chapter Three
"I'm very sorry." The doctor was still gentle. He turned to Joshua. "If I can assist with arrangements, of course I shall be happy to."
"Thank you," Joshua accepted.
"We shall have to inform the rest of her family," Grandmama said loudly. "Bedelia whatever-her-name-is."
"I have been thinking how on earth I can write such a letter," Caroline acknowledged. "What to say that will make it...better sounds absurd. If I simply say that we are terribly sad to inform them, will that be best?" She looked worried, and "sad" would be no exaggeration. There was a grief in her face that was quite genuine.
Grandmama's mind was racing. What was she allowing herself to think? Heart slowing down? Nuts that everyone knew were indigestible? One dose of peppermint water? Had Maude been murdered? Preposterous! That's what came of allowing one's daughter to marry a policeman. This was Caroline's fault. If she had been a mother of the slightest responsibility at all she would never have permitted Charlotte to do such a thing! Thomas Pitt, as a law enforcement official, was not a suitable husband. He had absolutely nothing to commend him, except possibly height?
But if someone like Pitt could solve a crime, then most certainly Grandmama could. She would not be outwitted by a gamekeeper's son, half her age!
And if Maude Barrington had been murdered, then Mariah Ellison would see that whoever had done so was brought to justice and answered to the last penny for such an act. Maude might have been an absurd woman, and a complete nuisance, but there was such a thing as justice.
Grandmama felt as if a light and a warmth had gone out of the air and a heaviness settled in its place, which she did not understand at all.
"You should not write," she said firmly to Caroline. "It is far too dreadful and sudden a thing to put in a letter, when apparently they live so near. Snake, isn't it? Or something like that."
"Snave," Caroline corrected. "Yes. It's about four or five miles away. Still well within the Marsh. Do you think I should go over and tell them myself?" Her face tightened. "Yes, of course you're right."
"No!" Grandmama said quickly. "I agree it should be done personally. After all, she was their sister, however they treated her. Perhaps they will even feel an overwhelming guilt now." She thought that extremely unlikely. They were obviously quite shameless. "But I will go. You have arrangements to make for Christmas, and Joshua would miss you. And I imagine I actually spent more time with Maude than you did anyway. I may be able to be of some comfort, inform them a little of her last days." She sounded sententious and she knew it. She watched Caroline's expression acutely. It would be a disaster if she were to come, too; in fact it would make the entire journey a waste of time. In order to have a hope of accomplishing anything she would be obliged to tell Caroline what she suspected with increasing certainty the more she considered it.
A spark of hope lit in Caroline's eyes. "But that is a great deal to ask of you, Mama-in-law."
Of course she was dubious. Mariah Ellison had never in her life been known to discomfort herself on someone else's behalf. It was totally out of character. But then Caroline did not know her very well. For nearly twenty years they had lived under the same roof, and for all of it Grandmama had lived a lie. She had hidden her misery and self-loathing under the mantle of widowhood. But how could she have done anything else? The shame of her past continually burned inside her as if the physical pain were still raw and bleeding and she could barely walk. She had had to lie, for her son's sake. And the lie had grown bigger and bigger inside her, estranging her from everyone.
"You did not ask it of me," she said more sharply than she meant to. "I have offered. It is the answer that makes the greatest sense." Should she add that Caroline and Joshua had made her welcome here and it was a small repayment? No. Caroline would never believe that. They had allowed her in, she was not welcome, nor was she stupid enough to imagine that she could be. Caroline would be suspicious.
"I have nothing else to do," she added more realistically. "I am bored." That was believable. She was certainly not about to admit to Caroline, of all people, that she actually had admired Maude Barrington and felt a terrible anger that she should have been abandoned by her family, and very possibly murdered by one of them. She waited for Caroline's reaction. She must not push too hard.
"Are you certain you would not mind?" Caroline was still unconvinced.
"Quite certain," she replied. "It is still a pleasant morning. I shall compose myself, have a little luncheon, and then go. That is, if you can spare the carriage to take me there? I doubt there is any other way of travel in this benighted spot!" A sudden idea occurred to her. "Perhaps you fear that..."
"No," Caroline said quickly. "It is most generous of you, and I think entirely appropriate. It shows far more care than any letter could do, no matter how sincere, or well written. Of course the coachman will take you. As you say, the weather is still quite clement. This afternoon would be perfect. I do appreciate it."
