The Vital Principle (35 page)

Mrs. Jekyll cast him one last, dark glance filled with anguish and fury before kneeling over her daughter and rubbing her hands.

Mr. Gretton moved to Jekyll and patted the pocket Mrs. Jekyll had searched. “Damp,” he said, sniffing his fingers. He shrugged and held them up to let Knighton smell the tips.

“Prussic acid,” Knighton confirmed. He pulled out Denham’s packet and tossed it to Winters. “Here, I don’t know the proportions used to make Mrs. Marley’s tincture. Or if it can even be used for that purpose.”

Knighton’s muscles tensed when Mark Jekyll clenched his fists, staring with dead, hate-filled eyes at him. But Jekyll didn’t move, he stood and stared at them all, his face flushed with suppressed rage.

“Ticklish,” Winters confirmed, glancing around the room. “Good thing I actually have a bottle of prepared formonitrile. I don't like the stuff, but sometimes it is necessary.” A small pitcher of water rested on one of the tables, and he gestured to it impatiently. Knighton scooped it up and stood over him while the doctor fussily prepared a mild solution. “I’ve always disagreed with the use of formonitrile for these seasonal coughs. Too dangerous by far. Too easy for someone to be poisoned.”

“Without it, my daughter would be dead!” Mrs. Jekyll replied through stiff lips.

“Yes, well,” Dr. Winters mumbled to himself as he mixed, tapping the stirring spoon against the side of the glass.

By the time he had the tincture ready, Knighton was afraid it was too late. Winters harrumphed to himself before clumsily getting down on his knees and lifting Mrs. Marley into a sitting position. Holding her head against his chest, he carefully poured some of the liquid between her blue lips.

She coughed. He pushed her forward and slapped her back before bringing her head up to force her to drink another mouthful. The process was agonizing to watch as Mrs. Marley coughed and wheezed, struggling to breathe. Eventually she opened her bloodshot eyes, weak and still gasping, but mercifully alive.

Knighton caught Pru’s steady gaze and flushed at the anger in her eyes.

Apparently, it was
her
turn to disapprove of
his
actions.

He who doesn't lose his wits over certain things has no wits to lose.
—Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, 1729-1781

Pru stared at Knighton, noting that at least he had the decency to blush with embarrassment. He had played a ridiculous and deadly little game with them that resulted in Mrs. Marley’s nearly fatal coughing fit. And it was obvious that formonitrile—the name Mrs. Marley used when she collected her medicine from the apothecary—was another term for Prussic acid.

He could have warned her. What would he have done if she had declined to drink his “sedative?” Declared her to be the murderer?

She detested the idea of being put to the test that way. And fool that she was, she had thought he already believed she was innocent. Apparently not. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t forgive her for being a fraud.

Well, now she could not forgive him.

Turning back to the recovering woman, Pru smoothed Mrs. Marley’s damp hair away from her brow and picked up the shawl she dropped when she started coughing. Pru draped it over her shoulders and tucked it around her. The October air was chilly, and Mrs. Marley’s dress was soaked with sweat. A draft billowed over the floor in rolling waves, chilling them all.

Noting Pru’s actions, Mrs. Jekyll put an arm around her daughter and gently pushed Pru away. She murmured soothing endearments while Dr. Winters monitored his patient’s pulse.

Pru stood, brushing her hands off on her skirts and pulling her own gray shawl more closely around her shoulders. A wave of exhaustion cascaded over her. So much had happened, so many terrible things.

“So, Mr. Jekyll,” Mr. Gretton said. “Would you care to explain why you foully murdered Lord Crowley and then this poor lady?”

Jekyll stared at him, his brown eyes bleak. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Come, sir. We caught you fair enough, as the saying is.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You had the poison, sir. Your pocket is still damp from where it were a-leaking.”

Jekyll gestured toward Pru. “She murdered them both.”

“She was nowhere near Lady Howard this evening,” Knighton said, coming to stand near Pru.

She glanced up at him, still angry despite his words. Her temper nearly broke until she felt the palm of his hand press against her lower back as if to lending her much needed warmth and support.

“She was close enough to Lord Crowley,” Jekyll said.

“And so were you,” Knighton observed.

Mr. Gretton rocked back and forth from his heels to his toes. “And she drank that poison—or at least what was called formonitrile.”

“Poison? My daughter’s medicine? That is clearly ridiculous—a ruse.”

“Prussic acid, Jekyll,” Knighton interjected softly.

“What possible motive could I have for killing Lady Howard and Lord Crowley?” Jekyll asked.

Knighton seemed to slip naturally into the role of head interrogator. “Land.”

When he paused, Pru felt his hand brush her back before moving to embrace her waist. She raised her eyes. He was staring at her with a smile flickering over his mouth, looking more than ever like a Spaniard relentlessly seeking the eternal truth.

