by Anne Perry
Dead? Reginald was dead? That was the one thing she had not thought of. She should be feeling horror, loss, a great aching hollow inside herself. The pity was all right, but not the sense of escape!
She closed her eyes, not for grief, but so Cornwallis would not see in her the confusion, the great rise of overwhelming relief that she would not have to watch Reginald suffer shame, humiliation, rejection by his fellows, the confusion and pain that would follow. Then perhaps a long and debilitating illness, and the fear of death that would go with it. Instead, death had found him suddenly, with no time for him even to recognize its face.
“Will they ever know the real reason he went there?” she asked, opening her eyes and looking at him.
“I know of no reason why they should,” he replied. “It was the housekeeper who killed Maude Lamont. It seems her sister had had a tragic experience with a medium years ago, and took her own life as a result. Lena never got over it. She believed in Maude Lamont until just recently. At least that is what Pitt explained to me.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her stiff hands in his. “Isadora.”
It was the first time he had used her name.
Suddenly she wanted to weep. It was shock, the warmth of him close to her. She felt the tears flood her eyes and spill over.
For a moment he was at a loss, then he leaned forward and put his arms around her, holding her and allowing her to weep as long as she needed to, safe, very close, his cheek against her hair. And she stayed there long after the shock had worn itself out, because she did not wish to move, and she knew in her heart that he did not, either.
Pitt met Narraway again at the railway station, waiting for the train to Teddington. Narraway had a tight, hard smile on his face, still savoring the satisfaction of telling Wetron the conclusion of the case and handing it to him.
“Cornwallis will tell Mrs. Underhill,” Pitt said briefly. His mind was leaping ahead to the coroner, and the thin thread of hope that in examining Wray’s body he would find something that would show any truth better than the one Pitt feared.
There was little to say on the train journey. Both men had been bruised physically and emotionally by the tragedy of the morning. Pitt at least felt a mixture of compassion and revulsion for the Bishop. Fear was too familiar not to understand it, whether it was of physical pain and then extinction, or of emotional humiliation. But there had been too little in the man to admire. It was a pity without respect.
Lena Forrest was different. He could not approve what she had done. She had murdered Maude Lamont in revenge and outrage, not to save her own life, or anyone else’s, at least not directly. She may have believed it so in her own imagination. They would never know.
But she had planned it with great care and ingenuity, and after carrying it out, had been perfectly willing to allow the police to suspect others.
Still, he felt sorry for the pain she must have endured over the years since her sister’s death. And they had suspected others of having killed Maude Lamont only because there were those she had given real cause to hate and fear her. She was a woman prepared to act with extraordinary cruelty and to manipulate the tragedies of the most vulnerable for her own personal gain.
He would have guessed Cornwallis might have felt similarly. Of Narraway’s thoughts he had no idea at all, and no intention of asking. If after this he was still able to work in London at all, it would be for Narraway. He could not afford anger or contempt for him.
They sat in silence all the way to Teddington, and to Kingston beyond. The noise of the train was sufficient to make conversation difficult, and neither had any desire to discuss either what had passed or what might be to come.
At Kingston they took a hansom from the station to the mortuary where the autopsy had been conducted. Narraway’s position was sufficient to command an almost immediate attention from a highly irritated doctor. He was a large man with a snub nose and receding hair. In his youth he had been handsome, but now his features had coarsened. He regarded the two bruised, filthy men with extreme distaste.
Narraway retained his look with a level stare.
“I can’t imagine what Special Branch wants with the death of an unfortunate old man of such distinction in his life,” the doctor said tartly. “Good thing he has only friends, and no family to be distressed by all this!” He flicked his hand, indicating the room behind him, where presumably autopsies were carried out.
“Fortunately, your imagination, or lack of it, does not matter,” Narraway replied frostily. “We are concerned only with your forensic skill. What was the cause of Mr. Wray’s death, in your opinion?”
