, the Prince would certainly be easier in his mind,” I said.  “Rest assured, my lord, I intend to question Doctor Pitcairn and find out how he knows it was poison.”

“Speaking of rest, I am taking Lady Perry home,” Lord Perry announced.

“Anthony, I am quite well.  If I might just sit down,” she said, brushing a curl from her eye.  Her hand lingered at her temple to rub it lightly.

  “We shall see you in the morning.  If Mr. Kearley wants to question anyone tonight, give him my direction, Brummell.”  Perry firmly led his wife away amongst murmured wishes for a good night.

“If you will excuse us, Lord St. Clair,” I said.  “I must go to the Prince.  I am persuaded the Duchess of York would like to accompany me.”

Lord St. Clair bowed to Freddie.  “Of course.”  He turned and went to join Arthur Ainsley. 

I looked at Freddie.  “Have I done right?  You do wish to see the Prince?”

“Exactly so, dear,” Freddie replied.  “I do not know how it is sometimes that you are able to see the thoughts in my mind.  Let us go to his chamber at once.”

She took my arm, and I led the way, feeling an absurd sense of satisfaction at Freddie’s words.  But now was not the time to indulge in such thoughts.

Double the previous number of guards stood outside the Prince’s bedchamber.  Inside, more armed guards were ready to defend the Heir Apparent.

We found the Prince, attended by Doctor Pitcairn, propped up in bed on half a dozen pillows and clad in a paisley dressing gown.  The bed, which one could only reach by climbing a few steps, was hung with green silk, with a green-and-white checked silk lining.

    Mrs. Fitzherbert, a beautiful woman with brown eyes and a rose complexion, sat in a chair by the side of the bed, holding the royal hand.  Doctor Pitcairn had the other, taking the Prince’s pulse.  At our entrance, Mrs. Fitzherbert stood and dropped a deep curtsey for Freddie.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fitzherbert.  How kind of you to leave your own sickbed to give the Prince comfort,” I said and bowed, observing out of the corner of my eye that Freddie gave

Mrs. Fitzherbert a curt nod.  The Prince’s “marriage” to Mrs. Fitzherbert is not acknowledged by the royal family, of which Freddie is a member.  Freddie is too kind a person to cut Mrs. Fitzherbert, as some other members of the royal family do.  Personally, while I cannot condone the Prince having two “wives,” I believe Mrs. Fitzherbert has a good influence on Prinny, reining in some of his wilder impulses.  God knows, someone must.

Mrs. Fitzherbert gazed fondly at the Prince.  “I came at once, of course.”

Freddie addressed the Prince.  “I am told you have sent for Jack Townsend.  He will help, I am sure.”

“Thank you, Frederica.  I only hope you are right,” Prinny said.

“This has been a terrible night.  To think someone here at the Pavilion would wish the Prince of Wales harm.  It is beyond all reason,” Mrs. Fitzherbert said, indignation in every word.

“If it were not for Sir Simon, I would be the one dead,” the Prince reiterated, groaning.  Mrs. Fitzherbert glanced at him sympathetically and patted his hand.

Here was my cue.  “Doctor Pitcairn, I cannot help but admire the rapid way you concluded Sir Simon had been poisoned.  How did you do it?”

Doctor Pitcairn released the Prince’s hand.  “Your pulse is returning to normal, your Royal Highness.”  The respected doctor looked at me then gathered instruments into his bag.  “As to the poison, in my opinion, it was Prussic acid.  A distinct odor of bitter almonds, combined with the blueness of Sir Simon’s mouth and the speed with which the death occurred, leaves me in no doubt.” 

So much for a heart seizure.  Or an accident.

“Oh, do stop speaking of it,” the Prince cried.  “What shall I do now that there is a killer at the Pavilion?  How can I leave my room?  How shall I eat without Sir Simon testing my food?”

Mrs. Fitzherbert dipped a lace handkerchief in a bowl of water and tenderly stroked Prinny’s brow.

Freddie looked at me.  In a low voice, she said, “George, what can be done?  Will the Prince be safe here?”

“He has enough guards.  He can appoint one of them to be food taster,” I responded.  “I barely know Jack Townsend, but—”

“What are you saying, Brummell?” the Prince demanded.  “Do you know something?  After all, it was your friend Petersham’s snuff which caused all this.”

Everyone in the room was suddenly very still.

Suspicion fell on Petersham, just as I had feared it would.

“Sir,” I said earnestly, “I know for a certainty that Lord Petersham could have had nothing to do with this.  He and I have been friends for years.  He is simply not capable, nor would he have reason to harm you.  He is your friend as well as mine.”

The Prince sat in his bed, looking as miserable as a child with a putrid throat, kept indoors on a fine day.  “Friend or no, it was his snuff box and his snuff.  I don’t know whom to trust.  These past days have made me doubt my own judgment.  I don’t know if even Jack Townsend’s skills will be enough to get to the bottom of this.”  Prinny began to cry.

Mrs. Fitzherbert soothed him.

Freddie stood beside me, looking up at me with her china-blue eyes.  You may call me silly, but I believed she was waiting for me to offer my help.  Indeed, I felt she expected it of me.

And I confess, I was feeling a bit puffed up with my own consequence after having recently solved another case of murder.  The process had not been easy, but perhaps I could do it again.

And there was Petersham to think of.

I cleared my throat.  “Sir, I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that I shall find out what is going on.  I shall do everything in my power to uncover the killer.”

Freddie gazed at me approvingly.

The Prince’s tears ceased, and he fixed me with an unwavering glare.  “No matter who he is?”

“No matter who he is,” I promised.

Considering what happened in the ensuing days, I have to wonder if standing in front of a fire-breathing dragon might not have been a better course of action.