Chapter 21
Alexander’s reporting of Martin’s symptoms was less than thorough, which meant Saffron’s scouring of her notes an exercise in frustration.
As extensive as her notes on local botanicals were, she found very little of direct use.
Nearly all botanical poisons made someone nauseated to the point of vomiting.
Most poisons would dehydrate someone through that avenue—and other similarly wretched means—and those sorts of deeply unpleasant reactions led to one being weak and sweating.
Not one Saffron had ever heard of or could find mention of in her reference texts made someone’s eyes sensitive to light.
Unwilling to admit defeat, she decided to brave going directly to the source of information in the hopes that she could ascertain whether or not Clark, or anyone else, had poisoned Martin.
She paused outside his door, one hand firmly planted on the wall to prevent herself aggravating her ankle.
It was quite possible she was seeing a poisoning where there was nothing more at work than particularly malevolent bacteria.
She could admit learning all she had about poisonous plants led to her noticing them more and more often.
It wasn’t an unknown phenomenon among her peers.
One only had to watch Dunmore walk across a field to see that his passion for reptiles made him sensitive to any sign of them in the grasses, or observe her bacteriologist fiancé’s reluctance to eat without thoroughly cleaning his hands in fresh water with proper soap, ignoring the ribbing he got from his less circumspect comrades on the dig.
Knowledge was a wonderful thing, but it did have a way of influencing one’s habits.
Still, having knowledge also meant one had the responsibility to use it for the good of others. And if the retching from the other side of the door was any indication, Martin Neill was in great need of some good.
She waited until the horrible sounds stopped, silently wishing that Mrs. Demirel’s positive report on Martin’s improving health at lunch had been true, then waited two minutes more for the poor boy to catch his breath before she knocked.
“Martin,” she called, easing the door open, but she faltered upon seeing him. He was slumped in his bed in a sweat-soaked shirt, the curtains drawn and a lamp lit dimly next to him.
“Miss Everleigh,” Martin said, blinking at her. “I’m sorry, I’m in no fit state—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said quickly. “I was just coming to check in on you.”
She poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk and passed it to him.
He took minute sips with trembling hands, his jaw clenched in between.
His eyes were sunken and his face ashen, and it was quite difficult to look at him without feeling immediate, deep concern. He certainly was not better.
“I think you ought to go to the hospital,” she told him.
“No,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’ll be fine. And the doctor gave me some medicine, and Mrs. Henry and Mrs. Demirel brought me some, too …”
In an attempt to sound heartening, she said, “You’ll have the strongest constitution out of all of us once this has passed. I think several members of the crew have already been trying to toughen you up.”
This brought a wan smile to Martin’s face. “I suppose so.”
“Mr. Clark in particular seems interested in your progress. Mr. Ashton mentioned he’s been sure you’re never, er, thirsty when you all sit down to cards.”
Martin’s eyes grew wide. “Er, I—”
Saffron smiled slightly. “I only mention it out of concern. Whose liquor is it, at the card table?”
“J-Johnson,” he mumbled, still looking chagrined. “Dunno how he managed it, with it being illegal here.”
“Champagne? Wine?”
“Whiskey. Last time was whiskey.” He gulped. “Didn’t have any at the castle ruins. Stomach was—” He clamped his jaw shut and swallowed again.
To give him a moment to master himself, she moved to the window and pushed aside the curtain, causing a sharp intake of breath from the bed.
She opened the window wider to allow for better air circulation before drawing the curtain back over it.
The room was very warm and that couldn’t be helpful. Not to mention the smell.
“Did you eat dinner there? Mr. Ashton mentioned cooking over a fire. It sounded quite rustic,” she said. Depending on who was doing the cooking, it would have been the perfect opportunity to slip something in his food. With no one else ill, it was unlikely to be food poisoning.
“N-no. Wasn’t long after you and Mr. Ashton left that I started feeling rotten. Pain in my side, headache. Eyes have been burning and burning, and nothing helps …” He fell silent, and Saffron turned back to him.