“It is not an opinion, it is a fact,” the doctor snapped back at him. “He died of digitalis poisoning. A slight dose would have slowed the heart; this was sufficient to stop it altogether.”
“Taken in what form?” Pitt asked. He could feel his own heart racing as he waited for the answer. He was not certain if he wanted it.
“Powder,” the doctor said without hesitation. “Crushed up tablets, probably, in raspberry jam, almost certainly in a pastry tart. It was eaten very shortly before he died.”
Pitt was startled. “What?”
The doctor looked at him with mounting annoyance. “Am I going to have to say everything again for you?”
“If it matters enough, yes you are!” Narraway told him. He turned to Pitt. “What’s wrong with raspberry jam?”
“He didn’t have any,” Pitt replied. “He apologized for it. Said it was his favorite and he had eaten it all.”
“I know raspberry jam when I see it!” the doctor said furiously. “It was barely digested at all. The poor man died within a very short time of eating it. And it was unquestionably in pastry. You would have to produce some very remarkable evidence, and I cannot imagine what it would be, to make me believe other than that he went to bed with jam tarts and a glass of milk. The digitalis was in the jam, not the milk.” He looked at Pitt with withering disgust. “Although from Special Branch’s point of view, I can’t see why it matters either way. In fact, I can’t see why any of it is even remotely your business.”
“I want the report in writing,” Narraway told him. He glanced at Pitt, and Pitt nodded. “Time and cause of death, specifically that the digitalis which killed him was in the raspberry jam, in pastry. I’ll wait.”
Muttering to himself, the doctor went out of the door, leaving Pitt and Narraway alone.
“Well?” Narraway asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“He had no raspberry jam,” Pitt insisted. “But Octavia Cavendish came with a basket of food for him just as I was leaving. There must have been raspberry jam tarts in it!” He tried to crush the leap of hope inside himself. It was too soon, too fragile. The weight of defeat was still closed down hard. “Ask Mary Ann. She’ll remember whatever she unwrapped and put out for him. And she’ll tell you there were no jam tarts in the house before that.”
“Oh, I will!” Narraway said vehemently. “I will. And when we have the autopsy report in writing, he can’t go back on it.”
The doctor returned a few moments later, handing over a sealed envelope. Narraway took it from him, tore it open and read every word on the paper inside while the doctor glared at him, offended that he had not been trusted. Narraway looked at him with contempt. He trusted no one. His job depended upon being right to the last detail. A mistake, one thing taken for granted, a single word, could cost lives.
“Thank you,” he said, satisfied, and put the paper in his pocket. He led the way out, Pitt following closely behind.
It was necessary to go to the station to catch the next train back towards London. The first stop would be Teddington, and from there it was only a short distance to Wray’s house.
From the outside it looked just the same, the flowers brilliant in the sun, tended with love but not discipline. The roses still tumbled around the doors and windows and ran riot over the arch above the gate. Pinks spilled over the pathways, filling the air with per
fume. For a moment it was hard to remember that Wray was gone from here forever.
And yet there was a blind look to the windows, a sense of emptiness. Or perhaps that was only in his mind.
Narraway glanced at him. He seemed about to say something, then kept silent. They walked one behind the other up the flagstoned path and Pitt knocked on the door.
It was several moments before Mary Ann came. She looked at Narraway, then at Pitt, and her face lit with remembrance.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Pitt! It’s nice o’ yer to ’ave come, ‘specially after the rotten, stupid things some folk are saying. Sometimes I give up! Yer know ’bout poor Mr. Wray, o’ course.” She blinked, and the tears welled up in her eyes. “Did yer know as ’e left yer the jam? ’E didn’t actually write it down, like, but ’e said it to me. ‘Mary Ann, I must give Mr. Pitt some more o’ the jam, ’e was so kind to me.’ I meant to, an’ then Mrs. Cavendish came an’ the chance rather slipped away. Yer know the way ’e used to talk.” She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief, blowing her nose hard. “I’m sorry, but I miss ’im summink terrible!”
