The Vital Principle (34 page)

Today’s today. Tomorrow, we may be ourselves gone down the drain of Eternity
. —Euripides, c. 485-406 B.C.

“Mr. Graham,” Knighton said. “I want you to obtain two things. First, a damp rag with mold on it, or perhaps moldy bread. Whatever you can find that is musty. Then, a bottle. It must be brown with a cork stopper. Fill the bottle with apricot brandy and bring both items to me.”

“Apricot brandy?” Mr. Gretton scratched under his chin. “Can’t we just make the arrest, sir?”

Mr. Slydel and Dr. Winters arrived while Graham was still occupied on Knighton’s errands. Therefore, a flustered footman brought the coroner and doctor as far as the hallway outside the sitting room. When Dr. Winters saw Knighton and Gretton standing in front of the door, he frowned and shifted his bag from his right hand to his left before he shook their hands.

“So, you let that woman kill another innocent soul,” he commented with asperity. “She should have been locked up after Lord Crowley died. Criminal. Simply criminal!”

“I tried, sir, but Mr. Gaunt—”

“She’s innocent,” Knighton interrupted.

“Innocent?” Winters’ expression turned coldly condescending. “You haven’t let her influence you, have you?”

“No,” Knighton replied, irritated but keeping his relaxed stance. “And, yes, I can prove it. Even to your satisfaction. Tonight, she wasn’t anywhere near the victim, Lady Howard. And she had no motive.”

“Madwomen don't need a reason,” Dr. Winters replied. “And who else would want to kill Lady Howard?”

“No one. It was a miscalculation. The intended victim was the new Lady Crowley,” Knighton said.

“I heard about her,” Mr. Slydel said. “Rumor has it she was Crowley’s maid.”

“You know how rumors are,” Knighton replied with a shrug, uncomfortably aware that he’d picked up Pru’s habit of skirting the truth.

“Sir?” Graham finally returned, treading heavily as he lumbered toward them. He held a wooden tray containing a brown bottle stoppered by a pale piece of new cork and a crumpled linen rag.

Knighton picked up the bottle and uncorked it briefly to sniff. The strong scent of apricots and alcohol burned his nose. It wasn’t quite the same bitter almond smell of Prussic acid, but few would know that.

“Do you know what formonitrile is?” he asked Dr. Winters

“Yes, of course. It’s another name for Prussic acid. Why?”

“It’s what poisoned Lord Crowley. And now, Lady Howard. I’m going to trap your murderer for you and prove Miss Barnard is entirely innocent. At least of murder,” Knighton amended, thinking of her spirit sessions.

She was still a fraud, though much to his annoyance, it didn’t bother him the way it should. But what good was an investigator who did not hold the truth in the highest regard?

Sometimes, the truth was all he had, the only sure thing in an uncertain world.

“You know who the culprit is, then?” Gretton asked.

“Yes. Sadly, I do.”

“Who?” Mr. Slydel interrupted.

One side of Knighton’s mouth pulled up in a half grin. “You’ll see. And we’ll have proof without any pointless accusations. Are you gentlemen ready?”

“What role would you have us play?” Dr. Winters asked, his tone cutting with irritation.

Knighton smiled. “Nothing but what you came here to do. Just stay alert.”

The three men grumbled, but they followed Knighton into the room. Dr. Winters immediately went to the still form of Lady Howard and uncovered her. He stared down for a moment before he placed his case on the floor and carefully began his examination, making precise notes in the black notebook he carried for the purpose.

“Poison,” he announced. “Prussic acid.
Again
.”

While Mr. Jekyll spoke quietly to Dr. Winters, helping him with his gruesome task, Mr. Gretton questioned Mrs. Jekyll and her daughter, Mrs. Marley. There was nothing very helpful that any of the ladies could say.

In the meantime, Knighton picked up a clean cup and the coffee pot. He placed them on the wooden tray next to the brown bottle and walked toward Pru. Halfway across the room, he paused and said, “Mr. Winters, are you sure this formonitrile will help Miss Barnard’s nerves?”

