by Joan Smith
“It is my fault. I should have been with you,” he exclaimed, gripping my fingers. “Instead of that, I was off enjoying myself, buying a filly. I’ll never enjoy racing again.”
“Don’t be absurd. I could have fallen even if you had been with me,” I pointed out. Homer looked at our intertwined fingers with a question in his eyes. I hoped he might take the idea we wanted to be alone, but he stood firm.
After discussing the accident, Bulow described the races to us and told us about the filly he had purchased. He spoke of a powerful chest, nice straight legs, the eyes of an eagle, and such points as he considered excellent harbingers of a winner. When his eyes strayed to me, I tried to give some indication that I had private information to impart. It was difficult with Homer there watching, but I thought he understood me at last. Just before he left, he leaned over to place a cousinly peck on my cheek.
“I’ll time my next visit better, when he’s not home,” he said softly in my ear. I smiled and nodded my satisfaction.
“You will come very soon, Bulow?” I asked, to give him an idea the matter was urgent.
Homer’s eyes narrowed, and his glance went from one of us to the other.
“Very soon, my dear,” Bulow said, his smile triumphant. He waved and left the room. Homer stayed behind.
“Is this not the time you usually spend with your mother, Homer?” I reminded him.
“I’ll visit her later. She is accustomed to being bedridden and has learned to entertain herself.”
“Please don’t feel I require entertainment around the clock.”
“I’m away all day. This is the only time I can be with you. Are you suggesting I leave?” he asked bluntly.
“I am a little tired.”
“Your bout of fatigue is very sudden—cropped up the instant Bulow left, in fact. But then he is a tiring fellow. I’ll leave you, as that is obviously what you wish. Good night, Davinia. Pleasant dreams.”
This speech was delivered in a grim, unpleasant manner.
He gave a curt bow and left. I was fatigued, from the strain of being half polite to him, of hiding my strong aversion, and from the frustration of not having privacy to speak to Bulow.
I had a visit from Mrs. Winton the next morning. She came bustling in, already aware of my condition from having spoken to Jarvis belowstairs. She first expressed every sympathy and curiosity, in about equal measure.
“I wish I could stay with you a few days, but I haven’t brought my things with me. We are making an excursion to the seaside with neighbors. They are all below this minute. Mr. Blythe feared the whole group would be too much excitement for you. A pity, as they are all on thorns to meet you. Shall I return later on, my dear Davinia? Give me a few days to prepare, and I can come for as long a visit as you wish. It would be comforting to have an old familiar face around at this sorry time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your holiday with your sister. I am taken good care of here.”
“I would not begrudge the time, child. I could run back to my sister after. If your own neighbors aren’t ready to lend a hand, who will do it?”
“You are very kind, but Norman’s family is doing all that can be done.”
We talked for half an hour. She had to hear about my doctor, the way life went on here, all about the accident—that part of it I was telling to anyone. She even remembered to ask me about the dower house, and whether I would get it. I, in turn, heard a good deal about her sister’s household, friends, and community. Just before she left, she reverted again to my miscarriage.
“It almost seems that marriage of yours was doomed,” she said dolefully. “So much violence and tragedy. Even Rogue. Ah, you have not heard it. Reverend Clark told me the details in his letter, but I shan’t distress you with them at this time, they are so unpleasant.”
“Where is Rogue?” I asked. “If our dog has been found, I would like to have him sent to me.”
“No, you would not, my dear. Rogue is dead, like Norman. The Bixby boy found him down by the stream, near Church House Road, you know. Found him the very day after Norman’s death, but didn’t say anything at the time, to prevent you from more bad news.”
“Was he accidentally shot, as we feared?”
“Not in the least. He had got into some poison. His body was all bloated and ugly, like Norman’s....” She came to a guilty stop. “There, I have let it out of the bag. There was no need to distress you, child. You were shaken enough at the time.”
