The Perfect Poison (15 page)

They walked to the door of the shop. The windows were unlit.

“One would think that she would have a light on inside, given the fog today,” Lucinda observed. “It must be quite dark in there.”

“Yes,” Caleb said, cold certainty shifting through him, phantom-like. “Very dark, indeed.”The darkness of death, his senses whispered.

He tried the door. It was locked.

“Closed,” Lucinda said, dismayed. “We have wasted our time.”

“Not necessarily.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small lockpick.

Lucinda took a sudden, quick breath. “Good heavens, sir, surely you can’t mean to break into the shop.”

“There is no ‘Closed’ sign in the window,” Caleb said. “You are a professional acquaintance of hers. It is only reasonable that out of concern that Mrs. Daykin might have had an accident or fallen ill, you would go inside to check on her.”

“But there is nothing to indicate that there is anything wrong.”

“One can’t be too careful. Dangerous places, apothecary shops.”

“But...”

He got the door open, gripped her arm, swept her inside and closed the door again before she could finish the sentence.

“Well, I suppose a little breaking and entering is nothing compared to the risk of being arrested for poisoning Lord Fairburn,” Lucinda said. Her voice was a trifle thin and a bit higher than usual but otherwise gratifyingly cool.

“That’s the spirit, Miss Bromley,” he said. “Look for the silver lining, I always say.”

“Something tells me you’ve never said that before in your entire life, Mr. Jones.”

“Those of us blessed with a cheerful and positive temperament always say that sort of nonsense.”

He could not see her eyes because of the veil but he could feel her watching him in that knowing way of hers.

“You are aroused, aren’t you?” she said.

He felt as though he had just slammed into a brick wall. The breath was knocked out of his lungs. Good Lord. He had been aware from the outset of their association that she was an unusual female. Nevertheless, even for her, it was a very direct question.

“What?” he said when nothing more clever came to mind.

“Your psychical senses,” she explained calmly. “They are aroused. I can feel the energy that is swirling around you.”

“My senses. Right. Aroused. That is one word for it.” He concentrated on a survey of the room. “Not the one I generally use, but accurate enough. In its own way.”

“What word do you prefer?”

“Elevated. Heightened. Open. Hot.”

“Hot. Hmm. Yes, that is a very good description of what it feels like when one employs one’s talent to the fullest extent. There is a sense of heat involved, just as there is when one walks or runs or climbs a flight of stairs very quickly. Such exercise results in a sensation of warmth. One’s pulse beats faster. A person might even perspire as a result of the internal heat.”

His imagination conjured a riveting image of her body damp from the heat of sexual desire. His own pulse accelerated rapidly.

“Energy is energy,” he muttered, “regardless of where on the spectrum it is produced.”

“I had never thought of it in terms of physics.”

He felt his jaw clench. “Miss Bromley, I wonder if we might continue this very interesting conversation some other time. I find it distracting.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

He refocused his attention on the interior of the shop. The deep shadows formed a palpable gloom that was as thick as the fog outside the windows. The atmosphere was clouded with the fragrance of dried herbs, spices and flowers, as well as more acerbic, medicinal scents.

“Oh, dear,” Lucinda whispered. “My fern.”

“What? Where?”

“I fear that Mrs. Daykin is dealing poison from these premises.” Her shoulders stiffened. “A poison made with my fern.”

“Are you certain?”

“I can sense it.” She walked slowly through the shop and went behind the front counter. “There are traces of it back here.”

He watched her. “Is it the poison that killed Fairburn?”

“Yes.” She began opening drawers and cupboards. “But I do not think she keeps a supply here. As I said, I can only detect the merest traces. In the past she has sold other kinds of poisons, as well. I can sense them, too.”

“I expect that explains her business success.”

He began to prowl through the room using what he thought of as his other vision to take in details in a way that would have been impossible if he had relied only on his normal five senses. Brick by crystal brick he added to the multidimensional maze that he was constructing in his mind.

“What are you searching for?” Lucinda asked.

“Things,” he said absently. “Details. Elements that do not feel right and those that do. I’m sorry, Lucinda, I do not know how to explain my talent.”