Dr. Winters glanced up, his eyes sparkling with avid curiosity. “Not as effective as laudanum, of course. But it’s all I had with me when you sent word of this latest tragedy. It should do nicely until we can send to the apothecary for something stronger.”

Pru remained seated, staring at Knighton with a perplexed expression. However just as he knew she would, she remained agreeable, always the polite guest despite her mild protest and the small “V” of a frown wrinkling the skin between her eyes.

“But I’m not the least bit nervous. Surely it’s unnecessary.” Her eyes flickered in the direction of Miss Howard who was obviously more in need of a calming potion.

“You’ve had so many shocks, I daresay you’re unaware of your state of mind,” Knighton replied. Standing sideways so Winters and Gretton could see, he set the tray on the table in front of her. He picked up the brown bottle. Then, he uncorked it and poured a liberal dose of the apricot brandy into the cup and filled it with coffee.

She sighed but obediently picked up the cup and took a sip. She wrinkled her nose and swallowed. When she started to place the cup down, Knighton slipped his fingers under the bottom of the cup and pushed it up toward her mouth.

“Another sip, Miss Barnard.”

“It tastes dreadful. And the coffee is quite cold.”

“Another sip,” he insisted.

She took several more before firmly placing the nearly empty cup on the table. “I hope this doesn’t quiet my nerves to the point where I fall asleep where I sit.” She eyed him sternly. “And begin to snore. It would be dreadfully embarrassing.”

“I doubt it,” he said, satisfied. He turned back and nodded at Dr. Winters, who just shrugged. However, he noticed the Jekyll family watching him closely, although they said nothing.

Lord Thompson stood, although he kept his hand on Miss Howard’s shoulder. “What of Miss Howard? She’s in a far greater state of agitation than Miss Barnard. Bring me that tray at once!”

The request exceeded Knighton’s expectations. He had not worried about proving Lord Thompson and Miss Howard innocent, however it was kind of them to be so obliging. He poured out more coffee and added a liberal dose of brandy from the brown bottle. Lord Thompson took the cup and sat again next to Miss Howard, holding it for her while he coaxed her to drink the lukewarm brew.

If Knighton was wrong, the killer could still prove to be one of the missing guests, but he doubted it. At least Lord Thompson, Miss Howard, and Miss Barnard had proved their innocence. They didn’t know enough to refuse to drink a cup theoretically containing poison. The murderer knew what formonitrile was, Knighton was sure of it.

It was time for the final act in the play he was staging.

Taking the musty-smelling rag, Knighton wiped a cup clean and spread the rag out on the tray. He placed the coffee pot and cup on it, before carrying it over to Mrs. Marley’s table. Even before he placed it next to Mrs. Marley’s elbow, she sneezed.

“Excuse me.” She pulled out a handkerchief as an even more violent sneeze erupted.

Feeling cruel, Knighton poured coffee into the cup and held it out to her on the tray. “Perhaps this will help.”

She sniffed and flushed, but politely took the cup. She barely took a sip before coughing. Rubbing her lips, her skin grew redder and damp with perspiration.

“Mama!” she called as the skin around her mouth started swelling as if she had been struck in the face. She pushed at the tray, trying to get Knighton to take it away.

The air rasped in her throat as the reaction ran quickly down her neck. Panting, she fumbled with her reticule. Her fingers searched futilely for something inside.

“Jane,” Mrs. Jekyll leapt to her feet and ran around the table to her daughter. “Jane, where is your medicine?”

Gasping and sweating, Mrs. Marley dumped the contents of her reticule onto the table. A small notebook covered in red leather, the stub of a pencil, several handkerchiefs, and a tiny, round mirror tumbled out. She stared at the table, eyes streaming and swollen, before looking up at her mother. Desperation contorted her face.

“Jane!” Mrs. Jekyll turned toward Knighton. “Give me that bottle, quickly!”

Knighton turned the brown bottle over, showing her it was empty.

“Gone? You used all of it? You fool!” Her voice was low and shook with frantic need. She turned toward Dr. Winters. “You! You must have more. My daughter is choking! She’ll die without her medicine. You must have some!” She leaned over, her hand on Winter’s black sleeve. “Formonitrile—that’s what she uses, ever since she was a child. It takes so little to ease her breathing, surely you must have some! You can’t want her to die—you can’t
let
her die!”