Grandmama smiled, trying to show less triumph than she felt. "Then I shall prepare myself," she replied, finishing her tea and rising to her feet. She intended to remain at Snave for as long as it required to discover the truth of Maude's death, and to prove it. Knowing alone was hardly adequate. Her visit might well stretch into several days. She must succeed. It was not a matter of sentimentality, it was a matter of principle, and she was a woman to whom such things mattered.
PART TWO
THE JOURNEY WAS BUMPY AND COLD, EVEN with a traveling rug wrapped around from the waist downward. There was a bitter, whining wind coming in off the sea, though now and again it cleared the sky of clouds. The light was chill and hard over the low-lying heath. This was the invasion coast where Julius Caesar had landed fifty-five years before the birth of Christ. No such thing as Christmas then! He had gone home and been murdered the following year. That had been by his own people too, those he had known and trusted for years.
Eleven centuries after that, William, Duke of Normandy, had landed with his knights and bowmen and killed King Harold at Hastings, just around the coast from here. Somehow she was faintly satisfied with Caesar coming. Rome had been the center of the world then. England had been proud to be part of that Empire. But William's invasion still rankled, which was silly, since it was the best part of a thousand years ago! But it was the last time England had been conquered, and it annoyed her.
King Philip of Spain 's armada would probably have landed here too, if the wind had not destroyed it. And Napoleon Bonaparte. Only he went to Russia instead, which had proved to be a bad idea.
Was this a bad idea, too? Arrogant, stupid, the result of a fevered imagination? But how could she possibly turn back? She would look like a complete fool! To be disliked was bad enough. To be despised as well-or worse, pitied-would be unendurable.
Looking out of the carriage window as the sky darkened and the already lowering sun was smeared with gray, she could not imagine why anyone would choose to be here if they did not have to. Except Maude, of course! She thought these flat, wide spaces and wind-raging skies were beautiful with their banners of cloud, marsh grasses, and air that always smelled of salt.
Perhaps she did not remember it frozen solid, or so shrouded in fog that you could not make out your hand in front of your face! That was exactly what would be useful now, some dreadful weather, so she could not return to St. Mary in the Marsh for several days. She had undertaken a very big task, and the more she thought of it the bigger it seemed, and the more hopeless. It was in a way a comfort that she could not turn back, or she might have. She had no idea what these people were like, and not a shred of authority to back up what she was intending to do. Or to try. It might have been better after all if Charlotte were here. She had meddled so often surely she had acquired a knack for it by now?
But she wasn't here. Grandmama would have to make the best of it by herself. Forward regardless. She had intelligence and determination, which might be enough. Oh-and right on her side as well, of course. It was monstrous that Maude Barrington should have been murdered, if she had been. But whatever the truth of that, they had still turned her away, and at Christmas. That in itself was an unforgivable offense, and on Maude's behalf, she felt it to the core.
The distance was covered far too quickly. It was only a handful of miles, forty minutes' journey at a brisk trot, far less as the crow flew. Every lane seemed to double back on itself as if to circumnavigate each field and cross every ditch twice. The sky had cleared again and the light was long and low, making the shivering grass bright and casting networks of shadow through the bare trees when the carriage drove into the tiny village of Snave. There was really only one big house. The rest seemed to be cottages and farm buildings. Why in heaven's name would anyone choose to live here? It was no more than a widening in the road.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and waited with pounding heart for the coachman to open the door for her. A dozen times she had rehearsed what she was going to say, and now when she needed it, it had gone completely out of her mind.
Outside in the driveway the wind was like a knife-edge and she found herself rocking on her feet in the strength of it. She grasped onto her cloak to keep it from flying away, and stamped up to the front door, leaning heavily on her stick. The coachman pulled on the doorbell for her, and stood back to wait.
It was answered almost immediately. Someone must have seen the carriage arrive. An extremely ordinary-looking butler spoke to her civilly enough.
"Good afternoon," she replied. "I am Mrs. Mariah Ellison. Mr. Joshua Fielding, with whom Miss Barrington was staying, is my son-in-law." The exact nature of their relationship could be explained later, if necessary. "I am afraid I have extremely distressing news to bring to the family, the sort of thing that can really only be told in person."
He looked alarmed. "Oh, dear. Please do come in, Mrs. Ellison." He opened the door wider for her and backed away a little.
"Thank you," she accepted. "May I ask you the favor of a little warmth and refreshment for my coachman also, and perhaps water for the horses, and at least in the meantime, shelter from this rather cutting wind?"
"Of course! Of course! Do you..." He swallowed. "Do you have Miss Barrington with you?"
