by Blythe Baker
“If I’m alive tomorrow it will be a miracle,” she said, looking up at the sky and shaking her head.
“You are perfectly healthy, Lady Harwood.” Dr. Shaw spoke the words with familiarity, as though he had repeated them one hundred times before. And with Lady Harwood, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had.
“We thought Mr. Matcham was perfectly healthy, as well. Didn’t we?” she argued, lip curled. “Whatever is going around, it will come for me next. The young and the elderly can’t withstand such things.”
Dr. Shaw took a deep breath but otherwise remained remarkably unflapped. “Mr. Matcham was neither young nor old, Lady Harwood.”
“My point exactly,” the old woman said. “If a man in his prime can die of this mysterious illness, then an old woman has no chance. You ought to begin looking for new employment, Dr. Shaw.”
“Lady Harwood, we have no reason to believe Mr. Matcham died from any kind of illness,” Lady Ashton said, trying to intervene.
“It could have been any of thousands of different causes,” Mrs. Worthing added.
Lady Harwood let out an exaggerated cough and looked at the two women. “Unknown illness could have been one of those thousands of causes. By all means, deny it if that is a comfort to you. I, on the other hand, like to be realistic. And the reality here is that I am the next most likely person amongst us to fall.”
“If you are so concerned about this illness, why not go home?” Lord Ashton asked, clearly much less patient than everyone else. Lady Ashton gave her husband a reproachful glance, though I sensed a bit of amusement in it. The woman’s dronings about death and dying were making everyone a little weary.
Lady Harwood didn’t seem to mind. She simply laughed at Lord Ashton as if he were the most foolish man she’d ever met. “And sully my own home with the disease? No thank you. I’d much rather remain here and wait it out. If by some miracle I do not fall ill and die in the night, then I will return home comforted that I won’t take anything nasty back with me.”
Lord Ashton mumbled something under his breath about Lady Harwood and nastiness, but I couldn’t hear him, and I suspected Lady Harwood couldn’t either. Lady Ashton bit back a smile and shook her head at her husband.
Catherine, while no longer sobbing, remained completely silent. She sat on a low stone wall around one of the gardens, her hand folded under her chin, her navy-blue tea dress fluttering around her calves in the wind, looking like a morose woman from a Victorian painting. I observed my cousin’s innate beauty—even after hours of crying she still looked striking—and wondered what she could have seen in a man like Thomas Matcham. He was handsome enough, but he reminded me too much of an oil spill beneath a car to be tempting. He wore his black hair slicked back to his head, so everyone knew the intimate shape of his skull. His face had the sweaty pallor of someone on the verge of a fever. He had redeeming qualities, but again, they were hidden behind a layer of sheen. Whereas, Catherine was bright, vibrant. Bouncing golden hair, luminescent skin, clear blue eyes. I tried to imagine them meeting secretly, and all I could think was that the sun and the moon never shared the same space in the sky. Their relationship confounded me to the point that I wondered whether another Thomas couldn’t have written the letter. But that, of course, was only wishful thinking.
By the time the game of croquet was winding down and the players came back to rejoin the group—Vivian smiling broadly at Edward, teasing him about the victory, though Edward didn’t seem as amused—Lady Harwood was ready to go inside.
“This breeze is seconds away from blowing me away, Dr. Shaw,” she complained with a scowl.
Had I been a less kind person, I would have pointed out that Lady Harwood, being a rather stout woman, was in no danger of blowing away in any kind of wind, especially such a light one, but I bit my tongue.
“Would you like to return to the Hall?” Dr. Shaw asked, already standing up in anticipation of the woman’s response.
“Yes, I think I would.”
By the time Dr. Shaw tucked Lady Harwood’s legs up into her wheelchair, repositioned her shawl several times, and pulled her out of the deep ruts her wheels had caused in the soft grass of the garden, he was the one in danger of being blown away. He looked white as a sheet and sweaty.
