The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  His mother’s expression told him she was ready to argue the point, but she was forestalled by Tillie.

  “But you might blame him for not recognising her condition.”

  “But what is her condition? If Teresa is right — and I must say that the servants have heard rumours —”

  Tillie’s eyes lit with interest. “What rumours?”

  Once again, Teresa surprised Francis, a definite quiver in her voice. “They say she is kept in an attic. For her own safety. They say she flies into rages without warning. Some even say she is dangerous.” Teresa’s hands were twisting in her lap. “It is too bad of them. To allow a girl of that stamp to be running around the country. Who knows what might happen?”

  Francis was unsurprised to hear his wife’s sharpened tone as she immediately took this up. “But it is only rumour?”

  “I wish you will be quiet, Teresa,” his mother snapped. “Of course it is rumour. No one knows anything for certain.”

  “Except that we have met her, Mama.” He refrained from throwing his mother’s own earlier words back in her face. “I must say she didn’t strike me as dangerous.”

  “But one can’t know,” said his wife.

  He bent a questioning gaze upon her. “Do you think she’s mad?”

  “I don’t pretend to guess at it. There was a certain look in her eyes once or twice that made me wonder. She is certainly naïve, childlike in her speech. Her mind is like a butterfly and she cannot be relied upon to respond to a direct question. But I don’t know, Fan. There is, I think, intelligence there.”

  “But it is overshadowed by naivety?”

  “Something of the sort. Did you remark how she spoke of going back to her ‘eyrie’? And it seemed to me that for the most part she did follow what was said.”

  “Follow what was said?” His mother sounded indignant. “When every sentence that came out of her mouth was utterly non sequitur?”

  “Ah, but that does not necessarily mean she did not understand the trend of the conversation.”

  “Why, Tillie?” asked Francis, intrigued. “What makes you say so?”

  “I suspect Tamasine chooses not to respond in sequence.” Tillie put up a finger in a typical gesture of caution. “Which does not infer she is at one with what is going on. It is obvious that she lives in a world of her own. But it is equally so that she recognises others who live in her world.”

  The dowager brought the flat of her hand down onto the seat of the sofa beside her. “But you are painting the very picture of a madwoman, Ottilia.”

  “Yes, I rather think I am. But madness may take many forms. We do not know that Tamasine’s particular insanity could be of any real danger to anyone else.”

  Francis was just digesting this when the sound of running feet squeaking in the snow outside came to his ears. He moved back to the window. “What the devil is it now?”

  Within a moment, a scarlet figure came into view. Tamasine Roy began tapping on the glass. “Help me! Help me, pray!”

  His mind a sea of conjecture, Francis opened the door. As the girl tumbled into the room, all three women rose in a body, shifting towards the window. Tillie reached her first.

  “What is the matter, Tamasine?”

  The girl’s lovely features were flushed with exertion, and her blue eyes were wide, her cherry lips parted as she panted a little. Her voice was a squeak.

  “Joslin!”

  “Your guardian? What is amiss with him?”

  The girl’s head whipped round and she looked blankly at Francis, as if she did not expect to hear him speak. He was glad when Tillie intervened, coming to the girl and seizing her uninjured hand.

  “Come, Tamasine, tell me what has happened to Joslin.”

  The girl’s eyes turned to Tillie and she blinked rapidly several times. At last she spoke, her voice empty of any vestige of emotion. “Joslin is dead. I have killed him.”

  In the stunned silence that followed this announcement, Ottilia was guiltily conscious of a thread of excitement running through her. But the seriousness of the situation swiftly rose to the fore and she did not hesitate, putting out a steadying hand to the young girl’s shoulder. “Where is he?”

  The blue eyes met hers. “He fell down the steps.”

  “Where?”

  “In our garden.”

  “Are you certain he is dead?”

  Tamasine blinked. “I pushed him.”

  Ottilia took this in without comment. “Have you left your companion there? Lavinia?”

  “Lavinia said to get help.”

