On a Desert Shore (8 page)

Buckler shook his head in response to Chase's terse questions. No one had seen anything in particular, no stranger lurking, no convenient solution to the problem of who could have tampered with the tea, the sugar, or perhaps the cakes. “You must seal up Garrod's papers for the lawyers,” Buckler said.

Chase nodded; it was a timely reminder. “The rest of the staff awaits you in the servants' hall, Buckler. Start with them and I'll take over shortly. The shepherdesses are girls from the village. I've asked them to stay until you can speak to them.”

“Garrod?”

“Vilely ill. Penelope helps tend him until nurses and a physician can arrive to assist the surgeon.”

Buckler lowered his head to flip idly through the pages of his pocketbook. He spoke quietly. “I could easily have drunk that tea if Penelope hadn't stopped me. She leapt up and swept the cup from my hand. My God, she had drunk the tea herself.”

The thought of Penelope and Buckler and that tea had been a thorn at the back of Chase's mind that pricked him with his own incompetence, his lack of foresight, which might have brought him a terrible loss he couldn't bear to think of even now. But he said merely, “That's why I think the poison was in the sugar.”

“You may be right. Penelope doesn't take sugar. And I saw her eating one of the cakes. Nothing wrong with them, it seems.”

Suddenly Chase's anger erupted. “I should have been there. Instead I was running that girl to earth and playing games with Garrod's nephew.”

Buckler's forehead creased with concern. “Not your fault, John. Poison is an ugly, sneaky attack. I had a word with Lewis, and he deeply regrets causing trouble for you. I told him what I'll tell you too. You couldn't have prevented what happened.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How is Miss Garrod?”

“Deeply shocked. Mrs. Yates is with her. I've asked Lewis to remain within reach. Honeycutt is in his room, drinking himself under the hatches from all accounts. Best he stay there for the present.”

“Just as you say. Don't worry.”

One of the guests came up, breaking into bitter complaint, and the two friends separated.

Chapter Eight

Buckler saw off the last of the carriages before going upstairs to check on Penelope. A servant having directed him to the bedchamber where the Reverend Samuel Tallboys lay, Buckler rapped at the door.

It edged open, and Penelope stepped into the corridor, a rank smell compounded of sweat, feces, and vomit following in her wake. Buckler's hands reached out for hers. She was swathed in an apron far too large for her and stiff in patches. There was a yellow streak on her forearm. Her hair confined in a tight bun, she looked at him with eyes that were huge in her strained face, but she seemed calm. It occurred to him that she was like a soldier ranged for battle.

“Tallboys?” he asked, squeezing her hands gently and drawing her a little closer so that she could rest against him.

She spoke into his shoulder. “The vomiting has eased, though he has burning pains in his stomach. I must go back. We are giving him castor oil and a solution of egg whites in cold water every few minutes.”

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

Reaching into her apron pocket, she retrieved a crumpled sheet of paper. “Send this letter to the vicarage. It's a note for Mr. Tallboys' housekeeper. Oh and Edward, send word to Maggie. I don't want her to read the news in the papers tomorrow.”

He took the note from her and used his handkerchief to dab the vomit or whatever it was from her arm. “Don't worry about Maggie and the children. Take care of yourself,” he said, feeling helpless. With a brief smile for him, she vanished, closing the door with a click.

He was about to descend the stairs when the surgeon emerged from a bedchamber at the end of the hall and moved toward him down the darkened corridor, the only light provided by a lamp that burned on the landing.

“How does your patient, doctor?” said Buckler.

The surgeon, whose look of gloom sat oddly on his pleasant features, balanced two sealed containers in his hands. “Which one? If you mean Mr. Garrod, he's in dire straits, I fear, sir.”

“Is such variation usual?”

“Quite. Any poison's effects would be unpredictable, depending on the amount ingested as well as the general health and age of the patient.”

“Is there any way to know whether the poison was in the sugar?”

“Tests may tell us.” Caldwell held up the containers. “I'm on my way to deliver these samples to the Runner. I've cut out fragments of the clothing stained with effluent to add to the samples.” Shaking his head, he turned to go. “I must oversee the preparation of a concoction that may be of help in binding and bringing up the poison. Moreover, I have a message from Mr. Garrod—against my advice, I may add.”