“That poor man,” Mrs. Worthing said to me as the old woman and her doctor disappeared inside. “Surely, he could find work with another less demanding patient.”
I said, “But what kind of reputation would he have as a personal physician if word got around that he traded in an old woman because she was too much work.”
Mrs. Worthing shrugged and nodded in agreement. “But still, better to find a new profession altogether than spend your days like that.”
Everyone was talking animatedly about the croquet game and Charles was doing his best to try and lure Catherine into playing. She responded with a hard shake of her head and then marched off towards the tree line.
“I’m sorry,” he said to no one in particular, his face brimming with disappointment. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”
“She’s feeling out of sorts today, Charles,” Lady Ashton said, patting the sad man on the shoulder. “Lord Ashton, perhaps you should accompany your daughter on her walk.”
Lord Ashton grumbled as he crossed the lawn, taking high steps to avoid the swampy parts of the grass, but he still did as his wife asked.
“I suppose we are all a little out of sorts,” Charles admitted.
“I don’t see why. It’s a beautiful day,” Edward said with an uncharacteristic amount of cheer.
“A man has died,” Mr. Worthing said, speaking up for the first time in a while. While on the ship from Bombay to London, it was rare to find Mr. Worthing not engaged in some trivial conversation about something or other, but he had been rather quiet all morning. Mr. Matcham’s death apparently had him out of sorts, as well.
“Of course,” Edward said, sobering. “I just meant, aside from that it is a beautiful day.”
Mr. Worthing opened his mouth, clearly preparing to argue, but Lady Ashton, ever the peacemaker, stepped in. “Edward is a man of practicalities, Mr. Worthing. You’ll have to excuse him. Emotions have little part to play in his thinking.”
This seemed to settle Mr. Worthing, and Edward gave his mother a small smile in appreciation which she didn’t return.
I was paying attention to the conversation, but in the midst of it, I’d noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A black leather bag with stiff, square handles resting against the stairs from the terrace down into the garden. Dr. Shaw’s medical bag. In all of the adjusting he had to do with Lady Harwood before she was ready to head back inside, it was no wonder he had forgotten it. Inside, I knew he kept Lady Harwood’s medications along with all of his instruments—stethoscope, thermometer, and more—which Lady Harwood required once an hour to feel confident she wasn’t on the verge of death. So, he would no doubt be back for it soon. Which meant I had to work quickly.
The “insect bite” on Mr. Matcham’s arm would not leave my mind. The idea that a perfectly healthy man could die in the night and have a single, perfectly-circular insect bite on the inside of his arm seemed a bit too coincidental to me. So, if it was like I thought and he had been poisoned, where better to find the poison than the doctor’s medical bag? No one looked in it aside from Dr. Shaw and, the current moment aside, he kept it with him always. It would be the perfect place to hide the evidence, and now was my opportunity to investigate.
“Oh,” I said suddenly, drawing the attention of the group. “Dr. Shaw left his medical bag out here.”
“Someone should run it up to him,” Vivian said. She placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Charles, perhaps you ought to.”
Charles made a move towards the bag, but I jumped up and grabbed it, holding it with both hands in front of me, the weight of it pressing back against my knee caps. “Oh no, I am happy to do it.”
“It looks quite heavy,” Vivian said with a frown.
I smiled at her and shook my head. “It’s no trouble. I’d be happy to.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but I was already up the stairs and crossing the terrace towards the house. I knew I could go through the main set of doors and be in the entrance hall directly outside of the corridor where Dr. Shaw and Lady Harwood were, but I didn’t want to chance Dr. Shaw seeing me before I wanted him to. So, I casually angled myself towards a side door, which led into the kitchen.
If anyone in the garden noticed my strange decision to enter through the kitchen, they said nothing and after waiting several seconds, I felt content none of the guests had followed me.
