Vermillion (The Hundred Days Series Book 1) (10 page)

Matthew raised his hands, helpless.

“I'm not leaving.”

Astley was nearly at the door,
marching out in triumph. Too late, Kate realized her mistake. She should have
waited until he was gone.

“What do you mean, 'not leaving'!
You damn well are. We made a wager, and you lost.” Astley stormed back and
practically spit the last word in her face. Her hand flew up, smacking flat-palmed
into his nose and shoving him toward the general's desk.

Matthew shot to his feet. “Enough!”

Astley darted toward her, but the
general's hand at his collar leashed his assault.

“We contracted a fair deal!” Astley
whipped his head around to Matthew, jerking free. “You witnessed it. The losing
party has to leave.”

His whining made her want to strike
a fist against his throat. Astley did not care about Private Miller, or his
patient, or what had gone wrong. He only cared about winning.

She looked at Matthew, who raised
his hands again.
Give me something, Kate
. She saw the plea as he stared
at her.

“A day.”

“Unthinkable,” Astley snapped.

She ignored him, begging Matthew
with her eyes as much as her words. “One day. You saw Miller's decline just in
the time you were in the tent. Please. One day.” She swallowed hard, looking
from the general to Astley and back. “One day, and then I'll go.”

Matthew ground a knuckle against his
lips, studying the floor. Then, he looked at her and held up a finger. “One day.”

She closed her eyes, going limp.
“Thank you.”

Astley stomped. “No! No, no! The
bargain was lose, you leave.”

Matthew smashed a fist into the top
of his desk, jarring the legs, scattering papers to the floor. Her heart
jumped, and Astley cowered beside her.

“And so she will! When I decide!”
Matthew's chest heaved, and for a moment Kate wondered if he would regain
control. He fell back into his chair. “One day, Miss Foster.” He stared at the
desk, not seeming to trust himself. “Mister Astley, if you harass or molest her
in any way, you'll spend the night in the brig.”

She didn't wait, not for Astley's
snotty retort or for Matthew to dismiss her. Kate turned and ran, covering the
camp faster than she ever had before. The general had given her one day to solve
the mystery of Private Miller, and she would need every minute of it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Why?

What had she missed? Kate sat before
Dr. Addison's hulking volume of 'The Competent Physician's Reference'. It was
well after midnight as she thumbed the pages desperately. Private Miller had
one symptom of a disease, but not another. He had
all
the symptoms of
another, but it should not have been fatal. Nothing fit. She continued
flipping. “Larynx, lazy eye, leeches, leukonychia-”

An illustration halted her. The
detailed sketch of a hand showed small white half-moons speckling the nails.
She could swear she had seen the same thing earlier, when she touched Miller's
fingers. Kate read the text beneath the drawing. “The condition may be
disregarded as a harmless, self-resolving injury, except in the circumstances
where a physician by other complaints would suspect arsenic as the culprit.”

She clawed at the pages, flipping
them in wide sections until she came to the A's.

Arsenic.

Kate traced the lines of print with
an index finger.

“
...At the onset, a physician
will observe confusion and head pains, loosening of the bowels, and drowsiness.
Affected skin will be observed with a darkening of pigment, irritation and
blistering. Intolerance of foods. Blood and other ill humors in the urine will
follow. Leukonychia
striata
presents upon the nails of the hands and feet.

Once acute, the final stage of
the poisoning is persistent sleep, tremors, and death.”

Sick pangs stabbed at her gut as she
unfolded from the chair. Kate held up her hands. She had faithfully applied the
liniment to them, every time, before she had touched Private Miller. Between
her fingers the webs were red, angry and scaled. The backs were coated in a
peeled white dust that hinted of chapped skin. She had blamed it on excessive
washing.

The knot in her belly twisted, and
she tread softly toward Miller's body beneath the drape. She pinched a corner
of the dirty canvas and folded it back atop his pale, blotched chest.

Kate tugged one stiff arm from over
his heart, turning it as much as the joint would allow, and inspected his
nails. White on white, the speckled bands arced prominently over the surface.
The sick feeling erupted into her throat as angry bile. The skin around every
suture was dusky, darker than the rest. Rage propelled her thoughts, sliding
the puzzle pieces into one another. Blood in the urine, fits, intolerance of
food. Night blindness.

I wake up sure a man's in the
tent.

It couldn't be. Kate shook her head,
trying to dislodge the idea. Not even Astley was so unscrupulous.

But he was
, a voice
corrected.

Kate looked at her reddening hands
again, and her head fell against Private Miller's clammy chest. Her fists
balled into the linen sheet and she threw it, not recognizing the animal cries
that tore from her chest. The liniment jar was her next target. The heavy glass
sailed easily through the tent flap, connecting with the hard-packed ground
outside. She heaved with sobs but no tears came to relieve her aching eyes.
Porter stumbled in, half asleep, drawn by the commotion. Kate jammed her foot
over and over into the frame of the small recovery bed. Wisely, Porter stood
back, knowing better than to interfere.

