The Vital Principle (3 page)

“Thank you, Lord Crowley,” Lady Howard replied, hovering over her daughter.

Crowley took another sip of his brandy and then coughed wetly. Sputtering, he placed his glass on the table in front of him. He coughed again into his fist.

Knighton watched with growing concern as Crowley’s face darkened, flushing with a deep, bluish-purple color. Crowley swayed, wavering unsteadily then gripped the back of his chair. Blinking and coughing, he crashed to the floor, pulling the chair down on top of him.

“Lord Crowley!” He pushed past the other guests and pulled the chair off Crowley. He rolled him over on his back.

Crowley gagged and choked, gasping for air. He clutched Knighton's lapel and jerked him closer. His reddened eyes widened as Knighton worked to loosen Crowley’s neckcloth. But before he could unwind the complicated material, he heard the terrible, unmistakable sound of a rattling exhalation.

“Henry!” Lady Crowley said. Eyes fixed on Knighton’s face, Lady Crowley blindly grabbed Miss Barnard’s forearm and clung to her. “What’s wrong with my son? Henry—Henry! What is happening to my son?”

His limbs were cold in death; his spirit fled with a groan, indignant, to the shades below
. —Virgil, c. 70-19 B.C.

Knighton glanced at Miss Barnard before focusing on Lady Crowley. As if aware of his concern, Miss Barnard placed an arm around the older lady’s shoulders and drew her back, giving him more room.

“Bring more light,” she requested in a firm voice as she took quiet control. She glanced toward the butler and nodded.

Knighton’s respect for her increased, much to his dismay.

“Lord Crowley!” Miss Spencer leaned over and tried to push the chair out of the way to see what was happening to her betrothed.

“Miss Spencer, let Mr. Gaunt attend to him.” Mr. Denham drew her away. He started to wrap an arm around her but stopped, flushed, and settled for patting her forearm.

The butler retrieved a silver candelabra from a nearby chest and placed it on the table in front of Lord Crowley’s vacant place. The wavering light only made the scene more eerie as the table blocked most of the light. The floor remained draped in gloom. Along the windows, the curtains shifted in the fitful illumination and created a sense of movement in the shadowed corners of the room.

Knighton reached up impatiently and moved the candelabra to the edge of the table to see more clearly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Lady Crowley asked. “Why don’t you help Henry, young man?”

“You ought to sit, Lady Crowley.” Miss Barnard led the lady to her chair and pressed her firmly into the seat.

“Is he ill?” Miss Spencer’s voice shook. She held a trembling hand over her mouth as if to prevent a scream from escaping.

Mr. Denham drew her even further away and dragged a chair away from the table so she could sit down. She glanced around uneasily and gripped his hand. “Is it safe here? It’s so dark! Why don’t they bring more lights? There could be
anything
in the shadows—anything or anyone!” Her voice rose with incipient hysteria.

“Shush,” Mr. Denham said, his face mottled with confusion and dawning horror. “You're safe.” He failed to reassure anyone, including himself. He stared around the room, his gaze dwelling anxiously on the blackest corners.

“Perhaps he fainted?” Miss Barnard knelt on the other side of Crowley’s still form, gazing hopefully at Knighton.

He pressed his fingers into Henry Crowley’s thick, sweaty neck although it was clear to him that he would find no pulse.

Nothing
.

Crowley’s protuberant blue eyes remained open and sparkled with a strange luster imitative of life although he stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

There was no breath of life.

Knighton pushed the eyelids down. He’d seen sparkling eyes like that before in a lifeless face. A whiff of a peculiar odor caught his attention. He leaned over to sniff the air above Lord Crowley’s slackened mouth. The faint scent of bitter almonds remained, confirming his suspicions. He stood up abruptly.

He picked up Crowley’s brandy snifter. A silver chain hung around the stem, with the initials ‘HC’ dangling from it. He glanced at the other glasses. They all had similar silver chains.

Swirling the amber liquid, he held it up to examine it. The light from the candles glowed through the brandy, highlighting the unnaturally dark hue. After rotating the glass with a practiced movement of his wrist, he sniffed at the fumes before placing it back on the table.

“Well, what’s wrong?” Lord Thompson stared at Crowley as if he suspected a trick. “Crowley, get up, damn you. Quit playing the fool.” He nudged Crowley’s flaccid arm with his toe.

