On a Desert Shore

by S K Rizzolo

  “A question for you, Caldwell,” Chase said. “If I meant to murder someone and wished to allay suspicion, might it be worth my while to imbibe some of the poison myself?”

  “Risky, that.”

  “But what if I was careful to take very little, just enough to bring on a reaction that would probably not be fatal?”

  He stroked his chin. “I catch your drift, Mr. Chase, and I’ll tell you that a determined or desperate person might take such a chance. After all, one could control how much was consumed and exaggerate the effects afterward. It would be hard even for a medical man to tell for certain unless the shamming were obvious. Have you a reason to lean that way?”

  Choosing not to answer this question, Chase produced the unused bottle of medicine the constables had found in the rubbish, which he’d stowed in his pocket this morning. “Any idea what this is?”

  “Ah,” said Caldwell, a spark of enthusiasm brightening his gaze, “if you’ll allow me, I’ll add it to my samples. We’ve a very good chemical gentleman who has a villa nearby. A friend of mine, in fact.”

  He examined the bottle. Made of cylindrical green glass, it held about four ounces of liquid. Though most of the printer’s label had been removed, the remnants of a decorative panel in gold, as well as the image of an urn with a sprig of greenery protruding, were still intact. A few letters of the original handwritten identification could also be seen. The surgeon uncorked the bottle and poured some of the solution from the narrow mouth into his palm.

  He dabbed at the liquid with the finger of his other hand and tasted it. “Some sort of restorative tonic,” he pronounced. “Mainly ginger and Peruvian bark.” He peered again at the fragment of label. “The label ends in ‘vous.’ I’ll warrant it said: Tonic for the Nervous. No harm in that. Do you still wish me to have it tested?”

  “Yes, I’ll give you a sample and try to trace the purchase myself. It’s not from a local druggist? You can see at the bottom part of an address for the printer who made the label.”

  “It’s not from here. Our man doesn’t use labels of this design.”

  Chase nodded. “You’ll let me know what your chemical friend says about the other samples as soon as possible?”

  “Of course. He can run the tests that will be needed in court.”

  “You said before that you suspect arsenic as the poisoning agent?”

  “I do,” replied Caldwell, intrigued. “Why, have you another theory?”

  “Not one I’m prepared to credit,” said Chase.

  ***

  Samuel Tallboys waved Chase to a seat in Garrod’s study. The clergyman, wearing clerical dress, took his seat in a wing chair and rested against the cushions with a sigh. He looked around in reminiscent sorrow. “I’ve spent many a happy hour at Laurentum, Mr. Chase. Before Mr. Garrod helped me obtain my living, I resided with him as chaplain, curator to his treasures, and private secretary. Hugo was always good to me. I can repay him now by ensuring that everything will be done just as he would have wished.”

  “How long have you also held a commission of the peace in Clapham?”

  “I’ve been a J.P. for several years and vicar for several more before that. I can tell you we’ve had nothing like this in the district before. You will have encountered a fair amount of violent death in your work, sir. It is quite out of my experience.”

  Chase was curious. “Weren’t you in Jamaica with Mr. Garrod? I always thought it was a place of utter barbarity. The heads of erring slaves stuck on fence posts, vicious floggings—”

  Tallboys was surprised. “Eh? Perhaps you refer to the incidents of slaves turning on their masters. Now that you mention it, I recall a story about a servant girl who poisoned her master’s brandy. ’Twas said she stood at his bedside and watched his death agonies without a shred of remorse.”

  That wasn’t what Chase had meant, but he let the remark pass. “Before we proceed to business, have you fully recovered your health? You should call in one of your brother magistrates to take your place.” Chase didn’t add that as Garrod’s executor and trustee, Tallboys would have many additional cares pressing upon him, not to mention that he was also a suspect in the murder inquiry.

  Tallboys narrowed his eyes. “You must leave that to my judgment. The inquest will take place two o’clock tomorrow at the Windmill Inn. You’ll be ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Postmortem?”

  “Tomorrow morning. After that, the coroner’s jury will view the body, and it can be released for burial.”

