The Bonnets
Chapter twenty-one
Violet
The Thornwick House was unchanged from the street, which surprised her. She had expected some visible alteration, but the iron gate still needed paint, and the front step wore its old concavity.
Her mother opened the door herself. Her face moved through delight before settling into the watchful softness she always wore. “Violet. What a wonderful surprise,” she said, opening the door wider.
“Hello, Mama.” Violet kissed her cheek and stepped inside. “I know you are meeting with the Hampstead Botanical Circle shortly. I wanted your opinion before we arrived.”
“Sit down. Let us talk.”
Violet retrieved the twists of tea leaves from her reticule and set them on the table in the drawing room.
She told her mother where they came from and her suspicions.
Lady Thornwick remained calm as was typical.
She picked up one of the twists, opened it and smelled it.
“Rue,” she said. Another sniff. “Raspberry leaf.” Another sniff.
A longer one. “There is a third thing. It was made to hide.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot place it.” She set the tea leaves on the table between them and sorted through them with her fingers. Violet recognised the gravity of that. In thirty years and several hundred preparations, her mother had not once been unable to place something. “This is for the Circle.”
“That is what I thought.”
Her mother’s bonnet for the morning was already dressed and waiting on its hook: small dark berries clustered at the brim, their leaves waxy and pointed, as though they had grown there. Violet looked at it, and then at her mother.
“Is the theme…”
“Poison,” her mother said. “Mrs Bickle chose it three weeks ago.”
They gathered their bonnets and reticules and stepped outside. They nearly walked into a crowd.
The carriage had gathered an audience in the time it had taken them to finish their tea in the kitchen.
Four children from the row opposite had stationed themselves at the horses’ heads, not touching, but close enough to study every detail.
Two women Violet recognised from the market stood at a slight distance, conversing in low voices while looking at the crest on the door.
An elderly man she did not recognise at all had his hands clasped behind his back and was examining the nearside wheel.
The footman stood at his post and looked at nothing, as footmen in ducal livery were trained to do.
Her mother stepped out and took in the sight. “Well,” she said, after a moment.
“Yes,” Violet said.
Her mother descended the step, and the small crowd shifted to make room. She went straight to the nearer horse and raised her hand, and the animal dropped its nose to her palm.
Violet stood there watching, grateful she could give this moment to her mother.
Mrs Bickle’s house was the third along a respectable terrace and announced itself by the sound of animated disagreement audible from the pavement.
Violet followed her mother through the front door and into a sitting room organised around the central problem of five women who, from Violet’s interactions with them growing up, each held strong opinions and were disinclined to concede the floor.
The bonnets were extraordinary.
Mrs Bickle had gone for monkshood—deep violet-blue flowers with their distinctive hooded shape, beautiful and absolutely lethal, arranged along the brim.
Beside her sat Mrs Acklam, a small round woman who had dressed hers in foxglove bells, their spotted throat turned outward, trailing down one side like an afterthought.
Mrs Colston had chosen hemlock, white lacy clusters that looked innocent to anyone who did not know better, which was, evidently, the point.
Mrs Finney had woven yew berries through the straw, their red arils jewel-bright against the dark leaves.
Mrs Brindle, a tall woman whom Violet had only seen from afar, wore lily of the valley.
They were so small, so pretty, so quietly catastrophic to a heart that did not know what it was consuming.
Together they looked like a garden that had decided to take matters into its own hands.
Her mother set the twists on the table. The room hushed immediately.
“Everyone, I have with me today Her Grace, the Duchess of Iredell.”
Some ladies rose from their chairs, curtseying with various depths and skills. Others applauded before following suit. All except Mrs Brindle did something to show their delight at having a duchess attend. Her mother held up a hand.
“You’ve all known Violet since she was a little girl. She needs our help. We must determine what is going into Her Grace’s tea.”
A gasp. Even from Mrs Brindle.
They passed the twists around, smelling and frowning and sorting.
Mrs Bickle produced a pair of spectacles from her bodice and brought the leaves close. “Rue,” she said, touching one of the small, rounded leaves.
