The Vital Principle (18 page)

“The constable and I will certainly do our best.”

“We've seen your best. You'll have to do better than that. Otherwise, we may find ourselves with another body on our hands within the fortnight. Now go! Both of you. And Mr. Gretton, make sure the jurors don't wind up viewing one of the dowager's guests in bed instead of the deceased. Things are bad enough without a dozen fools traipsing all over this house disturbing the peace and causing complaints.”

“Yes, your worship,” both Knighton and the constable replied in chorus.

He gave a slight bow to the magistrate before following Gretton through the door, relieved to escape without saying anything he would regret later.

“Sorry, sir,” Gretton mumbled as he led the way to the kitchen. “I should a-warned you. He's right shirty when he doesn't have the answers he wants, when he wants 'em.”

“Understandable.” Knighton paused. “And Constable Gretton, I appreciate the difficulties of this investigation. Believe me. You'll have all the assistance I can offer.”

Gretton chuckled and shook his head. “I'm just glad it's you as has to stay and perform the questioning. The magistrate is right, there. I deal well enough with those in the village, but we don't get up to much mischief here, you see. A few fights and maybe a stolen hammer or the like. I'll do my best—it's my patch—but I could no more question the dowager than I could the prince, as the saying is.”

“You'd manage,” Knighton replied easily. He liked Mr. Gretton's air of common sense and it was critical to establish a good relationship with the constable, despite their disparate social backgrounds. Although at the moment, their chances of success seemed dim at best. “It just makes it easier to have a man in the house.”

“So it does, so it does,” the constable said. “And with a bit o' luck, whoever did this terrible thing'll unburden himself to you.”

“It would certainly be a favor to us all.”

Mr. Gretton sighed and shook his round head. “But I'm mortal a-feared we won't receive no favors. Not for a while, yet.”

“Maybe not.” Knighton laughed and held open the door for Gretton to pass from the domain of the servants to that of the family. When they entered the dining room, he asked, “Won’t you join me for breakfast?”

“No, sir, much as I appreciate the offer,” Gretton replied. “I'll have to be a-going to it, and meet the jurors by the kitchen door. They's to view his lordship's body, and then I'm to get 'em back to the Coach and Crown without losing one or another.” He glanced with longing at the sideboard, laden with platters of eggs, ham, rolls and other breakfast essentials kept warm over small candles. Most of the dishes were barely touched. The other houseguests were clinging to their rooms, unwilling to venture out before they were forced to present themselves to the jury.

“Quite a responsibility,” Knighton said, relieved he was not the one charged with the task of herding the jurors hither and yon. “Do you mind?”

“No—you go ahead.” The constable sighed.

As Knighton made his selections, one of the footmen poured out coffee. Knighton turned his attention to Gretton. “Are you sure you won't have something? Before they arrive?”

“Well, perhaps a bite. To sustain me, that is.” He picked up a plate and loaded it down with several warm yeast rolls and a slice of ham. After taking a seat, he liberally smeared a bun with butter and fruit preserves and took a large bite. He waved his hand vigorously until he managed to chew and swallow. “Well, sir, have you any thoughts? I should like to present the coroner with the guilty party, but….” He shrugged philosophically and took another large bite. After a brief, energetic bout of chewing, he shifted the mass to his cheek and said, “The town is most anxious to avoid a fine if the murderer is not promptly apprehended. So it don't matter much which way you does it, but a culprit must be found.”

“I understand. However, I have doubts—”

“Doubts? Despite his worship's fancy words, everyone agreed it was that woman, Miss Barnard. You have twelve witnesses. A confession is all we need.”

“Unfortunately, the witnesses saw nothing. No one can confirm she poured the Prussic acid into Crowley’s brandy, and there are others with much stronger reasons to wish Lord Crowley dead. If nothing else, there is the small matter of Rosecrest and the inheritance of a title.”

