by Jess Faraday
That shut my mouth. Circumstances had never forced me to lie outright about my situation, but I was something of a master of conversational deflection.
He laughed gently, sending a warm shiver up my spine. “Arabella's no competition for you, Simon. In fact, I think you'd like her. Perhaps I'll introduce you one day.” He raised a devilish eyebrow. “It'd drive her parents apoplectic.” He fell serious again. “That is if you’re still in Edinburgh.”
“Do you want me to stay?” I asked.
He remained silent for a bit too long. Then he said, “I want you to do as you please.”
“But—”
He sighed, then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. When he spoke again, his tone had a forced lightness.
“This is all much too serious for me. Perhaps we should pull back a bit, keep things friendly. Don't you agree?”
No, I did not agree. Something important was happening, and I didn't want him to leave before I understood what it was. At the same time, I didn’t want to drive him away with whatever awkward, inappropriate thing I might accidentally say.
“Cal—”
“But there’s no reason to stop having fun,” he said in that same strange tone. “At least for now. What do you say, copper? Up for another round?”
We did attempt another round, and it was fun, though neither of us had the heart, nor the energy for more than a grope. He left for his room shortly after that, and had set out for Edinburgh before I rolled out of bed the next morning, sapped, sated, and sore to the bone. At least the walk back to town, through the light film of already-melting snow, would give me time to think.
Cal had indicated that Alexander would be happy to stick a dagger into Warwick. At the same time, the younger Fraser had made it very clear that he didn’t want his brother sent down for indecency. He was confident, apparently, that the police wouldn’t pursue the matter without his say-so. On a personal note, he’d told me that he wasn’t bothered by the company his brother kept, so long as it didn’t threaten the family’s reputation. Was it true?
For Warwick’s part, despite his overbearing and aggressive manner toward me, he seemed a caring friend to Richard, and Richard certainly thought he’d hung the moon. Cal, who had a better social sense than anyone I’d ever met, liked Warwick and thought the two were well-matched.
At the same time, Warwick had been noticeably attentive to Richard’s glass that night. And whatever anyone else might have thought, I knew what I’d seen, and I was convinced whatever was in that glass was to blame for the young laird’s current state.
And one mustn’t forget that Warwick was a probate solicitor of some note. Was there a financial angle to all of this?
Finally, there was the fact that Alexander had instructed his staff, against my orders, to clear the table. What did it all mean?
The police surgeon was thankfully in his basement rooms when I arrived, and I delivered the laird’s glass to him first thing. He took down the pertinent information and promised to analyze what he could, then deliver the results to Inspector McClelland.
“Is that all, then, Constable?” the surgeon asked.
“Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about epilepsy. It’s to do with the case.”
“As it happens, I’ve been doing some reading on that subject. Do you have a few moments?” I assured him that I did. “Excellent. Please, sit down.”
The police surgeon turned out to be very well informed indeed. Epilepsy, he said, had been with humanity at least as long as recorded history, probably longer. Throughout much of that history, many had associated the seizures with supernatural activity—demon possession, witches, and so on. The fact that numerous people reported experiencing psychic phenomena before a seizure no doubt contributed to this belief. The current thinking was that the seizures were caused by unusual electrical activity in the brain. Some believed that this electrical activity was the result of hysteria or sexual excess. However, according to the police surgeon, current leaders in the medical field sensibly considered it a purely physical disease.
“Is there a treatment?” I asked.
“Potassium bromide. It’s quite effective, though some find the side effects to be bothersome. Still, it greatly reduces seizure activity in most patients, allowing them to a more or less normal life.”
“Is that the only treatment?”
“Well….” He frowned. “There are more than a few epilepsy patients wrongfully confined in asylums. It happens less often, now, but it still happens, particularly among the indigent. There are also some experimental colonies in Europe and America where patients can live in safety, learn a trade, and become self-sufficient.”
“But still confined,” I said.
“Protected, not confined. Residence is, to my knowledge, voluntary.”
All the same, I thought, it would be difficult to run a large Scottish estate from an isolated facility in Europe or America. This led me to a second train of thought regarding the laird’s seizures. I didn’t like what those thoughts said, either about the case itself, or about how I’d been approaching it.
“Are there any substances that might bring on a seizure?” I asked, my thoughts once again returning to the young laird’s glass and Warwick’s unusual attention to it.
The doctor nodded. “Alcohol can exacerbate the condition. Ironically, some patients try to medicate themselves with drink, mistakenly believing that its calming effects will suppress the seizures.”
Which was exactly what Warwick had said. Had I been mistaken about the contents of the laird’s glass? Was it possible that Warwick had thought he’d been acting in his friend’s best interest? Or had Warwick been goading the young laird to drink, in order to provoke a dramatic seizure for the seance?
I thanked the surgeon and left with a head full of questions, but also with a few new thoughts. First, I wanted to speak to Richard Fraser. I needed to know whether he had a formal diagnosis, and whether he was receiving treatment. Given his unresponsive state when I'd left Comiston House, that might not be possible. But perhaps Dr. Cumberland, the family physician, could enlighten me.