  Relief ran through Ottilia. She was glad she’d had no time to divest herself of her outer garments as she was ready for immediate action. So also was Francis, attired in a greatcoat and boots for the purpose of following her on the walk she had perforce abandoned. She turned to him at once.

  “There is no time to lose. He may still be alive.”

  He nodded. “I’ll go on ahead. You bring the girl.” He added as he stepped through the door, “And keep well wrapped up in that cloak, Tillie.”

  “But you don’t know where to go,” Ottilia called after him, shifting quickly into the aperture.

  “Of course he does.” The dowager’s testiness was again in evidence. “Francis grew up around these parts, don’t forget. He knows the house.”

  A new thought caught at Ottilia’s attention. “Sybilla, do you have a physician you can trust?”

  “Doctor Sutherland. I’ll send for him at once. A pity your brother is not yet arrived.”

  “He could not usurp the province of the local man, in any event.” She turned back to the girl. “Come, Tamasine, lead the way, if you please.”

  “Take care, Ottilia! Remember your condition.”

  Acknowledging her mother-in-law’s parting shot with a slight wave, Ottilia pulled Tamasine through the doorway and shut the French window. “Can you tell me what happened as we go?”

  She kept a firm hand on the girl’s arm as the latter darted forward, setting a good pace across the snow-packed lawns.

  “Joslin fell.”

  Ottilia could hear a note of excitement in her voice at the repetition. “Yes, but what happened before he fell?”

  “He was laughing.”

  They rounded the corner of the house and Ottilia saw that Francis had already reached the boundary of the dowager’s land and was pushing through to the road beyond.

  “And?” Ottilia pursued, keeping a wary eye where she trod.

  “He held his head. Like this.” Tamasine put her hands to her temples at either side and swayed a little.

  Could it be headache? Ottilia’s mind swept across the possibilities. Had he been taken suddenly ill? Any number of conditions might have overtaken him. Then she recalled Tamasine saying she had pushed her guardian. She locked onto the point.

  “Why did you push him, Tamasine?”

  The girl’s odd laugh sounded. “So he would fall.”

  A dead end. Ottilia cast about for another way to get at the facts, slowing a little as the snowbound ground under her feet began to dip. “Did you say something to make Joslin laugh, Tamasine?”

  The girl looked blank. “Lavinia asked him what was funny. She shouted up.”

  Shouted up? Then the companion had been below them. At the bottom of the steps? Useless to expect Tamasine to clarify the point. It struck Ottilia suddenly that perhaps Sir Joslin had not in fact been laughing at all. Had he been in pain, he might have made sounds that were mistaken by his ward. And indeed by Miss Ingleby, who had asked him what was funny.

  The boundary was within reach now, and Ottilia saw a gap in the hedgerow that Francis had used. It was plain that Tamasine had used it also for she headed directly towards it.

  “Is this how you got in?”

  The girl turned features aglow with delight towards her. “They can’t make me stay where they put me.”

  Evidently. Unless they locked her in perhaps? Ottilia followed as Tamasine pushed through the gap and tri
pped lightly across the road. The snow here had already been trodden down, and tracks showed the passage of wheels. Then the roads were not impassable. Ottilia dared to hope her brother would be able to make it through after all.

  A low stone wall separated the road from the property across the way, and Tamasine easily climbed over it, moving swiftly up the slight incline on the other side.

  Ottilia called to her. “Wait for me, Tamasine! Remember, I do not know where your steps are.”

  The girl halted and turned, pointing uphill. “There.”

  “Very well, but let us go together.”

  To Ottilia’s surprise, Tamasine waited for her to catch up. Her eyes were bright and it was evident these events were exciting her unduly. If she truly was deranged, nothing could be worse for her than to be party to a scene that must command the highest intensity of emotion.

  Ottilia deliberately slowed her pace, which she was glad enough to do for even the little effort required to climb the incline was taking its toll. Aware that her pregnancy tired her more than usual, she was both impatient and dutiful in obedience to necessity.

