The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Worse, if anything.”

  “Pardon me, pray. I hesitated to speak of it, and perhaps that was wrong.”

  Francis let out a breath in which his wife read exasperation. “Will you be so good as to tell me what in the world we have been doing all this while, if we have not been investigating Sir Joslin’s murder?”

  “We have been.” Restless, she trod the carpet between sofa and chairs, not looking at them. “If one wanted to make out a case against the person responsible, then a charge of manslaughter might hit upon the truth. But I strongly suspect the actual blame lies elsewhere.”

  “Now I am thoroughly at a loss,” stated the dowager, throwing up her hands. “This becomes more and more nonsensical, and it is not like you, Ottilia.”

  Before she could respond to this, Patrick intervened, a laugh in his voice. “Blame her condition, Lady Polbrook. Pregnancy often has this effect. Something to do with chemical imbalances in the brain, or so certain of my brethren will have us believe.”

  For once, Ottilia was not irritated by her brother’s wit, for it might offer a convenient deflection from the uproar she had caused. But it failed to appease Francis. He rose and came to her, taking her shoulders and turning her to face him.

  “Tillie, I won’t have this. You speak of manslaughter. Who did it then?”

  Ottilia gave in. “Tamasine.”

  Francis’s hands dropped and he blinked at her. Ottilia looked at the other two to find both staring.

  Sybilla found her voice first. “You stated positively, I don’t know how many times, that the child was incapable of carrying out the scheme concocted by her cousin.”

  “She did not carry out any scheme,” Ottilia said. “Nor was there one. At least not one to kill Sir Joslin. That was never intended, but when it occurred, Lomax was not slow to apprise Simeon, so that he might take instant advantage.”

  Francis fell back a little, folding his arms as his brows drew together. “But if Sir Joslin had not died, how could they succeed?”

  “That I don’t know. Perhaps Lomax planned to abduct the girl into Simeon’s keeping. I dare say there are many ways in which they might have managed to get her away. The only thing certain is they were in communication throughout and Lomax was likely feeding messages from Simeon to Tamasine. She knew he would come, for she told me so.”

  “But only when Sir Joslin was dead, didn’t you say?” Sybilla objected.

  “Who knows what odd notion they may have concocted,” Ottilia said with an uncomfortable shrug, perching on the sofa arm. “They might even have hoped or suggested she push him down the stairs, for all we know. But neither was of a mind to do away with him personally.”

  “Yet you say Tamasine committed manslaughter,” her brother reminded her.

  “No. What I am saying is that Tamasine was the conduit for the manslaughter.” She did not expect anything other than the uncomprehending stares that came her way. She gave a deprecating smile. “I have not run mad, I assure you. You have not forgotten my preoccupation with those sweets, I dare swear?”

  “Lord, not that again! I told you that lozenge would be found to contain insufficient opium to kill a man and the analysis proved as much.”

  Ottilia slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew the confection the child had given her. “Tamasine has a whole box of these. What if Sir Joslin ate a quantity of them? She offered me one. She might well offer them to her guardian. You know there were some in his drawer. What I did not tell you, for which —” turning regretfully to her spouse “— I must beg your pardon, Fan, is that the boys and I found five empty packets in the wastepaper basket. I left them in the drawer.”

  Francis pounced on this. “You mean those vanished from there along with the sweets?”

  “Just so. If Joslin consumed so many in addition to his opium-eater’s dose, would not the level of opium be ramped up enough to kill him, Patrick?”

  Her brother still looked dubious. “Possible. I can’t commit myself on the point without further testing, however.”

  “But would not Sir Joslin know enough to refrain from eating these sweets?” objected the dowager.

  “Not if the purpose of using them was kept secret from everyone.”

  “Tillie, what are you saying? Someone is deliberately giving the girl these confections to increase her laudanum dosage? And without anyone in the house being aware of it?”

  All three of her relatives were now frowning at her. Ottilia stuck doggedly to her guns. “That is just what I am saying, Fan. Why else were they taken from the drawer when it was known we were investigating Sir Joslin’s death? Moreover, remember what the boys found out? All at the plantation knew how to boil sugar.”

