The Vital Principle (25 page)

“Why, word from Lord Crowley, of course!” Mrs. Marley continued. “He must have hoped you’d contacted his spirit and discovered the truth.”

“Indeed, that must have been it,” Knighton agreed drily.

Pru gave him a sharp glance before stepping away. “We should go back. I don’t need any refreshments.”

“Nonsense—”

“Please,” she cut in. “Can’t we just go back?”

“If you prefer.” He studied her, nodded curtly and gave her his arm. “The reading of Lord Crowley’s will is at two. I should attend.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, Mr. Gaunt,” Miss Barnard replied, sweeping past him. “You’ll most assuredly want to be there if another murder is done after the reading of the will.” She glanced over her shoulder. “That’s when it’s usually done, isn’t it?”

The moon has set, and the Pleiades; it is midnight, and time passes, and I sleep alone.
—Sappho, c. 612 B.C.

Knighton glanced at his watch as he escorted Mrs. Marley and Miss Barnard out of the tiny coffee shop. It was just after eleven in the morning. They had ample time to walk back to Rosecrest before the reading of the will at two.

A brief look at Miss Barnard revealed a frowning profile. Her brows were drawn down, and she chewed nervously at her lower lip.

Well, she had plenty to worry about. Mr. Gretton was getting impatient and wanted to make an arrest before the inquest ended with a verdict of willful murder. Knighton, himself, found it difficult to sift through all the various versions of the events. There was a noticeable lack of clues. Poison was a subtle weapon and didn’t leave much behind to point to a particular party, except the historical preference of women to use poison more frequently than men.

Of course, there were always exceptions. And Knighton had found cyanide among George Denham’s art supplies. He had to question him.

While Knighton considered suspects, the two ladies made idle comments as they passed the outskirts of the village. Autumn had arrived, and the air was fresh and cool. He glanced at the muddy field to his right when Mrs. Marley paused, pointing at the small herd of black-and-white cows.

“Isn’t that a pretty little co—” A deep, hacking cough cut off Mrs. Marley’s statement. She held a handkerchief to her lips while her entire body shuddered. Between coughs, she gasped. The air whistled painfully through her throat as she struggled to pull it into her lungs.

“Mrs. Marley! Are you ill? Are you able to continue?” Knighton asked. He stopped, alarmed, as Mrs. Marley’s face grew red. Beads of perspiration rolled over her brows.

Miss Barnard circled him and put an arm around the woman. “Where's your medicine?” She reached for Mrs. Marley’s reticule.

Mrs. Marley shook her head vigorously. She wheezed trying to speak a few words. “Too—strong… must have water to di—dilute….”

“What does she mean? Does she have some sort of medicine?” He gently drew Miss Barnard aside and put an arm around Mrs. Marley to support her before she collapsed. It was obvious she couldn’t breathe. Her chest labored while she sucked in a few painful breathes.

A few yards away, the others stopped. They turned when they realized Mrs. Marley was in distress.

“Mr. Gaunt!” Denham walked back with Miss Howard and Miss Spencer. “Is something amiss?”

“Mrs. Marley is suffering an attack of some sort.” He was forced to step away when the ladies clustered around Mrs. Marley, patting her on the back. He studied the hacking woman while the women made small, useless suggestions.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Spencer said. “Are you chilled, Mrs. Marley? Would you like my shawl? Perhaps it’s the cold air—”

“She doesn’t need your shawl, Miss Spencer,” Knighton interrupted. “She needs room to breathe—”

Denham cut him off. “Here, here! There’s no need to take that tone, sir!”

“We must get her to the house,” Knighton replied. He thrust Miss Howard away and was relieved when Miss Barnard put an arm around Miss Spencer and moved the woman forward a pace. At least she kept her wits about her.

“She has medicine in her bag,” Miss Barnard said quietly. “But it must be diluted with water. We must obtain some water!”

“Then we must get her to the house as soon as possible.” He lifted Mrs. Marley in his arms and glanced up the road.

They were at least a quarter of a mile away from Rosecrest. Miss Barnard led the way, chivying the other ladies to walk more quickly.

“Can you carry her the entire way?” Denham asked, trotting behind Knighton.

He grunted. “Yes.”

Eyes focused on Miss Barnard's straight back, he hurried forward. He nearly dropped Mrs. Marley when she began another bout of coughs. Her breathing grew increasingly shallow. She weakly rested her damp forehead against his chest.