Or perhaps not. By his own admission, Cumberland hadn’t kept up with new developments in medicine. On top of that, he disdained today’s progressive trends toward compassionate medicine as an unnecessary indulgence.
Cal had said that Cumberland believed the seizures were the result of “coddling unnatural appetites.” Combined with what the police surgeon had said about the needless institutionalization of epileptics, it cast that conversation in a decidedly more sinister light. I had to wonder whether Cumberland had considered confining the new laird in an asylum. God knew, plenty of men—and women—found themselves in asylums for inconvenient behaviors. Might Cumberland, who believed modern medicine to be too soft on things that needed a firm hand, recommend such a thing?
Worse, could Alexander Fraser have been planning it? After all, the person to benefit most from Richard being declared unfit would be him.
I needed to re-interview Warwick, too, but not until the results of the analysis were in. But to do any of this, I needed permission from Inspector McClelland. It was his case, and he’d dismissed me, soundly. Unfortunately, the inspector wouldn’t be in until the end of my shift.
It wasn’t yet ten o’clock. Given that yesterday I’d worked all day and a good part of the night, the Chief Inspector might have been persuaded to let me take the morning off. But I’d probably have spent it pacing the common room at the section house, rather than pacing the hallway of the station. Sighing, I went back to the main hall.
“Now there’s a fine suit,” my friend Drummond said as I walked inside.
The way he narrowed his eyes over his beak of a nose suggested it wasn’t exactly a compliment. I looked down. In all the excitement, I’d left Comiston House still wearing the old laird’s clothes. Constable Jimmy Drummond was a Scotsman of origins equally humble and proud, and he wasn’t above pointing out in his tr
enchant way that I’d as much business in Harris Tweed as he did.
“Ye sleep in it?” he finished.
“And there it is,” I said. Drummond laughed, and the shaggy pony of a dog at his side let out an excited bark. “That’s enough out of you,” I told the beast. To Drummond I said, “He looks bigger every time I see him. What’ve you been feeding him?”
“Nothing but the best for this one, ain’t that right, lad?”
I wasn’t fond of dogs, but Drummond’s hound was the reason I’d come to Edinburgh, so it would have been churlish of me not to make an exception.
“As it should be,” I said. “Is Steward in?”
Drummond nodded toward the Chief Inspector’s open door. Venturing a pat on the dog’s silky flank, I made my way over to his office.
“Pearce,” he said, gesturing for me to enter. “Had quite a night last night, from what I read.” McClelland’s report sat on top of the stack of papers on his desk. “The inspector was impressed with yer work. So Mr. Fraser’s suspicions about his brother’s friend were correct?”
“Actually….” I drew a deep breath and told him what I’d learned since leaving Comiston House. I told him about the glass, about my conversation with the police surgeon, and my two diverging trains of thought regarding what it all might mean for the Most Honored Richard Fraser of Comiston.
“With your permission, I’d like to interview Warwick again in light of this new knowledge, and both brothers, as well, and the doctor—”
Steward raised a hand and I fell silent. “You’ll have to speak to Inspector McClelland about all that, lad. They arrested Mr. Warwick for attempted murder last night, so you’ll be needin’ the inspector’s permission. Nice work with the wine glass, though.”
I clenched my teeth in frustration, but held my peace. He was right, I reminded myself. He was right, and even if I didn’t like his answer, the answer was fair.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
The lines around his eyes crinkled kindly. “Don’t fret, Constable. Yer makin’ a name for yerself, here. No idea how we’re going to manage when ye go back to London. But ye got to let the inspector run his case as he sees fit, ye ken?”
“Yes, sir.”
Nonetheless, I wrote down my findings, suspicions and suggestions—minus any mention of the laird’s romantic entanglements—sealed them in an envelope, and left it where I knew McClelland would find it when he came in.
I spent a good part of the remainder of the day tying up loose ends with the MacKay investigation. Steward had allowed me a lot of leeway with that one, and had even lent me a pair of constables to assist with the legwork. Working on that case had given me no small amount of satisfaction, and helped me to put a lid on the frustration of having to wait for McClelland.
Eventually, though, I’d taken the day’s work as far as I could. Then I remembered that at some point, I would have to return to Comiston House to retrieve my clothes.
Well, there was no need to wait for McClelland to complete a personal errand, was there?
•••
I arrived at Comiston House in the late afternoon. The clouds were gathering around the low-hanging sun, draping the Pentlands in a veil of shadow. The wind had returned, though the snow had not. There were lights on in the front windows of the house. I wondered if the fires were blazing inside as they had been the night before.
“Mr. Pearson,” the butler said, frowning in surprise when he opened the door. “Or should I say, Constable Pearson.”
“In all the excitement last night, I left my clothes in the parlor.” I gestured to the borrowed outfit. “I’m sure Mr. Fraser is anxious to have these back.”
“Of course. Please come through.”
The house was quiet, though muted footsteps sounded overhead. The silence was a stark contrast with the lively gathering the night before.
“May I inquire after the laird's condition?” I asked. There was no sign of new mourning, either in the butler's dress, or in the decoration of the house, so, one assumed Richard had survived the night.