Pitt was so touched by the gesture, so overwhelmingly relieved that even if Wray had taken his own life, it was not with ill thought towards him, that he felt his throat tighten and a sting in his eyes. He would not betray it by speaking.
“That’s very kind of you,” Narraway spoke for him, whether he sensed the need or simply was accustomed to taking control. “But I think that there may be other claimants to his possessions, even those of the kitchen, and we would not wish you to be in any difficulty.”
“Oh no!” she said with certainty. “There in’t no one else. Mr. Wray left everything to me, an’ the cats, o’ course. The lawyers came and told me.” She gulped and swallowed. “This whole house! Everything! Can you imagine that? So the jam’s mine, except ’e said as Mr. Pitt should ’ave it.”
Narraway was startled, but Pitt saw with surprise a softness in his face, as if he also were moved by some deep emotion.
“In that case, I am sure Mr. Pitt would be very grateful. We apologize for intruding, Miss Smith, but in light of knowledge we now have, it is necessary we ask you certain questions. May we come in?”
She frowned, looking at Pitt, then back at Narraway.
“They are not difficult questions,” Pitt assured her. “And in nothing are you to blame, but we do need to be sure.”
She pulled the door and stepped backwards. “Well, I s’pose yer’d better. Would yer like a cup o’ tea?”
“Yes, please,” Pitt accepted, not bothering to see whether Narraway did or not.
She would have had them wait in the study, where Pitt had met with Wray, but partly from haste, mostly out of revulsion at the idea of sitting where he had talked so deeply with a man now dead, they followed her into the kitchen.
“The questions,” Narraway began, as she put more water in the kettle and opened the damper in the stove to set the flames burning inside again. “When Mr. Pitt was here for tea, the day Mr. Wray died, what did you serve them?”
“Oh!” She was startled and disconcerted. “Sandwiches, and scones and jam, I think. We ’adn’t any cake.”
“What kind of jam?”
“Greengage.”
“Are you sure, absolutely certain?”
“Yes. It was Mrs. Wray’s own jam, ’er favorite.”
“No raspberry?”
“We didn’t ’ave any raspberry. Mr. Wray’d eaten it all. That was ’is favorite.”
“Could you swear to that, before a judge in court, if you had to?” Narraway pressed.
“Yes. ’Course I could. I know raspberry from greengage. But why? What’s ’appened?”
Narraway ignored the question. “Mrs. Cavendish came to visit Mr. Wray just as Mr. Pitt was leaving?”
“Yes.” She glanced at Pitt, then back at Narraway. “She brung him some tarts with raspberry jam in them, an’ a custard pie an’ a book.”
“How many tarts?”
“Two. Why? What’s wrong?”
“And did he eat them both, do you know?”
“What’s wrong?” She was very pale now.
“You didn’t eat one?” Narraway insisted.
“’Course I didn’t!” she said hotly. “She brung them for ’im! What d’yer think I am, to go eating the master’s tarts what a friend come with?”
“I think you are an honest woman,” Narraway answered with sudden gentleness. “And I think that honesty saved your life to inherit a house a generous man wished you to have in appreciation for your kindness to him.” She blushed at the compliment.
“Did you see the book Mrs. Cavendish brought?” Narraway asked.
She looked up quickly. “Yes. It were poems.”
“Was it the book that was found beside him when he died?” Narraway winced very slightly at the baldness of the question, but he did not retreat from it.
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Can you write, Mary Ann?”
“O’ course I can!” But she said it with sufficient pride that the possibility of her not having been able to was very real.
“Good,” Narraway said with approval. “Then will you please find a paper and pen and write down exactly what you have told us—that there was no raspberry jam in the house that day, until it was brought in by Mrs. Octavia Cavendish, and that she came with two raspberry jam tarts, both of which Mr. Wray ate. Also, if you please, that she brought the book of poetry found beside him. And put the date on it, and sign your name.”