Mr. Gretton cut into his ham and crushed a large piece into his mouth. He grunted. “Which presents us with nothing but a passel of potential villains, as the saying is.” He gestured at the door with his knife. “And if we plan to accuse any of these nobs, we’d best be sure, or it won’t go well for any of us.”

“No doubt,” Knighton replied drily. “But you can trust me when I say I’ll be quite certain when I give you my observations. Now, if you don't mind, I was hoping you could assist me.”

“If I can,” Gretton replied cautiously. He slurped his coffee. “You want me to question these here nobs?” He sounded dubious.

“Not exactly. I’d like you to make a trip to the local apothecary. Find out if anyone purchased Prussic acid. And send someone to any nearby apothecaries who might have been patronized by the guests on their way here.”

“Easy enough.”

“Will you send word if you find anything?”

“Certainly. You believe they brung it with them, then?”

“It’s certainly possible. I will, of course, search here. But I found the bottle I believe held the original dose. It was empty.”

Gretton laughed. “Well, at least we won’t have another poisoning.”

“I hope not,” Knighton said, uncomfortably remembering that the bottle may have been part of a set of twelve in a traveling case.

“Have you anything else you’re a-longing to tell me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You haven’t found any other items, have you?” Mr. Gretton asked.

“No.”

Gretton sat back and threw his napkin on the table. “Then, though I say you’re a-wasting time, I'll be off.” He paused to eye Knighton. “You won't let me take your Miss Barnard into custody?”

“No.”

“It were a poisoning, as declared by Dr. Winters. Therefore, we must conclude a female were involved. I’m as sure of it as I’m sure I’m sitting here now.”

“Perhaps.”

“
Perhaps
? Who else had reason to kill a nob like Lord Crowley?”

This time, Knighton laughed. “A good many of those here.”

“Really?” Gretton leaned forward with his wrists braced on the edge of the table, chubby fingers curled into fists. “Who, then?”

“Several might have.” Knighton sighed, reluctant to indulge in speculation with Mr. Gretton. “I’ve obtained scraps of information that are not particularly flattering to anyone and, well, I’d rather not start unnecessary gossip. Give me time to sort it out.”

Gretton’s brows rose and he pursed his lips. “Time's a-wasting—”

“Rest assured, I’ll acquaint you with anything I find when I have more definite information. And you’ll let me know about the Prussic acid?”

“Yes. There’s only one apothecary here. It were easy enough to check, and I’ll send a boy to the next village over.”

“Thank you.” Knighton escorted Mr. Gretton to the hallway and watched as he walked back toward the baize door to the servant's domain.

The inquest was beginning. First, the jurors would view Lord Crowley's body, and then they would convene at the Coach and Crown Inn and begin questioning witnesses. And they would call forth all the guests at Rosecrest to testify to what they had—or had not—seen.

In the meantime, he needed to search the rest of the rooms. He could almost hear the large clock in the hall, ticking away his time. But still he hesitated. Although this was the dowager’s house and she’d given him permission to search, he wasn't sure she’d agree he had permission to search
her
room.

However, reluctance aside, if he did not search, the constable would surely do so. And that would be much worse. So, he wouldn’t ask permission. He’d conduct his inquiry while the magistrate and coroner occupied the members of the household with their endless questions.

With luck, the dowager would attend, along with most of the guests and the servants. As for him, he hoped he’d be the last to testify. That would grant him a few precious hours. And he would start with the rooms belonging to the people with the best opportunity and access to poison Lord Crowley.

The night of the tragedy, the dowager sat on Lord Crowley’s immediate left. Given her son’s behavior, she might have been afraid he’d create a scandal if he continued with his engagement. Of course, his death could very well become an even larger scandal, but it did prevent him from seducing and marrying Miss Spencer or any more of the hired help. His marriage was bad enough. Bigamy was much, much worse.

Then, there was Miss Barnard. She sat on the dowager’s left.

Knighton sat between Miss Barnard and Miss Howard. Lord Thompson had the chair next to her, putting him between Miss Howard and her mother, Lady Howard. Then came Mr. Hereford, Mrs. Marley, Mr. Jekyll, and his wife, Mrs. Jekyll.

