Jasper shook his head. “Arsenic doesn’t cause these sorts of cancers in the victims. And it turns the skin this odd brown color, thick and peeling in places. Birdie’s skin is like bleached paper.”
“Well, she’s being poisoned. I know it. I just don’t know how.” Allene curled her fists so hard, her nails dug into her palms. “I wish I knew more than just chemistry. It’s like having one key to one room in a house, and I need ten other keys to open the other rooms.”
Jasper nodded. “So are you going to tell me what’s in that cigar box? It’s not cigars, is it?”
“No. I’ve had this ever since Florence died. You know I kept a piece of broken glass from her champagne glass, right? Well, I kept other things as well.”
“Let me guess,” Jasper said, pushing the box closed with his hand when she tried to open it. “The letters.”
Allene nodded.
“The laudanum label?”
Allene nodded again.
“Something belonging to my uncle.”
“A piece of broken bottle from the night he died,” Allene admitted.
“Ah. And . . . something from Andrew. Oh, a pastille tin, right?”
“I had one of his other tins he left at my house. Yes.” She looked down at the closed box. “I just feel if I can piece them together somehow, we’ll figure it all out. This box—these murders, they feel like they’re so much larger than the life we’ve living, yet . . . I can’t live at all without knowing why.”
“You know the answer is not in this box,” Jasper said gently. “The police have had their say. In fact”—he tapped the box—“you should probably hand this over, so we can be done with it all.”
“I thought you always wanted to be the hero to figure this all out. The thing that would make you famous,” Allene said.
“Did I ever say that out loud?”
“No. But I know you.”
“You know, it’s funny growing up and realizing that you—and the circle of friends and family and your life—aren’t this big, bright, enormous thing that eclipses everything. It’s the opposite, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Allene sighed.
“And you know what? It’s a relief. To be nothing but me, and not this idea of me I wanted.”
“Come on. Let’s do some sleuthing, shall we? What else would we do on a cold, pretty night like this?”
He cracked an uncertain grin. “All right. Let’s solve the mystery.” Jasper reached to carefully lift the lid on the box. The contents were all there, but viewing them in the dim light, they both gasped with astonishment. There was, of course, the folded letter, the glass shards, the tin, the peeled corner of laudanum label. Everything was there that was expected to be there, but something was different.
In the darkness of the garden, the items were luminescent. A green, powdery radiance covered each object.
Radium dust. It was on everything.
That was when the maids started screaming.
CHAPTER 32
After Allene had disappeared from the bedroom with the box, Birdie left too. She would only have a little while. Hours before, she had listened for the telltale sounds of Mr. Cutter heading for his bedroom, the knock of his slippers hitting the floor, and the steady, sawlike buzz of his snores.
He’d entirely ignored her existence since she’d come into the house. After all, what wasn’t acknowledged could be not believed. Birdie had said nothing, so he had honored her silence. A gentleman to the end! She wanted to laugh bitterly. He remained content to stay in the background, playing the perpetually convalescent father.
Good thing too. Because like an unstoppable, insidious heartbeat, she could feel the presence of him in the house. Sleeping in his room, working in his office. She could still feel his meaty hands on her delicate skin after all these years. He was the taint that made every moment of her existence here an ongoing persecution.
Everywhere she turned, there were bad memories. The second-floor corner by the guest bedroom, the place where she’d once run into him before bedtime. She’d been eleven years old, and without a word, Mr. Cutter had slipped a large, possessive hand down the top of her nightgown. There was the library downstairs, where a kiss was stolen from her, an indecent tongue forced into her throat. A warning that if she told anyone, her mother would be taken away from her. His bedroom, of course, where she was told to deliver his newly mended slippers one evening when she had only just turned thirteen. That was the evening when the last of her innocence had been violently rent.
It was the night Holly had been conceived.
But he chose not to remember such things. Everyone thought Hazel was the pregnant one, disguising her form with loose dresses. There had always been rumors and murmurings that Allene’s father had been having an affair with Hazel. It was all too common a scenario. The lady’s companion both was friend to the wife and kept the husband occupied at night. Convenient for everyone, so long as the money and power stayed with the rightful lady of the house. But in those last months before they’d left, Hazel had been trying to protect Birdie’s chastity, to take the focus off her stunning young daughter. It hadn’t worked.
Tonight, Mr. Cutter would not notice her yet again. He was a sound sleeper. Memory had taught her that small lesson. Only a week ago she’d calmly asked Dr. Hanover for a soporific to help with her pain-ridden nights. Chloroform made her sick; laudanum was too nauseating. Ernie himself had picked up the bottle of ether at the druggist.
“Only three drops in a glass of water, my dear. That should be plenty,” the doctor had warned. She picked up the bottle—labeled neatly with brown printing (“Poison! Anesthetic!” it yelled)—and quietly hobbled with excruciating slowness out of the bedroom. Walking on broken bones was no easy task. She paused at the top of the stairs. A puff of cold air told her that Allene had opened a door somewhere. No matter. She didn’t need much time.
The door to Mr. Cutter’s room was well oiled and quiet as she pushed it open. She nudged a chair to his bedside. He was a picture of health despite the recent influenza. Pity that it hadn’t killed him. Influenza irritatingly lacked sympathy for Birdie’s plight, but she knew—she’d always known—she’d never leave Holly in the Cutter house with Mr. Cutter alive. From her robe pocket, she drew forth one of her favorite embroidered handkerchiefs, folded it in fourths, then soaked it with the sweetish, cloying liquid. She laid it carefully over his mouth and nose.
He didn’t stir, only sank into a deeper sleep. She trickled more ether onto the handkerchief every few minutes, keeping it saturated, until the room stank of the stuff and she herself grew dizzy from the fumes. How much time had gone by? She wasn’t sure.
She’d used only half the bottle. There were at least another thirty drams left. She cocked her head at the unconscious man. How unconscious?
She leaned over the bed and slapped his bearded face hard. The ether was so potently volatile that the handkerchief was already half dry as it tumbled off his face. The strike hurt her more than it hurt him, though. Mr. Cutter turned his face. His breathing had become shallower, but he breathed still.