“Yes, ’cause he’s cutting up the body and —”
His mother’s shriek smothered Tom’s ghoulish glee, and she shuddered. “No, no, my darling boy, we have had quite enough of bodies for one day. Now make your bows, my loves, and thank her ladyship and we will go up directly.”
It was plain Sophie’s occasional cloying forays into motherhood were effective, for a couple of inexpert bows were made in the dowager’s direction and the reluctant boys were ushered out, Miss Mellis following with offers of warm milk and hot bricks.
However, when Francis tried a like tactic with his own mother, he found her as adamant as Tillie.
“Do you imagine I could sleep without knowing whether or no there is matter for concern with Giles in question?”
“Will you sleep any better for hearing a murder has been committed?”
“Hush, Fan,” admonished his wife. “At least there is a chance all of us may enjoy a good night’s sleep if my suspicions prove to be unfounded.”
“Ha! If I know anything of you, Tillie, you don’t want them to be unfounded, sleep notwithstanding.” She laughed, but there was a troubled look in her eyes. He abandoned his post by the mantel and went to join her on the sofa. “What is it, my love?”
He noted his mother glance across, her black gaze sombre. Inwardly cursing his nephew, he waited while Tillie seemed to gather her thoughts.
“Whether or not there is a murder, I am afraid we are in for a rough ride. What with that half-witted creature on the loose, and Giles infatuated, and poor Phoebe swearing she will have nothing to do with him, we are all going to have our hands full.”
His mother groaned. “Yes, and ten to one that stupid child will involve us willy-nilly. She ought to be confined.”
Since this point had been exhaustively discussed at dinner, Francis was relieved when the door opened to admit the maids, bearing the accoutrements for tea. The boys had talked without cease, their revelations causing Sophie to declare that she was unlikely to recover from the shocks of the day. Tillie showed no disposition to curb them, of course. Indeed, she had positively encouraged them to regale the company with all they had learned about ‘the madwoman’s attic’ in their illicit adventures at Willow Court.
While the women busied themselves about the tea kettle, Francis found his mind dwelling on Tom and Ben’s disclosures concerning the sugar plantation in Barbados. They had pumped the footman Hemp to some effect. Although the dowager had been sceptical, Hemp claimed the many slaves were well treated by ‘Master Matt’, although he was himself a free man.
“And so is Cuffy,” said Ben, “though he was a slave before. He came from Africa when he was a boy.”
The dowager exploded. “Stolen, I dare say!”
“Oh, do not say so!”
“I do not scruple to say so, Mrs Hathaway. I know all too much of that practice. An abominable humiliation, to be dragged from his rightful home by brigands calling themselves traders, hauled across the sea in stinking conditions and sold like a beast at auction. The whole proceeding disgusts me.”
As Francis was well aware. His own views had been coloured by his mother’s forthright opinions, which she never scrupled to air to anyone she suspected of profiting by the practice of human trafficking. Sophie was clucking with distress, but before he could frame an answer to placate the dowager’s rising wrath, young Ben saved him the trouble.
“Hemp was never a slave though, ma’am, and he was born in Barbados. He says the plantation is home to him.”
“He says they are family,” added Tom, “even if they are black.”
Tillie seized on this, fostering Francis’s interest. “Does he mean they feel as if they belong to the Roy clan? Or have they been formally adopted?”
Both boys looked nonplussed, and Ben shrugged. “Don’t know, Auntilla. Hemp just said he’s a Roy too.”
Tillie’s quick frown told Francis this piece of information had piqued her interest. He made a stab in the dark. “Did Hemp say why he and Cuffy came with the family?”
“As if they had a choice!”
Francis frowned his mother down as Ben answered.
“Hemp only said they wanted to come, so p’raps they did choose.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” said Sophie. “How dreadful if they were forced to come away from all they knew.”
“Hemp’s a great gun,” Tom cut in, disregarding this. “He showed me a boxer’s trick and he told us about making sugar and everything.”