"No, indeed not," she replied, following him inside after a brief glance behind her to make certain that the coachman had heard, and would drive around to the stables and make himself known.
Inside the hall she could not help but glance around. It was not a house of London fashion; nevertheless it was well furnished and extremely comfortable. The floor was very old oak, stained dark with possibly centuries of use. The walls were paneled, but lighter, and hung with many paintings, mercifully not the usual portraits of generations of forebears with expressions sour enough to turn the milk. Instead they were glowing still lifes of fruit and flowers, and one or two pastoral scenes with enormous skies and restful cows. At least someone had had very good taste. It was also blessedly warm.
"The family is all together, ma'am," the butler continued gravely. "Would you perhaps prefer to tell Mrs. Harcourt this news in private? She is Miss Barrington's elder sister."
"Thank you. She will know best how to inform the rest of the family."
The butler thereupon led her to a doorway off to the side. He opened it to show her into a very agreeable room, lighting the lamps for her and poking up a fire, which had almost gone out. He placed a couple of pieces of coal on it judiciously, then excused himself and left. He did not offer her tea. Perhaps he was too alarmed at the news, even though he did not yet know what it was. Judging by his manner, he expected a disgrace rather than a tragedy-which in itself was interesting.
She stood by the fire, trying to warm herself. Her heart was still thumping and she had difficulty keeping her breath steady.
The door opened and a woman of great beauty came in, closing it behind her. She was perhaps sixty, with auburn hair softening to rather more gold than copper, and the clear, fair skin that so often goes with such coloring. Her features were refined, her eyes large and blue. Her mouth was perfectly shaped. She bore little resemblance to Maude. It was not easy to think of them as sisters. No one would have called Maude beautiful. What had made her face so attractive was intelligence, and a capacity for feeling and imagination, a soul of inner joy. There was no echo of such things in this woman's face. In fact she looked afraid, and angry. Her clothes were up to the moment in fashion, and perfectly cut with the obligatory shoulders and high crowned sleeves.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison," she said with cool politeness. "I am Bedelia Harcourt. My butler tells me that you have driven all the way from St. Mary in the Marsh with unfortunate news about my sister. I hope she has not"-she hesitated delicately-"embarrassed you?"
Grandmama felt a fury of emotion rise up inside her so violently she was overwhelmed by it, almost giddy. She wanted to rage at the woman, even slap her perfect face. However, that would be absurd and the last way to detect anything. She was quite sure Pitt would not have been so...so amateur!
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Harcourt." She controlled herself with a greater effort than she had ever exercised over her temper before. "But the news I have is very bad indeed. That is why I came personally rather than have anyone write a letter to you." She watched intently to see if there were the slightest betraying foreknowledge in Bedelia's face, and saw nothing. "I am afraid Miss Barrington passed away in her sleep last night. I am so very sorry." That at least was sincere. She was amazed how sorry she was.
Bedelia stared at her as if the words had no meaning that she could grasp. "Passed away?" she repeated. She put her hand up to her mouth. "Maude? But she never even said she was ill! I should have known! Oh, how terrible. How very terrible."
"I am sorry," Grandmama said yet again. "The maid knocked on my door. I was in the same part of the house. I went to her immediately, but Miss Barrington must have died early in the night. She was...quite cold. We called a doctor, naturally."
"Oh, dear." Bedelia stepped backward and almost folded up into the chair behind her. It was a collapse, and yet it was oddly graceful. "Poor Maude. How I wish she had said something. She was too...too reticent...too brave."
Grandmama remembered Bedelia's letter to Joshua saying that she would not have Maude in the house because they had other important guests, and she found it extremely difficult not to remind her of that. But to do so would make an enemy of her, and then gaining any knowledge would be impossible. Really, this detecting required greater sacrifices than she had foreseen.
"I am deeply sorry for coming bearing such painful news," she said instead. "I cannot imagine what a shock it must be for you. I spent a little time with Miss Barrington and she was a delightful person. And I admit that to me she appeared to be in the most excellent health. I can understand your shock."
Bedelia raised her eyes and looked up at her. "She...she had lived abroad for some time, in very harsh climates. It must have affected her more than we appreciated. Possibly more than she appreciated herself."
Grandmama sat down in the other chair opposite Bedelia. "She spoke somewhat of Marrakech, and I believe Persia. And Egypt also. Was she there for some time?"
