Poison to Purge Melancholy (24 page)

During the war, I’d seen the chests of men ripped asunder by musket balls, yet I’d never grown numb to the sight, nor had I any desire to observe Dr. Riddick’s further violations of the man. My gaze did not tarry. I crossed to the window, to take more wholesome breaths.

“Before beginning my dissection,” the doctor said, “I thoroughly examined Brennan’s skin and orifices. He’d been losing teeth this last month, you’ll remember. Those remaining in his mouth are loose, and his gums marked with blue lines. I’ve seen this evidence twice before with my own eyes, and read of a similar case in London. All three persons showed signs of derangement. I believe all three were poisoned.”

“Poison!” I faced the doctor then. “Cassava?”

“Cassava?” His echo showed his confusion, but then he seemed to gain enlightenment and murmured to himself, “Could it be? How odd.” Aloud he said, “No, no, Mr. Dunbar. Do not mistake my reaction. The poison of the cassava root is quick, killing within the hour. John Brennan’s mania was not brought on by cassava. But why ask? The plant’s not native to Virginia. In truth, since the British embargoes, even the cassava meal—the tapioca—is too costly for all save the gentry.”

“I knew of a man poisoned with it,” I said cautiously. “The word came to mind.”

Dr. Riddick stroked his chin once more, surveying my face as if I were one of his lunatic subjects. Then he turned to where he’d stacked Brennan’s jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, all in a neat pile against the wall. Lifting the coat free, he plunged his hand into a pocket and brought forth a leather pouch, smaller than the one Brennan had used for his snuff, yet I presumed it served the same purpose.

The doctor offered the pouch to me. “I think, sir, that you should look inside.”

I still thought to find snuff, doctored, perhaps, by the addition of a poison. I remembered the fine white particles that had been in Brennan’s pouch and box when I’d discovered them outside his window.

In this small bag was a piece of brownish-black tuber. ’Twas much dried out, and flaked as I moved it about, but I knew what I held. I’d come to Williamsburg to find just such proof.

“Cassava root, is it not?” Dr. Riddick asked. “Until you made mention of it, I’d not realized. Now sir, as I do not believe in coincidence, pray tell of the man you knew poisoned by this substance, and how you came to live in the same house with a fellow who carried about a bit of the root in his pocket.”

I was in debt to the doctor for completing one of my tasks, yet, though I resolved to answer his queries, I could not tell all. “The man was Lieutenant Thomas Carson. His death was thought to be from cramp colic. On bringing Mrs. Carson news of her husband’s death, I met John Brennan. He seemed familiar, but I’d returned to camp before I remembered seeing a soldier who resembled Brennan passing our tents on the morn of Tom’s death. I deemed it nothing more than resemblance, until I found shavings of this root within the lieutenant’s canteen, and a small lump of it on the ground where his tent had stood. Still, I did not know what I’d found, and no man in my company could put a name to it. We thought it a purge that Tom had taken when he’d first become ill. For the next year, I showed it, I think, to every doctor in the army. One from Connecticut had suspicions of its true nature, and brought me to the Rhode Island regiments, to a Negro soldier who’d been raised in Jamaica. He knew it straight’way.”

Frowning, the doctor gazed from the window a moment. “I’d not swear that shavings of cassava in a canteen could kill a man. Still, his food may have been poisoned as well. So, you knew of this, and suspected Mr. Brennan. What did you do?”

“Quite properly, I reported to my captain.” The memory brought a bitter laugh. “Captain Underwood, of course. He thought it impossible that one of his officers might have been murdered, moreover, with a poison procured only in the tropics. Yet, he said he would take the affair in hand. I inquired after the matter thrice more, and was at last told that Underwood’s superiors ordered that, with no sound evidence against Brennan, and with the company surgeon swearing to cramp colic, the business should be dismissed. The war was over, Underwood explained, and officers were more concerned with petitioning for their pensions than with an
imagined
case of murder. We were furloughed out less than a month after, so no action was taken.”

“Yet you came to Williamsburg.”

I merely nodded. Williamsburg had not been my choice—’twas too near Norfolk. I’d meant to head west, start life anew in the mountains, but the memory of Elizabeth, and John Brennan in the same house, and the innocent faces of Polly and young Tom—I’d vowed to find the truth. And now I held a bit of it in my hand. John Brennan
had
been Thomas Carson’s murderer. Yet, who’d been Brennan’s? And why? “What poisoned Brennan, Doctor?”