“Ironically,” he said. “That is precisely what Miss Barnard saw the other day when she fainted during that spirit session. I suppose Denham was right all along about her.”

A hot blush stole over her face, burning until she glanced away. Her vision of plowed land, if that’s what it was, had only confused her. She hadn’t known what it meant, or if it was anything other than an illusion created by her worry and lightheadedness.

“Land? What does Lady Howard have to do with land?” Jekyll objected. “You must believe me to be a complete madman if that’s the motive you ascribe to me.”

“Lady Howard was a mistake. You were attempting to poison Lady Crowley and her unborn babe.”

“Then I was remarkably incompetent.”

“Yes. You were, weren’t you?”

“If it was this land I wanted, why did I refrain from poisoning the dowager and Mr. Hereford?”

“Because they were willing to sell you what you wanted. But the new Lady Crowley wouldn’t have been so willing, would she? Particularly if she gave birth to a son and heir. Shall I recite it for you, verse and line? Your family lost that rich farmland years ago—gambled it away. The Jekylls lost it to the Crowleys, and it still rankles. All those orchards and fertile fields, the best farmland in the area. And the Jekylls have had to make do with little more than rocks and weeds since then. It must have galled you to see Henry Crowley enjoy the fruits of the farmland you believed should still belong to your family. Especially when the Crowleys were rich enough without it.

“And so you tried to put an end to Crowley before he could marry and produce an heir who might keep that land out of your grasp for yet another generation. It must have been a terrible shock to discover he was already married with a child on the way.”

“Married to a common maid. A
tart
.”

“Perhaps, but legal all the same. And you’ve done your own family a worse disservice by becoming a common murderer.”

“No. Not a disservice.” Mrs. Jekyll interrupted. “Perhaps this is for the best.” Her hands twisted into her dark skirts, twisting the heavy fabric. “I don’t know how much longer I could bear his anger over what his father did, gambling away that bit of property. As if he’d lost the crown jewels. No.” She hugged her daughter and tenderly pushed the hair back from her pale, damp face. “I’ll go live with my Jane near the sea. I don’t care if I never see this dreadful place again. Thank the Lord it’s over. Finished.”

Pru stepped away from the warmth of Knighton's hand. She helped Mrs. Marley to her feet and provided support as she and Mrs. Jekyll guided her to her room. It felt like a veritable escape from prison to leave the men to their troubles. She couldn’t bear to watch Mr. Jekyll led away to that miserable little cell in the village with the chair standing beneath that horribly convenient beam.

If I love you, what business is it of yours?
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832

The next morning, Pru arose early. Staring out at the chilly, frost-laden fields, she felt a strong urge to leave. Unfortunately, there was no place for her to go except an inn. Although she had written to several newly widowed women, not one suggested Pru come for a visit. They all seemed quite content to be widows and leave the mysteries of the afterlife to their dead spouses.

Striding down the stairs, she paused on the second floor. Rosecrest held far too many unpleasant memories. Her thoughts kept returning to Knighton, or more properly, Mr. Gaunt. One kiss did not entitle them to the use of Christian names.

But each time she thought of him, the tightness in her chest increased. She started down the flight of stairs and caught sight of a movement.

“Miss Barnard,” Knighton called from the bottom of the stairs. He climbed up rapidly, his long legs skipping every other step. “Are you leaving?”

She shook her head, however, he grabbed her arm before she could ease away. Tugging her along behind him, he walked down the hallway to the yellow sitting room. His face was flushed from being outside, and brisk, cold air clung to him like a cloud of October morning. He obviously had been up early and gone for a walk despite the chilly mist.

“I’m considering where I’ll go, once I ensure the dowager is well,” she said at last.

An inn would have to do if they could find an inexpensive one. But how to get to an inn?

“The dowager!” He grinned, looking like a mischievous urchin about to slip his fingers into a rich man’s purse. “Surely she has enough people taking care of her. An entire houseful, in fact.”

“Perhaps.”

“Have you forgiven me for slipping the cook’s apricot brandy into your coffee last night?” He asked the question lightly, but Pru felt brittle tension beneath his words.

“I suppose it was better than formonitrile.”

“You deserved it after playing at those charades.” He chuckled. “Why do you undertake them? You know they’re nothing but a foolish fraud.”

“Despite my vision of farmlands?”

“You said
dirt
.” He smiled though his eyes burned into hers.

“Dirt, farmland, it’s the same, isn’t it?”

“I’ll grant you that. However, it doesn’t answer my question. For once, can’t you give me an unequivocal reply?”

“What does it matter what I do?” she parried. She couldn’t help baiting him, hoping to see his lop-sided grin.

“You don’t intend to continue—”

“Duping poor old widows for the chance to eat at their tables and sleep in their lovely guest rooms?” she cut him off.