If her rage had not already been
mostly spent, she wouldn't have noticed the small, shiny object that clattered
free of the bed frame and came to rest at Porter's feet. He bent his long
frame, scooping it up easily, letting dangle before her. “Not Private Miller's,
I'd guess.”

Panting, Kate stared at the pocket
watch swinging frantically by its chain. The gold cover, crest engraved in relief,
was something she must have seen a hundred times. It had been the time keeper
of life and death for countless patients. It was Dr. Addison's old pocket
watch.

She snaked the chain with a
trembling finger, hooking it out of Porter's hand and dropping it like an
anchor to the bottom of her apron pocket. Eyes closed, she inhaled for a
measure of control. In that moment she felt a capacity for murder that must
have equaled Astley's.

“Porter, wash your hands thoroughly,
and do not touch the liniment. Then please go tell the general that I need to
speak with him. Urgently. And tell him to send for Mister Astley, as well. I'm
certain he would like the watch back.”

*          *          *

It was an epidemic
.

That's what he feared she would say.

Matthew sat at his desk across from
Astley. They were pointedly ignoring each other, only one of them curious to
hear what Kate had found. He prepared himself for the worst, news that whatever
had debilitated Private Miller was about to run rampant through his men.

His fears were not allayed when a
sentry pulled back the flap to let Kate pass. Dry trails streaked the dust and
old blood on Kate's cheeks, beneath her swollen lids. If he had to guess, she
had been up all night. There was an unmistakable slump to her shoulders.

He stood up, anxious for whatever
she had to say, eager to find a solution. She did not even look in his
direction.

“Mister Astley, I wanted to return
this.” Kate fished in her apron, dangling a pocket watch. Astley swiped but she
jerked it back. Matthew groaned. She would antagonize her rival to the very
end.

“Are you certain you want to grab
it?” Kate was pinching it by the chain, swinging it just beyond Astley's reach.
“It's coated on every surface by the liniment I used to treat Private Miller.”

“I don't know why that should
matter.” Contrary to his nonchalance, Astley's right hand tucked between his
thigh and the chair.

Now she lowered it to his face.
“Here, take it. I don't recall Doctor Addison's gifting it to you, but I've
noticed that you seem to carry it
everywhere
lately.”

Matthew realized he was missing
something significant in the exchange between Kate and Astley.

Kate thrust the watch at Astley
again, who turned his face away like a petulant child at dinner. “It's only
liniment, Gregory.”

Astley jerked his body away,
flailing arms at Kate's midsection. She stepped back, continuing to shake the
watch under his nose. Any moment now, they would escalate to blows.

Leaning across the desk, Matthew
grabbed ineffectually at her wrist twice before getting a grip on Kate's arm
and pulling her to him, making her take a seat in his chair. Then he positioned
himself between her and Astley, so she couldn't get up. Astley took advantage,
coming to his feet and jabbing a finger past Matthew at Kate's face. “You're a
raving lunatic! When you pack this morning it should be for Bedlam!”

He jabbed an elbow hard into Astley,
knocking the smaller man to the rug. He lay there, rubbing his shoulder
theatrically. Astley could no longer see Kate, but that didn't stop his
ranting. “You're a poor loser and worse imitation of a doctor.”

He started to get up, but Matthew
turned and pressed him back with a boot heel. “Shut up.”

He didn't have enough hands, or
patience.

“Miss Foster...” Matthew had no
notion how to continue. He wanted her promise to sit still, he wanted an
explanation, and he did not expect much cooperation on either count. Finally,
he tried appealing to her a different way. “Tell me what happened to Private
Miller,” he coaxed.

She wouldn't meet his eyes. “Tell
him why you won't touch the watch, Gregory.” Her words were cold and flat as
marble.

Matthew glanced over his shoulder to
Astley, still reclining on the floor, lips pressed defiantly together.

He crouched down in front of Kate.
“Miss Foster, I know you came here for more than just a watch.”

She still did not look at him. “Do
you know what happens when a person dies of arsenic poisoning? It's slow and
horrible, eating you from the inside.”

Astley snapped up. “Poison! Truly?
Is that what you're claiming now?”

He drew back an elbow, the threat
wiping away Astley's sneer.
Too bad.
He was beginning to enjoy the idea
of planting a blow squarely in the man's face.

Kate gathered herself, sitting up to
look at him. “I prepared a special treatment for Miller's wounds, a combination
of herbs known to stave off infection. I used it on his wounds every four
hours.” She held up her hands for inspection. “I also purified my hands with it
after washing.”