In the dim light of his solitary lamp, he looked so dreadfully ill and upset. His lip was trembling. “I didn’t want it to go this way. Being ill. And all the t-talk …” His face screwed up, and he threw an arm over it to hide it from her. “I’m s-sorry.”
“Oh, Martin,” she said, but stopped herself going to his side. He clearly didn’t want her as an audience to his pain, bodily or otherwise. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. All you need focus on is recovering. It will all be well, I promise.” She went to the door.
“Just … Miss …” Martin’s voice came faintly.
“Yes?” Saffron turned back to the bed.
“The girl … from the ship,” he said, hand falling away from his face. “Miss Moore. Did you …?”
“Send your apologies?” Saffron asked, and he nodded. It was sweet he could think of the young woman when he was so unwell. “All taken care of. You rest now, Martin.”
As was too common these days, Saffron heard a tumult from below stairs. Rather than the usual hubbub when the crew returned to the hotel, however, this was a house-shaking uproar that Saffron worried either meant the city was on fire again or the agora had collapsed.
Hand bracing the wall, she started toward the stairs, unwilling to be left out yet again. She paused at Martin’s door but found all was quiet within. She was glad he was resting rather than retching. She hoped the noise didn’t disturb him.
Rather than panic, the parlor was filled with smiling faces when she reached it.
She found Banks first, speaking animatedly to his team leader, Hazelwood. “Miss Everleigh! I’m afraid you’ve missed something quite exciting!”
Of course she had. “What am I toasting?” she asked, accepting a small glass from Hazelwood. She sniffed it and found it was some sort of juice.
“An incredible find,” Hazelwood said, nodding over to a cluster of men still covered in dirt from the agora. “A necklace.”
“Oh!” Saffron craned her neck to see who was in the center of the celebration. “Oh,” she repeated, far less enthusiastically when she saw Dr. Henry clapping Clark on the back. He raised his own glass and called, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Let us raise a glass to the find of the dig!”
The room hushed slightly, only to break into cheers when Clark held aloft a ring of metal. Like a prizefighter, he walked a slow, tight circle with his treasure, showing it off. It must have been cleaned at least a little, for Saffron caught a flash of gold.
“Well done, Clark!” Dr. Henry shouted. “Let’s celebrate!”
Saffron didn’t feel like celebrating. Out of all the archaeologists to get credit for an amazing find, Clark was the least deserving.
And unless he’d somehow unearthed the necklace in one of the vessels from the storeroom, he hadn’t found it while doing the work he was meant to be doing for their project.
She found Alexander on the other side of the room and was just making her way there when the current of the party shifted, forcing her right into the path of Clark as he made another circuit to receive congratulations.
“Miss Everleigh!” he crowed, coming forward.
The necklace was draped in his hand, a twisted piece of gold that, now she got a proper look at it, was admittedly quite extraordinary.
About the circumference of her outstretched hand, one end was a narrowing switchback of a coil, and the other, a slender but unmistakably serpentine head.
Twin green gems glimmered at her from its etched face.
“Well done, Mr. Clark,” she told him, intending to brush past.
“It is you who I must thank for this rare and significant find,” he told her, “for if you hadn’t seen fit to lay up in bed for a few days, I would have never had the chance to discover it. To Miss Everleigh!”
A chorus of laughter and echoes of her name sounded around them. Her face burned.
“Next time,” Clark said in a voice meant just for her, “you’ll know better than to cut me out of a find. I’ll always come out on top, you see.”
Forgetting Alexander, she pushed away from Clark and toward the door through the crush of celebrating men. She’d follow the advice she’d been given and not move from her bedroom.
Just as she would have escaped, Mrs. Demirel rushed into the room. Tears streamed down her blotchy red face. She practically fell into Saffron’s arms. “He’s dead. Oh, no. He’s dead.”
Shock reeled through Saffron. The sounds of the party dimmed around her. There was only one person she could mean. “Mrs. Demirel, is—is Martin is dead?”
Now sobbing into her shoulder, Mrs. Demirel gasped, “That poor boy. Oh, Miss Everleigh. That poor boy.”