With each step she grew heavier.

As if sensing his urgency, Miss Barnard glanced back at him. She frowned and chewed her lower lip as she examined his burden before running forward a few more steps. After several yards, she stopped to gaze over her shoulder at him.

“If you tire, I’ll carry her.” Denham brought up the rear with Miss Spencer and Miss Howard hanging onto his arms. They were nearly running as Knighton picked up the pace.

A gentle curve in the road, framed by two huge oak trees, marked the turn to enter the gates. He focused on the tall gates. The weight in his arms tore at the muscles in his back and shoulders. A burning trickle of sweat slid into the corner of his left eye.

He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and tramped forward, breathing deeply through his mouth. He had to make it to Rosecrest. He couldn't let another innocent die.

Suddenly, Miss Barnard darted to his right, heading for the path to Dower House. He groaned and gritted his teeth, too winded to protest.

To his relief, Denham ran forward. “Miss Barnard!” he called. “Where are you going?”

She turned, a scowl darkening her face. “Mr. Gaunt can’t carry her all the way to the manor. We’re only a few yards from Dower House. We shall stop there.”

He stumbled, a jolt ripping through his straining arms as Mrs. Marley’s feet hit Denham in the middle of his back. With a quick look behind her, Miss Barnard dashed ahead and knocked at the door. As she waited, she glanced back at Knighton. When no one answered immediately, she flung open the door.

A very startled older woman stood there, huffing. One hand rose to pat her gray hair while the other hovered in front of her mouth as if to suppress a puff of outrage.

“What are you doing here? How dare you?” Her voice wavered between indignation and fear.

“Miss Brumbly, it’s an emergency! We need your assistance!” Miss Barnard gently grasped the lady’s arm and dragged her aside to make room for Knighton.

He charged forward using the last of his strength only to pause, unsure of where to go. His arms shook. Sweat dripped over his brow, stinging and clouding his vision. He had to put Mrs. Marley down. Studying the woman in his arms, he realized she needed immediate attention if she were going to survive. Each breath she took whistled deep in her throat and those breaths were growing weaker and weaker. Her damp face was pallid as wax, lips purple.

He caught Miss Barnard’s glance. She motioned to his left. “In there. There’s a small sofa in there.”

“Miss Barnard!” the small, gray-haired lady protested. “Whatever are you doing? Who are all these people?”

Denham and the two other ladies hovered in the doorway.

“Mrs. Brumbly, please,” Miss Barnard repeated in low, soothing tones. “We need your assistance. Mrs. Marley took ill on our walk. She must have water—please—can you call someone to fetch water?”

“Water?”

“Water? What are you doing here?” a new voice asked.

Knighton stared in the direction of the stairs. A blond woman stood on the third step from the bottom, clutching the rail.

“I’ve got to put her down.” Knighton caught Miss Barnard’s eyes. “Get the water.”

Miss Barnard, ignoring the turmoil around her, gave the gray-haired lady a small shake. “Please, Mrs. Brumbly. Water. Now!”

“Well, of course,” she mumbled.

Spying the sofa, Knighton carried Mrs. Marley to it. He deposited her gently on the cushions. She hardly noticed. Her eyes remained shut and she sat, hunched, struggling to breathe.

Where is Miss Barnard with the bloody water?
He shot a glance toward the door.

“How is she?” Denham eased his way past the ladies who now stood clustered like a flock of hens in the doorway, whispering and peering at the suffering woman.

“I don’t know,” Knighton replied. “Where is Pru?” He ran a hand through his damp hair, distracted. Then he noticed Denham’s sharp glance. Knighton’s words echoed in his mind like a slap across the cheek.

He had accidentally used Miss Barnard's first name. In public. God’s teeth, he was supposed to be uninvolved, an impartial investigator.

When he met Denham’s eyes, he saw speculation and what looked like dismay. Denham had been very protective of Miss Barnard earlier. Was this damnable farmer in love with her? Just how tangled was this nightmare?

Exerting as much self control as he could muster, Knighton filed Denham’s reaction away. For now, he had other worries.

Miss Barnard walked briskly into the room with a carafe of water and a glass on a tray. Relieved, he tried to catch her glance, but she focused on Mrs. Marley.