  “Good. You’ve been in contact with the coroner? He’s a young man, bit green. You’ll want to keep an eye on him.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chase. “I’ll ask my friend Edward Buckler to help conduct the questioning if you don’t think that’ll ruffle too many feathers. He’s a barrister of the Inner Temple.”

  Tallboys considered. “That would depend.”

  “Sir?”

  “On whether your friend expects to command his usual fee.” Tallboys brandished a letter and fanned his red face with it. “This is from Hugo’s lawyers. They remind me that the estate is not authorized to pay the expenses of a criminal investigation. As the parish is likely to be stuck with the bill, we shall have to economize.” He gave a derisive humph. “One of the richest men in the country, worth a king’s ransom, and here I am worrying about how to meet costs! Your chemical tests won’t come cheap. There’s the autopsy and the coroner and the rest. You tell Mr. Buckler that he can pose his questions with my blessing if he means to offer his services gratis.”

  Chase answered him with what patience he could muster. “The chemical tests are necessary to determine the poison. The doctor mentions arsenic as the likely possibility.” He paused, wishing again that he could omit this part of his report, though that would be futile. The under-gardener Higgins would never keep quiet. It would be better for Chase to offer the official information. “Mr. Tallboys, let me tell you of a discovery made just this morning.”

  As Chase related the testimony of the under-gardener and the kitchen maid, Tallboys’ expression grew severe, and his thin lips stretched into a grimace of frigid distaste. “It wanted only this. I’ve been uneasy in my mind, Chase, but couldn’t bear to give weight to my fears. Now—”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Chase replied carefully. “I can tell you that I do not regard this evidence as conclusive. It brings guilt home to no one.”

  “How can you doubt it was Abrus precatorius that killed Hugo and sickened the rest of us? Why else should these beads have been found hidden near where the crime occurred? No, as much as I would like to think otherwise for my late lamented friend’s sake, I cannot ignore the implications. When I think of the scandal, and the difficulties in regard to the settling of the will, I own I can’t see my way forward.”

  “Have you any idea how things are left? It’s likely the will can provide an essential clue to the culprit. We must know who chiefly benefits.”

  “Hugo didn’t tell me. Why should he? I’m not sure he knew what was best himself. What am I to do if the heiress to this fortune is proved to have murdered her own father? She could not then inherit.”

  “You are hasty, sir. We must await the results of the chemical tests.”

  “But the maid’s story about the threat? That too is significant.”

  Chase kept his tone matter-of-fact. “The worst thing we can do is jump to conclusions. Give me time, Mr. Tallboys. The so-called threat uttered by Miss Garrod was vague. It means nothing.”

  The clergyman snorted. “I’ll have to take your word for that, Chase. I wish I could be as sanguine. Still, it would be best for the family if the matter can be hushed up. I need hardly say you must be discreet.”

  “Of course.”

  Tallboys reached over and picked up one of the beads that Chase had placed on the table between them. Heaving
himself to his feet, he went to the shelves, frowned at the spines for a few minutes, and finally pulled down a volume. He flipped to the index and then to the relevant page. “Abrus precatorius. Red bead vine,” he murmured. “What can we learn of this plant? Used as prayer beads or rosaries or as jewelry for slaves. Its name derives from the Latin precatorius meaning prayer. Leaves and tops given with advantage in coughs and pleurisies. Cattle poisoning in India. Administered in powder, it will operate with great violence both as an emetic and cathartic. Anyone ingesting this substance would suffer purging, lassitude, and so on.” He put aside the book and confronted Chase. “We have found our poison.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. For some inexplicable reason the murderer leaves the beads to be found? Beads pointing to one person?”

  “That person is not in her full senses.”

  There was nothing for it. Chase’s hope of avoiding open conflict was dashed. “I don’t believe it,” he told Tallboys. “The key to Mr. Garrod’s teapoy was missing on the day of the party. Someone in the household stole it to tamper with the sugar, and we don’t know who that person was. You yourself were in the house at the relevant time.” He leafed through his occurrence book, making the pages rustle as loudly as possible. “Can you tell me more about your visit?”

