by Karen Ranney
“No, sir. He couldn’t eat anything by then, or hardly drink anything at all.”
Mary stared straight ahead, looking as if none of what was happening had anything to do with her. Hamish wondered if she were maintaining that aloof demeanor in order to endure what was happening to her. He’d looked the same, he was certain, as he was being tortured.
“Did you ever see him become ill after he drank this potion?”
The young girl shook her head vehemently from side to side. “No sir, if anything he seemed better after he drank it. But like I said, he didn’t have any for nearly a week before he died.”
She looked over at Mary again. “Sometimes, I’d see Mrs. Gilly at his bedside at night. I’d look in on her just before I retired to see if she needed anything, and she’d be sitting with him. Toward the end, the poor man was losing his mind. He was raving, thinking he saw things like animals and things. He said that he had insects crawling all over his body and scratching at his eyes. Then he started screaming that he was on fire. Cook and I used to sit in the kitchen and look at each other and pray that the poor man would just die.”
“How, exactly, did he die?”
“He just went to sleep, sir. A blessed release, I call it. He just went to sleep, and he never woke up again.”
“What was Mrs. Gilly’s reaction to his death?”
“I found her, sir, on the floor, next to the bed. She had her face against the sheet, her cheek next to Mr. Gilly’s hand. There were tears all over her face, like she had been crying for hours.”
Hamish glanced at Mary, thinking that there were secrets between them even now. Even though she’d spoken of Gordon, she’d never alluded to how he’d died or what she’d gone through in those last days. Mary was not a woman who sought pity, but he couldn’t help but wonder where she’d found her strength.
“How much longer will this take?” Hamish asked, but neither Brendan nor Marshall answered him.
“I beg leave to address the court.”
Hamish turned to see Marshall standing.
The minister was dressed in his customary black suit and white stock. His shoulder length silvery gray hair was brushed back from his forehead and tucked behind his ears. His face was serene, as it always appeared, but his dark eyes were filled with resolve. In his left hand he clutched the Bible; his right was fisted and resting on his hip as he stared at Sir John. It was, Hamish realized, a duel of wills between the sheriff and the church. In this case, the church won.
Sir John nodded, and Marshall came forward. Betty left the witness chair, and Marshall took her place, resting the Bible on his lap as he sat.
“I come to give my evidence not as a minister, but as a man who’s studied medicine for some thirty years. I’ve detailed my experience in various books on the subject.”
“We would certainly welcome any expertise, Mr. Marshall,” Sir John said, his expression belying his words.
“Mercury poisoning is a terrible way to die, but it’s my opinion that the entire vial should not have been enough to cause Mr. Gilly’s death.” He sent a sharp look to the container still resting on the Sheriff’s desk.
“By itself, perhaps. But have you considered that the physician administered mercury as well?”
Once again, the courtroom was solemnly quiet as Marshall and Sir John looked at each other. Finally, the magistrate looked into the audience, seeking out the physician.
“Dr. Grampian, how much mercury did you give Mr. Gilly?”
The physician stood. “A scant spoonful in a mixture of other ingredients.”
“Administered how often?”
Dr. Grampian hesitated for a moment. “Every day for a matter of weeks.”
The sheriff turned to Marshall once again. “Coupled with the dosage Mrs. Gilly administered, would that have been enough to kill?”
Marshall nodded, evidently unhappy to be forced to concede the point.
Hamish was growing increasingly concerned about Mary. He’d thought her pale before, but now she was almost ashen. She stared at Mr. Marshall with wide eyes as if she’d received a shock.
“So, Mrs. Gilly could have poisoned her husband without knowing what she was doing?”
Marshall once again nodded.
“But because she labels herself a healer, it is my belief she should have known,” Sir John said, staring at Mary.
The sheriff didn’t seem to be willing to consider Mary innocent. Nor did Hamish believe that the physician would be called to the witness stand again to account for his actions.
Mary was plainly going to be the one to be made responsible for Gordon’s death.
