“No.” She reflected. “I don’t see that Lady Lugoson killed Christiana. I’ve never thought that. She loved her mother. It seemed a close and affectionate relationship.”
“What about Miss Acton?”
“She isn’t one who schemes,” Julie said.
“She’s mad though. Still, I lean to Miss Beatrice Carley, since the doctor says she’s unbalanced, and because she could have done it, and might have thought she had a reason to kill.”
Julie shivered. “I have to go back there.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Charles had never laid the case out quite like this. Bertram had no reason to kill Christiana that he knew of, but Beatrice had some cause to attack all three of the dead.
“No, I want to find out the truth. I want to know who killed Christiana. I will watch Beatrice for you.”
“And see what?”
“If she goes into the housekeeper’s quarters, where the tea service is kept, or the kitchen.”
“Miss Lugoson did take tea there before her mother’s Epiphany party.”
At the mention of tea, Fred poured, and handed out the cups.
Charles yawned and breathed in fragrant steam. “I might see Bertram tomorrow at my flare-up. Here, I’ll write you a note. See if you can get it to him. Maybe he can bring you with him.”
She mimicked a fine aristocratic lady. “The young master escorting a parlormaid to a party?”
Charles shrugged. “You’re an actress, yes? This is all just a ruse to get you away from the Garrick troupe. Maybe he will be amused.”
“Maybe he will kill me,” Julie said.
Charles blinked, but she put a hand on his shoulder before he could sound an alarm. “I’ll be pleasant,” she said.
“I find myself in agony for your safety.” Was he doing the right thing, sending her back?
“I am an actress,” Julie repeated. “I am playing the part of the parlormaid, in order to determine if Beatrice Carley is a mad poisoner.”
“Just remember this is real life, not a stage,” he cautioned, lifting his cup to his lips in tandem with her. “Don’t be foolish.”
The next morning, Charles went to Harley Street directly after breakfast, assuming Dr. Keville lived above his consulting rooms. When he reached the street corner, he passed a man smelling strongly of oil paint. As he walked past, he saw a paintbrush, still damp, sticking out of the man’s overcoat pocket. Scaffolding had been erected around the front of the building.
He rang the bell for patients and visitors. The same pleasant woman greeted him by name. “I wonder if Dr. Keville could spare me a few moments on the same matter we discussed previously?” Charles asked.
She brought him into the doctor’s office and said she would see if he was available. Charles went right to the anatomical drawing on the wall, tracing the path the chloride of lime might have taken as it burned down into poor Miss Lugoson’s stomach. He shuddered.
The housekeeper brought tea. “Dr. Keville said he can be down in a little while.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Charles took the cup with its filling of dark liquid, and wondered how many times he had taken, and would take in the future, a cup of tea with someone, never knowing if the intention was simple hospitality or something much darker. People read tea leaves. If only they could read the tea as well.
He smelled his tea. If it was adulterated, wouldn’t he smell something over the familiar brew? The scent of chlorine, perhaps?
His thoughts drifted to Miss Hogarth. He’d have to warn her and her mother to never take tea with Mrs. Carley again, or at least not to do so without smelling it first. Also, he’d ask Mrs. Hogarth tonight if she had any suggestions for what Julie could apply to her hands to protect herself against the bleaching agent. She kept a tidy house and must have some thoughts on the matter.
By the time Dr. Keville arrived, natty in checked pants, a blue waistcoat and black frockcoat, Charles had been scribbling thoughts for a sketch about schoolmasters on a scrap of borrowed paper.
“Hello again, Mr. Dickens.” Dr. Keville looked keenly into Charles’s face.
“Once again, not here for me,” Charles said cheerfully. “I’m here because of something I learned from the new parlormaid at Carley House.”
“Ah, Beatrice up to her old tricks again?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Charles paused, hoping the doctor would explain what those “old tricks” were, but he did not, merely went to the teapot and poured himself a cup.
“The new parlormaid told me Mrs. Carley insists upon treating her entire tea service with chloride of lime after every use.”
