by Joan Smith
When I got around to thinking of Mrs. Manner and myself, I rather thought we would remain at Downsview. It was unlikely that whichever of her nephews inherited the estate would actually live here. He would visit, of course, and oversee the running of the farm, but I felt Auntie would have stipulated that we could stay here as long as necessary.
Gregory was the first one to come down. He found me in the purple saloon, sitting alone in the cold dark chamber.
“Mrs. Manner told me,” he said in a suitably subdued voice, but it was a stage voice. Young nephew grieving death of beloved aunt. He sat down beside me. “This comes as a bit of a shock, I must say.”
“She was old, but in good health. I am simply astonished.”
“No idea what caused it?”
“At her age, I suppose it was the heart.”
“She didn’t change her will?”
I did not try very hard to conceal my dislike of that question so soon after her death. “No, she didn’t get to speak to the solicitor this year.”
“I fancy she never changed it much from year to year. Just a little tinkering with small bequests. It was a sham to keep us in line. The fortune is to be split evenly five ways, amongst you and us nephews. I, as the elder, am to get a few extra trinkets—the jewelry and so on.”
“How do you know that? She always made a secret of her will.”
“I weaseled it out of her two years ago,” he replied.
“How can five people inherit a house?” I asked in confusion.
“We’ll have to sell.”
“Sell Downsview? Surely that is not what she wanted! She was fooling you, Gregory.”
He frowned, but soon decided my opinion was worthless. "That is what she said. We’ll sell; what else can we do with it? If anyone wants to buy me out, I am more than agreeable. There are her investments besides. That will amount to something in the neighborhood of ten thousand each.”
I was shocked out of my disgust with Gregory at this news. "Ten thousand pounds!”
“Plus your share of Downsview. You’ll be rich, Jessie.”
“Good gracious!” I felt quite giddy at his news. “What of Mrs. Manner?”
“She was in for five thousand, last I heard. I fancy she’ll still get it. What will you do?”
“I have not even begun to think of the future yet. Perhaps I shall share a place with Mrs. Manner.”
“You ought to run up to London and make your bows. You’d nab a fellow quick as winking.”
It seemed disrespectful to be speaking of such things. “Let us have a cup of coffee,” I said. “I feel so cold.”
“Of course,” he said, resuming his doleful face. He offered his arm to escort me to the breakfast parlor.
Otto was just passing through the hall. He levelled a peculiar look on us. I dashed up to him. “You’ve heard?”
“I have. I fancy the whole house knows by now. This is a great shock for you, Jess. I am so very sorry.”
His kind words brought a tear to my eyes. He handed me his handkerchief and I dabbed at my tears while the gentlemen discussed it between them.
“A shocking business,” Gregory said in his stage manner.
Otto said, “What happened to her? Was it her heart?”
“Juteclaw told me she died in her sleep,” Gregory replied. “The doctor will tell us what caused it. Good timing for you, Otto. She hadn’t time to cut you out of her will. She would have done, you know. She wasn’t a bit pleased about those slurs on Prinney.”
“A good thing she wasn’t murdered, or I would be the prime suspect,” Otto replied, and we continued along to the breakfast parlor.
I had the feeling Gregory could scarcely contain his glee. He didn’t care a groat for Hettie. He just wanted to get his hands on his share of her fortune. He helped himself to gammon and eggs from the sideboard and ate a good breakfast. Horatio and Felix joined us a few moments later, both suitably sober in the face of death.
There was talk of the funeral arrangements. The gentlemen would stay on until it was over. Otto was going to write to inform his parents, but he did not expect them to come. His father, Lord Kidd, had been feeling poorly at Christmas. Someone would have to remain with the body until the doctor came. Mrs. Manner would probably want to do that. I would write notes to relatives and a few neighbours, and arrange for Mrs. Wiggans to attend to the laying out. Felix offered to notify the local journal, and assist with her obituary.
“Don’t forget to inform the solicitor,” Greg reminded him.