Angry red like a sunburn, and
cracked between the knuckles, her fingers showed small blisters. “This is
arsenic when the skin serves as a barrier. But if it were absorbed more
quickly, such as through sutures or open wounds...” Her shoulders lifted
weakly. “You saw for yourself.”

He stood up. It was information
impossible to absorb while seated. Pacing was a mindless, rhythmic activity,
something to occupy his body while his brain worked, and Matthew did it until
he found himself standing over Astley, who seemed intent on the rug's pattern.
“Explain the watch.”

No answer. He looked at Kate,
hunched in his chair with hands clasped between her knees.

She set the watch gently on his
desk. “I dislodged it from the bedstead.”

Her words were damning. Kate's
hospital was her own, granted when he had given her leave to work separate from
Astley. He could not imagine the man ever paying a social call on her, and the
rules of the wager expressly forbade him from being anywhere near Kate's
patient. These facts melded together in his brain and dropped like an anchor to
his gut. The tent was colder, dimmer somehow in proximity to a man who by all
evidence was a murderer.

Kate glanced up. “Porter was there
and can vouch for me.”

“The negro?” Astley snorted.

“The Onandaga have a word for you:
Ji'hah
!
Dog!” She lunged forward in her chair and spit at Astley's face. “You are
disgusting.”

He turned back to Astley. “Get up.”

Astley sprung up, brushing and
fiddling uncertainly, eyes darting everywhere.

He snatched Astley's arm with one
hand, the knife from his holster with the other. Before the man had time to fit,
Matthew pierced his palm with the blade's tip, dragging it up Astley's palm.

“What is wrong with you?” Astley
shrieked, twisting his arm to get free. Matthew held fast until he saw blood
bead up from the cut, then shoved Astley away.

“You're a goddamn madman!”

Matthew pointed to the watch. “Go
pick it up.”

Cradling his injured hand, he moved
with more haste than Matthew had expected, but there was an angle of hesitation
to Astley's arm when he reached to take it. Fingers trembled and drew back.
“Don't know what she might have done to it...” Astley reached in his pocket,
produced a worn linen handkerchief and started to drape it over the watch.
Matthew slapped it away, spattering blood across his papers. “
Pick it up
.”

The way Astley swallowed was disgusting,
pathetic and frightened like an over-stuffed pelican undulating its throat.
“No.”

Matthew brought his right hand to
left hip in a practiced arc, drawing his pistol and cocking it before Astley
could flinch. “Reach out your hand,” he tightened his fingers along the curved
walnut grip, pressing steel to the small of Astley's back, “and pick it up.”

He forgot about Kate, or where he
was. All of his concentration centered on the tension in his trigger finger,
taught along the iron guard.

The moment held them frozen in
place. If not for the ticking watch, he would not have believed time still
moved. Then Astley collapsed into a chair, leaving the watch untouched, and
began to sob.

“General.” At Kate's voice he
relaxed, lowering his arm. She stepped past him, arms crossed, and stared down
at Astley's heap. “What was it, Gregory? Was the doctor's position so important
to you? Was it just about distinguishing yourself?”

Astley gasped, catching his breath,
and looked up at her with his dark, dead-fish eyes. “I hate you. That's all.
Always nattering, fussing. Medicine practiced for thousands of years and
you,”
he rattled out a sharp laugh, “are going to yell from the belfry that it's
wrong.
You.”

There was a difference in feeling,
from suspecting one man had killed another, to knowing it. Matthew no longer
saw Astley as a person. “Where is the arsenic you used?”

His voice, when it came, was hollow.
“The drug chest, in my tent.”

Cold sweat beaded up Matthew's
spine, thinking about the grog, the water stores, even the horses. “Did you
poison anything else?”

“I should have.” Astley showed not a
hint of remorse or contrition, just a frown at his frustrated plans. “Anything
to be rid of her. You will lose more men to Miss Foster's plants and germs than
to the musket. Depend on it.”

“Sentry!” He'd heard more than
enough.

The soldiers snapped in at
attention, blank faces feigning ignorance. Matthew knew from experience what
could be heard through the heavy canvas of a tent wall. “Fetch the duty
officer. I want six men for the firing squad. And I want it done before the
evening meal.”

He waved in the other soldier. “Clap
this man in irons and escort him to the brig.”

Astley trembled, but he did not
protest. He hung limp in his seat as the manacles were fastened, looking truly sad.

Matthew glanced to Kate, who
regarded him with unexpected disapproval. It made him guarded, salting his
words. “You don't agree with my methods. Perhaps you feel I was too harsh?”

She was angry; he could see it in
the measured way she rose from her chair. “Are you being serious? What in my
character has
ever
made me out to be soft-hearted in these matters,
general? You are giving him more quarter than he deserves. That man,” she said,
jabbing a finger at Astley as he was goaded outside, “poisoned Private Miller.
Murdered
him
. He was poisoning me too, and Porter and God knows who else. And he
believes he is justified by the greater good!”