“But I thought he was a footman,” Francis objected.
“Hemp says you have to know all the special jobs,” put in Ben, “just in case.”
“Yes, ’cause if there’s a peddyemic, the work goes on just the same.”
“You mean epidemic, you noddy,” corrected Ben, punching his junior in the shoulder. Ignoring his mother’s deprecating protest, he added, “Barbados is a bad place for fevers, Hemp says.”
This accorded with the long-term illness suffered by Sir Joslin, and Francis was about to direct the conversation into this avenue when he was forestalled by Tillie.
“What did Hemp tell you about making sugar?”
Tom brightened at this show of interest. “He and Cuffy used to help in making it. ’Specially when it got boiling, ’cause the dead man was a weakling and he couldn’t stand it.”
“Goodness, Tom, whatever do you mean?”
Ben gave an exasperated sigh. “He didn’t say it right, Mama. He means boiling the sugar when the crop was ready. Everyone had to join in then because it had to be done fast. Hemp says boiling is a tricky job ’cause you have to wait for the sugar to crystallize and throw in the right amount of juice. Lime juice, he says, ’cause lemon would spoil it.”
“Was Sir Joslin in charge of this procedure?” Tillie asked.
“Yes, because the other fellow was lazy,” announced Tom.
“What other fellow?” Francis demanded.
“Simeon,” supplied Ben. “He wouldn’t do boiling work even though he was meant to supervise sugar-making. But he only liked working in the distillery and making rum and confections.”
Tillie’s startled look had intrigued Francis, but he knew better than to enquire into her thoughts in public. But as Toby and Agnes came in to serve dessert at this point, the discussion was abandoned. Recalling this now, Francis was about to enter upon the subject when his ear caught the sound of an arrival in the hall. Rising, he went to open the door.
“That must be Patrick at last.”
So indeed it proved, and Francis ushered him in, as eager as he knew his wife would be to hear the results of the post-mortem. But he was mindful of the needs of a man’s stomach.
“Have you dined, Patrick?”
“I had a bite of supper with Sutherland while we discussed our findings.”
“Then let me get you a tot of something. Port? Or would you prefer Brandy?”
Patrick heaved an exhausted sigh as he dropped into a chair. “Good of you, Fan, but as I see I’m just in time for it, I’ll take tea. I need to keep my wits about me to withstand Ottilia’s cross-examination.”
He threw a teasing glance at his sister as he spoke, and Tillie’s look of keen anticipation could not but amuse Francis, despite his inevitable disquiet.
“Well, brother mine? What did you discover?”
Francis handed him a cup and saucer and offered sugar. Patrick took up the tongs, dropped two lumps into his tea, and stirred the liquid thoughtfully. “It is as I suspected.”
Tillie jumped in at once. “Then Sir Joslin was poisoned with opium?”
Patrick took a meditative sip of tea, and Francis was obliged to suppress a riffle of irritation. “It is always difficult to be certain. The symptoms of narcotic poisoning are not conclusive.”
Francis cast up his eyes. “Capital!”
His brother-in-law spared him a glance, but made no comment, merely resuming his remarks. “Taken together, however, Sutherland agrees that everything we found, along with your combined
observations at the instant of death, points to opium as the most likely cause.”
“Well, what did you find?” demanded his mother with pardonable impatience.
Patrick frowned. “Are you sure you wish to hear, ma’am? Such details are scarcely suitable for a gentlewoman’s parlour.”
The dowager snorted. “If your sister’s candour has failed to dismay me, my dear Doctor Hathaway, I doubt I will swoon at anything you may have to say.”
Patrick’s amused eyes flickered to Tillie. “Ah, I should have known you must have been well and truly broken in.”
“Yes, and it is not your practice to rein in either, Patrick,” she retorted, “so pray don’t keep us in suspense.”
He grimaced. “The facts are not pretty.”
“They never are,” Francis cut in, “but I can vouch for it that my mother is almost as hardy as your sister. She will not flinch.”
