by Amy Corwin
“No.” Quinton chuckled. “That does not seem likely. You are remarkably observant, Lady Honore. Did you notice any tension between Mr. Alford and his wife?”
“There was none in Mrs. Alford—she seemed ridiculously pleased with her husband’s return. I suppose a year and a half of separation can indeed make the heart grow fonder. So, I certainly cannot imagine that Mr. Alford died of anything except the gastric distress diagnosed by Dr. Meek.” She picked up her toast again and took a small bite before turning her attention to General Whyting, who was sitting next to her and enjoying a hearty breakfast.
Her deliberate action put a swift end to Quinton’s interview, at least, and it was almost a relief to turn to the other guests.
With a slight shifting of his chair, he leaned toward Sir Horace. “If you will excuse me, Sir Horace, I would like to speak to Mr. Frethorne.”
Sir Horace sprang to his feet, his teacup sloshing in his hand. “Of course. Frethorne, if you have a moment?”
Mouth open and brows raised in surprise, Mr. Frethorne glanced up from his plate. He looked down at his remaining food, sighed and stood. “Yes.”
“The drawing room might be pleasant this time in the morning.” Sir Horace opened his arms in a wide gesture to shoo them away from the table and toward the hallway. Without waiting for an answer, he escorted Quinton and Mr. Frethorne to the room across the wide hallway.
A thin, nervous looking man of moderate height, Frethorne moved jerkily, repeatedly taking a few steps in front of Sir Horace before standing aside with a murmured apology to let his host precede him. He had unusually large hands for his size, and he was apparently aware of this because he kept thrusting them into his pockets. But they never remained hidden for long, as they soon fluttered into view again in twitching gestures.
His brown hair was already receding from the dome of his egg-shaped head, and his features were unremarkable. Despite his unprepossessing appearance, his gaze was surprisingly firm and astute, and there was a hint of stubbornness in his slit of a mouth that suggested he wasn’t as timorous as one might believe.
If Quinton imagined Lady Honore as a smug cat, he was tempted to think of Mr. Frethorne as a nervous mouse, always hugging the walls anxiously and twitching when addressed. But his sharp eyes made Quinton adjust his opinion as they entered the drawing room.
“I will leave you gentlemen,” Sir Horace announced from the doorway. “Other guests, you know.” He waved in the direction of the dining room. “Ring for Rathbone if you need anything. Or send for me.” He stared at Quinton, brows rising.
“This suits us admirably, Sir Horace. Thank you,” Quinton said. He waited a moment while his host backed out of the room and closed the wide, double door behind him.
Quinton glanced around the large room, noting that the plate was gone from the walnut chest, although the tray and decanters remained in place. Chairs, both padded and ladder-backed, sofas, and small tables were arranged in several seating areas around the large room. At one end, the comfortable sitting area in front of the fireplace still showed evidence of use in Edith’s overflowing workbasket and Sir Horace’s stacks of books.
The rest of the room, however, had a more formal air, typified by the half-columns on either side of the double doors. Tall Corinthian columns embraced the wide windows at the far end of the room, and gold leaf highlighted scenes of gods and goddesses frolicking across the ceiling twenty feet over their heads. Blue, gold, and cream colors predominated and gave the room a cozier air than might have been expected from such architectural grandeur.
After a quick look at the area by the fireplace, Quinton gestured to a group of three padded chairs near the windows. “Would you join me, Mr. Frethorne?”
Frethorne jerked his head in a quick nod and took several steps forward before stopping and glancing at Quinton. One of his large hands flapped toward the sitting area. “If you wish?” he asked, clearly expecting Quinton to move ahead of him.
If Frethorne had tried to poison Alford, those large flapping hands would never escape notice. Quinton suppressed a smile and moved past Frethorne to the selected sitting area.
Streams of sunlight cascaded over the chairs, sparkling over the curves of the gilded backs, arms, and legs. Quinton took a seat in the armchair with its back to the window, leaving Frethorne to make do with one of the other chairs.
