Chapter 38
THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow…
—William Shakespeare
Macbeth
Mordecai Bent’s rooms were exactly as I had expected. Tiny, overwarm, and so cramped with books and medical equipment that it was difficult to move. But the fire was cheerful and Mordecai was hospitality personified, as if entertaining angels unaware.
“This chair, my lady,” he said, sweeping up a pile of papers and an errant sock. “It is the most comfortable and nearest the fire. Mr. March, may I offer you the bench by the bookcase?”
Val, mesmerized by the contents of the bookcase, barely waved a hand. “If you do not object…”
Mordecai flushed with pleasure.
“Oh, no! Please, look at anything you like. It is so seldom I have the pleasure of speaking with another medical man.”
This time Val flushed, and it occurred to me that introducing them might have been a tiresome mistake. If I was not quite careful, the conversation could easily move into deeper and duller waters than I could navigate with patience. I cleared my throat delicately.
“Doctor Bent, we have called because I recently discovered something concerning my husband’s health. Something that might have bearing upon this case.”
Bent’s eyes flew to my brother’s tall figure, silhouetted against the bookcase. “He is entirely in my confidence,” I assured him. Bent smiled. There was a dot of custard on his lapel, and a button swung gently from a single thread at his waistcoat.
“I shall be too happy to help,” he told me. “But Nicholas wrote that he was going to Paris, and that the investigation was in abeyance until his return.”
“Oh, of course. But this information just fell into my lap, most unexpectedly, and I thought I might save him a bit of time by consulting you in his absence.” The lie fell smoothly from my lips.
He seemed satisfied with that and sat forward, his eyes gleaming with interest behind his spectacles.
“It appears that my husband suffered from syphilis, Doctor Bent. He had had it for some time.”
He considered this a moment.
“Hmm. Yes, that does complicate matters,” he said, his brow furrowing. If I had not been so humiliated by having to tell him, I might have been amused. He did not consider the personal ramifications of the syphilis, only its application to the case—a true medical man.
“Do you know how long he had the disease?”
I shrugged. “He contracted it sometime before we were married, a few months, perhaps. I am told he experienced a relapse of sorts some months after we married.”
Bent nodded. “Yes, although it isn’t precisely a relapse.
From what we understand of the disease, it normally follows a pattern—an initial infection, then a period of dormancy, followed by another outbreak.
Then a second period of dormancy. These quiet periods can last for years, during which time the patient is completely asymptomatic. ”
I must have looked blank, for he amended the word quickly.
“Without symptom. The second phase of dormancy can even last the duration of the patient’s natural life.
But in most people, the second dormancy is followed by the most extreme symptoms of the disease—a breakdown in general health, uncertain temper, that sort of thing. ”
I thought of Edward’s turns, his periods of malaise, his little black rages, and that short, terrible moment when we had looked at each other, the bits of broken vase littering the carpet between us, his hand raised, poised and twitching at my cheek….
“Doctor Bent, is it possible that Edward did not suffer from heart trouble?”
“But he did,” Valerius put in quietly. “He’d had it from boyhood, don’t you remember?
Old Cook always saying he’d never make old bones, just like all the Greys?
” I did remember. I had told Brisbane of it only a few weeks before.
But I had felt the ground shift under me when Cass had bestowed her revelation, and I found myself wondering which memories were true and which were lies.
And I knew I would continue to do so for many years to come.
I turned to Bent, who was nodding, his eyes shrewd.
“Yes, sometimes syphilis will lodge in a patient’s heart or lungs, especially if there is an underlying ailment.
It is possible that the disease worsened his heart condition, or perhaps it affected it not at all.
It is impossible to say without a proper postmortem, and of course, it is too late for that. ”
I shuddered, thinking of Edward’s corpse, moldering away, the evidence quietly decaying during the months that I had wasted.
“Is it possible that Edward was not poisoned, after all? Could not the disease have accounted for his symptoms and the, er, discoloration?”
Val looked away and Doctor Bent reddened slightly. “No, my lady, I fear not. His symptoms were clearly those of poisoning. In fact, I think I have discovered the cause.”
He put his hand out to rummage through the papers stacked precariously on his desk. After a moment he grunted in satisfaction. He extracted a single paper, an illustration of a flower. He handed it to me and Val came to look over my shoulder. There was a Latin inscription at the bottom of the page.
“Aconitum napellus,” I read out. “Monkshood.”
Bent nodded. “It is the only natural poison I could find that fits both the symptoms and the method. It is absorbed through the skin, and ferociously deadly in quite a short period of time.”
“Wolfsbane,” Val murmured, peering at the tall stalk of the capped blue flower.
“I remember it,” I told him. “Do you? The werewolf stories they used to tell at the Gypsy camp.” I turned to Doctor Bent. “My father always permitted Gypsies to camp on his lands in summer. One of the old men used to tell us tales of werewolves on the nights of the full moon.”