Felix gave him a rebukeful look. “Our aunt has just been taken ad patres, Gregory. A little respect, if you please.”
Gregory set down his cup and smiled. “You no longer have to impress her, brother. She’s dead. You can speak English. Your fine book and your knighthood come too late. You’ll not cut the rest of us out, so you can quit shamming it. None of us liked her. She was a sour, manipulative old bint, so let us not mince words. The sooner we get her buried and get the solicitor here, the sooner we can take our money and go back to London.”
Every face in the room looked at him with disgust.
“And call on Mrs. Rampling,” Felix sneered.
“I shan’t have to go to London to do that. She is visiting relatives nearby. I dropped her at her aunt’s house on my way down. A pity you hadn’t known, and you could have told Hettie that.” Then he rose and swaggered out of the room, revealing the tawdriness of his mind to all.
“Allow me to apologize for my brother,” Felix said. He was pale and looked strained. “I shall take my coffee to the library and work on the obituary. If Mr. Weldon comes—never mind. I’ll speak to Juteclaw.”
“You could drop a note and tell him you cannot see him today,” I suggested.
“That might be best,” he said, as he rose and left.
“I’ll see if Juteclaw has some mourning bands,” Horatio said, and followed Felix out.
I was alone with Otto. “What will you do now, Jessie?” he asked. “Or has Gregory already been offering you his help?”
“He told me Auntie’s fortune is to be split evenly amongst us all. If we have to sell Downsview, then—”
“Sell Downsview? She would never set her will in such a way that Downsview left the family.”
“But that is what Gregory said. She told him two years ago. If it is true, then you won’t lose the Clarion if you lose your lawsuit.”
He looked doubtful. “I would not place too much reliance on what Auntie told Gregory. She is—was full of mischief.”
Juteclaw appeared at the doorway and ushered in Doctor Culpepper. He was our family doctor at Downsview, an elderly, kindly man with no airs or graces about him, but a good doctor.
“I am sorry to hear about your aunt, Miss Greenwood.”
I thanked him and introduced Otto, who went off to attend to his business while I accompanied the doctor abovestairs. Doctor Culpepper went immediately to the bed, where he drew back the sheet and began examining Hettie. Mrs. Manner and I shrank against the farthest wall, as though death were contagious. Culpepper asked a few questions about what time Hettie had retired, and what she had eaten. He picked up the plate that had held the rum-cake and smelt it, then put his finger in the remains and tasted it. Next, he espied the bottle of cold remedy and uncorked it to have a taste.
“Was Mrs. Farr suffering from a cold?” he asked, frowning at the bottle.
“No, but I had a sore throat yesterday, and she asked for a bottle of the syrup,” I replied. I noticed she had taken about a quarter of the bottle already.
“Have you taken any yourself, Miss Greenwood?” he asked.
“No, I washed my throat with a brine solution, and it seemed better.”
“Don’t take any of it,” he said.
“Is there something wrong with it?” I asked at once.
“There is something very much amiss somewhere. That spilt water, the dilated pupils, and the bedclothes all yanked off—it looks very much like an overdose of belladonna. She u
sed it in her cold medicine. I told her repeatedly it was only to be used as a cough suppressant.”
“Are you saying Cook’s medicine killed her?” Mrs. Manner asked. Her eyes were like saucers, and her chin trembled in dismay.
“I wish I had seen her before she died. We medical men have a saying for an overdose of belladonna: Hot as a hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, mad as a hen. You see she was overheated, for she has pulled her coverlet off. She was reaching for water, which suggests she was dry, and as she spilt it, it seems her eyesight was fading. Her flush has faded, but when you throw in the dilated pupils, it is hard to come up with anything but poisoning by an overdose of belladonna.”
“But Hettie took the medicine every year. It never hurt her before,” Mrs. Manner said.
“There must have been a massive overdose in the bottle, obviously.”
“I helped Cook brew it myself,” Mrs. Manner said. "There was no overdose, I assure you.”
“Then it was added later. We’ll compare her bottle with the rest of the batch. And you’d best send off for the constable.”
