Murder at Cleeve Abbey

by Anita Davison

  ‘Don’t be fooled, she couldn’t care less about blankets. She’s angry about my mentioning the cottage, although I doubt the truth is half as bad as our speculation.’

  Flora had thought so too, but chose not to say so.

  ‘Mama takes everything too seriously.’ Jocasta drifted to the sideboard and poured herself more coffee. ‘When I was small, Grandmamma liked to remind Mama that Grandpapa was a member of the New Club in the Promenade.’ At Flora’s perplexed frown, she went on, ‘Mama’s father being in trade meant he was blackballed, and Mama has never forgotten it.’

  ‘That sounds very harsh, Jocasta. Not the blackballing, I knew the club had a rule about only allowing “visitors of approved rank in society”, but that your Grandmamma mentioned the fact.’

  ‘Hmm, she could be something of a snob.’ Jocasta delivered this understatement with a shrug. ‘I only mentioned it to show you how socially aware Mama has always been.’

  ‘And you are telling me this for what reason?’ Flora asked, suspicious of her falsely casual tone.

  Jocasta took a sip from her cup on her way back to the table. ‘I heard Mama and Papa talking last night. And I say that as if it were a coincidence, but truth be told, I had to creep about for ages before I heard anything interesting.’

  ‘You are incorrigible, Jocasta.’ Flora jiggled her water glass, setting the ice chips tinkling. ‘And what did you hear?’

  ‘I’m not sure. However your mother was mentioned. And well, you know when people are talking about something they have known about for ages so they don’t actually say the words, they just speak in a sort of clipped code?’

  ‘That sounds as if whatever was said made no sense,’ Flora said, disappointed.

  ‘’Fraid so, but I’ll tell you anyway. Papa said, “You know we shall have to face it sometime,” then a, “we’ve not spoken of it for years. Why should things change now?” from Mama.’ She waved an airy hand in Flora’s general direction. ‘All very frustrating actually. I wanted to rush in and tell them to stop being so enigmatic and spit it out.’

  ‘But you didn’t, and nor did they?’

  ‘No,’ Jocasta sighed. ‘I still don’t know what they were talking about.’

  ‘Yet you said they mentioned my mother?’

  ‘Hmph,’ Jocasta said on a mouthful of petit four, swallowing. ‘I did, didn’t I? Now what was it? Oh yes, Papa said, “Lily didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing, which is why she told no one.”’

  ‘What was she doing?’ Flora frowned.

  ‘Sorry, no idea.’ Jocasta hunched her shoulders, then caught sight of Flora’s face, adding. ‘Oh dear, have I made things worse?’

  ‘More frustrating, certainly.’ Flora crumpled her napkin and discarded it onto the table. It appeared she would have to do more investigations on her own if she was going to find out what had really happened to her mother. She toyed with the idea of asking Lord Vaughn, known for his pragmatic nature, certainly more so than his wife. Flora rejected that notion immediately. If he wouldn’t spare time for Jocasta, she stood no chance at all. And what if he merely reiterated Hetty’s garbled story about Lily’s dubious past, but in more devastating detail? That would only remind them of mistakes best left forgotten. Only Flora didn’t want to forget.

  19

  Flora eased open the stable door and peered inside, greeted by the smell of fresh hay and the sweet tang of manure. A horse whinnied, and a hoof made harsh contact with the clay-tiled floor.

  ‘May I help you, Miss Flora?’ Tom loomed in front of her, sending her back a pace.

  ‘You made me jump, Tom.’ Flora pressed a hand to her bodice, aware she was blushing. ‘Your eye looks a lot better.’

  A greenish yellow bruise was all that remained of his injury. ‘Thank you, Miss.’ He ducked his head, dislodging a hank of hair that slipped over the offending eye.

  ‘Lady Venetia said I could borrow the gig this afternoon,’ Flora went on, breaking eye contact. ‘Would you mind organizing that for me?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Mr Bracenose took it out yesterday and must have hit a rock or something. The axle is broken and I won’t be able to repair it until tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, well, don’t worry. I can always get the tram, though don’t mention that to Lady Venetia, she won’t approve.’ She turned to leave, then thought of something and paused. ‘By the way, Tom, has that Constable Jones been back again?’