“Strange.” The doctor picked up his cup.
“Yes, I thought it was unusual. No one in her house seems to have an infection or anything like that. And I thought about accidental ingestion of a toxic dose of the stuff, since Miss Lugoson was at tea there the day she died. Or even, I suppose, Beatrice could have deliberately put some of the powder into the tea.”
“That won’t do,” Dr. Keville said, polishing off his cup. “You’d smell it, for one thing. I suppose if they habitually use the stuff, they might become accustomed to a faint scent of chlorine.”
“Interesting,” Charles said coaxingly.
“Still though, there was no burn damage to Miss Lugoson’s mouth.”
“I didn’t see any,” Charles agreed, disappointed.
The doctor warmed to his theme. “Also, if it burned through her stomach then she’d probably have bled to death internally. I saw no sign of that.”
“What would the signs have been?”
“Confusion, cool skin, rapid heartbeat.”
“How long would it take?”
“You could die from blood loss in perhaps eight hours or much less, or an infection could start and it might take three days to kill a person. Neither matches Miss Lugoson’s unfortunate demise.”
“So not chloride of lime, then.”
“No, but a good suggestion. I’m amazed you haven’t given up yet. You’re a tenacious young man.”
He took that for praise. “Could you please tell me more about Miss Carley? May I tell you some things in confidence?”
“Of course.”
Charles lowered his voice. “I now know her brother was the lover of the late Marie Rueff, who died the same way. And Horatio Durant, a recent suicide or murder victim, was the beloved of Miss Lugoson and Miss Carley.”
“Gracious,” the doctor exclaimed. “No wonder you haven’t given up with all of that learned.”
“The situation refuses to resolve itself. Who will die next? Miss Carley is hardly an attractive girl and she’s bound to be spurned again.”
Dr. Keville rubbed his chin. “You want me to tell you that Miss Carley is a murderess.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Charles waited, breathless.
After a long pause, Dr. Keville shook his head. “She is narcissistic and hysterical. I cannot deny it. I could see her attacking someone bodily in anger, but I don’t see her as a keen planner. Women aren’t, you know. They act on impulse. As can be shown by the irregular disorder of Miss Carley’s body, her mind is disordered as well.”
Charles attempted to ignore the cruel generalization in favor of the specific. “She is ill?”
Dr. Keville scratched his chin again. “She suffers from a peculiar, unusually unregulated condition of the blood vessels of the uterus. This cannot help but lead to a mental disorder.”
Charles noted the doctor seemed to be suffering from an inflammation of one of his hair follicles. His chin became redder every time he scratched it.
“So you can see her becoming violent,” Charles asked. “But she would be more likely to pour some poison into a cup of tea on impulse?”
The doctor shook his head. “I have revealed all of this to you so that you can understand her better. I do not point my finger at her, not for this. It does not sound like anything she is capable of. She would have to obtain the poison, and put it into the te
a, and only manage to serve it to the victim. That does take some planning.”
“Do you treat any other members of the family?”
“I can assure you that Miss Lugoson didn’t die due to an overly enthusiastic disinfection ritual,” the doctor said.
“Why would Mrs. Carley want such a disinfection ritual?”
“She might regularly offer tea to people who are ill, I really couldn’t say. She is not my patient.” The doctor rose to his feet, fingering his chin again. “I do have certain commitments today.”
Charles rose as well. “Of course, Doctor. Thank you so much for your time.”
After the doctor left the room, presumably to tend to his chin, Charles let himself out, irritated that another theory had proven worthless.
* * *
Mr. Hogarth’s violin rang through Charles’s rooms with the mellifluous rendering of a Mozart sonata as Charles finished shaking hands with all the people at his party. He was terribly flattered that so many had come, even Bertram Carley.
“Have a glass of champagne,” Charles urged everyone, striking a pose, his fingers under his black velvet lapels. Fanny had made sure each of the eight buttons down the front were tightened and shined. “My brother will make a glass of hot brandy and water if you want something warm, and there is wine for the ladies.”