Mrs. Manner went white as snow. “Are you saying it was—murder?” She looked puzzled, as if she could not quite grasp such an idea.
“Accident, very likely, but accidents have to be looked into as well. Now don’t get yourself all het up, ladies. I am not suggesting you killed her.” He essayed a nervous little laugh.
I was aware of dead weight dragging at my side, and when I looked, I saw Mrs. Manner sliding to the floor in a swoon. It was only my body that held her up. I felt like swooning myself.
Doctor Culpepper flew into action. Between us, we got her along the hall and into her bedroom. He gave her a paregoric draught to calm her, and when she was resting he drew me into the hallway for a private word.
“Poor Mrs. Manner is a nervous soul, Miss Greenwood. It will be for you to run the ship here during this difficult time. I am sorry to have to bring the constable down on your head in the midst of your grief, but it cannot be helped. I do not see how such a massive dose of belladonna could have been administered by accident. Was your aunt depressed recently?”
“On the contrary. She was happy, with all her nephews coming to visit.”
“Not suicide then, I take it.”
“She would never take her own life! She held very strong Christian beliefs in that respect.”
“I never took her for a suicidal type. Well, it looks bad. Mind you don’t take so much as a drop of that cold medicine until it has been examined. Get hold of the whole batch and lock it up tight. Where would such chemicals as your belladonna and laudanum and so on be stored?”
“My aunt kept them in the cheese-room upstairs, to be out of the way of servants."
“Is it kept locked?”
“No. They are on the top shelf of a cupboard. You have to use a stool to reach them.”
“Lock the door until the constable gets here.”
“My aunt keeps the keys to the house. They would be in her room.”
“Best get them.”
How I dreaded to go back into that room. It was like a cave at the best of times, with the heavy furnishings and blood-red hangings. I snatched the key-ring up from the bedside table and went to the door of the cheese-room. I had to try a dozen keys before I found the right one. My hand was trembling so that I could scarcely turn it in the lock. The dreadful word kept whirling in my brain—murder, murder, murder—as I darted to the kitchen to secure the bottles of cough medicine.
Cook locked them in her cupboard for safekeeping. She was subdued in the face of death. “The old malkin, killed to the bone,” she kept muttering, as if she could not believe it.
I thought, too, of Gregory’s ill-concealed glee at the prospect of inheriting. But, he could not be that bad. It must surely have been an accident.
Chapter Five
It was Doctor Culpepper who gave the local constable an outline of Hettie’s death when Hodgkins arrived an hour later to begin his investigation. We all gathered in the saloon.
Hodgkins was a simple, ill-educated man of middle years with curly brown hair just silvering around the ears, and wearing a mildewed blue jacket. In an effort to intimidate the local youngsters, he kept his lips pulled so tightly together you had to look twice to find them. His usual duties were to lock drunkards in the round-house until they sobered up, chastise the youngsters who filched sugarplums from the sweet-shop, and intervene on those occasions when domestic violence rose to such a pitch that it bothered the neighbours. He was also responsible for keeping an eye on gypsies and other “foreigners” who visited the village with the apparent intention of leaving it poorer than they found it.
This amiable soul was completely intimidated to find himself in a house of the gentry, and was so frightened of giving offence that he might as well have stayed in the village. Really it was left almost entirely to Doctor Culpepper to manage things. He suspected that Auntie’s cold medicine did contain a lethal dose of belladonna and that the rest of the batch, including my bottle, was not similarly adulterated. Cook assured us the bottle of belladonna was still half-full when she used it for the cold medicine the day before. It was empty when Hodgkins examined the cheese-room.
It was unlikely that Aunt Hettie personally had climbed to the cheese-room, tottered up on the stool and emptied the bottle into her own medicine. The conclusion was inevitable; some person or persons unknown had added the poison to Aunt Hettie’s cough medicine.
“In other words, you are saying one of us murdered her!” Gregory exclaimed, full of dudgeon. “This is outrageous!”