“Why?”
“Please do it, then I shall explain to you. Write it first. It is important.”
She saw something of the gravity in his face, and she excused herself and went to the study. Nearly ten minutes later, after Pitt had taken the kettle off the stove, she returned and offered Narraway a piece of paper very carefully written on and signed and dated.
He took it from her and read it, then gave it to Pitt, who glanced at it, saw that it was wholly satisfactory, and put it away.
Narraway gave him a sharp look but did not demand it back.
“Well?” Mary Ann asked. “You said you’d tell me if I wrote that for you.”
“Yes,” Narraway agreed. “Mr. Wray died as a result of eating raspberry jam that had poison in it.” He ignored her pale face and her gasp of breath. “The poison, to be specific, was digitalis, which occurs quite naturally in the foxglove plant, of which you have several very fine specimens in your garden. It has been supposed by certain people that Mr. Wray took some of the leaves and made a potion which he drank, with the intention of ending his life.”
“He’d never do that!” she said furiously. “I know that, even if there’s some as don’t!”
“No,” Narraway agreed. “And you have been most helpful in proving that to be the case. However, you would be very wise, in your own safety, not to say so to anyone else. Do you understand me?”
She looked at him with fear in her eyes and in her voice. “You’re saying as Mrs. Cavendish gave ’im tarts what was poisoned? Why would she do that? She was real fond of ’im! It don’t make no sense! ’E must ’ave ’ad a ’eart attack.”
“It would be best that you think so,” Narraway agreed. “By far the best. But the jam is very important, so no one ever supposes that he took his own life. That is a sin in his church, and they would bury him in unhallowed ground.”
“That’s wicked!” she cried furiously. “It’s downright vicious!”
“It is wicked,” Narraway said with profound feeling. “But when did that ever stop men who consider themselves righteous from judging others they think are not?”
She swung around to Pitt, her eyes burning. “’E trusted yer! Yer got to see they don’t do that to ’im! You’ve got to!”
“That is what I am here for,” Pitt said softly. “For his sake, and for my own. I have enemies, and as you know, some of them are
saying that I was the one who drove him to it. I tell you that so I have not misled you; I never believed he was the man who went to Southampton Row, and I did not even refer to it the last time I was here. The man who visited the spirit medium was called Bishop Underhill, and he is dead too.”
“’E never . . .”
“No. He died by accident.”
Her face creased with pity “Poor man,” she said softly.
“Thank you very much, Miss Smith.” No one could have mistaken Narraway’s sincerity. “You have been of the greatest help. We will take care of the matter from here. The coroner will bring in a verdict of death by misadventure, because I will see to it that he does. If you have any care for your own safety, you will agree to that, regardless to whom you speak or in what circumstances, unless brought to a court of law by me, or by Mr. Pitt, and questioned on the subject under oath. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“Good. Then we shall leave you and be on our way to the coroner.”
“Yer don’t want a cup o’ tea? Anyway, yer got to take your jam,” she added to Pitt.
Narraway looked at the kettle. “Actually, yes, we can stay for tea, just a cup. Thank you. It has been an unusually trying day.”
She glanced at the dirt and the tears in his clothes, and in Pitt’s, but she made no remark. She would have considered it rude. Anyone can fall on hard times, and she knew that very well. She did not judge people she liked.
Pitt and Narraway walked as far as the station together.
“I am going back to Kingston to the coroner,” Narraway announced as they crossed the road. “I can enforce the verdict we wish. Francis Wray will be buried in hallowed ground. However, there is little purpose in proving that Mrs. Cavendish’s tarts poisoned him. She would be charged with murder, on unarguable circumstantial evidence, and I doubt very much that she had the slightest idea of what she was doing. Voisey either gave her the jam, or more probably the tarts themselves, in order to make sure no one else was affected, both for his own safety in case it was traced back to him, and because insofar as he cares for anyone, it is she.”