"Years," Bedelia replied, straightening up. "Since she left, shortly before I was married, and that is all but forty years ago. She must have lived in a style far more...injurious to her health than we had realized. Perhaps she did not fully know it herself."
"Perhaps not," Grandmama agreed. Then a thought occurred to her. Sitting here being pleasant and questioning nothing was unlikely to gain her any knowledge. Pitt would have done better. "Or maybe she was only too well aware that she was not in good health, and that is why she returned to England, and her family, the people to whom she was closest in the world?"
Bedelia's magnificent eyes opened wider and were momentarily as hard and cold as the midwinter sea.
Grandmama looked back at her without so much as blinking.
Bedelia let out her breath slowly. "I suppose you could be right. No such thought had crossed my mind. Like you, I imagined her to be in the most excellent health. It seems we were both tragically mistaken."
"She said nothing that could lead you to expect this?" Grandmama felt most discourteous to press the matter, but justice came before good manners.
Bedelia hesitated, as if she could not make up her mind how to answer. "I can think of nothing," she said after a moment. "I confess I am utterly devastated. My mind does not seem to function at all. I have never lost anyone so...so very close to me before."
"Your parents are still alive?" Grandmama said in amazement.
"Oh, no," Bedelia corrected herself quickly. "I meant of my own generation. My parents were excellent people, of course! But distant. A sister is...is very dear. Perhaps one only realizes it when they are gone. The void left behind is greater than one can conceive beforehand."
You are overplaying it, Grandmama thought to herself. You wouldn't even have her in the house! Outwardly she smiled. It was a totally artificial expression.
"You are very naturally suffering from shock," she commiserated. "When one's own generation passes away it is a reminder of mortality, the shadow of death across one's own path. I remember how I felt when my husband died." So she did-the most marvelous liberation of her life. Even if she could tell no one, and had to pretend to be devastated, and wear mourning for the rest of her days, like the Queen.
"Oh, I am sorry!" Bedelia said quickly. "You poor soul! And now you have come all the way in this weather to bring this news to me personally. And I am sitting here without even offering you tea. My wits are completely scattered. I still have my beloved Arthur, how can I complain of anything? Perhaps poor Maude has gone to a better place. She was never a happy creature. I shall allow that to be my comfort." She rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily.
"Thank you, that is most kind of you," Grandmama accepted. "I must admit it has been a dreadful day, and I am quite exhausted. I am so glad you have your husband. He will no doubt be a great strength to you. One can be very...alone."
Bedelia's face softened in concern. "I can scarcely imagine it. I have always been so fortunate. This room is a little chill. Would you care to come through to the withdrawing room where it is far warmer? We shall all take tea and consider what must be done. Of course if you prefer to return to St. Mary in the Marsh as soon as possible, we shall understand."
"Thank you," Grandmama said weakly. "I should be most grateful for as long a rest as I may take, without imposing upon you. And certainly tea would be very welcome." She also rose to her feet, as unsteadily as she could without risking actually falling over, which would be ridiculous, and only to be resorted to if all else failed.
Bedelia led the way back across the hall to the withdrawing room, and Grandmama followed, refusing to offer her arm to the younger woman. She must be consistent about her own exhaustion or she might be disbelieved.
The withdrawing room was spacious also and the warmth from the enormous fire engulfed them both as soon as they entered. There was too much furniture for more modern tastes; carved sideboards, heavily stuffed sofas and chairs with antimacassars on all of them. There were also hard-backed chairs by the walls with fat leather-upholstered seats and slightly bowed legs, and several footstools with tassels around the edges. A brightly colored Turkish rug was worn duller where possibly generations of feet had passed. On the walls were embroidered samplers, paintings of every variety large and small, and several stuffed animals in glass cases, even a case full of butterflies as dry as silk. The colors were mostly hot: golds, browns, and ocher reds. Caroline would have thought it oppressive. Grandmama was annoyed to find it very agreeable, indeed almost familiar.
The people in it were entirely another matter. She was introduced to them, and Bedelia was obliged to explain her presence to them.
"My dears." Everyone turned to her. "This is Mrs. Ellison, who has most graciously come in person rather than send a message to tell us some terrible news." She turned to Grandmama. "I am certain you would prefer to sit down, perhaps by the fire? May I introduce you to my sister, Mrs. Agnes Sullivan." She indicated a woman whose superficial resemblance to her was explained by the relationship. They appeared of a similar height, although Mrs. Sullivan did not rise as the three men had done. Her coloring had probably been similar to Bedelia's in youth, but now it was scattered with more gray and the dark areas were duller. Her features were less finely chiseled, and her expression, apart from a certain sadness, was much gentler. Her clothes, although well cut, managed to look commonplace.