  Francis brightened. “Ha! That fellow Roy was adept at making confections.”

  “He was not the only one.”

  “Who, then, Tillie? Don’t pretend you have not already worked it out.”

  “I think I have.” Ottilia let her breath go. On the point of revealing her conclusion, she hesitated. She was sure she had it right. But could she prove it? The plan in her head might afford the necessary proof. Yet there was the danger it might equally precipitate an outcome she had begun to dread. Whether it was imminent she could not judge. But the escalating crises at Willow Court suggested it might well be.

  “Ottilia?”

  She flicked a glance at the dowager. Sybilla’s delicate brows were raised in question. Ottilia looked from her to her husband and then turned to her brother, holding up the confection.

  “Another analysis is urgent, Patrick. We must know if this one of Tamasine’s is the same as those I found in Sir Joslin’s drawer. Tomorrow, if you please. Then we will multiply the dose inside by five at least. I must go to Willow Court again and tackle the person I believe to be responsible.” She held up a finger towards her husband. “And before you ask, yes, I will give you a name.”

  Having discussed how to proceed extensively with Francis in the privacy of their bedchamber, Ottilia was dismayed to have all her plans thrown out of kilter by the sudden arrival of Giles just as she, her spouse and her mother-in-law were rising from the morning meal. He came impetuously into the breakfast parlour, demanding his uncle.

  “I need your assistance, sir, or my father is like to ruin all!”

  Fortunately they were alone, the servants having just left with loaded trays. Miss Mellis had gone to brew a posset for Sophie Hathaway, who had not yet risen and sent down to say she could not fancy a morsel. Patrick had eaten and gone upon his errand to Doctor Summerton and the apothecary. And her nephews were long gone upon adventures of their own. Ottilia only hoped they would not make a nuisance of themselves at Willow Court.

  The dowager let out an explosive sound. “For heaven’s sake! What is my wretched son about now?”

  Francis moved to his nephew. “What’s to do, Giles? We are busy this morning.”

  The boy grabbed his arm. “This cannot wait, Uncle Francis. My father has taken one of his pets and nothing I say will appease him. But I know you have influence with him. He will listen to you.”

  Sybilla pushed in. “What have you been doing, boy, to put him in a rage?”

  “Nothing, ma’am, upon my honour! He has taken a maggot into his head because Phoebe’s papa cut up stiff about — about this business over at Willow Court.”

  “Well, one can scarcely blame him for that. But I thought all was agreed between you.”

  “Between Phoebe and myself, Grandmama, yes, but when I asked Lord Hemington for his permission, he read me a homily and said he was inclined to refuse it.” Giles threw up his hands. “I know what you will say and it’s true. I deserved a scold and I said so. Only Hemington sent a note to my father indicating his reluctance to allow his daughter to ally himself with our family, and —”

  Not much to Ottilia’s surprise, her spouse exploded.

  “For pity’s sake! He said so to Randal? Like a rag to a bull!”

  “Yes, and now Papa says he will not
permit me to marry Phoebe because he has no wish to be obliged to be civil to Lord Hemington for the rest of his days. Also that the thought of any daughter of Hemington’s becoming Marchioness of Polbrook would choke him and that I must look elsewhere, and a good deal more besides. He won’t listen to a word I say!”

  “If he’s in a rage, he won’t listen to me either,” said Francis. “And before you ask your grandmother to go to Polbrook, let me remind you that she and your father are barely upon speaking terms.”

  “I know that, sir. That’s why I’m begging you to come back with me.”

  Francis groaned, but his mother intervened, setting a hand on Giles’s sleeve.

  “My dear boy, you have only to wait until your father comes down off his high ropes. I know Randal. His temper is quite as bad as mine, but he will look at the matter in a more sensible light when he is calm again.”

  Giles released himself and swept away, his agitation increasing. “He won’t, Grandmama! I left him upon the point of sitting down to write a blistering response to Lord Hemington. All I could think of was to tell Gatcombe on no account to send anyone with the letter until I got back and come hotfoot to find you, Uncle Francis.”

