The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  Chapter Thirty-six

  On returning to Hawksby, Felix found Eleanor sitting on the hearthrug in the library, surrounded by Truro’s complete works.

  “He never did inscribe them for me,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down beside her. She leant against him and he put his arm about her shoulders.

  “And Mama has said something strange,” she went on. “That she wants to go to France next year.”

  “Oh?”

  “She says it is time we were left to ourselves, and that I had better learn housekeeping sooner than later. You must talk to her and tell her she must stay. She will listen to you. She is fond of you.”

  “But I thought you –”

  “I know, I know, but now it has come to it I find I would rather she did not. And to France! Perhaps she could move into the village somewhere? Oh, I don’t know, I would just rather that she did not go. Not yet, at least.” She leant even closer to him. “Why do you think she has decided this now? I thought she was perfectly content.”

  “I don’t know,” Felix said, and then remembered guiltily what Major Vernon had said about his not being duplicitous. “Perhaps she has been reading your Murry’s guides and decided she wanted to see the old cathedrals of France for herself.”

  “Then we might all have gone together, and made a proper continental tour of it. Perhaps that is what we should suggest?” Eleanor said. “After all, our wedding journey was ridiculously short and I should like nothing better than to do that! She cannot go to France on her own. That was the most outlandish part. It is outlandish, don’t you think?” Felix began to answer but Eleanor cut him short. “She has always been so correct, but going off to France tout seul – it is hardly that. It is positively reckless by her own code.”

  “Perhaps she is not intending to go alone. In fact, I’m sure she will not – she will hire a companion or some such, or there is a friend she has in mind to travel with.”

  “But Mama has no friends,” said Eleanor.

  “Surely not?”

  “No. When I was younger and we were living in Hertfordshire we hardly saw a soul. The Rector and his wife would come to dinner, and that was about it.”

  “I’m sure she must have friends. Who does she write to?”

  “She does not. She has no friends at all, at least none that I’m aware of.”

  “Then there may be someone she has not told you about.”

  “I can’t imagine who!” said Eleanor. “No, I think she intends to go alone, and I find that inexplicable, not to mention improper.”

  “Improper?” said Felix.

  “You will have to talk to her. She will listen to you. She is tremendously fond of you, and if you say it disturbs you, then she will reconsider.”

  “I’m not sure it is my place –”

  “Of course it is!” said Eleanor. “It will reflect badly on us all if she is so eccentric.”

  “I don’t know what you think she has in mind,” said Felix, “but I suspect it is nothing more than going to some dreary, perfectly respectable spa town where there are a hundred other English widows and spinsters, where they drink the waters and play piquet and congratulate themselves on not being in Bath.”

  “She could go to Bath,” Eleanor said. “In fact, that’s a far better idea. No one would think anything of that.”

  “She may go where she chooses,” said Felix, “and it’s not our business to stop her.”

  Eleanor got up from the floor and shook down her crumpled skirts.

  “No, she may not!” she said. “It will be wretched without her! I cannot believe I’m saying so but it will be. You must, must speak to her!” She stooped down and began to gather up Truro’s books, and Felix was obliged to get up and help her. “You will, will you not?”

  “Yes, I suppose –”

  She looked down at the volume she was holding.

  “I cannot believe he is dead,” she said. “So have you found out what caused it?”

  “Apparently he had a weak heart,” said Felix. “And he came here to live more quietly.”

  “No?” said Eleanor. “Oh, but if I had known that –” She hugged the book to herself. “I should never have – oh, no that makes it so much worse. We should not have had that party last night. Why did no one say he was supposed to be quiet?”

  “I don’t know,” Felix said. “Perhaps he did not like the diagnosis. That is often the case. It is one thing to tell a man to live quietly, quite another to get him to do so. He obviously liked to indulge himself in all respects,” he added, thinking of what he had seen that evening at White Lodge.

  “I knew all along that something was not right last night,” Eleanor said. “I had the most curious feeling even when I was dressing that something terrible was going to happen.”

  “I’m not sure you did,” said Felix. “It is just the shock of hearing he is dead that makes you say that.”

  “No, no, I’m sure of it. I remember it distinctly. After all, I do have a touch of second-sight – that old woman in Pitfeldry, Aggie Mcwhatever it was, told me so, and she has it too, so she must know!”

  “She said that to get a shilling out of you,” said Felix, putting Truro’s books down on the table. “He wrote a great deal in a short time, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, and there will never be anything more. It’s so sad.”

  “But you said that you thought the stuff he read last night was poor.”

  “Perhaps it seemed so,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps I was not really listening, and then when he was taken ill – was that the start of it? You should have gone back with him, I really wonder that you did not. Surely it was your duty? I wish you had stirred yourself more. Why on earth did you not? I know you did not like him, but really!”

  “Because Hepworth assured me all would be well,” said Felix after a moment.

  “And he is a medical man, is he?” said Eleanor. “And you took him at his word.”

  “Because he did not seem to be so unwell. He was just severely in his cups, as we all were. Tolley agreed with me.”