“What if Mrs. Daykin returns while we are on the premises?” she asked uneasily.

“She won’t.”

“How can you be so certain of that?”

He flipped through a stack of receipts. “I do not believe that Mrs. Daykin is among the living.”

“She’s dead?”

“I’d say that there is a ninety-eight percent probability that the answer is yes.”

“Good grief, how can you know that?” Lucinda crumpled her veil on the brim of her hat and looked at him with an expression of stark wonder. “What is it about the atmosphere in this room that speaks of death to you?”

“There is a certain kind of psychical residue left by malevolent forces and acts of great violence.”

“And you can sense them?”

“It is part of my gift.” He opened a drawer and removed a sheaf of papers. “Or my curse, depending on one’s point of view.”

“I see,” she said, gently. “It must be a difficult talent, given that there is so much violence in the world.”

He looked at her across the counter and found himself compelled to tell her the whole truth even though he knew she might despise him for it. “You will no doubt be appalled to learn that I experience what can only be described as an exhilarating excitement at times like this.”

She did not so much as flinch. “I understand.”

He could only stare at her for a few seconds. Perhaps she had not heard him correctly.

“I doubt that very much, Lucinda.”

“There is nothing strange about your reaction, sir. You are using your senses in the manner which nature intended. I experience a similar sense of satisfaction when I am able to concoct a healing tisane that will improve a person’s spirits or even save a life.”

“Unlike you, I am not in the business of saving lives or sanity,” he said. “I seek answers to the riddles posed by violence.”

“And in the process you save lives,” she insisted, “just as you saved that young boy who was kidnapped by the cult.”

He was not sure how to respond to that. “Trust me when I tell you that whoever came here with violence in mind left with the certain knowledge that his errand was successful.”

“You can detect that, as well?”

“Yes.”

She looked at a sheaf of papers he had removed from the drawer. “What have you got there?”

“Receipts. The latest are dated yesterday. There are none for today.” He dropped the receipts back into the drawer and picked up the newspaper lying on a shelf behind the counter. “This paper is a day old. Everything came to a stop here in this shop sometime yesterday.”

“You are quite certain that Mrs. Daykin didn’t simply leave in a great hurry?”

He opened the cash register and removed a handful of notes and some coins. “If she had fled the premises, I’m sure she would have taken the day’s profits with her.”

Lucinda contemplated the money with a somber expression. “Yes.” Shock flashed across her face. “Are you saying that she is still here?”

He examined a row of small, neatly labeled apothecary jars. “Upstairs, no doubt.”

“You are strolling around down here, casually looking for clues, when you know that there is a dead woman at the top of the stairs?”

For the first time she sounded truly shocked; no, outraged.

He looked at her, frowning slightly. “It is how I work. I like to get the whole picture. I’ll deal with the body in due course—”

“For pity’s sake.” She headed for the stairs. “We will deal with the body now. For your information, sir, the dead come first. Clues can wait.”

“Why?” he asked, quite blank. “The woman passed hours ago. Very likely during the night. A few minutes’ delay in our discovery of the corpse will make no difference.”

But Lucinda was already on the stairs, skirts grasped in both hands. The street-sweeper ruffles at the hemline swished across the treads, revealing glimpses of her high-heeled boots.

“It is a matter of decency and respect, sir,” she said sternly.

“Huh.” He followed her up the stairs. “Hadn’t thought of it in those terms.”

“Obviously. You are too focused on gathering evidence and clues.”

“It is what I do, Lucinda.” Nevertheless, he kept following her up the stairs. He did not want her to discover the body alone. She might unintentionally disturb important evidence.

“Do you really believe we will find Mrs. Daykin’s body in her rooms?” Lucinda asked when she reached the landing.

“Bodies are difficult to conceal and transport. Why would the killer bother to remove his victim from the scene of the crime?”

“Victim?” She paused, her gloved hand on the doorknob. “Then you think this is a case of murder?”

“Well, yes, of course. Isn’t that what we have been talking about?”

Her hand tightened around the knob. “I thought perhaps she might have taken her own life.”