“I thank you, Fanfan.” She waved a hand at Patrick in her characteristic gesture. “Proceed, sir.”
A lurking smile remained, but Patrick inclined his head. “Very well, ma’am. The most telling evidence was in the blood clots, although the blood on the whole was fluid.”
“Where were the clots?” asked Tillie. “In the brain?”
“Yes, and in the cavities of the heart too. The blood vessels in the brain were congested, but that you may get also with apoplexy so it is not conclusive. However, there was lividity of the skin, which was also showing signs of peeling. With narcotics, the body is apt to pass rapidly into putrefaction. Hair and cuticles were already separating on the slightest friction, and the stomach, intestines and large vessels were distended with air.”
Francis could not forbear to comment. “How disgusting. How glad I am not to be a doctor.”
Patrick laughed, but Tillie was clearly too interested to pay the slightest attention to this divagation. “What of the stomach’s contents? Did you discover anything there?”
Patrick’s eye brightened. “The odour of opium was obvious immediately upon opening the stomach. Sutherland concurred, fortunately, because it dissipates rapidly and is otherwise undetectable in the juices of the stomach without chemical analysis.”
“How in the world can you smell opium?” asked the dowager frowningly.
“Oh, it has a very particular odour.”
Despite his queasiness, Francis was interested. “Can you test the stomach’s contents?”
“Fairly readily. A simple procedure is to use a frog. If it should go comatose and die, we could say with near certainty opium was present. But a better test is on urine, although it is a complex procedure. However, as we suspected, death had suspended natural functions so that the bladder was full. Sutherland is engaging an apothecary to carry out the necessary analysis.”
His mother appeared to have been following closely. “And if opium is found, can you conclusively state it to be the cause of death?”
“Taken together with the incidence of perspiration and contraction of the pupils of the eyes, Sutherland and I are agreed on it without that,” Patrick said. “But to prove a point, it is advisable to ask for the analysis.”
Glancing at Tillie, Francis saw she could scarcely contain her excitement. “I suppose there is no way to tell how much opium had been consumed?”
“Only insofar as we know what level of ingestion is likely to kill a man.”
“Which is?” Francis demanded.
“It much depends on circumstance.”
Francis sighed with frustration. “I might have guessed as much.”
“The problem is that it raises too many questions. Is the person accustomed to taking it? What time of day was it ingested? Was the stomach empty at the time?”
“Oh, good God!”
A smile came Francis’s way, and it seemed to him his brother-in-law relished his catalogue of difficulties. “One must also take into account in which form the drug was taken. With grains, for example, thirty-six could procure death. But for a man the size of Sir Joslin, perhaps as many as sixty grains might be needed.”
“For pity’s sake! One would say there was nothing certain at all.”
Tillie disregarded this. “And if he happens to be an opium-eater?”
“Sixty must still kill him, if taken all at once.”
“But how does this translate into terms one may understand?” Thus his mother, echoing Francis’s sentiments. “If it was taken as laudanum, for example, how much would it be?”
“Then we would measure it by drops or ounces. An ounce or two could readily prove fatal within a reasonable amount of time, but a dose on the order of six ounces might kill within a half hour.”
The dowager threw up her hands. “Oh, this must be impossible to unravel!”
“I agree with you utterly, Mama.”
Patrick grinned. “I’m afraid it nearly is impossible. And it also makes it difficult to judge at what time Sir Joslin took the dose. It might have been as many as five hours before the poison started to act or as little as three hours. Even then, the point of death may have been delayed by some hours.”
Here the dowager entered a caveat. “But the fellow appeared perfectly well only minutes before, for we all saw him in this very room.”
Tillie cut quickly in. “He was sweating, however, for I noted beads of perspiration upon his brow and his palm was damp. I thought it had been from his exertions in hunting for Tamasine.”
“And he fell down the stairs,” added the dowager. “Surely that must have hastened his death?”
