Chapter Twenty-three
Fiona and Robert appeared to be frozen in place.
She held out a cup while he gaped at the liquid he poured into it.
Finally, Robert blinked and turned the jug upright.
“Frances, I think this investigation has made you suspicious of everything. I assure you our cook has no intention of poisoning any of us.”
I stepped forward, with George following me. Dr. Bertram crossed the room from the other side. We all met at the table Fiona and Robert were using.
“Rose is correct. This isn’t your cook’s nog. It’s Dr. Penhollow’s, and I think what is making it glow is phosphorus.” I turned to the rest of the room and held up a finger. “I’ll say it again. Do not drink this. In fact, bring your cups back here.”
“I can take this cup to the conservatory and analyze it, if you like,” Dr. Bertram said. “At some point, you will need the definitive proof, but for now, it is my opinion that there is phosphorus in this drink. You are absolutely correct, Mrs. Hazelton. It could be very harmful if ingested.”
“Deadly?” George asked.
“Without testing it, I couldn’t say with any certainty,” the doctor said. “I’m not familiar with this drink in its unadulterated form. I don’t know what it ought to look like.”
Robert was now eyeing the brew in his cup. “Not like this. We’ll bring a jug of Cook’s up so you can compare.” He signaled to a footman, who immediately slipped from the room to do his bidding. “I say, Rose,” he said as she stepped up next to me, “that was a keen observation on your part.”
Rose cast an inquiring glance at me. I squeezed her to my side. “You did well, dear. And we should also thank Grace for her sharp eye.”
Fiona had collected everyone’s cups at the table, and George picked up the tray and followed Dr. Bertram to the conservatory.
Following George, I turned back to the now deflated celebration.
“We shall be back momentarily, and a new jug of proper nog is coming,” I said, trying for a chipper voice.
When no one even looked up, I heaved a sigh. Our family Christmas was in ruins.
Fortunately, Dr. Bertram had yet to clear off his worktable in the conservatory. I was amazed by the quantity of vials, packets, and tiny bottles scattered over the surface. “Do you normally carry all these things in your bag?”
“This?” he asked, gesturing to the table. “Almost none of it.” His back was to me as he moved the bottles around and pulled a small glass plate from his bag. “But, James, one of the footmen, was kind enough to run to Aylsham and retrieve a few things from my office yesterday.”
At least James has been getting the opportunity to see his lady friend.
George and I stood behind the doctor and watched while he mixed two white powders together on the square of glass.
Then, with an eyedropper, he took up a sample of the nog.
“Once I drop the liquid on the plate, these powders should take on a blue hue.” He dropped the contents of the dropper onto the powdery substance.
“It might not be that obvious, but let’s wa—Whoa! ”
In a matter of a second, the powder had turned a deep cobalt blue.
“I’d say that blue is rather obvious,” George said.
“Nothing subtle there,” I agreed. I took a step back from the table and consulted Dr. Bertram. “Does that mean the nog contains phosphorus?”
“It certainly does,” he said. “In fact, there is a high concentration of phosphorus in here.”
“Enough to kill a man?” George asked.
“It would depend on how much the man consumed,” the doctor replied.
“A simple taste might do nothing. A small sample of, say, an ounce would make him quite ill. Anything more than that could send him into cardiac arrest within a matter of hours. It would also cause the damage to his intestines that I observed.”
“Could you narrow that down?” I asked. “We saw Dr. Penhollow around eight o’clock on the evening before his death, and he looked fine,” I said. “At least he didn’t look ill.”
“He made this nog, did he not?” At my nod, Bertram continued.
“It’s possible he was testing it every few days to determine if it was ready.
Then, upon deciding it was, he drank a cupful—probably after you saw him.
A dose that large would have left him perilously ill very quickly.
It would have been fatal anywhere between four to eight hours.
All the time he was likely thinking it must have been something he ate. ”
“Which it was,” George said.
“Yes,” Dr. Bertram agreed, “but generally such a sickness runs its course. The body rids itself of the disagreeable substance, and the patient is fine. He didn’t realize what he’d consumed, or he would have known his body would not rid itself of this.”
“Or he knew what he consumed, and it was intentional,” George said, his brows raised.
I hadn’t considered the possibility of Dr. Penhollow using the drug to do away with himself. “It was his nog,” I said. “One would think he’d notice that it looked different from his usual batches.”
