Poison to Purge Melancholy (23 page)

“Keep going,” I said impatiently. “Tell me about her.”

She shook her head. “This story’s about Hugh, not Tanya. I only saw him with his wife twice, at the wedding and at Beth Ann’s christening. He had this look in his eyes, Pat. I can’t describe it—I just know it hasn’t been there since Tanya died. I don’t mean love—when he looks at Beth Ann, you can see he cares about her more than anything. Not passion either, though just as potent. Anyhow, since you showed up, I’ve started seeing little glimmers of that look now and again.”

Maybe I couldn’t see the ring, but I could feel it, tight on my finger. Crying had made me puffy, I told myself. Still, a noose came to mind. “The look’s not for me, Miss Maggie. He’s dredging up memories of Tanya.”

“Oh, very likely.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, that didn’t help.”

“Like I said, I’m giving you a few things to think on. For instance, the fact that until now, he was dead set on letting those memories lie.” Miss Maggie pursed her lips in thought. “You ought to talk to Beth Ann.”

“Not you, too. That’s what started the whole argument.” I recounted the gist of it.

“So don’t talk to her about your engagement. Talk to her about her father. After all, she’s known him fourteen years and she’s a bright kid. Bound to have an opinion worth hearing. Wouldn’t hurt for you two to compare notes.”

I suspected ulterior motives, but trusted Miss Maggie’s wisdom, so I agreed to have a chat with Beth Ann.

“Good. Now go wash your face and come right back. I’ve got news about your ‘old house’ symptoms.” Her green eyes were sparkling.

“Miss Maggie, you didn’t tell—”

“No, no. I just played Name-That-Ailment with our panel of experts downstairs. Go on, wash your eyes. You’ll feel better.”

The woman was a master of suspense. I hurried off down the hall. I was closing the bathroom door behind me when Cherry Weisel came barreling through the doorway from the main house. I hadn’t heard her approach. Darned weird acoustics.

She pulled herself up. “Oh!”

“Be right out.” Embarrassed by my red eyes, I hid behind the door. “Or, there’s another bathroom. Keep going up the stairs and across the hall.”

“Right. Thanks.” And she was gone back through the doorway.

Minutes later, when I was halfway back to the room, I heard a board creak behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of black leather around the corner. Cherry? The other bathroom must have been occupied.

As I entered our room, Miss Maggie said, “Ah, now you look human again.” She was standing by the window and swung around to look outside. “I’m watching Evelyn. He’s come back from moving his car, but he’s still outside the gate, like he’s hunting for something on the ground. And I just recalled that when we walked back from church, we saw footprints in the snow there. Beth Ann pointed them out.”

“Probably made by the person who left the cards.” I told Miss Maggie about it.

“Ace and King of Spades? How interesting.”

I wondered if “ace” translated to “Acey.” She
was
the family prankster, and I had only her word for it that she’d seen someone going through the gate. Acey might have planted the card herself. Had she made the footprints? Not in bear-claw slippers. Besides, the ace had arrived before her.

Miss Maggie didn’t give me time to muse further. She waved me to the bed, indicating that I should be seated. I complied. “Heavy metal poisoning.”

“What?”

“Heavy metals. Lead or mercury, most likely. That was the consensus on hearing the symptoms. The metallic taste clinched it, they said.”

“Metal poisoning? That sounds so Industrial-Age. Not colonial.”

Miss Maggie shook her head. “Lead and mercury were much easier to get hold of in the eighteenth century, Pat. Musket balls were lead—all ammo was. Blacksmith’s were exposed to lead all the time. Or someone with shot left in him from an old wound could have it leech into his system and poison him eventually. And mercury was a common medicine.”

“The silver stuff that used to be in thermometers?” I pictured someone downing a spoonful of it like cough syrup. Yuck. “Wouldn’t that kill a person outright?”

“Not in small doses. Taken over enough time, though—Andrew Jackson took mercury pills. So did Abe Lincoln. A toxic dose, too, from what I’ve heard. He stopped ’cause he thought they made him grumpy. Good thing—he might not have been around to run for president. Or he might have gone insane. Heavy metal poisoning can do that. Remember the ‘mad hatters’ of the nineteenth century, who went nuts from sniffing mercury fumes as they molded top hats.”