“He regained consciousness this morning, though the doctor has confined him to his bed. We are cautiously optimistic.”
“Please convey my best wishes,” I said, as we reached the parlor.
“Thank you, Constable.”
He shut the door, and I heard his footsteps recede in the hallway. I quickly exchanged the expensive borrowed clothing for my own. Off with soft, white silk, and on with well-worn linen yellowing under the arms. Away with thick, tailored tweed, and back to workmanlike brown wool going thin at the elbows. It was a relief. My clothes were nothing special, but they were mine: a bit plain but generally fit for purpose.
And speaking of purpose….
A glance up and down the hallway showed I was quite alone. Dared I try to find the laird's bedroom and question him? Or should I first have another look at that vibrating table? Quickly and quietly, I found my way to the library.
The fireplace was cold. The spirit cabinet was gone, and in the day’s waning light, the room looked like any other pleasantly well-stocked reading room. The octagonal table still held its central place, though the throne had been relegated to a corner, and the other chairs had been removed to the perimeters.
During the seance, there had been two unexplained occurrences. First, there had been a series of pops and clicks near where Richard was sitting. Warwick had said that this was the sound of spirits poking through the veil into the mortal plane. Then the table had shaken beneath our elbows, seemingly independent of any assistance from either the laird or Warwick.
I walked around said table, examining it for irregularities, then I set my hands on it and gave it a shake. The table remained steady. Closer examination showed that it stood not on legs, but on an octagon of solid planes. I walked around the perimeter again, looking carefully above and below. Finally, I came to the corner just to the left of where Richard had been sitting. There, near the floor, the corner plane was just a bit higher than those to either side of it. I knelt down.
“Constable Pearson?” A voice asked behind me. “What are you doing here?”
I stood, turning fast. The laird, wearing a thick, silk robe over last night's clothing, swayed in the doorway, supporting himself on the frame.
“Sir,” I said, “You should be in bed.”
He made a vague noise of protest, but allowed me to help him to the throne. He sat, panting as if the trip from his room had taken everything he had. Eventually he spoke again.
“Where’s Elliott? Alexander said you arrested him. I demand…I demand his release.”
That he had come all the way down to defend his lover in his present condition touched me. At the same time, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It was likely that my report had contributed to Warwick’s arrest, but I’d left before McClelland had even interviewed the man.
“I didn’t arrest anyone,” I said.
“But—”
“Sir, may I speak frankly?”
He gave a weak nod. I wondered how much information he could handle in his current state. I chose my words carefully.
“Undue influence?” he said after a few moments. I nodded. “That's ridiculous. Elliott’s been a good friend to me.”
I said, “Your brother is concerned, specifically, that Mr. Warwick’s influence is harming your health. May I ask, do you have a formal diagnosis?”
He frowned. “Dr. Cumberland says I have epileptic seizures. He would agree with my brother that Elliott is somehow to blame, but he’s not. Alexander tries to be helpful, but he can be quite…heavy-handed at times.”
“Has your brother ever hurt you?” I asked.
“No, never. Though he pressures me daily to send Elliott away. But I won’t.” There was steel in his voice when he said that, and I had the impression that the laird wasn't as weak as first impressions might lead one to believe.
“And Mr. Warwick?” I asked. “Has he ever pressured you to do anything?”
“Such as?”
“He’s a probate lawyer. Has he taken an interest in your financial affairs?”
He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
“What about the seances?” I asked. “Were they Mr. Warwick’s idea?”
Now the young laird laughed. “My word, no. It was something we thought up together. A bit of fun, nothing more.”
“And is there always a seizure associated with the seance?”
“No. It’s more the other way around. I often feel a spiritual presence before a seizure.”
I asked about the history of his medical problems, and he told a story that corroborated Cal’s account. It had all started a year or so before, with the trip to Yester Castle.
“Are there any other circumstances that seem to trigger the seizures?” I asked.
“Sometimes, if it’s very hot and stuffy. It was summer when we went to the castle, and we’d spent the entire morning tramping through the forest.”
“I couldn’t help noticing it was very hot and stuffy in this room last night.”
“Yes,” he said. “Alexander was concerned our guests would be cold, with the sudden turn in the weather. These days, a lot of things concern him more than they ought to, in my opinion.”
“Is that a recent development?” I asked.
His expression became wistful. “Our father died a bit more than a year ago,” he said. “Alexander took it very badly. They were close. It’s understandable, I suppose. I don’t know how I’d have managed this past year without him—or without Elliott. I just wish they’d learn to get on. Of course if my condition continues to deteriorate, it might not matter.”
“Oh?”
“Dr. Cumberland says that if the seizures continue to get worse, I might be better off in a sanatorium.”
The prickling returned to the back of my neck.
“What do your brother and Mr. Warwick think of this?” I asked.
“Elliott is dead against it, of course. Alexander says we should listen to the doctor. I don't know who to believe, quite frankly.”
Alexander who’d had a keen interest in medicine before deciding to read land economy at university, or the doctor who admittedly hadn’t kept up with modern developments in his own field.