"How do you do, Mrs. Sullivan," Grandmama said formally.
"And her husband, Mr. Zachary Sullivan," Bedelia continued.
Zachary bowed very slightly. He was a slender man with brown hair, now graying at the temples. His face also was pleasant, but marked by a certain sense of loss, as if he had failed to achieve something that mattered to him too much to forget.
"My daughter-in-law, Clara, and my son, Randolph," Bedelia continued, indicating in one sweep a young man whose coloring resembled hers, although his features did not, being considerably stronger and blunter. The woman beside him was handsome enough in a powerful way, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and with brows rather too heavy.
Bedelia smiled, in spite of the occasion. "And my husband Arthur," she finished, turning to a remarkably handsome man whose dark hair was now iron gray. His eyes held a wit and life that captured attention instantly, and his smile at Grandmama showed perfect teeth.
"Welcome to Snave, Mrs. Ellison," he said warmly. "I am sorry it is distressing news that brings you. May I offer you tea, or would you prefer something more robust, such as a glass of sherry? I know it is early, but the wind is miserable and you have to be chilled, and perhaps tired also."
"That is most generous of you, and understanding." Grandmama made her way over to the fire, and the seat Zachary had left vacant for her. Whoever was guilty of having killed Maude, if indeed someone had, she hoped it was not Arthur Harcourt.
"What is it you have to tell us, Mrs. Ellison?" Agnes Sullivan asked with a tremor in her voice.
"I am afraid Miss Barrington passed away in her sleep last night," Grandmama replied solemnly. "I believe it must have been peaceful, and she seemed to be in excellent health and spirits right until the last moment. She made no remark as to feeling unwell. I am so sorry." She glanced rapidly from one to the other of them, trying to judge their reactions. Not that she was sure she could tell guilt from shock anyway, or from grief for that matter.
Zachary looked least surprised, rather more puzzled, as if he had not fully understood the meaning of her words.
Agnes gave a gasp and her hand flew to her mouth in a gesture of stopping herself from crying out, oddly like Bedelia's five minutes before. She was very pale.
"Poor Aunt Maude," Randolph murmured. "I'm so sorry, Mama." He looked at Bedelia with concern.
Clara Harcourt said nothing. Perhaps as one who had barely known Maude she felt it more appropriate not to speak.
Arthur Harcourt's olive complexion was a muddy color, neither white nor gray, and his eyes seemed to have lost focus. What was he feeling? Was that the horror of guilt now that the act was real and not merely dreamed?
"I am sorry to bring you such news." Grandmama felt compelled to fill in the silence that seemed to choke the room. The mere flickering of the fire sounded like a sheet torn in the wind.
"It...it was good of you," Agnes stammered. "Such a terrible thing for you...a guest in your house...a virtual stranger."
Suddenly a quite brilliant idea lit in Grandmama's mind. It went up like a flare of light. She could almost feel the heat of it in her face. "Oh, not at all!" she said with feeling. "We talked for hours, Maude and I." She was stunned at her own audacity. "She told me so much about...oh, of any number of things. Her feelings, her experiences, where she had been and the people she had met." She waved her hands for emphasis. "Believe me, there are those I have been acquainted with for years about whom I know far less. I have never made such excellent friends with anyone so rapidly, or with such a natural affection." That was a monstrous lie-wasn't it? "I must admit her trust in me was most heartwarming, and that was a great deal the reason why I could not possibly allow anyone else to come to you now," she hurried on. "I shall never forget Maude, or the confidence she placed in me regarding her life and its meaning." It was an extraordinary feeling to have made such statements as if they were true, as if she and Maude had become instant and total friends.
She realized with a flutter of absurdity, even of sweetness, that it was not completely a lie. Maude had told her more of meaning in a couple of days than most of her acquaintances had in years, although not the personal details she implied to her wretched family!
And grudgingly, like the lancing of a boil, she admitted that she had actually liked Maude, at least more than she had expected to, considering the gross imposition of having her in Caroline's home for Christmas-uninvited!
Bedelia stared at her incredulously. "Really? But you knew her for barely a day...or two!"
