Chapter 3 #2
“Well, if it is as toxic as you say,” J. J. ventured, “its very presence in the envelope would be alarming.”
I shook my head. “But the average person would not recognise aconite except as a cottage flower, much less grasp the dangers of aconite. Mornaday, was Jameson Harkness a keen gardener? Amateur botanist? Plant enthusiast?”
“None of those things,” Mornaday assured me.
“And yet he was terrified by the sight of wolfsbane,” I said.
“What of the other bit of plant material?” J.
J. handed over the envelope, and I extracted the second botanical specimen.
It was something different to the wolfsbane, but unfamiliar to me.
“Only a few leaves,” I observed. “And without bloom or berry, much harder to identify.” We passed them around in a gingerly fashion before I put the leaves back into the envelope and set them aside for safekeeping.
“Tell us more about Harkness,” I urged Mornaday.
“He went to work in his father’s bank in the City, regular as clockwork. He spent his free time attending lectures.”
“On what subjects?” Stoker asked, placing the bundled wolfsbane carefully on a side table out of the reach of the dogs.
Mornaday shrugged. “He was a curious fellow, interested in the occult, the esoteric arts. His wife seemed a little embarrassed to say he enjoyed mythology and folklore, and I cannot say as I blame her. Strikes me as a trifle childish. In between sobs into her handkerchief, she pointed me to his bookshelves, and I can only say the books they held were strange.”
“Do you recall any specific titles?” I wondered.
Mornaday shook his head. “None in particular, just a load of twaddle. Fairies and talking to the dead and curses. Superstitious this and nonsense that. If it were barking mad, he apparently liked to read about it.”
“Any other women in his life?” J. J. queried.
Mornaday rolled his eyes. “I could hardly ask that, could I? You cannot very well inquire of a grieving widow if her husband was in the habit of coming home with his shirttails hanging from his flies and stinking of French perfume. But from what I gather, he was a faithful sod.”
Stoker cut in smoothly. “How was Mr. Harkness’s demeanour in the last weeks before his death? Did he have any concerns? Nervousness?”
Mornaday turned thoughtful. “According to Mrs. Harkness, he was grieving Maurice Quincey’s death. They had been friends since boyhood, so his feelings were naturally afflicted, but Mrs. Harkness noted a curious thing—his grief seemed to intensify with each passing day.”
Stoker stroked his chin. “It is not unreasonable that Jameson Harkness would have taken his own life. His best friend had met a sudden and terrible end. He perhaps felt constrained by his life—his first youth is finished, he works for his father in a notoriously dull occupation.”
“No one truly loves banking,” J. J. agreed.
Stoker went on. “Mornaday, you say he was faithful to his wife, but that does not necessarily mean he loved her. Without a note relating his intentions at the time of his death, we cannot know his true state of mind.”
“How do you know there was no note?” J. J. demanded.
“Because Jameson Harkness rose directly from the breakfast table and threw himself from the balcony,” I reminded her, intuiting Stoker’s conclusion. “Mornaday said nothing about a detour to the writing table. I suppose there is no handy diary to give us a clue as to his state of mind?”
Mornaday shook his head. “And even if there were, I’d not be getting my hands on it.
No sooner had Superintendent Digby Up-His-Own-Arse Carruthers discovered me talking to the widow Harkness than he hauled me from the house by my ears.
Warned me if I so much as breathed a syllable of what I’d seen and heard, my career at Scotland Yard would be finished and he’d personally have my guts for garters. ”
“A singularly strong reaction,” I remarked.
Mornaday inclined his head. “Precisely what I thought. So I kept a weather eye upon the case. The inquest was held as quickly as the law permits with a jury handpicked by Sir Ranulph himself. Inquests are supposed to be held in public, but this one was run through with a few of Sir Ranulph’s men stationed at the door to discourage onlookers.
Only his evidence was taken down and the verdict was returned unanimously and without deliberation in two minutes.
They’ve buried him and probably written his death in the family Bible as a terrible accident.
That is what the staff have been told, his children.
No one will ever know exactly what happened to Jameson Harkness, why the sight of that little flower—” He paused to point at the shrouded bundle of monkshood.
“Caused him to experience such a state of terror that he threw himself from a balcony rather than face whatever was coming. Sir Ranulph used every bit of influence, every tool at his disposal, to sweep it under the carpet.”
Stoker’s brows knitted together. “I cannot fathom a man willing to overlook the murder of his own son simply to avoid a scandal. Surely seeing the murderer hang for his crime would ensure justice is done.”
“And yet whatever would be discovered if the crime was made public is somehow worse to him,” I added. “Bad enough that he would rather see whoever drove his son to take his own life escape retribution.”
J. J. looked up from where she had been scribbling feverishly in her notebook. “And the same was done for Maurice Quincey. Two men, best friends, both dead under mysterious circumstances.”
“And both deaths covered up by those nearest to them, the very people who should have been clamouring for justice. But why?”
“That,” Mornaday said, raising his glass in a toast, “is what I want you to discover.”