“Agreed,” Mrs Finney said. “You can see the oil glands if the light catches them.”
“And here,” Mrs Colston separated a larger leaf with a pale, almost silvery underside, “raspberry. The serration is distinctive.”
“And the third?” said her mother.
They looked. The third leaf was darker than the other two, slightly waxy, with a shape that was not quite familiar. Mrs Brindle held it to the window. “Nightshade family,” she said.
“Certainly nightshade,” Mrs Bickle agreed.
“Woody nightshade,” Mrs Acklam said in a small voice. “Perfectly legal, mildly sedative. I use it in small doses for skin complaints and women’s troubles.”
“Possibly.” Mrs Bickle set the twist on the low table.
“Possibly?” said Violet.
“The leaf is the right shape for woody nightshade,” Mrs Bickle explained. “The colour after steeping is consistent. The size is consistent.”
Mrs Finney’s hand went to her mouth. “But it can closely resemble belladonna. Dried and steeped and left in a drawer, it would look very nearly the same.”
Mrs Colston nodded. “The downy texture on the leaf surface would tell us, but these have been through hot water. Whatever was there is gone.”
Mrs Brindle leaned forward to study the leaves again. “Where did you get these?”
“From my own morning draught,” Violet said.
The room recalibrated.
“How long have you been taking it?” Mrs Bickle asked.
“Approximately two weeks, but only tiny sips, unless my lady’s maid sat with me.”
“Do you believe she has something to do with the deaths?” Mrs Colston asked.
“I have no reason to suspect her, but I have no reason not to. I am suspecting everybody in the household. I thought I ought to be prudent.”
“Wise,” her mother said. “Have you learned more about the circumstances of the wives’ deaths?”
“Yes.” Violet looked around the circle. “This must not leave this room.”
“Of course.”
Five heads nodded, with varying degrees of solemnity. Only Mrs Finney barely concealed delight at the interesting task at hand.
Violet told them what Henry had said about Elizabeth. She explained the circumstances of Catherine and Margaret’s deaths. When she finished, the room erupted.
“Hysteria,” said Mrs Finney immediately. “The mind does extraordinary things under that strain. I have seen women convince themselves of things equally—”
“Hysteria does not produce a single fixed delusion,” said Mrs Colston. “It produces many. It wanders. What the duchess has described is specific and consistent. That is not hysteria. That is—”
“A hallucination.”
“It is not a hallucination if she believed it. A hallucination is when you see something—”
“That is exactly the definition of hallucination.”
“Belladonna in low doses does not hallucinate. It convinces, which—”
“Ladies,” said her mother.
They ignored her.
“Ladies.” Violet did not raise her voice, but the women stopped. “My mother has something to say.”
The baroness nodded at her daughter and began.
“In low, sustained doses, belladonna does not kill. It convinces. A woman given enough of it, slowly, over weeks, could begin to believe she had lost the pregnancy when she had not. And we all agree that the leaves could be belladonna or harmless woody nightshade. But considering the symptoms the first wife had experienced, I am inclined to say it was belladonna that caused the single, consistent hallucination. It is also in my daughter’s best interest to make that assumption and act accordingly. ”
“Agreed,” Mrs Bickle said. “The third death seems consistent with belladonna poisoning, except she was given more potent doses over a shorter period of time to cause the type of symptoms she had.”
“But it may not have had anything to do with the second death,” came the small voice of Mrs Acklam.
Violet nodded. “The use of belladonna shows the murderer’s character. Knowledgeable about poisons. Patient. Resourceful. And able to disguise themselves. They may have drugged the second wife to weaken her or disturb her mind to cause the drowning.”
Mrs Finney’s hand went to her chest. Mrs Colston’s mouth shaped Oh dear.
“We have all heard of the duke’s mother being quite skilled at herbs,” her mother said. “Perhaps search her belongings as well. See if she had a vial of Belladonna extract or had trained someone in the household to make medicinal tinctures.”
Everyone bobbed their heads.
“The killer would be keeping the poison in a cool dark place.” Mrs Brindle tapped her cane on the floor.