“What do you mean? What are you saying? Norman died of heart failure! He wasn’t bloated. I saw his body.” Some unnamed fear took hold of me. I didn’t really want to hear what she had to say, but a force stronger than conscious volition made me ask.
“It didn’t happen at once, the swelling. The doctor thought at the time, and put on the death certificate that it was the heart. It’s a distressing business, but as I have let it blurt out, I might as well make it clear. After the doctor left, Norman’s corpse—well, it swelled up into an ugly thing, spotted. The undertaker wrapped him up in a shroud and didn’t open the coffin, as you know. We spoke to Dr. Anton about it later, and he said it was obviously some sort of poisoning. Cook went through the kitchen throwing out everything Norman had eaten, to make sure no one else got a taste of it. But it seems Rogue must have found her dump bin and helped himself. A pity, but it’s done now. There is no point thinking about it, is there? Think happy thoughts, Davinia. You were spared. You must go on and make a new life for yourself. Dear me, I hope I haven’t troubled you unduly with this business. I fear I have. You look so white. I’ll call Jarvis.” Her voice seemed far away, almost an echo, though she still sat beside me.
“No. No, I’m all right,” I said, though I did feel far from well. “Please just go over it again, so that I have it clear.”
She repeated the grisly tale, tried again to cheer me up, then finally left. The image her story conjured up remained with me long after her departure.
I went over that last day, trying to think what Norman had eaten that I had not. We took our three meals together. Was it the wine? He had more of that than I. He drank his two glasses that last evening, while I had only one. Strange, I remembered, those two glasses had made him tipsy. We were in the saloon, I writing letters while he read a book, with Rogue at his feet. He had got a parcel from home that day. Cook had made him some of her overly rich plum cake that he loved and I disliked. He ate a few pieces, fed some to Rogue...The plum cake—was that it? He and Rogue had both taken some, and I had not.
I lay down very carefully and closed my eyes. An idea so awful I did not even want to think it was scratching at the back of my mind. Norman had not died of natural causes. He had been poisoned purposefully. There was really no reason to wonder who had done it, or why. Who else but Homer wanted him dead? Norman was all that stood between him and Wyngate, he thought. So he had cook, who adored him, make up that poison cake and mailed it, a Judas gift, to his half-brother on his birthday.
If I had eaten it too, or a whole party of friends, he would not have cared. No, actually it was a small cake. Enough for two, but not for a party. He must have been surprised to learn that I was still alive. But he had handled that. He got rid of Norman’s heir in short order. There was no longer a shred of doubt in my mind. As soon as I was able, I meant to return to Norfolk, to have Norman’s body exhumed and a proper verdict brought down.
While I stayed here, I must be careful to let no hint of my fatal knowledge leak out to betray me. A man who had killed twice would not hesitate a third time. I jumped a foot when Millie came in without knocking.
“Here we are,” she said merrily. “A nice raspberry posset to bring the roses to your cheeks.”
Raspberry, or belladonna berry? I wondered. Perhaps Millie was his accomplice. She certainly had easy access to the poisons, in that chest in her room. It wouldn’t pose much of a problem for Homer to get them, or cook. But I was precipitous to include cook. The poison might have been slipped in while
her back was turned. A trip through the kitchen—Homer often came in that way from the stable—a request for an ale, and while she drew it, he tossed a handful of the poison berries into her batter. A few more berries would never be noticed in that rich concoction cook prepared.
“Why, thank you, Millie. Just leave it here beside me, will you? I’m not thirsty at the moment.”
“Just a sip to see if you like it,” she insisted.
I put it to my lips, pretended to sip, and proclaimed it delicious.
“Good. I made up a quart and had it put on ice. I made them bring fresh juice from the icehouse to do it. I’ll bring you more after lunch. They’re gone—that roomful of visitors. I see the chatterbox Winton has tired you out. She’s a talker, that one. I’ll go and leave your ears in peace.”