Why are women considered more sinners than sinned against? Mary had asked him that question weeks ago.
A moment later, the minister left the witness chair, to be replaced by a series of people, all of whom had requested time to speak. They told how Mary had saved a family member or themselves. Mr. Grant testified as well, his story touching, and revealing more about Mary than her treatments.
“Jack was only five at the time. He contracted what we thought was a cold, but it seemed to settle around his chest. His fever mounted, and it grew more and more difficult for him to breathe. We fetched the physician, and he prescribed several tonics for him, but none seemed to work. I didn’t think my youngest child would survive the night,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My wife was beside herself. The physician counseled that we should simply remain at Jack’s bedside and be prepared for death by morning.”
His eyes searched and found the physician sitting on the other side of the courtroom. Hamish hadn’t been in Mr. Grant’s presence often, but he’d never seen the older man look as angry as he did now.
“I confess to being of a stubborn nature,” Mr. Grant continued as his wife smiled faintly and dabbed at her eyes. “I was not willing to lose Jack without a battle. So, when Elspeth told me that she’d heard of a woman who was treating the poor with some success, I agreed to summon her.”
“I take it your son did not die?” the Sheriff said.
“No, he didn’t. Mary came and sat on the edge of his bed, asking a dozen questions or more about his symptoms and his treatment to date. She did some things that I thought odd at the time, but the longer I’ve known of her methods, the more respect I have for them.”
“What did she do that you found odd?”
“Dr. Grampian told us to burn several pots filled with camphor. She extinguished them, and had us open the window a little. The room was stifling, and I feared that the change of temperature would worsen Jack’s condition. But his fever decreased over the next hour, especially after she began bathing him in cool water.”
“Did she ever give him mercury?”
“No. Nor did she ever discuss it. In fact, I don’t recall Mary giving Jack any medications at all. She said later that the body has a way of healing itself if obstacles are removed from it.”
Marshall nodded vehemently, and Hamish glanced at him, thinking that, at another time, Mary would be pleased at his approval.
“Mary elevated Jack on the pillows, and used a reed to eliminate the obstruction in his throat. She said that it would aid him in breathing easier. Toward dawn, his color was better, and she was right, he didn’t sound as if he were laboring as much. By the next day, his fever was down, and by week’s end, he was almost back to his normal self.”
“You’re saying that Mrs. Gilly was responsible for the boy’s cure?”
“I saw the proof of it with my own eyes.”
Sir John waved away Mr. Grant’s words as if he considered them of little value.
Elspeth was next on the list, and she took her place in the witness chair with a soft smile to her father.
“Have you seen Mrs. Gilly involved in any miraculous healings?” Sir John asked.
“I don’t consider them miracles, Sir John,” Elspeth said. “Nor does Mary. She takes a great store from the teachings of others and has tried to do good in all her dealings with people.”
Elspeth smiled at Mary, who smiled back, the first emotion she’d willingly demonstrated since taking her seat hours earlier.
“There was the Lambeth baby,” Elspeth continued. “He had the croup so bad that he wouldn’t eat. The poor thing was nearly a skeleton before Mary happened upon a cure. And old Mr. Parkinson who had rheumatism. But he died last year of old age, so he wouldn’t be a good witness.”
An interruption of laughter made Elspeth frown and look down at her hands. Brendan half rose from his chair, but Hamish pressed him down again in his seat.
“I’m all for grand gestures as well,” he told his brother, “but now is not the time.” As much as he would like to go and rescue Mary, the sheriff’s men aligned around the courtroom made that thought as impractical as Brendan’s rushing to Elspeth’s aid. He would do nothing more than complicate the situation.
“Have you any further information that you can provide this court that would assist in rendering a verdict in this matter?”
Elspeth looked directly at Sir John. “No, I don’t. Only that I do not think Mary could harm Gordon. I would trust her with my life.”
“It seemed as if her husband felt the same way,” Sir John said, and the courtroom fell silent at that remark.