Riddick came out of his reverie. “Of the two men I’ve seen with similar signs—one worked with quicksilver daily in his trade, and the other frequently took a powder of mercuric salts to treat syphilis.”

“Quicksilver is no poison—”

“Ah, but it is, if taken in sufficient quantity. Indeed, many physics turn poison in quantity. But there is another theory as well involving quicksilver. Neither of the men showed corruption of the intestines, yet both had much liquid in their lungs. Both exhibited increasing mania before death. The physician attending the London case surmised that breathing mercuric powder may bring about derangement. I would go further to say that breathing the steam of heated quicksilver might produce the same result, though in Mr. Brennan’s case, the powder is most likely. Either he took it himself, mistakenly sniffing in a bit with each dose, or someone put it in his snuff. Perhaps the same man who fired the killing shot last night.”

I said nothing, thinking instead of the one man I knew who took powder each day for a case of French disease gotten during the war. Sam Walker.

Beth Ann came to
tell us dinner was almost ready. “Grandmom wants everyone in the parlor again.” As she delivered the message, her gaze sought out my ring finger. She must have noticed her dad’s mood when he came back, and no doubt my eyes were still a bit red—they felt totally wrung-out. Like Miss Maggie said, Beth Ann was a bright kid, capable of putting two and two together. I wondered how she felt, seeing the ring, realizing the engagement wasn’t off. Yet.

That “yet” had popped into my head way too easily, I decided. I shoved it back into my subconscious, not wanting to deal with it. At least, not on an empty stomach.

We headed down the hall, Miss Maggie making a pit stop at the bathroom while Beth Ann and I waited for her in awkward silence. Then, as we were about to step through the doorway into the main house, Beth Ann said, “If we hold hands as we go downstairs, and all through dinner, someone’s bound to ask why.”

Before Miss Maggie could protest, I cut in with, “She’s right.” I wasn’t anxious to relive the symptoms, especially now that I knew I could go Looney-Tunes from them, but keeping Hugh from discovering that I was in touch with the Other Side was still a priority, now more than ever. And I couldn’t put Beth Ann in any position where she’d have to lie to her father for me.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I announced. “Beth Ann, can you stay within arm’s reach? If I start feeling sick, I’ll find some reason to touch you that won’t look too weird. Okay?”

She nodded, relieved to be free of embarrassment.

So we trooped downstairs, me slightly behind Beth Ann so I could slap a hand on her shoulder at a nanosecond’s notice. Oddly enough, though, I didn’t have to touch her once, not even in the evil front hall, where we lingered because Cherry was blocking the parlor doorway. Sans leather jacket, she wore a tight V-necked red sweater that showed off breasts nearly as impressive as her lips.

I told myself to be compassionate. Her hubby was in intensive care, and here she was, spending Christmas with the family of his girlfriend. I imagined she felt more like an outsider than I had in that room with the Lees last night.

I heard heavy feet on the stairs and glanced up. Hugh was coming down, hands in his pants pockets, looking like a forlorn puppy who’s had his nose rubbed in a paper-training mistake. Like a puppy, I found it impossible to stay mad at him. Then again, also like a puppy, I couldn’t help wondering if he had any idea what part he played in the smelly stuff on his nose.

As he looked down on us, seeing me next to his daughter, his paternal smile curved up the ends of his mustache. At the bottom of the steps, he draped an arm over each of our shoulders and said, “How’re my girls?”

I glanced at Beth Ann, to find her glancing at me the same instant. She rolled her eyes. I laughed.

“Is the other man still up there?” Cherry interrupted.

“You mean Evelyn?” Hugh asked. “Yeah. He’s changing. What do you need him for?”

“Oh, nothing. Never mind.” With that she swung around and went into the parlor. With a frown, Miss Maggie watched her go.

“Is Sunday okay?” That was Hugh, talking to me.

“Sunday?” I echoed, confused.

“For the King’s Arms. I couldn’t get us in tomorrow, but they had a five-thirty opening on Sunday.”