  “Of course Tolley will agree with you because he is your creature!” said Eleanor. “He is in no position to disagree with you. You really should have gone. I told you to go and you did not, and now he is dead!”

  Felix began to marshal what he already considered a flimsy defence, but Eleanor was apparently in no mood to listen and ran from the room, saving him the bother. In the moment it had all seemed that there would be no real difficulty about Truro and he had wondered, in all honesty, what use he would have been in such a state of inebriation. Would a drunken doctor have been better than no doctor at all? Had he been negligent in not going? They might have sent for him if they needed him. He had been clear enough on that point, and the fact they did not summon him seemed significant in the light of his growing suspicions that something unnatural may have occurred.

  He went to his study and turned out his bag again, removing the empty phial of atropine. He had written the date on the label as he did with all the drugs he carried about with him. From this it seemed he had acquired it about a year ago. He then checked the cork bung. It fitted perfectly, leaving the phial well-stoppered; the chances of the atropine evaporating seemed slight – it was not a highly volatile substance, as far as he knew, but that was something else he would have to check. There may have been circumstances where that might have happened, for it was not a substance he used often. He had no recollection of using it for months, and he began to plough through his notes to see if he had forgotten some instance of iritis. But he could find nothing in the last year, and neither did any of the standard texts mention that atropine was particularly volatile.

  His theory that the phial had been removed and used, and then replaced by someone, seemed to hold good, but he found himself struggling to imagine the circumstances in which that sequence of events could have happened.

  For a start, the phials were held in slots in a canvas case th
at rolled up in order that they might be safely carried about. Now, it was true enough that he frequently unrolled this case within sight of the patient and their attendants, perhaps on a nearby table or often enough on the bed itself, in order to take out what he required. Half of each phial was visible above its canvas slot, and from that he could judge at a glance if he needed to renew the supply. It was this characteristic that had made him notice the atropine that morning when he had been looking for arnica for Mrs Truro. He had been used to seeing the glint of liquid and it had been absent, so he had taken it out for a moment. It had been empty.

  It was not until he had left the house that the connection between the empty phial and Truro’s strange state the previous evening had come to him.

  He tried to remember when he had last taken out the canvas roll, and went back to his notes for the last few days, such as they were. It was on Thursday when it had last seen service, the day on which he had in turn attended to Major and Mrs Vernon and then Mrs Truro at White Lodge, where – he recalled – he had given her some camphor, and his notes confirmed it. Miss Fleming had been in the room with them – he remembered that clearly enough, because it had surprised him to see her being attentive to her sister. Then he had gone to the Rectory and he had also taken it out there, and given Miss Martha some calomel. That had been the last time he had taken it from his bag, as far as he could remember, until that morning at White Lodge. On Friday he had been at the Infirmary and had no cause to use his own supplies.

  He began to wonder if he had been entirely mistaken and that the atropine had been empty for many months, and he simply had not noticed it. It struck him as implausible that either Mrs Truro or Miss Fleming had contrived to remove it when he was in the room. He knew, of course, that murderers determined on their course could be exceptionally clever, but did either Mrs Truro or Miss Fleming have any motive to kill Truro? One was a betrayed wife, of course, and the other a mistress who may have been feeling jealous. Truro had certainly lavished enough attention on Eleanor, but was that enough to make Miss Fleming wish to destroy him? Surely she would be more interested in destroying her rival. Both women had struck him as convincingly grief-stricken. They would lose a great deal by Truro’s death rather than gain anything. He dismissed the idea of either of them removing the phial, and turned his thoughts to Miss Martha at the Rectory. Again, she seemed an impossible candidate.

  He wondered then if the phial had been removed and replaced during the course of the party itself. The door to his study had not been locked. The bag would have been sitting in its usual place, on a chair, ready to be taken out again. It was foolish, he supposed, to be so lackadaisical about it. He had a locked cupboard for all other dangerous substances, but he had never imagined anyone going into his bag and removing something. Would one of the servants have done such a thing? If so, why?

  All he could conclude, and it struck him as a most feeble conclusion, was that if the phial had ever been removed, it was by someone who thoroughly understood his habits.

  There was a gentle knock at the door. It was Lady Blanchfort.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said. He was naturally perturbed by the sight of her, but he shook his head. “Are you dining in tonight?”

  “Yes, I hope so,” said Felix. “We may be having some guests shortly. I hope you don’t mind. It may be rather a disruption: Major and Mrs Vernon, and her sister’s children.”

  “Goodness,” she said. “I thought they were not well?”

  “They are on the mend. It is just that given the business with Truro’s death, Major Vernon and I thought it might be better if he were close at hand.”

  “Is there some difficulty about his death?” Lady Blanchfort said. “I thought it was heart failure.”

  “It may not be that straightforward. I have some questions –”

  “Dear Lord,” she murmured. “Do you mean –?”

  “I would be grateful if you did not mention this to anyone,” he said. “It is all somewhat speculative. I am just uneasy about it.”

  She nodded.

  “And of course, you must do what you must do,” she said. “When may we expect the Vernons?”

  “Oh, Monday perhaps, but nothing is settled.”