“It being now two in the afternoon, the court is adjourned. Tomorrow we will hear from the accused.” He peered down his fleshy nose at Mary. “Will you be ready to give testimony, Mrs. Gilly?”
She stood. “Yes,” she said simply.
A female warder stood in front of Mary and pulled her unceremoniously from the chair by her bound wrists. She lifted her eyes, and for a moment, her gaze met Hamish’s. She looked away, releasing him, deliberately rebuffing him. Nevertheless, the hopelessness in her eyes made him want to rescue her now.
Be brave. Would she hear him? Was there a way to communicate with her in just his thoughts? If so, he’d send his courage to her, the tattered remnants of his optimism, something that would aid her now.
She was led from the room as Hamish watched.
Not once did Mary glance in his direction.
Chapter 21
“I t’s not going well for her,” Hamish said, pacing the length of the taproom in the inn he and Brendan had called home for the past few days. His brother watched him from a table where he ate his evening meal. Beside him sat Marshall, acting as if he had a more positive outlook about these proceedings than Hamish.
“Mrs. Gilly has not yet given her testimony,” Marshall said calmly, finishing off his pint of ale. The innkeeper looked at them from time to time, frowning. Their appearance had dampened his trade somewhat. Although the taproom was normally a crowded place in the evening, it was sparsely occupied now, and Hamish wondered if it was because Marshall was a minister. Or was it due more to the fact that the three of them were solidly on Mary’s side?
“People are beginning to believe her guilty,” Hamish said, finally sitting.
“I’m afraid that is my fault,” Marshall admitted. “I should not have asked to address the court.”
“You only wished to help,” Brendan said.
“Do you think Gilly was murdered?” Hamish asked Marshall.
“Mercury poisoning is a terrible way to die. But it’s just as possible that he could have had a tumor, or some other digestive disruption of the bowel. It’s not uncommon, especially in a man his age.” He stared off into the distance. “I would have liked to see his liver and intestines,” Marshall said, sounding entranced at the idea.
“But she didn’t know Gordon was getting treatment from the physician,” Hamish said.
“So she says,” Brendan said, a comment that caused Hamish to stare at him. “I am only voicing what other people will be thinking, Hamish.”
“She didn’t know.”
“Your loyalty to Mrs. Gilly is commendable,” Marshall said. “But you have no proof that she didn’t poison him.”
“She didn’t,” he said firmly.
Hadn’t they seen the look in her eyes, the expression of dawning horror when she realized what had happened? He’d been watching her carefully and knew the moment it had occurred to her that she might have accidentally contributed to Gordon’s death.
“The responsibility of another man’s death is a heavy burden to bear,” Marshall said. “Only God can absolve her of it.”
Hamish nodded, wondering if the good minister was about to launch into a sermon. Thankfully, Marshall focused his attention on Hamish’s arm.
“Is your lame arm the injury you sustained during your imprisonment?” Matthews asked.
Hamish wondered if Brendan had told Marshall of his time in India. What else had his brother divulged? He nodded, deciding not to clarify that torture had been responsible for the damage to his arm.
“May I examine you?” Marshall asked.
“Here?” Hamish glanced around the snug taproom. Although the room was deserted except for the three of them, it was hardly an appropriate place.
“I only ask you to roll up your sleeve, Hamish,” Marshall chided.
Hamish would much rather that Mary treated him, but he didn’t demur. He stood, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeve before sitting again.
“Have you any movement in it?” Marshall asked, after examining the scars on his arm.
“No, but I’ve begun to feel tingling in my fingers. I owe it to Mary’s assiduous treatments, I think. She insists that I massage it with a salve three times a day.”
“Have you done so?”
“Not recently,” he said wryly. “There have been other things on my mind.”
“You will never get better unless you do,” Marshall pronounced.
Hamish took another sip of his whiskey. “Mary thinks that a few applications of your electrical machine might help.”