“Oh. Sure, that’s fine.” At least it gave me time to think how to talk to Zela with Hugh breathing down my neck.

“If you’re going to the King’s Arms, Pat,” Miss Maggie said, “you should try the game pie. And the peanut soup—”

“That’s my favorite,” Hugh said.

Miss Maggie agreed with a nod. “And you’ll love the Sally Lunn bread. I’ll have to take you to one of the other taverns for lunch.”

While she was rhapsodizing about tavern meals—did I mention that, next to history, food is her pet topic? Or ahead of history?—anyway, while she was salivating, I saw Evelyn above on the stair landing, slipping through the opening to the rear hall. He was back in britches—the elegant black brocade he’d worn to church. His jacket hung over his arm as he buttoned a gold waistcoat.

I decided not to tell Cherry he was headed for the kitchen. This close to dinner, she wouldn’t be welcome there anyway.

Five minutes later, we were all called into the dining room, and not a moment too soon. Hugh and Miss Maggie had gone through all the tavern menus, giving their opinion of each item saying things like, “The sweet potato muffins and cheddar biscuits at Christiana Campbell’s are so good, I could fill up on them and skip the entree,” until I was so hungry, I was ready to eat gruel. Cold gruel.

Glad and Evelyn stood by the table in their finery, Glad looking as Christmassy as Miss Maggie’s sweatshirt, with her red dress, silver jewelry, and sprig of evergreen pinned to her white bonnet.

I gave them extra credit for food presentation again. The table was decked out in fine china, with a handpainted soup tureen in the center. At the top and bottom were platters of chicken cutlets and fish filets, decorated with green leaf lettuce and red peppers. In a square around the tureen were bowls of spoonbread, baked beans with bacon, cooked spinach, and the beet-fishes I’d carved, breaded and deep-fried, all garnished with fresh lemon, orange, and herbs. Only seven offerings instead of ten like last night—a sensible cutback in my opinion, and still more than enough food.

Glad waved her hand toward a card table that had been set up near the windows. Sunlight streamed over a white tablecloth and three settings, though not fine china like the main table. I supposed they only had twelve settings and we now had—I counted places: thirteen. Thirteen? Aunt Sophie would have pulled someone in off the street to avoid that number.

“We had to add a second table,” Glad said. “Since the men wouldn’t fit well, and I wouldn’t want to split a couple, I thought perhaps Beth Ann, Miss Maggie, and, er, Cherry could sit there.”

“No!” Beth Ann cried, then, when everyone stared at her, she added, “I want to sit with Pat—and Dad.”

Luckily, Hugh was too busy being a father to note the hesitation. “Beth Ann, don’t act like a baby.”

“Chill, bro.” Acey came forward, looking casual in faded jeans and maroon turtleneck under a woven hooded pullover. The design looked South American, though I couldn’t say which country. “Sachi and I can sit with Cherry. I know how much Miss Maggie likes to be near the food.”

“And how!” She was already leaning over the table, sniffing the aromas and smacking her lips. Only Cherry looked less than thrilled with the seating arrangement.

So we settled in—Evelyn and Rich at either end of the big table, Glad, Beth Ann, me, and Hugh on one side, and Miss Maggie, Horse, Foot, and Irene on the other. Thus, I got my first good view of the newest arrival.

Irene was supposed to be three years younger than Acey. She looked more like eighteen. Her long dark blonde hair was pulled back into a braid and rampant freckles gave her face a clean-cut farm girl look. She was my height (short, that is), though her slim build made her seem taller, as did her choice of wardrobe—black tights under a longish sparkly blue sweater that hung straight over her small hips. Her wide blue eyes seemed to carry a permanent expression of incomprehension, making her look the quintessential dumb blonde. I wondered how much of it was real and how much put on to lure rich doctors like Foot.

Glad, still standing, smoothed the satin of her dress. “We’ll start with a turkey pottage. More of a stew than a soup, really.” She recited the ingredients, looking at Foot as if to let him know she did it for his sake. “Pat, would you mind serving, since you’re closest?”

Hugh had rested his hand on my leg when we sat down and now let go to help pass the cup-sized servings. No symptoms hit. While I dispensed the pottage, Evelyn filled glasses with white wine or water. The satin of Glad’s dress rustled as she took her seat.