“Insane?” I echoed.

“Exactly. You said Riddick talked of Brennan’s ‘lunacy’ and ‘derangement.’ Lead or mercury poisoning would be a dandy explanation.”

“So you think I’ve been experiencing Brennan’s symptoms? Shouldn’t I have felt crazy?”

“Delirium is a symptom of long-term exposure. Maybe you just haven’t been in the old house long enough.”

I thought about that, and didn’t like my conclusions. “If that’s why—okay, let’s say Brennan had an old war wound that—”

“He didn’t fight in the Revolution. Lived here the whole time.”

“A hunting accident, then. Or he was taking doses of mercury for too long. Whatever. Don’t you see? If Polly Carson’s the ghost that Beth Ann saw, and the symptoms
don’t
belong to Polly, then—”

“Right. The house has
two
ghosts.” Miss Maggie grinned from ear to ear, delighted by the prospect. “Furthermore, I believe Brennan’s exposure to heavy metals wasn’t accidental, and that his death wasn’t a shooting mishap. Because why else would he be trying to get your attention, Pat? Ghosts don’t walk for nothing. Bet on it, he was murdered.”

“See, there he lies,
But ere he dies
A doctor must be had.”

—from
Recollections of Samuel Breck
, quoting from a
mummer’s play he witnessed in America, circa 1780

December 25, 1783—The Public Hospital

An hour later, shaved
and fed, I left the house for my “appointment.” I’d said that merely to avoid attending devotions and meeting Mr. Tyler, yet I saw an opportunity—once Elizabeth and her children were at church, with Jim and Sam at their trades, and the doctor otherwise occupied—to return to the house and search Brennan’s room. At last, my quest here in Williamsburg might prove fruitful.

Until then, I should have liked to pass the time at the Eagle with a pint, but last night’s antics had put no coin in my pocket and this year I had no master to furnish my Christmas box (though Mr. Ivey had never been generous). So I contented myself to look in at shop windows. In Norfolk, some few merchants—Catholics, for the most part—refused to unlock their doors Christmas Day or Twelfth Night, but on Williamsburg’s Main Street, all were open.

Yet as I strolled along, my thoughts played through the murder of John Brennan, now picturing Dr. Riddick watching from the darkness of the Market Square at our backs, perhaps seeing what we were too close to observe. Or perhaps raising a gun himself, firing in unison with the others. He owned no weapon as far as I knew, but might have taken Jim’s musket. Yet the finest marksman could not be certain of accuracy with such a gun at such a distance. Unless his aim was not for Brennan, but for another.

No, I thought. Doctors knew other means of ending life, more assured. Means that might not be questioned. I found I’d turned my steps back toward the college. I walked a block farther, to Henry Street, where I’d not be seen from the Carson house as I made my way to the hospital.

Williamsburg boasted fine public buildings. The hospital did not number among them. ’Twas large—situated alone in a square block, occupying half its width—but the structure had none of the grace of the capitol or college buildings, nor even of the small town hall. Moreover, the roof was in need of new shakes and many of the window panes were broken or missing altogether. Paint flaked from sill and jamb. Sheep often grazed upon the front green, yet near the edifice bramble and thistle grew high amidst the grasses. Their thorns pierced the wool of my stockings and caught hold of my britches and coat as I made my way along the rear of the building. I might be seen from perhaps three houses here, far fewer than in front, and I hoped these residents would be too occupied to gaze from their windows.

For the same reason, I thought, the doctor would chose a room on this side. The first course of windows were too high for me to look in, so I scanned the ground for small stones, tossing them through the openings, calling his name softly as I walked along. Often the stones rebounded with a metallic sound. I glimpsed black iron bars inside the sills.

At the window by the east yard, Riddick’s head and shoulders appeared to one side. “Mr. Dunbar? What is it, sir? Does someone require a doctor?”

“No, sir, but I require a word with you, regarding what you saw last night at Mr. Underwood’s.”