“Suicide? Why the devil would she do that?”

“Guilt? For all the deadly poison that she has evidently sold?”

“It appears she was dealing the stuff for a long time. I very much doubt that she was suddenly stricken with remorse within the past twenty-four hours.”

He was growing concerned. Lucinda appeared to have plunged into a very odd mood. Perhaps it was the fact that they were about to encounter a body. No, not just that, he decided. Something else. He was inept when it came to explaining strong emotions but he certainly recognized them when he saw them. Beneath the façade of cool composure, she was agitated.

He reached toward the knob and covered her gloved hand with his own. “What is it? What is wrong?”

She looked up at him, dread in her eyes. “What if Mrs. Daykin was killed because of me, Caleb?”

“Damnation, so that’s the problem.” He captured her face between his gloved hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Listen closely, Lucinda. Whatever happened inside that room is not your fault. If Mrs. Daykin is dead, as I believe, it is because she was somehow involved in this affair of poison.”

“Perhaps she was merely an innocent bystander who made the mistake of telling Dr. Hulsey that I was in possession of an unusual fern.”

“Stop, Lucinda. Whatever else she was, Mrs. Daykin was no innocent bystander. You said yourself she had been dealing poison for some time.”

“What if the person selling the poison out of this shop was someone else? An employee, perhaps? It is possible that Mrs. Daykin never knew what was going on.”

“She knew.”

“She was an apothecary, a woman with a true talent for healing, surely she would never—”

“You know the old saying. That which is strong enough to cure is strong enough to kill. The business of poison no doubt pays well. Greed is one motive I do comprehend.”

Gently but firmly he removed her hand from the knob and opened the door. The miasma of death spilled out.

“Dear heaven.” Lucinda yanked a dainty square of embroidered linen out of a pocket in her cloak and held it over her nose and mouth. “You were right.”

He pulled out his own handkerchief to blunt the smell. Unfortunately, nothing could soften the psychical impact. The body no longer generated an aura or energy of any kind, but the act of dying left its mark on a room.

There was no indication of physical violence. The woman on the floor appeared to have simply collapsed. But her eyes and mouth were wide open in an expression of frozen horror.

“It is Mrs. Daykin,” Lucinda said quietly.

“Poisoned?” he asked.

Lucinda moved closer to the dead woman. She stood looking down for a moment. He could feel a whisper of psychical currents and knew that she was heightening her senses.

“No,” she said, very sure of herself. “But I do not see any signs of a wound, either. Perhaps she suffered a stroke or a heart attack.”

“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Yes. But if not by natural causes, how did she die?”

“I don’t know but she was most certainly murdered. What is more, she let the killer into this room.”

“You can sense that with your talent?” she asked, clearly impressed.

“No. I can deduce that from the fact that there is no sign of forced entry.”

“Ah. Yes, I see what you mean. A lover, perhaps?”

“Or a business associate. In my brief career as an investigator, I have discovered that either can prove treacherous.”

Keeping his senses open, he searched the room swiftly and methodically. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lucinda move to a side table and pick up a framed photograph.

“This must be her son,” she said. “The one she mentioned the day she visited me. There is something familiar about him.”

Caleb straightened and studied the picture. The subject was a young man in his early twenties. He was stiffly posed in a dark suit. His hairline was already starting to recede. He gazed out at the viewer with a fixed intensity typical of photographic portraits.

“Do you recognize him?” Caleb asked.

“No. It was just that, for an instant, when I first saw the picture I had a fleeting notion that he reminded me of someone I have met.” She shook her head and put the photograph on the table. “It is probably his resemblance to his mother that I noticed.”

He glanced at Daykin. “He doesn’t look much like her but I suppose there must be something of her in his looks.”

“Yes.” She watched him open the drawers of a small desk. “Anything of interest there?”

“Bills, letters to firms that supplied her with herbs and chemicals.” He shuffled through another stack of papers. “Nothing of a personal nature.” He started to close the desk but stopped when he saw the tiny scrap of paper tucked into the back of a cubbyhole. He withdrew it.