She went, but there was no peace left behind her. How was I to dispose of her posset, confined as I was to my bed. Ironically, it was the murderer who got rid of it for me. Homer came in at noon and saw it sitting there, untouched.
“What are you doing home at this hour, Homer?” I enquired politely, burying my anger and fear beneath a smile.
“Why, I have made a special trip home from the forest to see how you go on. I see Millie is quacking you. She is well intentioned, but let us take no chances,” he said, and lifting the glass, he raised the window and poured the posset out.
“Thank you. I dislike to hurt her feelings, but it does seem a shame to destroy raspberry preserves by mixing them with milk and eggs.”
“I’ll see that some are sent up for lunch, without milk and eggs.”
“Don’t bother,” I said hastily. The less he had to do with the ordering of my meals, the better. Dear God, must I go in fear of every bite I ate in the future? No, of course not. I was no longer a menace to him, so far as he knew. “Fresh ones are so much nicer,” I said, to close the subject.
“I met Mrs. Winton’s party on my way home. She recognized me and had the carriage halted. She fears she has disturbed you—the business of Norman’s having got some poison. It cannot be pleasant for you to discuss, but have you any idea what might have held the poison?”
“No, none,” I said firmly. “He cannot have got it at home, for we ate the same things, and I was fine.” I heard the high, breathless quality in my voice, and tried to change it. “It might have been mushrooms, perhaps. Millie was telling me the other day of some mushrooms that are fatal, but the effects don’t show up for forty-eight hours. It’s all I can think of.”
“Was he away from home for meals forty-eight hours before his death?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember. I—I don’t think so.” It was impossible to hide my distraught condition. I saw him regard me closely, suspiciously. I had to convince him I suspected nothing. “He was a great one for eating berries and things in the woods. Likely he picked something poisonous, and fed a few to Rogue.”
“There wouldn’t have been wild berries on the bushes in January,” he pointed out.
“No, that’s true. His dog going the same way suggests they were together, and as no one else at home got the poison, it cannot have come from there. That is why I thought it happened during one of their rambles.”
“But he died late at night, around midnight, did he not?”
“Yes, he did.”
“He wouldn’t have been rambling outdoors at such an hour.”
“Some poisons act slowly,” I reminded him.
“Have you considered having the body exhumed. It is unpleasant to be sure...”
“No, please. It is done. Let’s forget it.”
I could feel those dark eyes boring holes into me. He was trying to discover if I knew, or suspected anything. And if I did, I knew I wouldn’t last out the week.
“If you say so,” he answered.
“I do say so. I want to hear no more about it. It makes me quite ill.”
“I’m sorry. We shan’t speak of it again. As the posset was not to your liking, could I get something else for you? Cook has made some plum cake.”
My eyes flew to his face. I could not control them. Was he testing me, to learn whether I knew his stunt? Or was it another set of his special cakes, made up for troublesome relatives he would prefer to see dead? Surely he would not stare so hard if the offer were an innocent coincidence. His face was full of suspicion.
“Nothing, thank you. Mrs. Winton’s visit was tiring. I shall rest for a while.”
He directed a pointed, angry look at me. “You must let me know what delicacies you prefer, and I’ll arrange it with cook. As you are already aware, I have special influence with her.”
“Yes, I know. I’d rather rest than eat now.”
“Is that a hint for me to leave?”
“I’m not good company today. Forgive me. I have a headache,” I said, lifting a hand to give weight to this claim.
“I’m sorry. That was damned thoughtless of me. I’ll get you a powder from Mama. She has some in her room.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Homer. I can sleep without one. I don’t like to take medications unless they are really necessary.”
He bent over the bed and took my hand in his. I shivered in revulsion. “Please, take one for me. I can’t bear to see you suffer. Your forehead is hot too,” he added, placing a cool hand on it, then along my cheek. My nerves were curled up like a spring. If he had been a wild tiger, I could not have been more tense. “You’re running a fever. I’ll send for Nev—Mather,” he said, changing to my preferred doctor.