“I'll deliver your message, sir.”

The surgeon set the containers on the parapet for a moment and rubbed his tired eyes. “I should be obliged. Mr. Garrod labors under a degree of inquietude that can only worsen his state. He insists upon seeing the legal man in the house.”

“Legal man? He means me, I suppose. I am Edward Buckler, a barrister of the Inner Temple. But surely Mr. Garrod should summon his own counsel?”

“It may be too late. Will you go to him? Reassure him if you can, but try not to tax him further.” He took his jars and descended the stairs.

When Buckler entered Garrod's room, an exhausted and disheveled maid looked up. She had a cloth in her hand, which she was using to wipe the patient's face and neck. A basin of water sat on the table next to her along with a vomit and blood-soaked cloth. Garrod's arm was bandaged where the surgeon had bled him. The room was close, the stench hitting Buckler like a blow as he approached the bed. He considered asking the girl to open the window but decided he shouldn't, in case the doctor had ordered otherwise.

“Sir?” said the maid.

“The doctor asked me to step in.” His eyes were on the bed, where Garrod writhed in his sheets, moaning and thrashing his limbs. Shocked, Buckler thought that any attempt at coherent conversation was likely to be fruitless. Death already hovered, setting its stamp upon the sick man's recumbent form.

“He has a terrible thirst on him,” whispered the maid, seeming glad of another human presence. “I keep giving him a drink, but it does no good. He just brings it up again.” She held a cup to his lips, but he rolled away from her, his claw-like hands plucking at the bedclothes.

“Let me try.” Taking the cup, Buckler leaned over. “Mr. Garrod, I am sorry to see you suffer. What can I do? Take some of this, sir.”

Garrod opened his mouth and tried painfully to swallow. “Buckler?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“He don't see you proper-like,” said the maid. “His eyes ain't right, gone dim or some such.”

Buckler said, “Shall I summon your solicitors, sir?”

“You may be…chamber counsel. Need you to act.” Getting out the words with difficulty, Garrod moved his head on the pillow restlessly. Then he seemed to realize that the maid watched them with avid interest, and his eyes glittered with hostility. “Get rid of her.”

The girl looked affronted. “The doctor bid me stay. I am to keep him cool and watch for any change.”

“Withdraw,” said Buckler. “This won't take long.”

When she had flounced to the window, the sick man seemed to gather himself, drawing upon reserves of strength that would not last. “A foolish and insane impulse…why did I—?” he said in a lather of torment and self-punishment. A spasm contorted his features, and it was a full minute before he could resume. “That…codicil. Must make a new one.”

Buckler's heart sank. This would set the cat among the pigeons with a vengeance. Though he had no experience with estate and trust law, he knew that deathbed alterations to a will could be tricky—very tricky. If it could be shown that the dying person was not in his complete senses, such a change might lead to endless litigation in the Chancery court. “Let me fetch a paper and pen,” he said, backing away from the bed. When consulted, the girl directed him to Garrod's dressing room, where he kept a writing desk. But by the time Buckler returned to the sick man, a new pang of agony had overtaken him so that any opportunity for further speech was lost. Hastily, Buckler summoned the nurse. And at that moment the surgeon came back into the room and waved him off in no uncertain terms.

***

“What do you think he was trying to tell you?” asked Chase.

“I don't know. He was delirious. I think he regretted some recent change to his will and wished to reverse it. Poor devil. I doubt he will rally enough. But you'd better send for his lawyers.”

Chase uttered a groan, his hand groping at the back of his head for the queue that was no longer there. “It only needed that. Packet told me Garrod likes to keep the family guessing. Played one too many rounds of his game.”

“A codicil or a new will won't hold up in court unless he had it properly drawn. I'll ask around among the servants to see if Garrod mentioned any plans to alter his will, shall I? You can bet the lawyers will be close-mouthed on the subject.”