Marshall looked delighted. “She truly has studied my experiments, then.” He immediately launched into a description of how the stimulation might render the muscles fit again.
Hamish listened with half an ear, his thoughts on Mary. He couldn’t forget the look on her face as Charles had given his testimony. She’d looked stunned at the information the apprentice had divulged.
“Charles knew,” Hamish said abruptly.
The two men turned to look at him. “Charles said that he watched Gordon take the medicine from the physician, at the same time Mary was giving Gordon his nightly drinks.”
“And he said nothing?” Brendan asked.
“Indeed,” Marshall said. “Why?”
“He benefited by Gordon’s death,” Hamish said. “It was easy for him to simply sit back and allow Gordon to be poisoned. His hands were clean. Should anyone suspect foul play in Gilly death, he can claim ignorance.”
“A fact that does not make him guilty of anything in the eyes of the law,” Marshall said. “Or the physician.”
“Mary is equally as innocent.”
“But I’m very much afraid Mary will be the one punished, whether it’s proper or not.”
Hamish remained silent, having already come to that conclusion. He consulted his pocket watch again, and wondered how long until he could put his plan into motion.
Ian MacRae held his wife tight to him as he stood on the bow of his flagship, the Ionis. After all these years, he still preferred solid ground beneath his feet.
“Did you ever think, love,” he asked softly, “that we would come back to Scotland again?”
She pulled back and looked at him, smiling. “I suspected that we might one day, especially after Alisdair decided to settle here.”
“We were different people then,” he said.
She laughed gaily. “Oh, I think we’re the same people now, Ian, only much, much older.”
“Do not remind me,” he said crossly, and then smiled to mitigate the effect. “My bones ache in the morning, and I’ve a shoulder that can tell the weather.”
“I will not recite a litany of my complaints to you, my dearest,” Leitis said. “Otherwise, you might cast your eye to
ward a much younger wife.”
It was his turn to laugh. As if he would ever want anyone other than this woman who had shared his life for more than thirty years. True, there had been times when they’d not spoken to each other for days on end. Occasionally, they’d shouted at each other, and once he’d even taken a chair, lifted it, and put it down on the floor so hard that a leg had snapped.
Leitis MacRae infuriated him at times. She was opinionated, strong, and determined. She was also his best friend and dearest companion, and the one person he respected and trusted above all others.
The sky was gray with storm clouds, and he thanked Providence that he had an experienced captain aboard. He might design and build ships, but he still didn’t like to sail them, a fact that amused his five sons.
It had been a busy voyage, one beset by bad weather. He’d been a fool to travel so late in the season, but it seemed an ideal time to return to Scotland. Alisdair had sent word that Gilmuir was nearly complete, and that any memento a member of the MacRae clan would like to send back to Scotland would be gratefully accepted and held in a place of honor in the clan hall. The request seemed like a call for them to return to Gilmuir. Here they were, all these years later, sailing along the coast of Scotland in the Ionis, sails half furled.
“We should be entering Loch Euliss in a day or so,” he said, having just returned from a briefing with the captain and first mate. “We’ll see Gilmuir in a few days.”
“And Alisdair,” Leitis said. “It’s been so long. We have grandchildren to meet, Ian. Does it seem possible?”
He studied her in the faint light of the afternoon sun. Her hair had whitened at the temples, and there were streaks of gray through its thickness. A few creases surrounded her eyes, and a few more were visible around her mouth, but otherwise, she didn’t look her age. Or perhaps it was simply because she was Leitis, the woman who’d been in his heart since he was a boy.
“You’ll never look older to me than you did on the day I met you,” he said. “I was nine, I believe.” He bent to kiss her gently, touched by her tender look.
He’d expected his return to Gilmuir to be filled with memory, and that it was. He’d also expected to feel a soft, reminiscent sadness, but right at the moment, all he felt was joy. He’d lived the life he wanted with the woman he adored, and now he was returning to the place of his childhood, a fortress his eldest son had restored and made whole again.