  ‘Jones?’ Tom’s eyebrows rose in a poor attempt to intimate he didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘Not since you saw him the last time.’

  ‘I hoped he had some news, that’s all. You must be worried that nothing has been heard from Betsy since she left.’

  ‘I suppose so, Miss Flora, but she’ll be back when she wants.’ Quickly he added, ‘I mean, I expect she will.’

  Flora turned away again just as a loud thump came from somewhere over her head. She halted and scrutinized the ceiling, then tilted her head in enquiry at Tom.

  ‘My dog.’ Tom shrugged, then reached past her and grasped the door which led to the groom’s rooms, preventing her opening it any further. ‘She’s just a pup, so is still a handful.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a dog, Tom.’

  ‘Aye, Miss.’ He swallowed, and flicked a glance at the ceiling. ‘A black and white collie. I shut her in my rooms when I’m working. She gets a bit fretful.’

  ‘Seems a shame to keep her locked upstairs. I’m sure Lord Vaughn wouldn’t mind another dog on the grounds.’

  ‘She’s a daft little thing, and not well trained yet so not to be trusted, but a good lass. I’d better go up and see to her presently or she’ll start to howl.’ He backed up a few steps and waited, most probably hoping Flora would take the hint and leave.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ Flora called him back again, trying not to smile at his nervous jump and the way he arranged his face into innocence. ‘Have you seen Master Eddy this morning?’

  ‘He’s usually around here somewhere at this time.’ He paused with his hand on the wooden handrail, frowning. ‘Come to think of it, Miss Flora, not since yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve seen so little of him since I arrived. He and Lord Vaughn seem to be busy on the estate lately. I expect I’ll catch up with him before we leave.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to keep a look out and if I see him, I’ll let him know.’ His attention drifted back to the stairs.

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’ She returned to the drive, idly wondering why Tom thought it necessary to keep his dog confined. The estate had plenty of working animals who slept in the outhouses, but ran free during the day. Had her focus not been elsewhere, she might have thought there was more to his story than he was willing to reveal, but by the time she had reached the tram stop, Tom and his dog were forgotten.

  *

  The Montpellier Pharmacy occupied a corner in a shopping district on the edge of the town, close to where the original spa stood that had made the area fashionable during Regency times. Tall, right-angled windows topped with stained glass in patterns of purple grapes and lush green leaves gave it a majestic appearance, whilst apothecary jars in various sizes filled with coloured liquids crowded the window.

  ‘Not everyone can read, Flora,’ he had told her at the time. ‘Those are symbols to show the pharmacist is well-trained and therefore educated enough to mix his own medicines.’

  As a child, Flora’s childish imagination had conjured them into magical solutions that could cure every ailment, and she had been disappointed when her father had explained the enchanting bottles were purely decorative and held nothing more than coloured water.

  A tightness formed in her chest and she forced the memory down as she pushed open a glazed door set in the corner of the building which rattled in its frame, setting off a loud jangling of a bell.

  A solid wooden counter ran the width of the shop, behind which a floor-to-ceiling wooden dresser took up the entire back wall. From just below hip-height, rows of shelves contain
ing square jars filled with powders of various colours rose to the high ceiling. From tiny rocks to fine white sand, each jar was labelled with both English and Latin names. Beneath the shelves were rows of rectangular wooden drawers with metal label holders attached, stacked five deep and containing more entrancing chemicals, herbs and concoctions used in the dispensing of medicines.

  Flora inhaled a combination of antiseptic, carbolic and lavender from a basket of handmade soaps on the counter that evoked long-ago memories.

  The same young man she had seen outside the coroner’s office appeared from the rear. He wore a leather apron tied round his waist, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and held in place by thin black bands of elastic.

  ‘Mr Meeks?’ Flora began. ‘You don’t know me, but I’m—’

  ‘Mrs Flora Harrington,’ he finished for her. ‘I saw you at the inquest this morning.’

  Flora took the hand he thrust toward her, his grip strong and warm without being intimidating. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, I admired your interrupting Dr Fairbrother’s testimony. I’ve often wished I had the courage to do the same thing myself.’