“Will the light bother you?” Quinton asked as he waved to one of the other chairs.
Frethorne squinted and frowned. The sunshine wouldn’t be fully in his face—only one side would be illuminated—but it would certainly be hot and uncomfortable. Before Frethorne could speak, Quinton stood and pulled the drapes together sufficiently to relieve Frethorne, but still provide sufficient light to see even the most minute expression.
“Thank you, Lord Ashbourne. I was sorry to hear that your father had passed.” Genuine sympathy warmed his large eyes.
Quinton murmured a conventional reply as he seated himself. Why did everyone insist on probing that bruised, tender spot? He crossed his legs and studied Frethorne as he also took a seat, his large hands flapping over the chair’s arms.
“What did you wish to discuss?” Frethorne asked.
“I am interested in your impression of the events last night. Everyone described Mr. Alford as being remarkably healthy when he arrived, only to collapse during dinner. His illness seems to have come upon him very suddenly. Do you agree with that assessment?”
Frethorne’s gaze strayed past Quinton’s shoulder. He frowned, clearly recalling the previous evening, while his large hands moved from the chair arms to his thighs. “Yes—he did seem quite well when he arrived. In fact, I would say that he was in a very good mood, almost excited. I suppose he was pleased to be home again and could hardly wait to regale us with tales of his adventures in China and India. He traveled quite extensively and did quite well.” His nose wrinkled, and his mouth pinched in an expression of distaste, suggesting that Alford may have crossed the line between the decent, good taste of a landed gentleman and the poor taste of a merchant a few times during supper. “Jewels, you know, and a great deal of porcelain and jade.”
“And his wife? She was quite satisfied to have him home again, I assume.”
To Quinton’s surprise, Frethorne chuckled. “Yes, as well she might.”
“I beg your pardon?” Quinton’s gaze sharpened as he studied Frethorne’s amused face.
Frethorne shrugged, his big hands rubbing up and down his thighs. “You must ask one of the ladies—I am not privy to their secrets.”
“However, you believe she might be peculiarly happy at the return of her husband?”
“Oh, yes, although according to my wife, relieved might be more precise.” Frethorne leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, his right foot swinging.
Relieved? There were several reasons why a lady might be relieved at the return of her husband. Love and relief from the terrible fear that he might not have returned… He examined Frethorne more closely. Or was he suggesting something more compelling? An awkward pregnancy, perhaps?
“Have you any reason to believe Alford’s return might have been a timely one for Mrs. Alford?” Quinton asked, his mind racing after the notion that Mrs. Alford might be pregnant, like a fox chasing a rabbit through a twisting warren. It flushed all sorts of interesting ideas out of hiding.
“Rumors.” One of Frethorne’s large hands flapped in the air. “Nothing, really. I should not have spoken as I did. The poor woman is a widow now and should be treated with more charity than I have shown. I apologize and hope you will forget what I have said. I would not willingly add to her sorrow.”
Nonetheless, he had suggested it, and an unexpected pregnancy suggested a hidden lover. Quinton’s pulse raced.
He glanced around, wishing he’d brought Martha along with him, instead of leaving her in her lonely laboratory. She was so sensible, and she would be much more adept at getting to the bottom of any rumors involving such sensitive subjects. Th
e women would confide in her, where they would undoubtedly refuse to speak to him about such things.
It was interesting, though, that Frethorne did not suggest that Quinton speak to Mrs. Frethorne. No doubt he wished to protect her and regretted mentioning her at all.
Relaxing his shoulders and smiling, Quinton asked, “In your opinion, if Mr. Alford arrived in a healthy state, then his wife cannot have had an opportunity to give him any sort of injurious substance before they arrived, could she?”