The tension was too much. I closed my eyes tight to avoid screaming. Tears oozed out, tears of sheer hysteria, which scalded my cheeks.
“Davinia,” he said softly, his fingers stroking my hair now. “My dear, what is the matter? Are you in great pain? Don’t be a hero. If you are suffering some ill effects of your accident, you must tell us. Hiding it won’t make it go away. Don’t let modesty stand in the way. Be perfectly frank with Mather. It is the only way. He is a doctor, accustomed to these intimate problems.”
“I’m fine. I have no pain in my body, no bad effects from the accident.”
“But you’re crying,” he said, patting my tears with his handkerchief. “Please tell me the trouble. Whatever is the matter, I’ll look after you. We don’t want you to go into a depression like ... as some women do after a miscarriage,” he said, but I knew what he meant. Like Emily, who ended up in the courtyard, a huddled heap of bones.
I made a strong effort to control myself. “I will take that powder after all,” I said to be rid of him if only for a moment.
He brought it back, stood by me with water while I took it. But the packet was sealed, and a headache powder, even if unnecessary, could do no real harm. It at least served the purpose of getting him out of my room. He went reluctantly, but he went, and I heaved a great sigh of relief. I was drenched in perspiration from the ordeal.
Chapter 15
Eventually, and by slow degrees, I recovered. In retrospect, I believe having two physicians was not only foolish but harmful. Mather would urge me out of bed for a walk down the hall. I would feel fine, invigorated and encouraged by it, till Nevans came and proclaimed me white as a sheet, my energy drained, and very likely some irreparable damage done to my insides.
The greatest setback, however, was Bulow’s response when I told him my suspicions. He came back soon, timing his visit just after luncheon, when Homer was sure to be around the estate. He brought me flowers, a pretty bouquet of white roses that reminded me of death. There were white roses on Norman’s coffin, though of course Bulow could not know that.
He listened with a worried frown while I outlined my shreds of suspicion, the plum cake from home, the condition of Norman’s body, the death of Rogue, and, most telling of all, that black-gloved hand, pushing me down the windmill staircase.
“You haven’t told Homer any of this?” he asked, alarmed.
“Of course not! My life wouldn’t be worth a brass farthing if he knew I suspected.”
“I’m not fit to travel, Bulow.”
“That’s true, but as soon as you are, you will come to us.”
“It will look so very odd, leaving my late husband’s home. A kind of oblique accusation, in a way, or so it will appear to Homer. Unless there were something to account for it,” I added. My hope, and indeed my expectation, was that he would suggest a betrothal. In my vulnerable position, I would have accepted.
It was then I learned that the relationship between himself and Eglantine was different from what he had told me. He was quick enough to grasp my hint, and answered, “That’s true. I had not thought how it would look. An engagement would make a good and proper excuse, but unfortunately, it is impossible. Eglantine—I could not like to embarrass the girl. Not that we are serious about one another, but she has been treated so badly by this family that I cannot in conscience add to her torment. First Norman—I only ever had a thing to do with her out of pity. She was distressed when she learned the truth about him, and I tried to comfort her. She is attracted to me, poor girl, I must not hurt her more than she is already hurt. But that is not to say you will remain here, in this house. You must remove to the dower house, hire your own servants. You will be perfectly safe there.”
He was a little ill at ease, wiggling out of my snare. Had I loved him, I would no doubt have been cast into gloom, but I listened intently. I noticed when he let out the damning words, “the truth about him,” meaning Norman. So he did believe Norman was insane. Why had he said otherwise? To comfort me, and alleviate my fears about the child?
When I spoke, I did not speak of that matter. “I’m not sure the dower house is mine. His mother is also a dowager Lady Blythe. If she has a prior claim to it, Homer won’t give it to me. And really I would rather be farther away from Wyngate.”
“He’ll give it to you right enough. His mother won’t want to live there, when she can have all the servants of the big house at her beck and call.”