“Excuse me.” She pushed past Mr. Denham to place the tray on the small table in front of the sofa. “Mrs. Marley, can I prepare your medicine?” She knelt by the sofa and gently stroked the damp strands of gray-and-brown hair away from Mrs. Marley’s forehead. “Can you hear me? Is it in your reticule?”

Mrs. Marley nodded. She fumbled weakly with the strings until another wracking cough stopped her. She threw her head back, gasping for air. Then in an abrupt gesture, she leaned forward to push the tray away. “The rag—that
smell
—” She gasped, the air whistling in her throat.

Someone had placed a gray cloth on the tray to protect it from the moisture clinging to the carafe of water. The faint, acrid scent of mold clung to the crumpled fabric. Knighton noted it and bent to remove the tray.

With a concerned glance, Miss Barnard moved the tray further away before he could reach it. Then, she took the bag from Mrs. Marley. She opened it and pulled out a small brown bottle. With quick, deft movements, she set this on the table and reached for the water.

Grabbing the carafe, Knighton filled the glass. “How much do you use? What’s the dosage?”

“I don’t know.” Pru picked up the brown bottle and uncorked it. “Mrs. Marley, how much should we pour into the glass?”

As if severely agitated by the question, Mrs. Marley tried to sit up and wrest the vial from Pru. Her voice rasped with a high-pitched whistling noise as if her throat was almost entirely squeezed shut. “Let…me—” She wheezed. “Just…a…bit….” She reached over and let one small drop fall from the lip of the brown bottle into the water.

Obviously exhausted by the effort, she sat back, gasping and eyes closed with the tiny bottle clasped between her hands. Pru picked up the glass and held it gently to Mrs. Marley’s lips. She slipped an arm behind the woman's head to raise and cradle her so she could swallow.

“Here—you must drink,” she urged. “Come, Mrs. Marley, just one swallow.”

Mrs. Marley’s moist brown eyes fluttered before opening. Again, she struggled upright. She took one swallow, then another. She had to stop when a cough hit her, but the spasm was weaker. Although the air whistled as she sucked it through her constricted throat, the strangled noise gradually diminished.

“Another?” Pru held the glass to Mrs. Marley’s lips.

This time, Mrs. Marley was able to nod and took the glass for herself in one trembling hand. While she drained the contents, Pru picked up the medicine bottle. She replaced the cork before slipping it back into Mrs. Marley’s reticule.

“How are you feeling?” Miss Spencer asked, her voice hesitant.

Knighton turned and found the shy, blond-haired woman standing between him and Denham. Mr. Denham stepped aside abruptly as if to make room for her to approach the sofa. His eyes focused on the carpet, his face ruddy. He studied Denham again, wondering what was hidden behind the man’s plain face.

Mrs. Marley glanced up. Her face remained waxy and pallid with heavy purplish depressions around her eyes, but the blueness had begun to leave her thin lips.

“Much better,” she replied with a trembling smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Gaunt. Carrying me all that way….”

Flapping a negligent hand, he turned toward the door, avoiding the weight of the combined gazes of everyone in the room. “I just wish we’d taken a vehicle and avoided this.” Warmth radiated up his neck. The tips of his ears burned when he caught the flicker of Pru’s gray eyes as they fastened on his face. The expression in her gaze did not appear to be gratitude. It looked more like annoyance.

“What a relief,” Miss Howard said. “Are you sure you’re better, now?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Marley coughed lightly into her hand. “The fall air is very difficult for me. However, I’m quite well, now. Thanks to Miss Barnard and Mr. Gaunt.” She patted Pru’s hand.

“I’m just relieved you obtained your medicine before this happened.” Pru turned toward Mr. Denham. “Would it be possible for you to escort the others back to the manor and send a conveyance back for Mrs. Marley? I’ll stay with her.”

Mrs. Marley smiled and gripped her wrist as if afraid she would leave. “So kind, so
very
kind.”

“Certainly,” Denham replied. “No difficulty at all. Be right back with a gig of some sort. Or a curricle. Crowley had a dashed fine curricle with red panels—drove it many times.” He waved Miss Spencer and Miss Howard toward the door with the relief of a healthy male faced with a sick room stuffed full of females.

Knighton bowed slightly as the two ladies passed him and caught sight of the sad curve of Pru’s mouth.