Death Comes to London (17 page)

“Oliver, tell me the truth. Devil take it,
tell
me! What did you see?”

Robert couldn’t hear the weak answer well enough to make sense of it and took another cautious step closer to the half-open door.

“It didn’t make any sense.” Oliver sounded stronger now. “Why would she—” He coughed, and there was the sound of water being poured into a cup.

“She’s dead, Oliver.”

“Grandmother is?” Robert tensed as Oliver started to laugh. “That’s wonderful.”

Robert’s cane struck the door and he quickly caught it before deliberately rattling the door handle and walking in.

“Broughton?” He turned his attention to the bed, where Oliver lay propped up against his pillows, his face flushed and his eyes glittering. “Good to see you are recovering, Oliver.” He paused. “Am I interrupting?”

Broughton gestured to a chair. “No, please come in. Your appearance is highly propitious. I was about to question Oliver about what happened after Almack’s.”

His brother’s face clouded. “As I said, I had a few drinks and then felt ill. Silas got me a room at the inn. I stayed there until I woke up and realized I was in my own bed again. Where is Silas, by the way?”

“He’s been dismissed.”

“For helping me? That’s
typical
of you, Broughton, you are far too harsh.”

Broughton sat up straight and stared at his brother. “Aren’t you going to ask what happened to your grandmother?”

“Why should I? She’s dead, isn’t she? That’s the best news I’ve had all week. I’m not going to pretend I cared about her. Everyone knew we were at odds. Did she finally drop dead in one of her rages? I’m just sorry I missed it.” He glanced at Robert. “Why are you both looking at me like that?”

“She died just after you left the ballroom at Almack’s,” Robert said.

“Well, she had been stirring up trouble, hadn’t she? Fighting with Broughton about his choice of wife, with me about my allowance, and with Lady Bentley threatening to take her to court . . .” He trailed off. “What’s wrong?”

Robert glanced at Broughton, who seemed content to leave the questioning to him. “As far as we can tell, she didn’t die of rage but of something far more sinister.”

“Don’t tell me someone shot her in the middle of Almack’s? What a lark! I almost wish I’d stayed to watch.”

Robert winced at the callous tone. “She wasn’t shot. The doctor believes both your grandmother and your brother were poisoned.”

Oliver’s mouth closed and he lay back on his pillows.
“Poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“But”—Oliver stared at Robert and then at his brother—“that’s absurd.”

“Did you ever help your grandmother in her stillroom?”

“Of course not! Are you trying to suggest I had something to do with this?” Oliver turned to Broughton. “Aren’t you going to defend me?”

Broughton’s mouth twisted. “I wish I could. You hated her, Oliver. You were seen by one of the maids leaving the stillroom last week.”

“Dammit, Broughton, we were all in there sometimes, even you! She gave me something for my cough, some concoction of rose hips and honey, that’s all.” He fell back against his pillows, his face flushed and his mouth a hard line. “I wanted her dead, but I would never have chosen that route.”

Broughton brought something out of his pocket. “Then why did Smith have this amongst his possessions?”

Robert studied the label on the empty glass bottle, which was covered in the dowager’s distinctive crabbed handwriting.

“ ‘Privet. Use sparingly.’ ” Robert squinted hard and managed to make out the words.

“Maybe Silas killed her! I don’t know! This is ridiculous!”

“I doubt Smith was able to get into the ballroom at Almack’s,” Robert said drily. “This is rather incriminating.”

He wondered what other evidence Broughton was refusing to share with him. It seemed that Miss Harrington might be correct about his friend trying to exclude him from finding out the truth.

“I didn’t kill her, Broughton.” Oliver scrubbed a hand across his face. “I left the ball in a rage, went straight to the inn, and fell ill. That’s all I remember.”

“How much had you had to drink before we even arrived at Almack’s, Oliver? Can you even be sure of what you did?” Broughton hesitated. “It wouldn’t be the first time you have no memory of a night of carousing, would it?”

“Damnation, I think I’d remember if I’d tried to murder my brother and my grandmother!”