“I am hardly the one to judge.” He frowned discouragingly. “I know nothing of such subjects. You must ask Dr. Meek—he was here and can give you a much more expert opinion.” His right foot swung faster as his frown deepened. “He diagnosed Alford’s death as gastric fever, and despite everything, I must agree. I do not see how Mrs. Alford could have had anything to do with her husband’s death, or why she would desire such a thing. As you say, he arrived here in an excellent state of health. I did not see her hand her husband anything to eat or drink before his collapse at supper, and the two of them were not seated near each other at the table. Why, Mrs. Alford was sitting between General Whyting and me. Alford was sitting on the opposite side of the table, between Mrs. Whyting and my wife.” He shook his head. “No. I cannot see that Mrs. Alford had the opportunity to do anything, even if she wished to do so.” He fixed his serious gaze on Quinton. “And despite the rumors, she did seem pleased to see him. If anything was amiss regarding her condition, I believe she would have been more likely to wish him to live to provide for her future.”
Unless her lover was a single gentleman who wished to marry her and provide for her future…
And the only single gentleman at the supper was Dr. Meek.
Gastric fever, indeed.
Chapter Five
The tincture of tournesol was red, and the precipitate had resolved to a reddish yellow when Martha added a hydrosulphuret. Antimony. There was no longer any doubt; Mr. Alford had died from an excess of antimony. With a touch of arsenic, too.
The murderer had wanted to be very sure of success, no doubt.
She shivered, suddenly feeling cold. Her fingers felt stiff and uncooperative as she carefully set the glass beaker on the scarred table in front of her.
If Quinton had gone to interview Sir Horace’s guests, he might as well be plunging an arm into a vase full of Cleopatra’s asps. The results might be just as dramatic. One of them had poisoned Mr. Alford. And Quinton had gone there, as unprepared as Saint George trying to face the dragon carrying a candle and clad in little more than a nightshirt and cap.
“Dorothy!” Martha called as she left her lab. “Where are you?”
“In the sitting room,” Dorothy called back as she exited the room and met Martha in the hallway. “What is it?” She glanced beyond Martha to the doorway through which she had come. Her brow wrinkled, and she sniffed. “Did something explode?” Her face cleared as a new thought gripped her. She clutched at her skirts and stepped toward the front door. “Have you set the house on fire again?”
“No, I have not,” Martha answered testily. “I have done nothing of the sort for ages. I don’t know why you insist on bringing that up. It was only that one time, and it was only a very small fire. One could barely call it that, in fact.” She waved her arm through the air. “Do you see any smoke? Smell any?”
“No, but you can’t deny that we had to redo the paint and paneling of the laboratory,” Dorothy murmured. “So the fire wasn’t quite as small as you would have us believe.”
Pressing her lips together, Martha waved her hand again, shooing away the irrelevant words. “Please pay attention, Dorothy. The laboratory is unscathed—there is no need to worry. What I must know is, do you know who Sir Horace invited to his supper the other night?”
A small, satisfied smile crossed Dorothy’s face. She straightened and smoothed her hands over her skirts, obviously pleased that Martha had had to come to her for the latest news about their neighbors. Dorothy was forever claiming that Martha paid no heed to anyone or anything that couldn’t be analyzed in her laboratory. So her question only confirmed her older sister’s assessment, much to Martha’s irritation.
She gritted her teeth and waited for a reply. Without a doubt, Dorothy would have obtained a list of the guests, either by gossiping with their charwoman or from the vicar, and she was therefore the quickest source of information.
How the gossip passed so rapidly through the village to their little house was a mystery, but somehow, it always did.
“I don’t see why you are suddenly so interested in Sir Horace, when we have forever been trying to interest you in the social affairs of our small village and its much larger neighbor, Ashford,” Dorothy said, eyeing Martha with bright eyes and the tiniest smile imaginable.
Martha’s fingers itched to pinch the gloating look off of Dorothy’s face, but she maintained her pleasant expression and twisted the sides of her skirts, instead. “Do you know, or is that your way of saying that, for once, you are completely ignorant of the doings in Ashford?”
“Oh, I know, my dear.” Dorothy laughed. “Although I cannot see why you should care. After all, it was several nights ago.”