“Stop!” Knighton pushed Thompson back. “This isn’t a joke.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is he having some kind of a fit?” Mr. Jekyll asked.

“No. It’s not a fit.” Knighton glanced at the dowager. He was reluctant to inform her that her son was dead, most likely murdered. She already appeared to have suffered more grief than she could bear. Her tired eyes and gray face made him fear any further pain would bring about a complete collapse.

How much could one woman bear?

“Lady Crowley.” He caught Miss Barnard’s eye and to his relief, felt an immediate flicker of understanding. She put an arm around the older lady’s shoulders, bracing her for the shock. “Lady Crowley, I’m sorry,” he said. “Your son is dead.”

“Dead?” Lady Crowley repeated, her voice quavering. She glanced down as if she could not comprehend what she saw. “How can he be dead? You must be mistaken.”

Miss Barnard hugged the dowager and murmured, “I’m sorry, so terribly sorry.”

A sob broke from Lady Crowley’s throat. Miss Barnard held her more tightly, speaking softly, trying to comfort her.

“Dead!” Miss Spencer leapt out of her chair. She whirled to stare into the gloomy recesses of the room, her hands covering her mouth. When Mr. Denham touched her arm, she shrieked. “A ghost! It must be! That
thing
I felt hovering behind me when the candle blew out. It touched me—I felt its cold fingers! It passed by me on its way to kill Lord Crowley!
It will kill us all! We must leave, now! Now!
”

“Miss Spencer, please! Calm down.” Mr. Denham tried to capture one of her hands. But he ruined his attempt to reassure her by casting wild glances around the room, his eyes searching the shadows. “A spirit would not have harmed him. We have nothing to fear from the spirit realm.”

The mention of spirits caused her to screech again before she collapsed into her chair, hands over her face, sobbing with terror. Jekyll’s pale daughter, Mrs. Marley, echoed her scream and Miss Howard gripped her injured foot with white-knuckled hands, her eyes wide with fear. The older ladies gasped and clutched the sleeves of the closest men, casting terrified looks over their shoulders.

“How?” Lady Howard asked, her question ending with a shriek when her daughter grabbed her hand. “Oh! Oh, my dear Fanny. You startled me! Oh—the room is
haunted
! It must be!”

“He can’t be dead.” The dowager struggled to push Miss Barnard away. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a joke—Henry, get up
at once
! At
once
, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” Knighton replied. Ignoring the infectious hysteria, he examined the snifter again although it told him nothing he hadn’t already ascertained.

Mr. Jekyll turned to his wife, hand outstretched, his face lined with sadness. But she pushed past him to enfold her daughter with trembling arms. Slowly, the room grew quieter as grief muffled the fears of those clustered around the table.

“Mama—” Mrs. Marley gasped sharply, air wheezing in her throat. She coughed and struggled for air. Her mother pushed a snifter of brandy into her daughter’s hand and forced her to take a swallow.

Lord Crowley had died after drinking brandy!
Was the poison in the bottle of brandy? Knighton raised a hand to stop her but the gesture came too late.

He watched tensely, fearing Mrs. Marley would also fall victim to the poison, but she drank several mouthfuls without consequence. Finally, Knighton expelled a long breath in relief. Mr. Jekyll had been unaffected by his brandy. And Mrs. Marley, despite her wrinkled nose from the sharp taste, didn’t collapse.

The brandy in Jekyll’s snifter had not been poisoned, nor the bottle they poured it from.

When Mrs. Jekyll glanced across the table and spied the linen towel the maid used to mop up the wine, she frowned. “Get that filthy rag away from my daughter. The smell of it is making her ill!”

The maid threw the stained tea towel to the butler who solemnly folded it over his arm and left the room.

“Was it his heart?” Mr. Jekyll placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She glanced up at him, still hacking and sputtering as she tried to cover her mouth with her handkerchief. Her mother forced her to drink again and slowly the coughs faded as she seemed to grow calmer.

Knighton shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Then what?” Mr. Stephen Hereford asked.

Knighton glanced at him, almost surprised to hear Lord Crowley’s quiet, unassuming uncle speak. He had been silent most of the evening and rarely made any attempt to join the conversation. While Knighton watched, Hereford strode around the table, coming to stand next to the dowager in an oddly protective manner.