But that did not mean I was alone. Hearing the voices of approaching servants, most likely the cook and a helper, I looked around for a hiding place. I saw an open doorway off the kitchen and dodged into a little nook filled with shiny cupboards. I assumed it was a butler’s pantry or something of the sort. After a moment, the voices passed by and I sighed with relief.
Vivian was right, Dr. Shaw’s bag weighed at least twenty pounds, and it took a good deal of strength to lift it by the handles onto the top of the small table before me. Once it was there, I paused and took a deep breath to settle my nerves. Then, I flicked open the golden clasp and let gravity pull the bag open.
As I already knew, the bag was full of medications for Lady Harwood and a slew of medical instruments. Some I recognized and some I’d never seen before. What I hadn’t expected was how similar everything would look. For some reason, I’d half-expected to open the bag and see a section devoted to Lady Harwood and then a dark corner of the bag labeled “poisons” or “For Mr. Matcham.” Of course, this was not the case.
I set to work sorting through the bag. I could skip over all the pills, as they could not have been injected into Mr. Matcham’s arm. I was searching for a syringe or a vial of liquid. Preferably, both. I placed the pill bottles in a line along the countertop, so I would know in what order to return them to the bag to keep Dr. Shaw from being suspicious, and I placed the different shiny silver medical instruments in a pile in front of them. As I neared the bottom of the bag, I knew I would find what I’d been looking for. It had to be Dr. Shaw. He had the experience to inject a poison and would know how large of a dose to give someone of Mr. Matcham’s size. Not to mention, he had discovered the man’s body and done the initial examination. What kind of evidence had he tampered with in those critical moments?
However, when the bottom of the bag came into view, all that remained inside was a white handkerchief and a few clean rags. Once I removed those, the bag was empty. Fruitlessly, I searched for a hidden pocket or compartment. I even went so far as to tip the bag upside down and shake it furiously, but nothing fell out. As much as I didn’t want Dr. Shaw to be a murderer, I still felt disappointed. Even though I’d found the love letter from Mr. Matcham in Catherine’s possession, Dr. Shaw had still been my strongest suspect. It made the most sense that a man who built his career on preserving life would also be capable of taking it. Now, though, I had no proof at all to back that theory up. Dejected, I placed the items back inside the bag just as I’d found them. First, the rags and handkerchief. Then, the instruments in a small pile on the right, and finally the pills. I nestled them into the folds of the rags to help them stay upright, and I was dropping the last bottle into the bag when the door to the pantry squeaked open.
“What do you think you are doing?”
With my hand still inside the bag, I looked up into the angry eyes of Dr. Shaw. He must have seen me duck into the pantry with his bag and now he stood in the doorway looking down on me, his face flaming red.
“What are you doing in my bag?” he demanded.
I removed my hand and stepped back, placing more distance between us. Although I hadn’t found proof that he was a murderer, he looked angry enough to kill just then, and I didn’t want to be within arm’s reach of him.
“You left your bag outside,” I said. This was true but didn’t explain why I had been elbow deep inside of it.
“Then how did it find its way in here and why were you rooting through it?” he asked, yanking the bag across the table with enough force that I heard its contents rattling and tipping over.
My mouth opened and closed uselessly. I tried to think of a good explanation, but I hadn’t anticipated being captured, so I had nothing prepared.
Dr. Shaw shifted through the bag, doing a kind of mental calculation of what might be missing. “Are you trying to make me look guilty?” he snapped.
“What?” I asked, not understanding the question.
“You seemed insistent earlier that Mr. Matcham was murdered by poison. When you asked for my opinion on the matter, I hoped that would be the end of things. But now, I find you rooting through my bag.”
“I can explain,” I began.
“So it seems,” he continued, speaking over me, his voice booming off of the tile floors, “like you are trying to point the finger at the doctor. The man who always carries medications and syringes and all the equipment necessary to inject someone with a deadly poison.”
“Dr. Shaw, I assure you—”
“I will not go down so easily, Miss Beckingham. Let me assure you of that fact at once. You can plant whatever you’d like in my bag, but I have lived in this part of the world for a long time. I have more friends and connections than you could ever dream of. Making me out to be a killer is going to require much more than dropping something suspicious into my bag.”