"But we had little to do but talk to each other. She was fascinating at the luncheon and dinner table, but even more so when we were out walking, just the two of us. I was very flattered that she should tell me so much. I found myself speaking equally frankly to her, and finding her most gentle and free from critical judgment. It was a quite...quite wonderful experience," she added too quickly. She said it purely to frighten them into believing she knew something of whoever it was who had murdered Maude, if indeed they had. This was a deviousness added to her new grief. She intended them to think her too desolate to consider the long carriage ride in the dark to go home again!
She also found, to her dismay, that she wished quite painfully that it were all true. She had not been anything like such friends with Maude. Nor had she confided in her the agonies of her own life, the shame she had carried for years that she had not had the courage to leave her abusive husband and flee abroad as his first wife had done!
But it was startlingly sweet to think that Maude might have sympathized rather than despising her for a coward, as she despised herself. There would have been nothing in the world more precious than a friend who understood. But that was idiotic! Maude would never have submitted herself to such treatment.
"Then you grieve with us," Arthur said gently, intruding across her thoughts. "Please feel welcome here, and do not consider the journey back to St. Mary tonight. It will be dark quite soon, and you must be both tired and distressed. I am certain we can supply anything you might need, such as a nightgown and toiletries. And of course we have plenty of room."
"Since Lord Woollard has left, the guest room is perfectly available," Clara put in quickly.
"Oh yes, the guest who was staying with you before, when poor Maude arrived," Grandmama noted. "How very kind of you. I really should be most grateful. May I inform my coachman of your generosity, so he can return to St. Mary? It is possible Mr. and Mrs. Fielding may require the coach tomorrow. And of course if they do not hear, they may worry that something has happened to me."
"Naturally," Arthur agreed. "Would you care to tell him yourself, or shall I have the butler inform him?"
"That would be very kind of you," she accepted. "And ask him to tell Mrs. Fielding of your graciousness, and that I am perfectly well...just...just so grieved."
"Of course." Now the die was cast. What on earth was she thinking of? Her stomach lurched and her mouth was dry.
She sipped the excellent sherry she had been given and allowed herself to bask for a moment in its delicious warmth. She had embarked upon an adventure. That is the way she must look at it. She was still angry that Maude had been treated so appallingly, whether it included murder or not, although she really thought it might! And she was tired and grieved, quite truly grieved. Maude had been too full of life to die, too joyous in tasting every good experience to give it up so soon. And no one should be unwanted by their own, whatever the reason.
What was the reason? Who in this comfortable room with its roaring fire, its silver tea tray and overstuffed sofas, had wanted Maude out of the house? And why had the rest of them allowed it? Were they all guilty of something? Secrets so terrible they would kill to hide them? They looked so perfectly innocuous, even ordinary. Good heavens, what wickedness can lie beneath a smiling exterior as commonplace as a slice of bread!
Later a maid showed her to the spare bedroom. It was warm and agreeably furnished with a four-poster bed, heavy curtains of wine brocade, another red Turkish carpet, and plenty of carved oak furniture. A very fine ewer with painted flowers on it held fresh water. There was a matching bowl for washing in and on the stand beside them plenty of thick towels with which to dry oneself. There was no way of telling whether Lord Woollard, or anyone else, had occupied it recently. But she would take the opportunity to see how many guest rooms there were so she would know whether Maude could have been accommodated had they wished to. She tiptoed along the corridor, feeling like a sneak thief, and cautiously tried the handles and opened the doors of the two other rooms. They were both bedrooms, and both presently unoccupied. So much for that lie.
She returned to her own room, her hands trembling a little and her knees weak. She sat down. Then another idea struck her. She opened the small cupboard beside the bed, and found lavender water, a vial with a couple of doses of laudanum, and a full bottle of peppermint water! The cork was jammed in tightly, but more telling than that, there was a film of dust over it. It had not been purchased in the last couple of days since Maude had left! So much for being out of it! That put a new complexion on Maude's single dose! Had there been something else in it, disguised by the pungent taste? And the macadamia nuts to make her require it? She closed the cupboard door and sat down heavily on the bed. So far everything had gone quite marvelously. But there was a great deal to do. She must ascertain if Maude had indeed been murdered, if so by whom, precisely how-and it would hardly be complete if she did not also know why! How could she possibly do all that before they politely sent her home? Pitt had no challenge of mere hours in which to solve his cases! He went on for days! Sometimes even weeks! And he had the authority to ask questions and demand answers-not necessarily true ones, of course. She was going to have to be much cleverer than he was! It might not be quite so easy as she had assumed.
Still, so far, so good. And she was much too angry to give up.
***