“It was last night, and if you don’t know, then simply admit it.”
Dorothy sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, there was Sir Horace and his wife, Lady Branscombe—”
“Obviously. Who were the guests?”
“Let me see…” She pressed one finger to her lower lip and gazed up at the ceiling as if the guest list were printed between the beams. “Dr. Meek, of course.”
“Yes.” Martha’s jaws ached from clamping her teeth together. “He’s the only single man—”
“Other than Lord Ashbourne,” Dorothy corrected her helpfully, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Who else?”
“The Alfords, the Frethornes, the Trussells, and the Whytings,” Dorothy answered promptly, proving that she knew exactly who had been visiting Sir Horace. “Oh, and Lady Honore. I nearly forgot her.”
“Lady Honore?” Martha echoed.
“Yes. I believe that is the entire list. Not very many, but a small, select company, to be sure.”
Martha barely heard her sister’s comment. Lady Honore? That viper? No wonder she had imagined Quinton sticking his hand in a vase of asps—Lady Honore was closer to a venomous reptile than anyone else Martha knew. The rest of Sir Horace’s guests seemed positively benign by comparison.
And poor Quinton had walked right into that asp’s coil.
Oh, Martha was well aware that Lady Honore appeared to have gracefully resigned from the marriage mart and seemed to anticipate with pleasure spending the rest of her life as a wealthy widow. People could be fooled so easily. Martha had only met her once before, but that had been sufficient to recognize the calculation in the lady’s amber eyes.
Lady Honore was simply biding her time. Most likely, waiting for an impoverished—but titled—man to walk into her trap. All she desired was a peer who was desperate enough to see her fortune as his salvation. Unfortunately for him, once he married her, he’d find himself forever in her debt, pleading for any money she might graciously grant him to restore whatever pitiful estate he’d inherited.
She didn’t want a helpmate; she wanted a serf she could command; a man who would do her bidding.
And Quinton was just blind enough to walk into her trap.
Poor Quinton. Poor, stubborn Quinton. Maybe not so poor, after all… A smile tugged at the corners of Martha’s mouth.
Warmth filled her as an endearing image of her childhood friend rose within her; his coat torn, mud streaking his cheek, his hair standing on end, and his green eyes brilliant with laughter after stealing the last few, withered apples from Farmer Cavell’s favorite tree. Quinton had certainly been a scamp as a child and went his own way regardless of the dangers involved. No one could doubt his resolve or courage.
Despite her worries, she could just imagine the surprised look on
Lady Honore’s beautiful face the first time she tried to rule over Quinton.
He might be too honest for his own good and get himself involved too easily in affairs he should more properly ignore, but Martha knew to her chagrin that he could also be as stubborn as a mule and impossible to control. She had certainly tried—and failed—enough times when they were children.
If he wanted to do something, then he would do it. All Martha had ever been able to do was try to render the results a little less disastrous.
And right now, he was wandering around making inquiries into yet another matter that he should have nothing to do with. Murder had been done, and it was far too serious for his dilettante dabbling.
“Whatever is the matter with you, Martha?” Dorothy asked, hands on hips. She gave an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “I do not understand you at all. Why are you so interested in Sir Horace’s guests, now?”
Grabbing her shawl, bonnet, and gloves, Martha shrugged. “Quinton—Lord Ashbourne—asked about the supper.”
“Well, he was invited, was he not? And I fail to see why he should have asked you about it. It is not as if we were routinely guests of Sir Horace’s.”
She flicked a glance at her sister as she pulled on her gloves. “I haven’t the slightest notion why he asked. It doesn’t matter—I was simply curious. You’ll have to excuse me, I have an errand I must run.”
“You cannot run after him, Martha! I will not allow it.” Dorothy grabbed her sister’s forearm. “You are making a fool of yourself!”
“Did I say I was going to see Lord Ashbourne?” Martha shook her hand off and pulled open the front door. “I simply have an errand, and I will be back soon.”