As Mr. Hogarth moved into a more sprightly part of his song, Fred grabbed for Miss Mary Hogarth’s hand and spun her around the room, gathering everyone’s attention. Charles’s mother seemed delighted at the sight, so he took her hand and danced her, laughing giddily, around the center of the room, where the sofa had been before they moved it, then took a spin with his sister Fanny, her light brown ringlets dancing around her cheeks.
“You’ve never looked so well, dearest,” he whispered in her ear.
“I think I might be in love with Mr. Burnett,” Fanny whispered back.
“Isn’t he the religious one?” Charles asked. His words were lost under a flourish from the violin.
William Aga bowed to Miss Hogarth and they joined the fun. Seated on the sofa with the Chronicle’s under-editor, Thomas Pillar, Bertram Carley watched Mary Hogarth closely, but didn’t find a partner of his own.
Everyone laughed and clapped as Mr. Hogarth finished his piece, his hair flapping with the exuberant violence of his playing. Charles hauled professional musician Fanny over to Mr. Hogarth and demanded they perform together. “A treat for us all,” he promised, as the two decided on a tune.
“‘Cherry Ripe,’” Fanny announced, as Mr. Hogarth put bow to string.
Charles then took his sister Leticia’s hand, to give her a turn at dancing. Everyone who was willing regained the floor. He saw that Bertram had managed to obtain Mary Hogarth’s hand this time, and his wide smile gave evidence of being the happiest man on the floor.
It seemed everyone had come to his party, with the promise of good drink paid for by the recovered coin. Or at least, everyone but Julie Saville, who not unexpectedly, hadn’t managed to sneak out of Carley House for an impromptu half day.
After a bit of light opera, Mr. Hogarth talked Fanny into performing some traditional Scottish tunes. After a number of these, the crowd was so breathless they all, by mutual consent, broke to drink everything Charles had left in his rooms. While they drank, Charles and Fred put on sailor caps that his brother had found at a thirdhand stall and danced a hornpipe of their own devising. The crowd clapped delightedly when they had finished, Miss Hogarth loudest of all.
A few minutes later, parched, Charles had upended the last of the champagne bottles. “I hadn’t expected it to be so hot in here,” he said to William.
“I’ll go to the local public house for ale,” his friend offered. “Can you spare Fred to help me carry the jugs?”
“Happy to get out of the heat for a few minutes?” Charles asked his brother.
Fred nodded.
“I’ll join you,” Thomas Pillar said.
“Very well, but don’t stop to drink,” Charles ordered. “Just bring back the jugs.” He reached into his pocket and handed Fred all the coins he had left.
“Even a February room warms with this many bodies in it,” Bertram said, sidling up to him. Mary Hogarth had deserted him to chat with Letitia and Fanny. “The crushes I have been in at political parties with Father, you cannot imagine. I’ve seen ladies swoon more times than I can remember.”
“In London?” Charles asked, always eager for political tidbits for his articles.
“Certainly,” Bertram agreed. “And in Somerset. I’m glad I came tonight, in fact. This is much more amusing than political parties.”
“Thank you. Somerset?” Charles vaguely remembered hearing mention of the county before. “Is that where your family estate is?”
Bertram followed him as he went to open the window in the room. It stuck a bit, given that it hadn’t been opened in months, but finally a chill air swept into the room. “Yes. It is in the Somerset Levels, near Glastonbury. Old, old country. My father’s family was around to greet the Normans, they say, before the family became wealthy speculating on draining projects about a hundred years ago.”
His mother led a round of applause as the room began to cool. Charles took a bow. “A long history.”
“Yes. Our family has always loved the moors and marshes. We enjoy the outdoors, the good hunting and foraging.”
Charles’s ears fastened on the word like a hunting dog. “Foraging? I understand Marie Rueff learned to forage around Fontainebleau. Is that what you had in common?”