  “You have a deal of snow on your own account,” she said, by way of distracting Tamasine from the present moment.

  “Oh, yes, but I like to explore.”

  “So I gather.”

  “Simeon will let me go where I like.”

  Would he indeed? Then it augured little for his care of the child. Ottilia tried a throw in the dark. “Is Simeon your brother perhaps?”

  Tamasine laughed out. “No, silly Lady Fan. I have no brother. Simeon is my cousin. He hid in the canes too.”

  Then this cousin Simeon had also been in Barbados. “Is Simeon in England?”

  But this was beyond Tamasine, it appeared, for she changed tack. “Joslin won’t stop him coming now.”

  Not if the poor man was dead. With a sensation of shock, Ottilia recalled the girl’s earlier startling comment that Simeon would come when Joslin was dead. Surely she had not the wit to anticipate the fellow’s death? If she had, the implication was unpleasant indeed. There was no point in questioning the girl further on the matter of this cousin. Better to wait for enlightenment from Miss Ingleby, assuming it was needed.

  As they breasted the rise, a large white house surrounded by extensive gardens came into view below them. Some way ahead, Ottilia could just see Francis and another figure. He was bending over something on the snow which she took to be the afflicted guardian. Urgency engulfed her.

  “We must hurry.”

  It did not take many minutes to traverse the ground that led to the next dip, but the figures ahead were lost to sight as they neared. Abruptly, Ottilia found herself at the top of a long flight of wide stone steps. The unexpectedness at once made her conscious how easy it would be to miss one’s footing and fall. She paused to catch her breath, taking in the scene below.

  Near a stone balustrade at the foot of the steps lay the crumpled body of a man. Sir Joslin was unlikely to have escaped serious injury in falling so far, if he had survived at all. Francis was crouched above the body, and Miss Ingleby stood over him. Even at this distance, Ottilia could see she was shaking.

  Tamasine began running down the steps, causing Francis to look up. He raised a hand in salute and returned to whatever he was doing. The concentration of attention indicated there was something there to discover and Ottilia lifted her petticoats and held her cloak a little aloft with her elbows as she started her own descent, of necessity taking it slow. She stopped a couple of steps before the end, looking closely at what she could see of the guardian.

  He was on his side, with one leg twisted awkwardly underneath him, the other set in a way that must be holding the body in position. One arm had fallen in front and stood at an acute angle over what was likely a broken wrist. The other was hardly visible, but half his face was open to the skies, the other hidden in the snow. His hat had come off and was nowhere to be seen.

  The companion had shifted away, taking Tamasine with her and Francis stood up. Ottilia eyed his grave countenance. “He is dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. But Miss Ingleby says he was alive when she sent Tamasine for help. You’d best take a look, my love.”

  He gave place and Ottilia came down the remaining steps and moved to examine Sir Joslin from in front. Dropping to her haunches, she looked first at what she could see of his face. Had it not been for the awkwardness of his position, the relaxedness of his features made him look as he might in sleep, in perfect repose. Yet his countenance was pale, with some lividity or bruising around the temple — from the fall, perhaps? Ottilia reached to pull up his closed eyelid.

  “That is unexpected,” she remarked, casting a glance across to Francis, who had moved behind the body and come down to her level again, watching her movements.

  “What is?”

  “The pupil is contracted. I was thinking of apoplexy, but then one would expect dilation.”

  Her hand brushed the man’s cheek and found it damp. Recalling the sheen she had noticed on his brow and his damp palm, she wondered at it. Exertion? Or something more? Was the sweating profuse? In the periphery of her mind she took in having forgotten to put on her gloves and her hands were cold and possibly a trifle numb. She ran her fingers more firmly down Sir Joslin’s still features. The dampness was strong and unmistakeable.

  “He was sweating a great deal.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I had thought earlier he had exerted himself too much, but this signals some sort of illness.” Ottilia had moved to slip her hand beneath the dead man’s coat, looking for the condition of his shirt. It felt decidedly moist. “He is wet through, I think.”