Dr. Bertram stared at us in shock. “Are you suggesting he committed self-murder?” He whispered the last two words.
“No, no, I find that impossible to believe. That a man of medicine would take his own life? If he did choose such a path, there are drugs he could have taken that would not result in such miserable illness. Using phosphorus would be a foolish way to achieve his goal, if indeed that was his intention.”
I had to give some weight to the opinion of a doctor. “The nog was in a jug,” I said, “rather than a clear bottle. He might not have noticed the sheen.”
Dr. Bertram was shaking his head. “There would have been no sheen to it until it was exposed to the air. He might have taken a drink directly from the jug.”
“I’m not at all certain how this brew is made, but doesn’t it have to ferment for a time?” I asked. “Couldn’t someone have tampered with it at that point?”
“If so, the most likely suspects are his wife or stepdaughter,” George said, raising an eyebrow.
“Since the nog might have been poisoned days or even weeks ago, they both had the opportunity to do it,” I said. “But Beatrice was at home that morning, which means Ada moved the body to the field herself, though I can’t imagine how.”
George shook his head. “Just because we can’t think of a way for her to move her late husband’s body doesn’t make it impossible.”
“Ada did come here today, determined to get her husband’s nog back. Perhaps she did know it was poisoned.”
Dr. Bertram sighed. “I hate to think someone deliberately murdered him, but if so, I believe we have found the murder weapon.”
“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” George asked.
“It is very likely Ada Penhollow who tampered with the nog. We may not have solid evidence, but this is one more piece of information we can turn over to the police and see where they take it.” Arching a brow, he turned to me.
“Or we can call on the Penhollows and ask Ada about it ourselves.”
“As much as I hate to postpone the family Christmas activities even further, we must ask Ada Penhollow to explain herself, don’t you think?”
George let out a huff. “Considering she nearly postponed this family’s activities permanently, I agree.”
The three of us returned to the drawing room to find only adults remaining and a new bottle of nog on the table—unopened and surrounded by empty cups. Nothing like poisoned nog to ruin the holiday spirit.
Robert and Fiona were speaking together in low voices on the sofa. Hetty noticed us first. “Judging by the look on your faces, that nog was laced with phosphorus.”
Dr. Bertram confirmed that it was and took a seat next to Hetty.
“Have the children gone to the schoolroom?” I asked.
“Their spirits were rather deflated,” Robert said, “what with the poison and all. So, when they asked to go carol singing, we were happy to let them. What are we to do about the nog?”
I ignored Robert’s question. “Did they go by themselves?”
“Of course not,” Fiona said. “Christine and Lissette are with them, and they took the wagon, so they have a nice, strong groom, as well.”
“I suppose that’s all right, then. It’s still early, after all. Did they go to the village?”
“I assume so.” Fiona’s tone was impatient. “Now, what about—”
“They didn’t say?” I interrupted. Why did this feel so suspicious? I caught Fiona’s eye, and it seemed her instincts had alerted the suspicious mother in her, too.
“You don’t think they’d have gone to Penhollow Manor, do you?” she asked.
“Our children?” I asked. “The ones who have been snapping up every crumb related to this investigation? Yes, that’s exactly where I think they’ve gone.”
Robert was on his feet in a trice. “I’ll have a groom ready the carriage,” he said. “They left only moments ago and would have had to wait for the wagon. If they have gone to Penhollow Manor, we shall be right behind them.”
Which is how all of us ended up in front of the sweeping drive to Penhollow Manor shortly after six o’clock.
The children, along with Christine and Lissette, were scrambling down from the wagon and brushing straw from their coats.
Gregory bounced on his toes at the end of the wagon until he saw us drive up in the carriage.
His grin quickly shifted into a grimace.
Fiona wasted no time on niceties and bounded from the vehicle before it had come to a complete stop. The rest of us were close behind. “What do you mean by coming here after what we discovered about Dr. Penhollow’s nog? Did it never occur to you this might be dangerous?”
Gregory looked convincingly surprised. “But Mrs. Penhollow thought she had taken it back.”
“We can discuss this at home,” I said. “Let us leave before the Penhollows take notice of us.”
“Too late.” Hetty pointed to the entrance to the manor house, where the gaslights flared and at least three figures were silhouetted in the doorway. “What do we do now?”
Everyone looked at me, which I found rather vexing. How was I to know?