“I’m sorry, Madam,” Dr. Winters replied. He went over to Mrs. Marley and placed a hand on her damp brow before feeling for her pulse. He eyed Knighton, his expression turning grim. “This lady is in serious distress, Mr. Gaunt.” He glanced back at Mrs. Jekyll. “You say formonitrile helps her?”

“Yes! Yes—she’s always used it, just the slightest drop! That’s all she needs!”

Mrs. Marley’s reaction rapidly grew more serious, and Knighton began to feel the cool tingle of fear coursing through him. He had created a more life-threatening reaction than he expected. There was Denham’s packet of Prussic acid in his pocket, but he didn’t know what process, if any, the doctor could use to convert it to formonitrile. And he was reluctant to use it when they had not brought the real murderer onto the stage, yet.

“For God’s sake, do something!” Lord Thompson said. “Can’t you see she’s dying?”

Mrs. Jekyll moaned and grabbed her husband’s sleeve. He stood stiffly, his eyes fixed on his daughter while she choked and coughed, straining to breathe through her swollen throat.

“Mark,
please
!” Mrs. Jekyll pleaded. “You must do something! It’s our daughter, our dear Jane!”

He shook her off, although his face was ashen. The skin, stretched tautly around his sunken eyes, twitched as he watched his daughter struggle for air.

“Mark! You can’t let her die! You can’t!”

“Be quiet!”

“Mark!”

“What do you want me to do, woman?” he asked, his voice harsh.

She gave a gasping moan and clutched his jacket. “You must have it,” she replied, her voice breathy. “Please! Not Jane. Not my
Jane
!”

Jekyll tried to grab his wife’s trembling hands. “Stop this. Stop this at once!” He glanced at Dr. Winters, his eyes dull and sick. “You must have something to help our daughter.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Winters replied, although he tried to assist Mrs. Marley by loosening the back of her dress.

Pru pushed him aside. She ruthlessly undid the tapes and lacing, searching for the corset ties in the back. Dr. Winters fished through his bag for a knife, which she took from him and used to slice through the strings to release Mrs. Marley’s corset. Air wheezed through Mrs. Marley’s throat, but she still coughed wetly, struggling to breathe. Her eyes fluttered. She wavered on the edge of unconsciousness, her lips turning a terrible shade of blue.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Pru asked, her eyes on the doctor's grim face. “She bought a fresh bottle of her medicine from the apothecary just two days ago. She couldn’t have used it all, yet.” She tilted Mrs. Marley’s face up. “Is it in your room?”

The sick woman clutched Pru’s hand. She shook her head, her weeping eyes focused on the table.

“She must have had it in her reticule—where is it?” Pru pushed aside the items on the table, searching for the small brown bottle.

Knighton tensed, preparing to produce Denham’s packet from his pocket. He couldn’t let Mrs. Marley die.

He would have to find another way to trap the murderer.

“Mark!” Mrs. Jekyll begged. “Please don’t do this! Don’t let her die, too!”

He pushed his wife away. She stared at his cold, gray face before she tore at him, her hands plunging into his pockets despite his efforts to thwart her.

“It’s here!” she said, her voice high with triumph as she pulled a brown bottle out of her husband’s right pocket. She tried to pour the contents into her daughter’s coffee cup, but no drop emerged. She shook it violently, before peering into the bottle.

“The cork!” Mrs. Jekyll said, holding the bottle in front of her husband’s face. “The cork! You forgot to put the cork back!” Her fingers fumbled into his pocket again before they extracted the missing stopper.

She looked in anguish at her daughter, now lying on the floor, barely breathing. Mrs. Marley lay unconscious, her skin paler than the dead woman next to her.

“Oh, my God,
please
!” She rounded on her husband. “You didn’t put the cork back! It ran out in your pocket—every precious drop. And now my Jane will die and for what? A parcel of land your family lost years ago! Gamblers and scoundrels—the lot of you!”

“Be quiet, Mary,” Jekyll said roughly. “Quiet!”