Broughton sighed and put the bottle back in his pocket. “I suggest you think about this matter while you recover? When you are prepared to be completely honest with me, I will be glad to hear anything you wish to share and will do my best as your brother to ensure that no harm comes to you.” He paused. “Or you might care to wait until our father returns and explain yourself to him.”

Oliver’s face blanched. “Oh God, not him. He’s never been on my side. He believes everything you and Grandmother tell him.”

Broughton stood and patted Oliver’s clenched fist. “Then think very carefully about what you want to do.” He glanced over at Robert. “I think it would be best if we left him to sleep now, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Robert nodded at Oliver and followed Broughton out into the hallway and down to his suite of rooms. “You look better today.”

“Thank you.” Broughton sank into a chair and Robert sat opposite him. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about what I found in Smith’s bags. I wanted to see Oliver’s face when I showed him the bottle.”

“I understand.” Robert kept his gaze on the fire. “Are you still convinced that Oliver is responsible for this matter?”

“After finding that bottle of poison, I’m fairly certain, aren’t you?” Broughton groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

“Don’t give up hope. He hasn’t confessed to anything yet. Perhaps he is innocent as he claims.”

Broughton slowly looked up at him. “Do you think so?”

“There are others who disliked the dowager just as much as Oliver did.”

“Such as?”

“Lady Bentley for one. Wasn’t she threatening to take your family to court?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. But surely that would mean my grandmother would’ve been the one doing the poisoning.”

“That
was
another possibility that had occurred to me.”

“Good Lord! That my grandmother poisoned herself?” Broughton went still. “She certainly had the knowledge.”

“Maybe she simply meant to scare Lady Bentley and misjudged the dose?”

“That’s a remarkably charitable interpretation of my grandmother’s actions. If she’d meant to kill with her poison, she would’ve been successful.”

“And I suppose she was. She just happened to give the poison to the wrong person. Herself.” Robert stood up. “This is all pure speculation, of course. I just wanted to give your thoughts another direction to consider rather than worrying about Oliver.”

“That’s very good of you, Kurland. You’ve been very kind to me and my family over the past week.” He swallowed hard. “I suppose if Oliver won’t confess, and Dr. Redmond can’t identify exactly what killed my grandmother, we will never know what happened, will we?”

“Unfortunately not. Have you considered that such a scenario might be for the best?”

“I suppose it might, but I hate injustice, you know that. I’d much rather see the culprit suffer.”

“Even if it is your brother?”

“Even then, although I suspect my father might have something to say about that. He would probably prefer to keep it quiet and take Oliver back to India with him.”

“Naturally.”

Broughton’s smile was tight. “I don’t expect you to understand that, Kurland, but to my father our family name means everything.”

“Then perhaps it would be better if we could prove the dowager poisoned herself after all.” Robert headed for the door. “Good night, Broughton.”

Deep in thought, Robert made his way down the stairs into the front hall and then down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. As he entered the kitchen, a sudden scraping back of chairs and of conversations shut off greeted him. He cursed under his breath when he realized the staff was eating their dinner and that he had disturbed them.

He remained by the door as the butler bowed to him, and Foley, who was seated at the butler’s right hand, pretended not to notice his existence.

“Major Kurland, how may we help you?”

Robert waved a hand at them all to sit down again. “I apologize for bothering you at this time of night. I wanted to speak to the dowager’s maid. Is she still employed here?”

One of the women stood up again. “I was the dowager’s maid, sir.”

Robert nodded at her. “After you’ve finished your dinner, could you come and speak to me in my room? Thank you.”

He turned and retreated as quickly as he could as the conversation returned and his interruption was either quickly forgotten or was being avidly discussed. He’d meant to speak to the dowager’s maid earlier in the week and had forgotten to do so. Switching his cane into his right hand, he slowly mounted the stairs and headed for his bedchamber. At the pace he went, the maid would probably beat him upstairs. It was interesting that Broughton had reacted to the idea that the dowager might have poisoned herself without ridicule. Perhaps Miss Harrington’s idea wasn’t quite as far-fetched as he’d first thought.