  “Is there no end to my son’s folly? Francis, you will have to go. Giles is quite right. If he will listen to anyone, he will listen to you. I had best come with you.”

  It was plain to Ottilia that neither Francis nor Giles wished for the dowager’s interference. If one thing was more certain than another it was that her presence could only inflame the situation. Seeing neither gentleman dared gainsay her mother-in-law, she took a hand herself.

  “Forgive me, Sybilla, but do you think that wise?” She smiled at the dowager’s instant frown. “You said yourself you and Randal are too much alike in temperament. Should you not leave Francis to try what he may do first? And then, if Randal proves obdurate, you will do your part to bring him to reason — in your inimitable style.”

  A crack of laughter escaped the dowager. “You had as well say my intervention will make it worse and be done with it. Very well, I shall remain here. But you had best postpone your schemes for Willow Court until Francis returns.”

  “Yes, indeed. I dare say it will make no difference if we go later in the day, Fan.”

  Clearly reluctant, Francis prepared to depart with his nephew, but paused to admonish Ottilia. “Don’t you take it into your head to go hunting this proof of yours without me, Tillie.”

  She smiled and touched his chest in the intimate way she used with him. “Only the direst necessity will take me to Willow Court until you return. All was quiet after yesterday’s fracas, so I don’t think we need anticipate trouble from that quarter today.”

  Within a half hour of the gentlemen leaving, however, Biddy entered to announce Mrs Delabole, who arrived in a state of high agitation. She hardly waited to hear her name before throwing herself into the parlour, looking wildly round and fastening upon Ottilia, who was just rising from the sofa.

  “Lady Francis, thank heavens! I cannot bear it another instant! That dreadful woman has set the house by the ears and I know not what to do! I had to come or I should find myself quite as insane as that demented niece of mine.”

  Ottilia, having caught her flailing hands, attempted to apply a judicious damper even as the dowager was heard to mutter an explosive curse.

  “Softly, Mrs Delabole, softly. I cannot help you unless you tell me calmly what has occurred.”

  “Calm? I feel as though I shall never be calm again!”

  “Come, sit here, ma’am, and try to compose yourself.” Pushing the woman into the sofa, she turned to the open-mouthed maid. “Tea, Biddy, if you please. And bring a glass of water immediately.”

  Dropping a curtsy, Biddy left the room, casting a curious glance over her shoulder at the afflicted matron. Ottilia paid no heed, sitting down beside the woman and chafing one of her hands. It availed her nothing. Mrs Delabole burst into noisy sobs. Patting her on the back, Ottilia exchanged an apologetic look with her exasperated mother-in-law and found her own pocket-handkerchief.

  “If it is not one thing, it is another,” snapped the dowager, but in a lowered tone. “What in the world can have happened now?”

  “That we shall discover in due course, ma’am. Let us first make Mrs Delabole comfortable again.”

  This proved an unfortunate choice of words, for the distraught creature broke out again in hysterical style.

  “Comfortable? In that m-madhouse? Oh, I w-wish I were at h-home again! It is too bad of my brother. If I had ever s-supposed I sh-should be ob-bliged to deal with his h-household, I sh-should have t-told him not to d-depend upon me. I hate the place! I hate the inmates! And now the wretched woman has upped and left and much as I loathe her, how in heaven’s name do they expect me to do without her?”

  At this juncture, much to Ottilia’s relief, Biddy rushed into the room with a glass of water, but before this could be administered the company was augmented by Miss Mellis with Sophie Hathaway close behind her, both talking at once and adding to the cacophony of lamentations and tears.

  “What is amiss? What is amiss?”

  “Ottilia, what has happened?”

  “Who is crying? Oh!”

  “Gracious me, who in the world is this?”

  “Be quiet, both of you!” cried the dowager, topping them. “We have enough on our hands as it is!” She rose from her chair and towered over Ottilia. “If you do not give this creature a salutary slap, Ottilia, I shall do so myself!”