Hereford stared at her with the helpless awkwardness of a male faced with a woman’s grief. Then, gray with confusion and dawning horror, his worn face trembled. Conflicting emotions ranged over his features as he recognized the implications. He backed away a step and turned slightly, head bowed as if unable to bear this fresh burden.

When Knighton didn’t speak, Hereford swallowed. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why did you examine his glass? Is there something wrong with the brandy?”

Knighton handed the snifter to him. “Take a whiff, but don’t taste it.”

The older man frowned and took the glass hesitantly in his shaking hand. He swirled the liquid, held it an inch from his nose, and took a deep breath. “I don’t smell anything except brandy.” He grimaced. “Cheap brandy, at that.”

“What about you, Denham?” Knighton took the glass from Mr. Hereford and handed it to Denham.

George Denham calmly imitated the actions of the others. He used his wrist to set the brandy into motion before sniffing. The gesture gave him a surprisingly competent air, reminding Knighton that despite Denham's ruddy face and countryman exterior, he was a gentleman by birth and well-used to moving in good—if not the highest—social circles.

Denham lowered the glass and sneezed abruptly. “Bitter almonds.”

“Hold it up to the candle,” Knighton suggested.

Denham did as instructed and after studying it, he glanced with raised brows at Knighton. Then he picked up one of the remaining glasses and tested the scent before holding it up to compare with Lord Crowley’s snifter. The liquid in the dead man’s snifter was slightly darker.

“Poison?” Denham asked, his voice rising. “Why would a ghost poison him? It doesn’t make sense. Unless it’s revenge. Or retribution?” He frowned and picked up his own glass of brandy. Staring at it, he dumped the contents into one of the half-full glasses before walking over to the sideboard where a fresh bottle of sherry stood. “No sense taking chances,” he said over his shoulder.

After refilling his glass, he returned to the timid Miss Spencer. He offered the glass to her, but she shook her head and refused, crying hopelessly into her handkerchief. Denham patted her awkwardly on the wrist and murmured encouragement, his expression growing ever more bewildered. Finally, he drained the sherry and held the snifter between his thick fingers as if unsure what to do with either the glass or the sobbing woman.

“Prussic acid—cyanide,” Knighton stated, choosing not to reply to Denham’s remark about vengeful spirits. At least there was no doubt about what killed their host, not after catching that tell-tale scent.

And he was thankful he wasn’t the only one who could confirm it. Not everyone could smell the odd, bitter odor of cyanide. Knighton was unfortunately familiar with it from a previous case, and its presence this evening meant their host had been murdered. Knighton was forced to consider if this—and not a harmless, though fraudulent, entertainment—was really what Lord Crowley feared.

Hand shaking, Denham placed his empty glass on the table near Miss Spencer. He stared at his trembling hands before thrusting his fists into his pockets. “You’re sure Lord Crowley was poisoned, then? By cyanide?”

“It does appear that way.”

When the butler glided into the room, Knighton turned to him, only to find Miss Barnard in the way. She spoke quietly and after a moment, the servant bowed and left.

Face solemn, she turned to face Knighton, clasping her hands at her waist. “He’s gone to send a footman for the coroner.”

“Oh, no!” the dowager exclaimed. “No. You should have sent for the doctor. We must send for the doctor. Henry can’t be dead! It's just a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Barnard replied, the sadness in her eyes deepening.

“And the constable,” Knighton said. Earlier, it had annoyed him to find Lord Crowley had spoken to the local constable before reluctantly hiring Knighton on that good man's advice. Since Miss Barnard hadn’t done anything illegal, the constable felt there was nothing he could do, and he’d elected not to come to Rosecrest.

With luck, however, he might have taken the time to investigate Miss Barnard’s background. It would be worth speaking to him to find out.

“Certainly,” she agreed. Miss Barnard called to the butler and caught him just as he stepped into the hallway. “Mr. Graham! Please send a request to the constable to join us. Mr. Gaunt believes he has need of his assistance.”

Knighton threw her an assessing glance, noting the cynical gleam in her eyes. Initially, he had hoped Miss Barnard, like their host, was simply nervous because he was the thirteenth person seated at the table. Now he wondered if her dislike stemmed from knowledge concerning Crowley’s reason for summoning him. Certainly, it wouldn’t be hard for her to guess.

No wonder she’d behaved with such circumspection, at least until the murder.