  “This is offensive, sir, and stupid. Do you think I’d poison myself?”

  “Such details are important in these inquiries. What time did you arrive?”

  “About ten o’clock. I was shown into the morning room to meet Miss Honeycutt.”

  “She was there waiting for you?”

  “She and Miss Garrod both. We took breakfast together while Miss Honeycutt and I discussed our plans for a new religious curriculum at a local school. I had business of my own to attend to in the parish, so I left by eleven o’clock. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Look, Chase. A poisoner is the most vicious of murderers. One might expect a villain like this to thrive in Italy—but here? Do your duty. I can sympathize with your reluctance to cast blame in a certain quarter. I, more than anyone, am bound to feel a solicitude for my old friend’s daughter. I am left her guardian. Her welfare must be my chief concern. But it can be no use to balk at plain facts.”

  “The key isn’t the only issue. You witnessed Mr. Garrod’s agitation on his deathbed. He was worried about his will.”

  Tallboys returned to his chair. Lacing his fingers under his chin, he regarded Chase coldly. “Hugo was a careful man. Mark my words. He’ll tell us how he intended his estate to be allocated, down to the last farthing. I beg that you not repeat this story to anyone. My friend was possessed of an income of thirty thousand pounds per annum—did you know that?”

  “A large estate. More than enough brass to inspire someone to put poison in the man’s tea. To my mind, we have motives to go around. Let’s say Mr. Garrod was angry with someone and decided to make a change to his will. Maybe this person killed him to put a stop to this plan.”

  Tallboys’ expression darkened further. “Nonsense. I warn you, Chase. You have no proof of any such thing, and you will only add to my headaches by continuing in this vein. Do you want to tear this family apart?”

  “Better that than let a killer go free.”

  Tallboys brushed aside this remark with an impatient gesture. “I don’t doubt the newspapers will be baying at our heels. They expect Bow Street to deliver, and you must hope they don’t make too much of the fact that you were actually on the property when the crime occurred. Not your fault, I suppose.”

  “You are kind to say so.”

  Ignoring this sarcasm, the clergyman rose and made his way across the room to a curio cabinet in the corner. “I’ll show you something.” He opened the glass door, pulled out a bottle, and carried it back.

  “What’s this?” said Chase when Tallboys had put an old wine bottle into his hand. Shifting it back and forth so that the liquid sloshed to one side, he saw that it held black feathers as well as some waving strands of what looked like hair, bones, and animal teeth on a string. As he shook the jar, three or four red and black beads came loose from the bed of hair. They were of the same type as Marina Garrod’s.

  “A keepsake. Hugo’s had it for years,” said Tallboys.

  “What’s the animal necklace made of?”

  “Cat’s teeth, nine of them for luck. The liquid is rainwater.”

  “It’s an Obeah charm, isn’t it?” said Chase.

  “Hugo took this off a particularly nasty character on his estate. He found it concealed in the thatch of the man’s cottage and preserved it out of scholarly interest.”

  “Miss Garrod told me you have indulged her recent interest in Obeah and Jamaican culture. Do you think that wise, Mr. Tallboys?”

  “Not particularly. I couldn’t think how to stem her questions. She is a most determined young woman.” He shook his head, bemused. “You seem inclined to take Marina’s part, sir. But do you truly believe any child could bury a past like hers? It was sure to mark her. In the end it was sure to mark her.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The cavalcade of coroner, jury, and constables, with a clutch of reporters trailing at the rear, approached Garrod’s villa. The day was fine, a little sultry, with a sprinkling of rain that had speckled the pretty coat and Hessian boots of the coroner, a bright-eyed young man stepping bravely down the road. He strode up the carriage drive, swept by the line of waiting servants, and met Samuel Tallboys in front of Laurentum’s pillared entrance porch. Tallboys dispersed the journalists with threats of a citation for trespassing and took his place next to the coroner at the head of the procession.