  Ottilia did not even look up, intent upon urging the sufferer to sip from the glass in her hand. “Hush, ma’am, she is beginning to recover. Come now, Mrs Delabole, you are looking better already. A little more, if you please. Very good. There now, lie back and rest for a moment.”

  The matron sank into the sofa, letting her head fall back against the cushions and moaning softly. To Ottilia’s relief, Sybilla returned to her own chair, signing to the newcomers to sit down. Sophie took a seat next to the dowager while Miss Mellis effaced herself into her corner as usual, but both sat staring in mingled curiosity and revulsion as Mrs Delabole, one clutching hand at her bosom, began to breathe a little more easily in the ensuing silence.

  Presently her eyes opened and she gazed in a bewildered fashion at the assembled females. Ottilia performed the introductions, hoping the normality of the proceeding might serve to soothe. It could not be said that Mrs Delabole played much part in these, nor was she likely to remember the names, but she nodded in a vague way and begged everyone’s pardon, addressing herself in particular to the dowager.

  “I am sorry to have barged in like this, ma’am. Only Lady Francis was kind enough to offer her assistance and I did not know where else to turn.”

  “It makes no matter,” said Sybilla, gracious now that order had been restored. “You will be the better for tea, I dare say. It will be here in short order.”

  The matron, still clearly distrait, nodded again. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Ottilia judged it time to attempt to discover the cause of her distress. She knew better than to ask directly, however, couching her question in a loose fashion.

  “I am guessing you were referring to Miss Ingleby when you spoke of her leaving, ma’am. Is that right?”

  Mrs Delabole shuddered. “If it were not for Tamasine, I should be glad of it, the abandoned hussy! How dared she behave in such a fashion? And in a house where she is meant to set an example!”

  An inkling of the trouble crept into Ottilia’s mind. She had not forgotten the aftermath of young Simeon’s attempt at wedding the heiress. Had passion overtaken the couple? Speculation was useless. She would have to ask.

  “What did she do, Mrs Delabole, for you to call her so?”

  Colour swept into the matron’s cheeks and she darted a look across at the other women, ending up at Sybilla. “I wish I did not have to relate such a thing before you, my lady, but Lady Francis was there yesterday.” She turned to Ottilia, an implorin
g look in her plump countenance. “You saw how it was with those two.”

  “Indeed I did.” She took the bull by the horns. “Am I to take it that Miss Ingleby and Simeon Roy resumed their — er — earlier liaison?”

  Shocked gasps emanated from two throats and the dowager snorted.

  “Just as I thought. It could not be long before some such immorality erupted. I for one do not blame you in the least, Mrs Delabole, for wishing to wash your hands of the entire contingent.”

  This attitude, while it did not assist Ottilia, had the virtue of settling Mrs Delabole’s alarms about relating the events that had driven her to the Dower House.

  “Thank you, my lady, you comfort me.”

  Ottilia leapt in. “Do you feel up to telling us just what occurred, ma’am? Pray don’t be apprehensive of speaking as you found. We are all strong-minded enough to hear it.”

  Thus adjured, the matron set a hand to her bosom again. “I was not present at the outset, I thank the Lord, but young Tamasine went into her companion’s bedchamber and — and found them. The first I knew of it was the screaming and shouting just as I was taking my morning chocolate.”

  “How very disconcerting!”

  This from Miss Mellis, prompting Sophie to respond. “Disconcerting? Good heavens, I should think it must have startled you to death, ma’am!”

  Mrs Delabole drew a quick breath. “Well, not immediately. I am bound to state that with my niece in the house, such outbreaks are not infrequent. Naturally, I got up and hastened to find out what had set her off this time. By the time I reached the scene, there was such an appalling mêlée in progress I did not dare enter the room. My chamber is just along the corridor, you see, so I was the first to arrive, although the servants were not slow to come to the rescue, thank goodness.”

  Impatient of these details, Ottilia urged for more data. “Did Tamasine attack her companion?”

  “Attack her? They were fighting like wildcats! At least, I dare say Miss Ingleby was trying to protect herself, but she rained as many blows as the girl did, for all of me. And that stupid looby was actually laughing!”