Constable Hodgkins blushed and said, “Nothing of the sort, I do assure you, sir.”
Felix said quietly, “As Cicero so wisely asked, ‘Cui bono?’ Whose purpose does it serve?”
“Yours as well as mine, and Otto’s and Horatio’s too,” Gregory retorted. “And let us not forget the ladies. It is Jessica and Mrs. Manner who had to live with her.”
Culpepper whispered something in the constable’s ear. Hodgkins cleared his throat and asked timorously, “Would it be possible to hear which of you knew where the medicines were kept?”
“We all knew,” Otto said, looking around with a challenging light in his eyes. “We have been coming here for years, often to spend a month in the summer when we were younger. We all had equal access to the poison—and if Gregory is to be believed, equal reason, insofar as financial gain is concerned.”
Felix looked dissatisfied. “If it is an argument ad crumenam we are talking about—”
“Speak English, for God’s sake!” Gregory snapped. “We are not all scholars, Felix.”
“If we are talking about money, you said yourself I would have done better after the will was changed,” Felix pointed out. “Aunt Hettie might have looked more leniently on me as a result of my book’s success. The knighthood is what I mean.”
“And less favourably on you, Otto,” Horatio mentioned. “Not that I mean to say you had anything to do with it, of course,” he added hastily, when Culpepper’s head slewed in Otto’s direction.
Otto just rolled his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Thank you, Horatio, for that vote of confidence.”
Hodgkins cleared his throat again and said to Otto, “I am sorry to interrupt your conversation, gentlemen, but perhaps if you would explain that statement, Mr. Farr.”
Otto explained brusquely that he had offended Mrs. Farr by writing against the Prince of Wales. Mr. Hodgkins took this sorely amiss. His ire lent a touch of authority to his humble manner. “It ill becomes a man to bite the hand that feeds him,” he said stiffly.
“I am not accustomed to receiving any crumbs in the way of perquisites from the Prince, if that is your meaning,” Otto said, high on his dignity.
I doubt Hodgkins was even aware of such things as royal perquisites. I don’t know what he meant, except that he admired the royal family, and took any word against them for high treason. His anger fired him up to demand Otto’s
whereabouts last evening. With Culpepper’s help, this eventually led to the revelation, that none of us could prove that we could not have found ten minutes to dart up to the cheese-room, down to Aunt Hettie’s room to doctor the medicine, and back up to return the empty bottle to its shelf. Cook, when questioned, said she had sent the bottle of cold medicine up to Juteclaw before dinner, and he had taken it to Auntie’s room at once. So it had been sitting on the bedside table for several hours, where anyone might have seen it and tampered with it.
After another whispered colloquy with Doctor Culpepper, Hodgkins asserted that as we all had the time and the means and the reason, what he must do was “look into it.” This he did by descending to the kitchen for a cup of tea with the servants.
Culpepper shook his head in dismay and said, “Hodgkins will be making his report to Croton, our local Justice of the Peace, as soon as he returns to the village. I will be giving evidence at the coroner’s inquest, of course. There is little doubt as to the outcome. Croton will have to appoint someone to investigate all this, as it is a case of some importance. Perhaps he will send to London and ask Townshend for assistance. A Bow Street officer might be sent down.”
There was a general sound of protest from all the gentlemen. Culpepper was not cowed. He said severely, “If you do not all want a cloud hanging over your heads for the rest of your lives, you ought to welcome it, gentlemen.”
“We do not want that kind of fuss,” Gregory said angrily.
“Is there some special reason you do not wish to discover who murdered your aunt?” Culpepper asked curtly.
“She is dead. A scandal is not going to bring her back.”
“You understand, of course, that her fortune will not be disbursed until this matter is settled,” Culpepper told him. “The law prohibits a criminal from gaining by his crime. Until we know who is the criminal, I doubt anyone will be given his blunt. It is up to you. I am only a doctor, but if she were my aunt, I would not leave it like this, with a cloud hanging over you all. Good day, gentlemen, Miss Greenwood. I shall see you all at the inquest.”