“It will certainly have been a contributory factor,” Patrick agreed. “Had he collapsed without that complication, and an emetic had been given, it is possible he could have survived. And death would have been delayed, even had he died in the end.”
Ottilia was frowning, her fingers shifting in a way that suggested she was performing a rapid calculation in her head. “Then could we at least surmise he ingested the poison in the early hours of the morning? Around five or six o’clock? For it must have been nine or later when he died. Do you not think so, Fan?”
Thus appealed to, Francis frowned. “I never looked at my watch and you were up early.”
“You may take the time from Teresa’s being downstairs,” his mother offered. “She is always up by eight and thirty.”
“Half an hour or so to the time Sir Joslin arrived then.”
“It does not matter, Ottilia,” said Patrick. “You may be reasonably confident of having the time of death as precisely as one could hope, having come upon the scene within minutes. But that brings us no closer to the precise time at which Sir Joslin took the dose.”
“But at least we can assume he had taken it on an empty stomach, do you not think? Even if he subsequently breakfasted.”
Patrick gave her a rueful look. “I’m a man of science, Ottilia. I assume nothing without proper evidence. There are far too many factors to be taken into account.”
Francis saw the look of disappointment sweep over his wife’s face, and eyed her with concern. She caught the look and gave him a tentative smile.
“We must bow to Patrick’s dictum, I fear, and let it go. What is more to the point is the question of whether the poison was self-inflicted or administered by the agency of another.”
A sense of outrage began to overtake Francis. Was there to be no conclusion? What in the world was the point of doing a post-mortem if it told you precisely nothing? “Then we are no further forward.”
Tillie got up abruptly from her chair. “Oh, yes we are, Fan. We know how Sir Joslin died. The details, the minutiae that will keep Patrick and Sutherland from careless speculation do not matter. Opium was the cause, and that is sufficient to tell me that someone in that house, whether the dead man or another, has been either careless or downright malicious.”
Her beloved features took on that look of determination that Francis had come to dread. “And I mean to find out who.”
CHAPTER NINE
There was a brooding sense of tensi
on pervading Willow Court, although the place was quiet. Ottilia found it almost tangible. Lomax, upon opening the door, did not speak for a moment, instead passing a steady gaze, in which she read hostility, from Ottilia’s features across to Francis and Patrick. Having agreed beforehand that her brother should take the lead, she was free to observe.
Informed the visitors wished to question Cuffy, the butler’s gaze narrowed and his tone was nothing if not insolent. “Upon what occasion?”
Patrick raised his brows, preserving his usual mildness of voice. “That you may learn in due course.”
Lomax did not shift to open the door, instead posing another question. “Upon what authority?”
“I am acting for Doctor Sutherland,” Patrick said without hesitation. “We are as yet wanting certain information for his report to the coroner.”
“Information?” The one word held a derisory note and a muscle flickered faintly in the butler’s cheek.
“As to the apparent cause of death.”
Lomax’s eye grew suspicious and Ottilia was aware of Francis pokering up. His temper, already uncertain, was obviously chafing at the man’s attitude. No clear evidence pointing as yet to murder, their situation was peculiarly sensitive and it was imperative, in Ottilia’s view, to maintain stable relations with the staff. This could not be done by using the high-handed coercion Francis was apt to adopt when annoyed. And Ottilia knew too well how any form of disrespect, especially towards his wife, was like to drive him into fury. Especially now, when Giles’s involvement was liable to make anything rouse him.
To her relief, Patrick’s calm assurance carried the day and Lomax consented to allow them entry, showing them into the front parlour.
“I will send Cuffy in to you.”
The moment the door closed, Francis broke out. “That fellow is riding for a fall. How dared he address you in that discourteous fashion, Patrick? I was within an ace of planting the wretch a facer!”
Patrick grinned. “Yes, I thought you were growing a trifle restive.”
“Restive! I should like to have him under my command for a single day. I’ll warrant that would mend him. If this is a sample of Barbadian manners, I thank God I was never tempted to adventure there.”
The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Page 17