Chase opened his mouth to argue, then gave a reluctant nod. “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. I imagine you'll be staying close by. You won't want to leave Penelope here on her own even with me.”

“No, I won't. I thought I'd take a bed at the local pub until this matter is resolved.”

They were in Hugo Garrod's immense library, which opened from the picture gallery. The man owned as many books as costly
objets d'art
and botanical specimens. Many of the expensive volumes had actually been read, their pages cut and markers placed in their pages, the books left lying about in stacks on the tables. Gazing up at the high shelves, Buckler reflected that if Garrod should die, the task of cataloging his possessions prior to his estate's being settled would be massive. This task would likely fall to his secretary, a thin, sensitive young man now sleeping off the worst of his nerves.

All the secretary had been able to tell them was that, despite the press of business on the prior afternoon, his master had sent him away for an hour to see Mr. Honeycutt. No, Mr. Garrod hadn't mentioned wishing to alter his will, though he'd met with his solicitors several times in the last week. Yes, in addition to the desk and cabinet in his study, he had a portable writing desk. Yes, Mr. Garrod sometimes forgot to secure this desk since he kept it in his private dressing room. This was the writing desk where Garrod stored his personal ring of keys, including the key to the teapoy, when not carrying them.

The box in question, a rectangular mahogany traveling desk with brassbound corners, sat on the table between Buckler and Chase. They'd lifted its lid to display the baize-covered writing surface and emptied its leather pockets of their papers. Its drawers, including four “secret” compartments concealed behind a spring-operated panel, gaped wide. Next to the box Chase had stacked and restacked the letters, pens, sealing wax, and inkbottles, as if they could tell him something. Three of the hidden compartments had been empty; the fourth held only a signet ring, a few seashells, and a lock of dark hair tied up in faded ribbon.

For the last half-hour Chase had been pacing the carpet in the library, his cup of coffee left untouched on the mantelshelf. Now he went to the window and thrust the curtains back, allowing the feeble light of a gray dawn to trickle into the room. Worried, Buckler studied his friend's rigid shoulders. Neither of them had closed their eyes that night. He'd never seen Chase, a man of inner stillness and absolute focus, so restless. The focus was there, but Buckler, having learned to know his friend better, could see that he was profoundly disturbed.

“Garrod's will could be a motive for the murder,” said Buckler. “I've been thinking…why attack him now in the middle of an evening party with two score witnesses on hand?”

Chase let the curtain drop and turned around. “To prevent him from changing his mind if someone wished to preserve the will's current arrangements? It could be any of them. Honeycutt is a wastrel in no good odor with his uncle. Miss Garrod continually worries and disappoints her father, and I would not trust her mental state. Mrs. Yates and Miss Honeycutt—who knows how they are left in the will? Though we could be on the wrong track entirely, and the motive has nothing whatever to do with inheritance. In that event, I suppose the poisoner might even have been one of the servants or guests.”

“Unlikely. A successful poisoning must be premeditated and carefully planned, the poison purchased in advance. The culprit chose this moment, perhaps counting on the screen provided by many people even though he or she had no way to know who else might die. Brazen—the poisoner was not deterred by the presence of Bow Street. You're certain Garrod was the target?”

“I can be sure of nothing,” Chase said heavily. “Never mind that now. I must trace the purchase of the poison. Garrod has gone to the City and out to the West India Docks a few times in the last two weeks and Honeycutt has had social engagements in town, but the ladies of the family have been here in Clapham for the most part. Surely anyone wishing to escape detection wouldn't buy a poison locally? I'll check, of course.”

“No, you'd think the villain would go further afield. But it's likely the druggist didn't record the purchase even if you can find him.”

Chase threw himself into the armchair and lowered his head to peruse the witness statements for the third time. “Get some rest, or you'll be of no use to me,” he told Buckler.

He was right. Buckler decided he would take himself to the inn, sleep for a few hours, send to his chambers at the Temple for a change of clothes, and eat a fortifying breakfast. Then he'd be back. He opened his lips to suggest a similar course of action for his friend and closed them again. Instead Buckler said, “You'll look in on Penelope?”

“Every hour,” Chase replied without looking up.