The pottage was delicious, though very filling. Doling it out in cups was smart. I vowed to take tiny portions of everything else, so as to pace myself to get through the next three courses. Not easy with the spoonbread, a cornmeal pudding that had become my favorite Southern food in the last year.

As everyone satisfied initial hunger pangs, the only sounds were spoons brushing against china and the slurping of pottage. Then Horse—first one done—set down his spoon and said, “All right, Magnolia. Now that we’ve got you where you won’t run away, you have to tell us how we did on your little medical quiz. Was it lead poisoning or mercury, or were we off base entirely?”

“Lead poisoning?” Evelyn echoed, interested but out of the loop.

Miss Maggie dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “A little game of Name-That-Diagnosis we were playing earlier. Truth is, I don’t know. A friend of mine had those symptoms for a while.” Her eyes twinkled over the table at me. “I was simply curious.”

“If your friend consulted a physician—” Rich began.

“She couldn’t at the time. However, I don’t think she’s had the symptoms since.” A questioning glance in my direction. I returned a minuscule shake of the head.

“Odd you should mention the subject,” Evelyn said as we commenced filling our plates. “Last October, when I began work on this house—several things needed mending before Glad and I could move in—well, anyway, my assistant became ill and lead poisoning was suspected. His symptoms were always at their worst while he was here, yet all sources of lead had been removed from this building during the last four decades. Then his blood tests came back normal, so we never did find out what had made him sick.”

“No one else fell ill?” Rich asked.

“No,” Evelyn replied, “and neither Glad nor I have had problems since.”

“What exactly are these symptoms?” Sachi asked, with an attitude projecting both intelligence and common sense, and a voice projecting a personal interest.

Rich turned in his chair to answer. “Depends on how the substance is introduced—ingestion or inhalation—and whether the case is chronic or acute. Generally, the patient will have a metallic taste in the mouth, headache, abdominal pain—”

“And others that shouldn’t be mentioned at the dinner table,” Horse cut in delicately. “Why do you ask, Sachi?”

“Oh, I—” She gave us all a shrug as if to apologize for bringing up the subject. “When I first arrived, I went upstairs to use the bathroom, and I felt really sick when I was in the upstairs hall.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Acey said.

“I didn’t want you playing doctor,” Sachi replied. “I only felt sick in the hall, not in the bathroom or down here. It was weird. I didn’t have a metallic taste, or even a stomach ache, but I
did
have a bad headache, and a feeling like—panic.”

“Anxiety attack,” Foot pronounced. “You were nervous about coming here uninvit—that is, without calling first.”

Sachi nodded. “That’s what I thought, until you started talking about people getting lead poisoning in this house.”

“You wouldn’t have severe symptoms right away in a chronic case.” Horse reached for more baked beans. “But, I wonder—Pat got a nasty headache up there yesterday afternoon, right outside Foot’s room.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows at me. “Yeah?”

“Wasn’t so bad,” I murmured. “Forgotten by the time you arrived. Or I
would
have let you play doctor.” I was hoping to divert him from my poisoning symptoms. It worked better than I thought. Under the tablecloth, he ran his fingers along my thigh, sending pleasurable little spasms up my body. I sent my free left hand on a seek-and-postpone mission, before I was tempted to excuse myself and drag Romeo upstairs to a bedroom.

“Headaches brought on by holiday stress,” Foot mumbled while cutting his fish filet into bite-sized squares.

“Maybe not,” Acey said. “When I was at William and Mary, they rented this place to college students. One guy kept getting sick, until he finally had to go home for the semester. This might be a case of Sick Building Syndrome.”

I almost laughed out loud. If only they knew how sick this building was, and why. I did feel comforted that I wasn’t the sole victim. Odd, though, that the symptoms didn’t hit everyone. I leaned forward so I could see around Hugh and past Rich’s shoulder to where Sachi sat, wondering what we had in common outside of double-X chromosomes. We were different ages and ethnicity. Or was that the reason she
wasn’t
having any of the same symptoms I’d had during dinner last night?

Her fork was in her left hand, I noticed, yet she handled it awkwardly. Her right hand was under the tablecloth, as was Acey’s left. Aha! Sachi had figured out the Lee-touch antidote.