  “And they will be here for Christmas?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “It will be lively, then. Eleanor will like that. She needs a distraction. This dreadful business with Truro will be hard on her.”

  “She told me that you mentioned your going away to her.”

  “And she has, no doubt, told you to dissuade me?”

  “I told her it was none of our business,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “But I’m with her,” he said. “I wish you would reconsider.”

  “It is better for us all that I go. What I said to you last night stands, and you know it in your heart, I’m sure of it. You will forget me soon enough.”

  “I’m not so sure –” he began.

  “I really am not worth the trouble,” she said, and went to the door. “I will go and speak to Mrs Hill about the guest rooms.”

  She left, and Felix turned back to his notes, looking for some hint that might give him some clarity. He found himself thinking instead of the night that Truro had proposed the play and how alarmed Lady Blanchfort had been when he mentioned her brother-in-law. She had been terrified that Truro might actually know the truth of the matter. Had he threatened her with exposure? Had she been driven to some desperate act by him?

  It was utter nonsense even to imagine such a thing, and yet she was an intelligent, cool-headed woman. She had access to his study and his library – the method and the means were both wide open to her. She could easily have slipped into the dining room and tampered with that claret jug. Had she not left the room abruptly during supper? He had followed her, of course, but not at once. There would have been time to go into the drawing room before her retreat into the library. Had she not in fact been crossing the hall in that direction? Had he then seen her coming from the drawing room?

  He refused to allow himself to speculate any further. It was a ridiculous conclusion to have drawn. Truro had died of his weak heart, and that was that.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Giles knew that Dr and Mrs Manton were assiduous attendees of choral matins at the Minster on Sunday mornings. As neither Giles nor Emma were fit to go the service that morning, Lady Maria took Sophy and Hamish. She was armed with a bag of peppermints and a note for Dr Manton from Giles politely asking if he and Mrs Manton might call at Rooke Court after the service.

  Dr Manton was perhaps surprised at finding Lady Maria cast as messenger, but he and his wife came willingly. A glass of Madeira and a slice of seed cake by a warm fire after a long service in the Minster was too pleasant a prospect to forgo.

  “The psalms for the last Sunday in Advent are rather long,” said Mrs Manton. “And the Dean spoke for quite a while. He was excellent, of course, but...” she gave a little sigh. “Your niece and nephew did not squirm or wriggle in the least. I was most impressed, Major Vernon. Our boys were terrible at that age. And what a delight to have children about!” The Manton boys, it seemed, were all grown and away from home, and none of them married yet. “I have been praying for an engagement. I am ready to be a grandmother,” said Mrs Manton.

  Lady Maria took Mrs Manton away to entertain her, and left Giles with Manton.

  “I wanted to speak to you about Mr Truro,” he said. “I think you may already have spoken to Mr Carswell?”

  “No, I have not,” said Dr Manton. “What is it you need to know?”

  “Mr Carswell felt he might have witnessed the symptoms of atropine poisoning.”

  “If Mr Carswell raises a doubt, then that is not to be dismissed lightly,” said Dr Manton. “His experience in these matters is far more extensive than mine. I could only judge on what I saw at that moment. I had no background other than that the family gave me.”

/>   “Which was?”

  “That he had a weak heart. That James Chicheley had said so, and he is a respectable opinion, of course.”

  “Ah, that was the name of the gentleman. Mr Carswell could not remember it.”

  “He has a large practice in London,” Dr Manton said. “I have other patients who have seen him, and in those cases I would not dispute his diagnosis. When they mentioned his name, it gave me some confidence, and the post-mortem signs were as you would expect.”

  “There was nothing that struck you as unusual?”

  Dr Manton considered for a moment.

  “I will have to look at my notes, but there was nothing that comes to mind. Atropine, you say?” Giles nodded. “That’s interesting. I shall have to talk to him. One does not like to make a mistake in these matters, and as I had no previous observation of the deceased, then I cannot be said to have a full picture. Thank you for drawing this to my attention.”

  The Mantons left, and Giles sat for some time speculating on who might have wished to dispatch Truro, and found himself anxious to know what the result of the conversation between Dr Manton and Carswell might be. However, since it was Sunday and he was still somewhat incapacitated, there was nothing that could be done, and he decided to stir himself from the fire and go and find the children before lunch. He found them in the room that had become a schoolroom, with Lady Maria, the cat and also Emma, who had apparently decided she must get up and dress at least to speak to Mrs Manton, albeit briefly.

  “You should be resting,” he said.

  “As should you,” she pointed out. “But do you not think I look improved?”

  It was true, there was some definite colour in her cheeks, and it was increased by the silly but amusing game of cards that Sophy insisted they all play together. It was a cheerful interlude and Giles could not help noticing that it was not just Emma’s complexion that had improved. The children now looked far less sickly than when they had first arrived, and indeed were growing handsome, all of which was gratifying, and he hoped it excused some of his impetuousness.

  But he could not let the business of Truro’s death go completely, for he realised he had a valuable witness to hand, and another expected in the form of Sir Mark. So after lunch he asked Lady Maria for a fuller account of the evening at Hawksby.