  “But his body is still warm.”

  “Relatively. It will cool rapidly in this weather.” She gestured to the slack face. “See, there is already a waxen tinge coming in, though he may have died mere minutes ago.”

  “How long since the girl came to us, do you think?”

  Ottilia glanced across to where the companion was standing at a little distance, still clearly in shock, one hand firmly grasping Tamasine’s wrist. Both females were watching them. Ottilia lowered her voice.

  “Five or ten minutes? Perhaps a little more. There may have been some delay before she was sent for help. I daresay Miss Ingleby wasted a little time in trying to rouse him.”

  Francis frowned down at the body. “She said she had not moved him, for I asked her particularly.”

  “I doubt she would have the strength.”

  Her spouse was looking at Sir Joslin’s bent arm. “Is that wrist broken?”

  “It looks like it. There may well be other fractures from the fall. There is a contusion on his forehead which may have hastened his death.”

  “What, could he die from such a knock?”

  “I suspect he was dying in any event. A blow to the temple would likely make him unconscious, so that any effort to rouse him must fail.”

  She saw Francis’s eyes flick across to the two women. “Then you don’t think it was the fall that killed him?”

  Ottilia sighed a little. “For Tamasine’s sake, I wish I might rule it out altogether, but it has undoubtedly contributed, although it does not look to have been entirely responsible.”

  “Then what did kill him?” came with a trifle of impatience from her husband.

  “I wish I knew, Fan. It will take a post-mortem to be certain, but it looks very like an apoplectic seizure, apart from the sweating and the pupils. I cannot easily account for those, except to suppose he was suffering from an illness, which might have precipitated an apoplexy.” Suddenly she recalled Sir Joslin leaning on the chair back in the dowager’s parlour. Realisation struck. “He was supporting himself.”

  Her spouse frowned across at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I believe he was already feeling out of sorts when he came to the Dower House. He had difficulty remaining upright then, I think.”

  Francis rose to his feet
. “There is nothing more to be done for him.” He held out a hand and Ottilia allowed him to pull her up. “I had best see if there are men in the house who may carry him inside.”

  “The companion will know.” Ottilia moved towards the woman, raising her voice. “Miss Ingleby!”

  Thus addressed, the duenna started a little. “Yes?”

  Francis took over. “Are there male servants in your house?”

  “Why, yes. Joslin has —” Miss Ingleby broke off, threw a hand to her mouth, distress coming into her eyes.

  Moved, Ottilia crossed quickly towards her. “Do not upset yourself, pray. My husband only wishes to have Sir Joslin conveyed into the house.”

  The companion nodded, and Ottilia noted that Tamasine, whose eyes were still trained upon the body, showed no sign of personal grief nor appeared to notice that of Miss Ingleby.

  “There are two men who accompanied us from Barbados. Shall I —?”

  “Stay where you are,” Francis said. “I will find them.”

  He began walking towards the house, and abruptly Tamasine called after him. “Hemp and Cuffy.”

  Francis halted, turning back with a puzzled look in his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She means their names,” explained Miss Ingleby. “Hemp and Cuffy. Ask Mrs Whiting, the housekeeper — or the butler Lomax. Anyone will tell you.”

  Watching Tamasine, Ottilia wondered at her ability to follow conversations when she apparently had her attention elsewhere. Could one but persuade her to respond to a direct question, she might well have a deal to add to the picture. This being unlikely, however, Ottilia chose instead to tackle the companion.

  “Miss Ingleby, are you up to giving me an account of what happened here?”

  The woman looked surprised, but Ottilia did not trouble to explain her interest, certain Miss Ingleby was too shocked to dispute a stranger’s right to ask. Ottilia smiled at her.

  “You look exhausted. Why don’t you sit down?”

  She went to the low stone balustrade, thrust away the layer of snow that lay there, and then rubbed the damp and cold from her hands. With obvious relief, the woman sank down. She had not released Tamasine, who made no objection, but sat down beside her, looking expectantly up at Ottilia.