“To what purpose?” Bent asked, smiling. “Simple campfire pleasures?”
“Hardly. His wife sold charms—little bags stuffed with flowers of wolfsbane and a silver coin for protection. As I recall she charged a fine price for them and always sold quite a few. But we always felt better for walking home with those little bags tied around our necks. Nanny always made us throw them away, of course. She was quite right to do so, I imagine, if the stuff is really absorbed through the skin. How stupid we must have been!”
Bent shrugged. “Safe enough, if the flower only was used, and it was kept in a bag. No, the greater danger by far is the root. When it is dried, the poisonous effects are greatly heightened. It can be reduced down to its most venomous components by careful preparation. Dangerous, of course, for the hands preparing it, but quite simple so long as certain elementary precautions are followed.”
“So you are saying that anyone could have done this,” I said slowly.
“I am afraid so. All it would take is a little privacy, a spirit lamp and some time. The rest of the ingredients would be perfectly innocent to procure from a chemist—a compound to dissolve the aconite into to spread it onto a sheath, and so forth. As for the monkshood itself—” he shrugged “—it grows in nearly every garden and often without.”
“But the knowledge,” I protested, “surely someone would have to have specific knowledge of deadly plants to attempt such a thing.”
“You would be surprised, my lady. Such knowledge is not hard to come by, nor particularly difficult to understand. I warrant any good herbal would give the specifics on monkshood—and nearly every household I know possesses at least one herbal.”
“Even mine,” I said ruefully.
He smiled, a bright, comely thing in his dark face. “Just so. Of course, mistakes can be made, quite easily. If our poisoner was not careful, he could have poisoned himself without difficulty. I think you must look for a cautious but audacious man. An interesting combination, I should think.”
I thought of Brisbane’s observations about poison being a woman’s weapon. “A man? Are you convinced it was a man?”
“No, I—”
There was a rustling sound from the next room and I saw Bent start a little, his eyes flicking to the barely open door. “The cat, probably after a mouse…pardon me, my lady.”
He rose and went into the adjoining room, speaking sharply. He returned a moment later, carrying a large white Persian cat. He closed the door behind them, scolding her softly. She looked up at him with wide, cool eyes the colour of seawater.
“What a lovely creature!” I exclaimed. I put out a hand to pet her, but she swiped at my glove, hooking it with a claw.
“My lady, I am sorry—she is an ill-tempered beast, and not worth her keep.”
Gently, he unhitched her paw from my hand and dumped her onto his desk where she sat, watching me, flicking her plumy tail with disdain.
“No matter, Doctor Bent. It was my own fault for attempting to pet her without asking. Cats never seem to like that, do they? No, do not be so hard on her. She must be worth her keep if she brings you mice.”
“She is an aristocrat,” he said, putting a finger out to rub her under the ears. She purred softly. “She eats better than I do and looks down her nose at the world.”
“But she is pretty, surely that is reason enough to keep her.”
She squeezed her eyes at me and I thought I might be forgiven for my initial faux pas. I glanced at Val, who had wandered off to the bookshelves again and was fingering a gruesome-looking volume on skin lesions.
“Valerius, would you wait in the carriage, please? I would like a few minutes more with Doctor Bent, nothing that touches the case, I promise.”
He replaced the book he was perusing and came forward to shake Bent’s hand. They made pleasant noises at one another, and after several attempts, I finally succeeded in getting him to leave us in privacy.
We resumed our seats and Bent fixed his attention carefully upon his cat, avoiding my eyes. He knew what I was about to ask.
“Surely, you are not concerned,” he began.
“Of course I am. How am I to know without a proper examination?”
He shook his head. “My lady, you have complained of none of the symptoms. Sir Edward, for his faults, was careful to avoid passing the contagion on to you once he knew of it.”
“That does not mean I am free of it,” I said softly. “Surely you do not expect me to take my good health for granted. I cannot sit and wonder, waiting for the symptoms to appear, wondering if I shall go mad.”
He looked up sharply.
“Yes, I know that much,” I told him. “Edward was barely spared that. I might not be so fortunate. I must know.”
He rose suddenly. “My lady, I cannot. Not now, it grows late. I have patients I must attend to. If you are troubled, certainly Doctor Griggs must be the physician—”
“No,” I said sharply. “He knew of Edward’s disease and did not see fit to warn me. I have no trust in him.”
His warm brown eyes were sad as a spaniel’s. “I am more gratified by your trust than I can possibly express. I cannot, not today. But if you are still determined—tomorrow, perhaps. I could come to Grey House.”
I rose and extended my hand. “Thank you. I know you do not wish to do it, but I also believe that if you discover the worst, you will tell me. I have no such faith in the honesty of others.”
He nodded sadly and let me out. Neither of us was anticipating our next meeting with any pleasure, but I knew I could rely upon him and I was determined that we would keep our appointment for the following day.
But Fate, and the murderer, had other plans for me.