“Check the bag,” I insisted. “You’ll see there is nothing in there.”
“Because I caught you just in time,” he said, lip curled back. “I’ve heard the rumors that swirl about me. The stories that claim I lost my inheritance to a gambling habit, and much of it went to Mr. Matcham. But you’d be hard pressed to find any proof of that, and I gain nothing from Mr. Matcham’s death, regardless. So, I suggest you point the finger at someone else before I cut it off.”
With a final huff, Dr. Shaw snapped the clasp closed, grabbed his bag, and stormed out of the pantry, the wooden door swinging behind him.
I took several minutes to compose myself, and then slipped out of the pantry, walked back through the door onto the terrace and moved towards where everyone had been gathered in the garden. Now, I could see the majority of the group tromping through the thick grass in the direction of the tree line. Only Edward and Lady Ashton remained near the stairs. Lady Ashton signaled for Edward, and he crossed the short space between them and then leaned down at his mother’s urging. She appeared to be whispering something in his ear, and I tried to approach quietly to maybe catch a bit of what it was. However, my shoe scuffed on the uneven stones of the terrace and Lady Ashton’s head snapped up. In a second, she was smiling up at me.
“Rose, dear, did you find Dr. Shaw?” she asked, patting the spot next to her for me to sit down.
“I did.” I hoped my face did not betray the altercation we’d just had in the kitchen.
As I neared them, I noticed Edward looked puzzled. His dark brows were pulled together and he wouldn’t take his narrowed eyes off of his mother. She, on the other hand, refused to look at him.
Clearly, I’d stumbled into something. Or rather, interrupted something. What had Lady Ashton been preparing to whisper in Edward’s ear? I focused on the thought only until I heard my name echoing across the garden.
Alice was calling for me to follow her, and happy to forget my investigation if for only a few minutes, I did so happily.
12
I was glad to think of anything other than the murder of Thomas Matcham for a few hours, but by dinner, it was the only thought in my head, and frustration had begun to take hold. I had scraps of information, tiny pieces of a larger puzzle, and I knew I only needed to arrange them in the right way to see the full picture, but it felt impossible. Catherine had a love letter, Lady Ashton had a dislike of Mr. Matcham, Mr. Matcham had a bad reputation and an insect bite, and Dr. Shaw had poverty brought on by
gambling debts and a great knowledge of poison. None of these pieces of information, individually, led to murder. But together? I still wasn’t sure.
On the ship and back in London, when I’d stumbled upon murder investigations, I’d had the luxury of time. Now, however, all of the guests at Ridgewick Hall, myself included, had one more full day at the estate before everyone would go their separate ways. That gave me just over thirty-six hours to solve the case and apprehend a suspect, or else… Well, I wasn’t sure. If I solved the case, the Chess Master promised me information about my brother Jimmy, which would be quite welcome. There had been no information about what would happen if I should fail to solve the case. The Chess Master knew my secret. He knew I was not truly Rose Beckingham, so perhaps the punishment would be the reveal of my deception. He would tell the people I had come to regard as family about how I had lied to them and stolen the inheritance that would have passed to them. I would certainly be arrested, unless I managed to escape. But even then, would I live my life on the run? Take on yet another identity and hide like a rat in the cover of night for the remainder of my life?
I could feel myself beginning to unravel, so I stopped in front of the full-length mirror in my room, placed my hand on my chest, and monitored my breathing until it returned to normal. I had to stay calm and think clearly, otherwise I would never solve the case. Thirty-six hours was not a long amount of time, but it was better than nothing. I would just have to do my best. After separating in various directions throughout the estate, everyone would be together again for dinner and for drinks afterward in the drawing room. I would have to use the time wisely. Observe everyone and look for any signs of deception, which, considering the level of my own deception, I should be able to spot quite easily.