Robert grimaced as he finally reached the top of the staircase and waited for his left leg to recover. Miss Harrington would appreciate that.

“You wanted to see me, Major Kurland?” The maid curtsied. “I’m Hester Macleod.”

“Thank you for coming. I apologize for interrupting your dinner.”

“Think nothing of it, sir.” She gave him a competent smile. She was far younger than he’d anticipated and hardly a suitable companion for an elderly lady. “How can I help you?”

“I wanted to ask you about your duties. Did you serve as the dowager’s abigail or were you with her for most of the day?”

“When my mother died I took over her job as the dowager’s abigail, sir. As the dowager grew older, my duties expanded to include accompanying her around the house and offering my help when needed.”

“I’ll wager she didn’t accept help too easily.”

“That’s true, sir, but she is to be commended for refusing to allow her age to stop her from enjoying life to the fullest.”

“Did you aid her in the stillroom as well?”

“Yes, sir. Her eyes were failing. I often had to read out the ingredients from the herbal and make sure she was certain of the dosage required before she started handing out potions to the household.” Hester cast a furtive look behind her and continued in a low voice. “There was one incident recently when she insisted the whole household needed to take her worming medicine. Everyone who did so became ill. After that Lieutenant Broughton insisted she had to have someone with her in the stillroom at all times.”

“Which was usually you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I assume she didn’t take well to Lieutenant Broughton’s decree.”

A faint flush appeared on the maid’s cheeks. “Not really, sir. She said there was nothing wrong with her potions and that the younger generation were a bunch of lily-livered weaklings.”

“Do you remember what kind of potions the dowager was brewing in the last week of her life?”

“I’m not really sure, sir.”

“Come now, if you were responsible for reading the instructions out to the dowager, you must remember what you were making. Lieutenant Broughton was counting on you to keep the household safe.”

“Sometimes she refused to let me see what she was brewing up and made me leave the room.” Hester swallowed hard. “I was afraid not to do what she told me in case I lost my position.”

“I understand. But can you remember anything you helped her make recently?”

“We made face cream for the countess, and some pills to help Master Oliver sleep, and some rat poison and—”

“Did you also make cough syrup for Master Oliver?”

“I believe he came in for some, sir, but we brewed that particular remedy all through the winter months and not just for him. Everyone gets a bit of a cold now and again, don’t they?”

“Indeed, they do. Did Master Oliver ever help out in the stillroom?”

“Sometimes he came in to speak with the dowager countess and he’d ask me questions about the potions while he waited for his grandmother to attend to him. He never stayed long. They did tend to annoy each other.”

“So I’ve heard.” Robert thought about how to ask his next questions. “Do you know what was in the sleeping pills the dowager made for Oliver?”

“The usual things, sir, valerian, lavender, and feverfew for his headaches.”

“And what about the rat poison?”

“It depended on what we had on hand, sir. The dowager always said there were hundreds of ways to get rid of vermin. She loved to tell me stories of famous folk who used poison to get rid of somebody important.”

“Did she ever tell you which her favorite poisons were?”

“She liked the strength of the privet berries, sir, and the fact that lily of the valley was considered such a sweet virginal plant when it was actually quite deadly.” She paused. “With all due respect, sir, is there any particular reason why you’re asking me all these questions? You don’t think I did anything wrong, do you?”

“Not at all. Did you think the dowager was becoming frailer?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She seemed full of vim and vigor to me.”

“I understand that she had a bad heart and that she took her own concoctions to help herself.”

“She did, sir.” Hester paused. “You don’t think she brewed up something too strong when I wasn’t looking and did something bad to her heart? I can’t be held responsible if she ordered me out of the stillroom, can I? That wouldn’t be fair.”

Robert considered the trembling woman. If he told Broughton that the dowager’s maid had left her to brew potions by herself, Hester’s career would be over, and like Silas Smith she would be cast off as untrustworthy and without a reference.

“I certainly don’t think that’s the case, Miss Macleod, and it certainly wouldn’t be fair. I’m sure you did everything in your power to keep the dowager countess safe.”