“Could the extraction be done at home?” Violet asked.
“Any woman with a stillroom and patience could manage it,” Mrs Bickle said. “And it keeps for years if you store it in the dark or in alcohol. That is the trouble with the stuff. It can wait.”
“If I were the murderer,” Mrs Colston said, “I’d keep it in plain sight. Belladonna tincture has legitimate uses: stomach cramps, monthly pain, headache.”
“And its property would not be destroyed in hot tea?” Violet asked.
“No. And hardly distinctive when blended with rue, nightshade, and raspberry.”
A hush descended on the room. It was Mrs Acklam who broke the silence.
“You may wish to consider, Your Grace, a spy of some sort below stairs. Or assign one person you trust to prepare your tea.”
“Excellent suggestion, Mrs Acklam,” her mother said and reached for Violet’s hand “Even in small quantity, belladonna can prevent pregnancy, my dear.”
Violet squeezed her mother’s hand. “I do not wish to alert the killer. Their activity gives us the clues to follow.”
“But at your expense,” Mrs Bickle said.
“I am quite careful, Mrs Bickle. I prefer the killer’s subtle method to something with force.”
“Quite right.” Mrs Bickle clapped rapidly twice. “Let us gather in a week or two to investigate this further. In the meantime, look through your books, talk to the villagers, see what they know about the deaths.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Violet said.
“It is our honour.”
The women rose. Mrs Finney embraced as she had embraced Violet since she was a little girl.
Mrs Acklam pressed her hand and held it a moment longer than usual, accompanied by her usual gentle smile.
Mrs Colston said, very quietly, that she would look through her books that evening.
Mrs Brindle said nothing but nodded at Violet on her way out, which was more than she had ever offered.
They emerged onto the pavement into the afternoon. After her mother settled inside the carriage with the assistance of a footman, Violet gathered her skirts to follow when she saw Kit coming around the corner. She waved him over.
There was plaster dust on his jacket and sawdust in his hair. He was carrying a length of timber under one arm. He stopped and looked at Violet.
“Next week,” she said. “Come to London when the roof is done.”
He nodded once, shifted the timber, and went on his way.
They took their tea in the garden. The afternoon had gone mild. The tea was properly steeped in a pot that had been filled without stinting. Her mother put milk in it, then sugar, without pausing to consider either.
Violet noticed and smiled. Then she saw her shoes.
“You bought shoes.”
Her mother looked down at them. “I did.”
“I have not seen you wear shoes since that snowstorm this winter past.”
“Well, I reckoned you could buy your own shoes now.”
Violet tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
Her mother set her cup down gingerly. “You needed them more than me. Could not have you called Mad Violet on top of everything else.”
Violet put her face in her hands. Her mother moved her chair closer and put an arm around her daughter. “Everything is good now. We have you to thank.” She kissed her daughter’s head.
“How is the duke?” Lady Thornwick asked.
Violet sat upright and wiped her face. “He is well. I think.”
Her mother waited a moment. “What is the matter? Is it truly that terrible between you two?”
“He is still in love with his first wife.”
Her mother sat in silence for a beat. “You are falling for him.”
Violet looked at the garden and found she could not disagree.
“Is it foolish? He could be… He might have…”
“But you do not believe that. If you thought he was guilty, you would not be falling for him. You must feel deep down that he is innocent.”
“I do, Mama.”
“Then you have work to do.”
Her mother refilled both cups and added ample sugar and milk to them.
“Do you need anything else, Mama? The duke asked when I told him I would be visiting.”
Her mother’s hand stilled on the teacup.
“His Grace sounds… like a man trying.”
“He is not unkind,” Violet said. “He is not easy and he keeps himself very close. But he is not unkind.”
Her mother’s throat moved.
“I want you to hire someone,” Violet said. “To replace Kit around the house. Two servants.”
Her mother drew breath to object.
Violet held up her hand. “Mama, please. Let yourself be looked after.”
The baroness drank her tea for a minute then reached over to hug her daughter. Violet melted into her mother’s embrace.