On Crowley’s right sat Miss Abigail Spencer, his betrothed. Mr. Denham sat on her right, next to Mrs. Jekyll, completing the circle.

The rooms of those seated closest to Lord Crowley had to be searched first, the dowager and Miss Spencer. Then he could worry about the dead man’s uncle, Mr. Stephen Hereford, and the Jekyll family, including their married daughter, Mrs. Marley. Other than the obvious motive of hoping to inherit the title, Mr. Hereford seemed to have no motive. Neither did the Jekylls. They had also been seated the furthest away from Lord Crowley.

That afternoon, shortly after one, a note arrived from Mr. Gretton. The coroner had elected to question the staff first, leaving the more delicate questioning of the guests until later in the week, thus granting the family time to attend the funeral. Most of the male guests were standing in the entryway, pulling on capes and jackets against the raw October wind when Knighton received the missive. The watery sunshine had not kept the weather from turning bitterly cold.

It promised to be miserable standing at the family’s private gravesite behind the small church that sat poised between the village and the Crowley estate.

“A message from the constable?” Lord Thompson asked as he smoothed on his black gloves. He flicked a scornful glance at Knighton. “Asking you for your assistance, no doubt. You’ve done such a brilliant job with the case thus far.”

Knighton ignored the comment and turned to Mr. Hereford. He raised the folded note between his fingers. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Hereford….”

He nodded, only half hearing him. He seemed distracted and enveloped in a kind of foggy grief that made Knighton reluctant to press him. In some indefinable way, his nephew's death crushed him, his shoulders sagged as if he knew what the future held and it was too much for him to bear.

And he couldn’t miss the way Mr. Hereford hovered near the dowager over the last few days, ineffectually trying to provide her with comfort and assistance despite his own desperate emotions. Although Mr. Hereford had an obvious motive, Knighton found it difficult to believe that such a gentle, diffident man could ever work up the nerve to drop poison into his nephew's glass.

However, Knighton couldn’t afford to ignore any potential avenue of investigation. Eventually, he’d have to face Mr. Hereford and ask some very difficult questions. He just hoped the man would not break down completely.

In any event, fate, in the form of a note and a vague reference to Mr. Gretton, allowed Knighton to remain conveniently behind while the men attended the funeral. And the women were ensconced in a small drawing room, providing comfort and encouragement to the dowager.

Knighton flicked open Gretton’s note again, reading it carefully. A boy sent to the chemist reported that a man passing through the village had purchased a small packet of Prussic acid. No one else had bought any for at least a month.

Curious that a
man
had purchased it, not a woman as everyone had expected.

As soon as the door closed behind the men, Knighton climbed the stairs, alert to any sign that the women were not where they should be. Conscious of the risk, he explored the dowager’s elegant suite first. This room, unlike her son’s, held no surprises. Letters to friends lay scattered over the writing table, several half-written and spotted heavily with smeared ink. Knighton rubbed his finger over one of the dimples and touched the tip to his lips, tasting the salt of tears.

Nothing in the contents hinted at any motive or dislike for her son. She mourned his death and wrote sadly of his passing, her writing breaking often and shaky with emotion. The pathos in the brief lines detailing recent events was heartbreaking in its quiet understatement.

All of the usual hiding places were empty. Her pockets and reticules held nothing more than a few trifles, a silver thimble, a smooth, cherry needle case, handkerchiefs, a prayer book, and a tiny volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. There were several more books on a small table by her bed, but they were nothing more exciting than a bible and two religious tracts including a slim pamphlet of sermons by the local vicar.

Opening the top drawer of her chest, he tensed. A leather case lay inside, similar to those containing small medicinal bottles such as the one Knighton had found. Flipping the case open, he found several folded packets and vials of colored liquids. However, they only contained bromides for an elderly lady seeking relief from life’s ills. None of the bottles was missing.