“I—”

“Oh, let me guess. It offends your sense of honor, I suppose. Your obsession with the truth.”

“The truth
did
free you in the end.”

“Free me for what?”

“Free you to do as you please.” He clasped her hand. “And before you argue, let me confess that my obsession with the truth compels me to ask this: where can I find you when you leave Rosecrest?”

“Find me?” The room seemed suddenly overheated and devoid of air. She shifted, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze and afraid of what he would see in her face.

She realized she hoped he would say something, give a hint that their kiss had been something more than a moment’s fancy.

He sighed and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Perhaps I can phrase this so even you won’t misunderstand.”

“I assure you my understanding is quite acute.”

His eyes glittered as his grin grew more mischievous. “As you expressed a dislike of genteel professions such as governess or companion, I was hoping you might consider another form of employment.”

“Employment?” she asked, her voice sharp.

Not affection, then. Respect.

The thought hurt, though logically, she knew that she should be honored to have earned his respect considering how they met.

“Yes. If your funds are...insufficient, Second Sons—”

“An
inquiry agency
? You want to
hire
me?”

“Did I phrase it badly?”

“No. There is no way you could phrase such an offer in any acceptable way.” Her mouth twisted. “I may not have sufficient funds to afford even a lawn handkerchief, but I'm still—”

“Genteel? A member of the gentry? Is your pride the most important thing to you?”

“It's all I have left. All that my father managed to leave me.”

“I see—”

“I'm not sure you do. I—I'm not prepared to bear the veiled insults and snubs from my friends. It's bad enough, now, but at least most of my friends will speak to me in public. Or they
were
willing, before all of this happened. I can only suppose they’ll continue. Although, that’s beside the point.” She waved her hand, striving for complete honesty. “You're strong and a man. You're indifferent to the opinion of others. I'm not prepared.... Well, no. I'm sorry. I can't. Not at the moment. I can’t explain it any more plainly, or truthfully.”

“You give me too much credit. I'm not entirely as indifferent as you might think.”

She searched his face, recognizing the well-worn pain in his eyes. But she had told him naught but the truth. She was not ready to give up her social standing.

“I understand, truly.” She smiled. “And you, sir, have some explaining to do. I can't understand why you would present me with such an offer after you proved how little you trusted me last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes. That foolish game with the poison.”

He laughed. “That was not for my benefit. That was to demonstrate your innocence to Mr. Gretton, Mr. Slydel and Mr. Winters. Those three gentlemen didn’t know you as well as I did. In fact, I trusted you to do precisely as you did and not throw that cup of lukewarm coffee in my face, much as I may have deserved it.”

“Well, you did deserve it.” She laughed. “Friendship, then?”

He nodded and grinned crookedly. “Most assuredly. Since I can’t convince you to become an inquiry agent. Though I wish you’d consider it. I—there is more I wished to say to you, but we’ve known each other such a short time. It’s too soon. So I’d hoped if you would consent….”

“I see.” Her heart lightened at what he implied. They did not know one another well enough, yet. And if she accepted his offer, they would have time to become better acquainted.

It tempted her, but…. She wasn’t ready, yet. She couldn’t change her life so dramatically while there was still hope the affair at Rosecrest would be forgotten and she could eventually resume her peripatetic life. She refused to throw everything away just because of her temporarily straightened circumstances.

“Not at the moment, at any rate,” she temporized, trying to remain calm and not panic at the thought of losing a fleeting opportunity.

“I still have a chance, then, to convince you?” He held up a hand when she started to speak. “Don’t answer. Just tell me where you’ll be.”

She smothered a laugh and replied with mock sternness, “I find it odd that you’re asking for such help. A renowned inquiry agent like you? Surely it’s not beyond your powers to locate me, if necessary.”

“I don’t intend to mislay you,” he replied. “So at least keep up your correspondence and number me among your friends. Someone who must know where you are at all times.”

“If you insist.” She considered her plans and finally remarked, “Houpton House might be interesting, Mr. Denham—”

“You are
not
going to visit Denham.”

“Why not?”

“It’s ludicrous. And he just got married.”

“Mr. Denham and his wife are not ludicrous. Far from it.” Smiling, she interrupted, suddenly feeling as light as a feather. Perhaps he would call upon her if he missed her sufficiently. She certainly hoped so. “So if you find yourself unable to solve another case, you may find me there—at least temporarily. And never forget,” she added sweetly, “the truth will set you free, Mr. Gaunt. Go forth and be
very
free.”

Knighton laughed and shook his head. A certain gleam in his eyes made her think he would not leave her to kick her heels too long at Houpton House.

She’d thrown down a glove, and he’d picked it up. Only time would tell what their next meeting would bring.

THE END

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