“Indeed, yes. We were both country-bred and happier for it. Not that we had exactly the same interests. For myself, I’m more interested in archaeology than say, mushrooms or herbs.”
“Did Miss Rueff like to gather mushrooms?” Charles asked. Mushrooms could be spectacularly poisonous.
“Wild herbs, mostly,” Bertram said. “Bless me, but that wind is chill.”
Charles pulled him out of the direct path of the breeze. He stayed nearby, wanting to close the window before the point came when he would have to light the fire and use up all the coal he had for the next couple of days.
Bertram kept speaking. “My mother loves to hunt for mushrooms, though. Beatrice and I have gone foraging with her since we were children. My father was often away, and she didn’t like us to stay with our nurses and governesses and tutors.” He laughed. “Father could never understand why we learned so little when he was gone. I never did get any Greek.”
So Beatrice knew her poisonous mushrooms and herbs, then. “Your mother and sister must be expert foragers. I’ve always understood it is best to avoid mushrooms unless you really know what you are doing.”
“Oh yes.” Bertram grinned conspiratorially. “My family tree is very unusual. Father is descended from a famous Somerset witch pricker, and Mother is descended from Maria Stevens, the last arrested Somerset witch from over a hundred years ago. Or so it is said.”
“Your mother learned witchcraft?” Charles asked skeptically.
“Oh no!” Bertram laughed. “But she learned the crafts of wild women. You know, what to pick in the light of the moon and that sort of nonsense. She has old books, and the women in our family are always trained in the arts of the stillroom.”
“Fascinating. Do you think your sister considers herself a wise woman?”
“She isn’t nearly as good as Mother. Has trouble sticking to things,” Bertram reflected. “She worked hard on a freckle cream three years ago. That was the last time I saw her really trying to perfect anything in the stillroom. Do you think Miss Mary Hogarth would enjoy my witch stories? Some girls love to be frightened.”
“Miss Mary Hogarth seems the practical sort to me,” Charles said. “But you can give it a try.”
“Close the window,” Mr. Hogarth called. “Your sister is shivering.”
Charles closed it as Bertram moved toward Miss Mary Hogarth, a predator intent on the prowl. Well, it had been a year and more since Marie Rueff died, but
he didn’t think Mrs. Hogarth would appreciate him allowing a flirtation between her fifteen-year-old daughter and a man who had tried to run away with an heiress.
Marie Rueff had been just a bit older when they had fallen in love. Bertram liked young girls, and he didn’t know if they could trust him.
He lifted his chin in Miss Hogarth’s direction and she came to him. Drawing her into the shadow of the doorway he whispered in her ear about Bertram Carley’s interest in her younger sister and his concern that the man was both a bit of a cad and a bit of a fortune hunter.
“No point in wasting Mary’s time then,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Dickens. You greatly improve upon me every time I see you.” She gave him a sweet smile, even while those heavy-lidded eyes of hers made him think of other things.
When she left his side to attend to her sister, he went straight to the room they used as a kitchen, hoping some water was left in the jug so he could douse his head.
The jug being empty, he took it and left his rooms, going downstairs to the common tap. He met William, Fred, and Thomas on the landing.
“Did Julie come?” William asked, setting his stoneware beer jug on the wood floor. The others kept tramping up the stairs, leaving the two alone.
“No, but even if she’d been able to exit the house, she might not have found a ride. Last night she came in on a cart.”
William shook his head. “I’m nervous about her. She does not like her new mistress according to Fred.”
“I am not quite at ease, myself,” Charles admitted. “Bertram Carley was telling me his mother has trained as a wise woman, and is descended from witches. Can you imagine?”
William folded his arms over his chest. “They sound like they all belong in Bedlam.”
“I have the sense Miss Carley’s doctor thinks so,” Charles agreed. “But more to the point, have you had any response from theater managers?”
“No. Even with Julie’s experience, she’s just another pretty face trying to find work. She’d have had better luck a couple of months ago when the pantomimes were being cast.”
A Tale of Two Murders Page 28