No reply came at first, so I wondered if he’d heard me. Then, “Come over to the yard. I’ll meet you there.” Annoyance colored his tone.

The yard was surrounded by a tall wooden fence with little space between its planking and no gate, to discourage the deranged from wandering off while taking the outside air, I supposed. I was puzzling how Riddick had gotten in when the two planks nearest the bricks swung out from the bottom. The doctor, behind them, beckoned to me. I was larger of frame than he, and ’twas with difficulty that I squeezed through the opening.

The yard was wide as the building, the ground muddy and uneven at this end. A forest of weeds hid the far corners. When I stood straight and faced the doctor, I was taken aback by his raiment. He wore not his coat, but a large wool overshirt, as a common laborer might wear on a cold day. ’Twas chestnut brown in color, but a good portion stained darker, and it gave off a repelling odor.

“What is your query, sir?” he asked in a low voice, peevish and impatient.

“Mrs. Carson said that you’d witnessed Mr. Brennan’s murder last evening.”

“And yourself as well, Mr. Dunbar, eh?” He nodded. “Jim practiced his speeches in our room the last week, and hearing them last night, delivered with his particular cough—”

“Did you see who shot John Brennan, Doctor?”

He stroked his chin with a frown. “I did not. My attention was for Brennan alone. His reactions to your play aroused my deepest interest. I can, however, absolve Jim of the murder, as well as the other man who fired a pistol.”

This told me that Riddick could not identify those in our troupe other than Jim and myself, and possibly Sam. I vowed to give none away. “But sir, if you didn’t see who—”

“The ball that killed Mr. Brennan was too large for a pistol. ’Twas from musket or rifle.” The doctor smiled with conceit. “Science, sir, can show us what is missed by the human eye. I can also tell you that the ball entered Brennan’s chest here.” He placed his fingers above his right breast. “It broke the top rib, pushing that broken piece left, into the bronchi, that is, the windpipe leading into the lungs. This may indicate that he was shot by the man on his right side—the one in the long black coat. Mr. Walker, I believe. Yet, Brennan was moving about, and may have turned the instant he was shot, so—”

“You performed surgery? Was he alive after—” I nearly said “after we left” but caught the admission before it reached my lips.

“Would that it were so and I could have saved the man. But no, he was dead when I first examined him on Captain Underwood’s steps.”

“
First
examined?” I’d put importance to the phrase only because I’d put memory to the fetor of his garment. ’Twas a smell I’d met on battlefield and in camp, and more to the point, in the elder Thomas Carson’s tent two years past: the smell of death. “You’re examining him now—performing surgery on his corpse. Here. This morning. And this is not the first time you’ve—”

Riddick hushed me with a finger to his lips, glancing at the high fence as if it could hear. “Come, let us discuss this inside, Mr. Dunbar.” When I made no move to follow, he said, “Please, sir. I would not have you think ill of me. I’m a doctor, and want nothing more than to save the lives of others with Brennan’s affliction. What I learn may cure derangement someday. And if the ailment ever besets a child of yours, sir, you’ll thank me. But I’ll not speak of this in the open.”

I hesitated, my curiosity warring with my aversion. “This, er, examination—will it tell you why Brennan turned lunatic?”

Riddick, nervous at the delay, nodded. “Quite possibly. That is, I’ve found signs on the corpse that I’ve seen in similar cases. And I believe his madness may be related to his murder.”

Curiosity won out. I told the doctor to lead on. We went through the side door. He set the rusty bolt after us.

The hall smelled of old urine and filth. Lining the passage were doors, their small square windows allowing scant sunlight through. Dust swarmed in the rays like bees.

Riddick opened the first door to our left. The room was larger and brighter than any jail cell I’d seen, yet with barred window, it reminded me of such. The walls had been whitewashed, though some past resident had covered the bricks with drawings in charcoal, some quite good, some grotesque and horrifying. The space was cold as outdoors, owing to the broken panes, yet I was glad of the air, for the cell reeked of death. Brennan lay in the center of the floor, with no pallet between him and the rough boards. His britches were the only clothing on him.