  The jury’s first stop was the hothouse, where the twelve local men stared at the exotic blooms with an awe they concealed behind stolid faces. Tallboys conducted them to the place where the poisoning had occurred. Afterwards they went upstairs to view the body. Earlier that morning, the knowledge that a trio of physicians, one a lecturer from St. Thomas’ Hospital, had taken their saws and scalpels to the corpse had vibrated through the household, sounding a note of dark excitement. Forced to shoo away several curiosity seekers from the upstairs corridor, John Chase had finally remained on guard at the door. Now when the coroner entered the chamber of death, he took one look at the corpse’s distended belly, his thin nostrils quivering, and buried his face in his nosegay. A peacock, thought Chase, but he kept his expression bland.

  Next the men filed into Beatrice Honeycutt’s bedchamber to find her propped against her pillows with her aunt Mrs. Yates and the surgeon Caldwell in attendance. Dressed in a pink silk dressing gown and a delicate lace cap with flaps that draped down her shoulders, Miss Honeycutt expressed herself exhausted from the combined effects of her recent sickness and her uncle’s death. Gallantly, the coroner said she was not to rise from her bed, for he would not keep her long. Beatrice gave her hand first to him and then to Tallboys, who lingered over it a fraction too long. She held herself rigid, embarrassed by all these strange men looking at her. The jury waited in respectful silence, seeming sheepish and uneasy in this feminine domain.

  “My dear, madam,” said the coroner, “I was relieved beyond measure to hear of your deliverance. Words fail me on this occasion, but may I offer my condolences on the death of your uncle?”

  Lips trembling, Beatrice turned her head away.

  “My dear,” said Samuel Tallboys, “we shouldn’t ask this of you. It’s far too much. Do forgive me for permitting it. I felt I had no choice but to give our cooperation. Perhaps…perhaps we can come back later?” Observing the man’s anxiety, Chase wondered if there could be a romance afoot, though the pompous and unimaginative Tallboys struck him as an unlikely candidate for a lover. Hugo Garrod had said that Beatrice had made a better success of her London season than had her cousin, but apparently she had not achieved a match for herself. In which case Tallboys might appear a reasonable prospect, es
pecially if he was to receive a bequest in the will.

  “That’s an excellent plan. Poor Beatrice is exhausted. Can your questions wait, sir?” Mrs. Yates said to the coroner. She too seemed overcome by the magnitude of the change in her life. She kept her shoulders bowed, her gaze lowered, her hands folded sedately over her apron. She might have been thinking about what would become of her if the household at Laurentum were to break up. Too old to seek another position, she would be counting on her brother for security in her final years. Or she might have been immersed in her grief for Hugo Garrod and her busy concern for her nieces and nephew.

  The coroner bowed to the older lady. “I must express my sympathy to you as well, Mrs. Yates. Your brother was a true gentleman and a philanthropist who has a done a world of good for his country. He will be sorely missed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Yates raised a mild gaze to his face, then returned it to the carpet.

  “That won’t be necessary,” put in Beatrice in a stronger voice. Shifting to face them, she adjusted the sleeves of her gown and smiled on the clergyman. “If Mr. Tallboys can do his duty under such trying circumstances, I would be ashamed to do less. With the example of my dear aunt before me—she who is ever active in promoting the good of others—how can I not follow her line of conduct?”

  This was received with a cry of pleasure and a clasp of the hand from Mrs. Yates and a reverential bow from the clergyman. Watching this little show, Chase found himself, not for the first time in his life, thinking about the hard work of being a lady, and it seemed to him that Penelope was in some ways better off in her current unorthodox situation. He understood that Marina Garrod’s failure to adhere to the code required of her was at the root of her alienation from her family, though illegitimacy and race must also play roles.

  Once it was established that Miss Honeycutt had drunk only a few sips of her tea, could not inform them about the key to the teapoy, and had noticed nothing out of the way until she herself took ill, the coroner began a more delicate probe. “Had there been anything to trouble the family prior to these tragic events, ma’am? I beg your pardon for intruding into your private affairs, but we must find the villain who did this.”