  ‘Oh yes, that.’ Flora’s face flamed and she withdrew her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken out. My husband wasn’t impressed, and he’s a solicitor.’

  ‘Nonsense. Inaction on any front promotes apathy, when it’s obvious changes need to be made.’

  ‘Did you disagree with what Dr Fairbrother said?’

  ‘I often disagree with that pompous quack.’ His frown didn’t match the light of amusement in his almost black eyes. ‘Not about your father’s accident, mind you, I didn’t have an opinion on that one way or another. However, I felt his diagnosis of neuritis for Lord Vaughn’s workers was off the mark.’

  ‘Actually, that’s what I came to ask you, Mr Meeks. I believe my father had a theory too. I have no proof, but something occurred at the summer fête which might relate to why he died.’

  ‘Like what?’ Reginald Meeks’ expression transformed from levity to seriousness in an instant. ‘I was at the fête, but didn’t notice anything untoward. Do tell me more.’

  ‘Are you sure this is convenient?’ Flora gave the shop a sweeping glance, but there appeared to be no other customers. ‘I mean you’re at work.’

  ‘One of the advantages of being one’s own master, Mrs Harrington, is one can take a break whenever it suits.’ He gestured for Flora to follow him to the rear of the shop, where a marble-topped counter held a pestle and mortar for grinding powders beside a set of gleaming gold scales for weighing babies. ‘I need to remain in plain sight of the shop in case a customer comes in.’ He beckoned her to where a hinged partition created a modicum of privacy.

  Flora placed her bag on the counter. ‘Now, what were you saying about neuritis?’

  ‘That I didn’t think it was correct.’ He folded surprisingly muscular arms across his chest. ‘Peripheral neuritis is normally associated with heavy drinkers. Lord Vaughn would never have allowed that in his workers and to my knowledge discharged more than one man who frequently got drunk at work in the last year. He always said drink and plough shears did not make a good combination.’

  ‘And so they don’t,’ Flora murmured. ‘Did anyone exhibit symptoms who didn’t attend the fête? For instance, anyone who drinks at the Red Kite?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Mrs Harrington. Despite what the rumours said, Mr Griggs doesn’t sell contaminated beer. If he had, more people would have become sick.’

  ‘What do you think made the men ill, Mr Meeks?’

  He hesitated, his lips pursed. ‘I’m not a doctor, so please don’t quote me. I thought their symptoms were more closely related to some sort of heavy metal poisoning.’

  ‘Arsenic, for instance?’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘I see you’ve read the report of the Manchester brewery incident? Your father showed that to me. Quite astute of him to think the two were related.’

  ‘Mr McCallum refutes that his beer could have been poisoned.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He uncrossed his arms and ran the knuckles of one hand along his jaw. ‘Interesting. I heard he had the whole place shut down for several days and inspected.’

  ‘Which means any poison must have been deliberately added to the beer at the fête, and only the fête.’ Flora studied his expression, but he showed no surprise, only interest.

  ‘Your father didn’t mention that. Is it the conclusion you’ve come to?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s safer to say I’m toying with the idea. May I ask what you were arguing about with Dr Fairbrother after the inquest?’

  ‘Ah, you noticed that did you?’ He ran a hand through his thick black hair, leaving it tousled. ‘I challenged him as to why he hadn’t mentioned Mr Maguire’s suspicions. And mine come to that.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Only that it wasn’t relevant to Maguire’s death. He even accused me of scaremongering.’

  ‘Is that why you came to the inquest?’

  Reginald nodded. ‘I hoped I might be called as a witness, but Dr Fairbrother must have told the coroner it wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Honestly?’ He raised a mobile brow, but didn’t appear to expect a response. ‘Neuritis affects the nerve endings and shows up in different rates and severity in each individual. Sometimes the paralysis comes first, or for some, tiredness is the only symptom. Then comes muscle weakness, weight loss, tremors. Those things don’t occur simultaneously in six different patients.’

  ‘And these symptoms are similar to arsenic poisoning?’

  He nodded. ‘When I made the same observation to Dr Fairbrother, he called me an “unqualified pill grinder”.’ His boyish grin showed no malice at this insult, which made Flora admire his self-confidence even more.

  ‘Mr Griggs told me you’ve given him medicine for his son, Peter.’

  He bit the corner of his bottom lip. His head tilted. ‘Ah, now that’s not quite true. The tonic I gave him is no substitute for a doctor’s care, which Griggs cannot afford.’

  ‘Is Peter not improving?’

  ‘He’s no worse, I know that. Griggs is convinced Peter displays signs of early consumption. What I give him is an antipyrine and syrup mixture, which won’t cure a disease like that in any case, only ease the symptoms. Peter has no paralysis as yet, only fatigue that comes and goes. And no,’ he held up a hand when Flora was about to speak, ‘I doubt Peter drank beer at the fête. I’m aware some fourteen-year-old boys do with the approval of their families, but Griggs frowned on it. He knows how easily drink can become a dangerous habit, he sees it every day at The Red Kite.’

  ‘When I spoke to Mr Griggs, I got the impression he had felt nothing more could be done for Peter.’ As if he was reconciled to losing him and had washed his hands of Betsy.

  ‘Try and see it from his point of view.’ Reginald’s eyes softened with sympathy. ‘Griggs watched his wife die slowly, which must have been hard for any man. Now he faces the prospect of watching his only child go the same way. It’s a cruel life, Mrs Harrington. Don’t mistake his disappointment for disinterest. He’s heartbroken.’

  ‘You put it very succinctly, Mr Meeks.’ Flora liked this man, who seemed to see life’s trials clearly and had a firm grip on where he stood in the world. He reminded her of Bunny in some ways. ‘Do you think Peter has consumption?’

  ‘That’s where my experience falls short. All I have to guide me is his father’s description of his symptoms. Griggs says that Peter seems quite well at times, a bit pale and scrawny, but he’s always been like that. He had rheumatic fever as a child. Then he has days when he cannot drag himself out of bed.’

  ‘Mr Meeks,’ Flora began carefully. ‘Would you let me see the poison book?’ Despite his open, friendly attitude, she was still a stranger and he was within his rights to refuse.

  Instead, he laughed. ‘Your father had the same thought, but I’ll tell you what I told him.’ He withdrew a
leather-bound volume from beneath the counter, and set it in front of her. ‘As you’ll see, it’s full of familiar names who bought arsenic for various uses – including McCallum’s butler, Amy Coombe and Mrs Mountjoy. In fact Reverend Cripps’s housekeeper’s name is there too.’

  ‘I see what you mean. It doesn’t help much, does it? We cannot regard everyone who buys arsenic as culpable or the whole town would be under suspicion.’ Her gaze swept down the page again. ‘I cannot see any larger than normal amounts purchased either. Nor more frequent ones.’

  ‘You don’t need to buy arsenic in its pure form.’ He slid the book back across the counter. ‘Soaking fly paper in water results in an effective suspension. Some women use it to whiten their skin.’

  ‘I would never attempt that myself. I would be too worried about how much I absorbed.’ Flora had an ambiguous attitude towards cosmetics, her insecurities about her looks vying with her wish not to appear fast.

  ‘Another thing, is—’

  The jangle of the shop bell interrupted whatever Reginald Meeks was about to say next, and he turned as a middle-aged man in a homburg hat wandered in.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Reginald left her side and advanced on the new arrival, hands extended in welcome.

  Flora waited as the two men embarked on a discussion of the qualities of various brands of hair pomade. Finally, the man made a choice and, accompanied by the pharmacist’s enthusiastic praise as to his choice of the perfect product, the pharmacist wrapped the purchase in brown paper and showed him to the door.

  ‘I was about to say,’ Reginald said on his way back across the polished floor. ‘Arsenic reacts differently in certain people. A small dose can make one person quite ill, while another will remain unaffected. However, if ingested over time, it accumulates in the system and breaks down the organs.’

  ‘Will it always kill?’

  ‘If taken for long enough, definitely.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’ Flora gasped as the truth hit her like a cold wave. The symptoms Reginald had described for Peter exactly matched those Eddy displayed. Tiredness, pallid complexion, lack of appetite. Eddy was built like a railing but was always hungry. He never missed food voluntarily. How could she have been so blind? She had been so focused on the sick workers and who might be responsible, she had allowed the situation with Eddy’s health to pass her by.