Lilly whispered, “How long will she sleep?”
“She is not sleeping, Miss Haswell,” Dr. Graves said sternly. “She has lost consciousness.”
Lilly nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Her heart rate seems to have slowed to a more normal rate, but it is irregular. We can only hope this restful state will aid her recovery.”
“Will she recover?” Francis asked.
“I cannot say. She is very weak. It is too early to know if she suffered a fatal disturbance of the heart. I’ve administered the de viper antidote. Now we shall have to wait and see.”
When they had removed themselves to the woman’s sitting room, Lilly sat down on Mrs. Kilgrove’s settee, wadding and twisting a handkerchief in her hands. Mrs. Kilgrove’s cat tried to curl up on her lap, but Lilly firmly returned him to the floor, feeling unworthy to be comforted by his warmth. Francis sat in an armchair across from her, elbows on his knees, leaning near. Dr. Graves stood, his hand on the mantel, staring into the empty fireplace.
“I think I know what must have happened.” Tears made her cheeks wet and her throat tight. “You know how Charlie is. He would have to count the yellow chamomile tablets. Then the new silvered pills must have caught his eye. We don’t often do silver coatings, but Dr. Foster ordered them for Mrs. Robbins’s dropsy. Charlie must have poured the pills out and counted those as well. He could not have resisted all those pretty silver pills. When I reminded him to take the tablets over, he must have quickly tried to slide the pills back into their correct bottles. In his haste, he must have mixed one or two digitalis pills in with Mrs. Kilgrove’s chamomile. She must not have even noticed. Her eyesight isn’t keen, you know. Poor creature! And Charlie—” She suddenly realized she had not seen her brother this hour gone. She looked around the room. “Where is Charlie?”
Francis said, “He was pegging it down the road as we ran in. Thought you must have sent him on some errand or other. And with . . . well . . . everything, I quite forgot.”
New tears filled her eyes. Her facial muscles strained. “Poor Charlie! He never meant to harm anyone.”
Dr. Graves’s expression remained somber, but Francis said quickly, “Of course not. We all know how fond he is of Mrs. Kilgrove.”
“Charlie must be frightened to death by all this. Francis, please find him. This will lay him very low, and I fear what he might do.”
Francis reached over and laid his hand on hers. “You mustn’t think the worst. I am sure he is in the churchyard, or one of his other haunts. I shall find him.”
He gave her hand a squeeze, his eyes wide with compassion. Lilly noticed Dr. Graves frown at their clasped hands just as Francis let go and took his leave.
DEATH BY A POISONOUS HERB
Wm. Ross had or pretended to have considerable skill in the
administration of herbs. His daughter had got a root of monk’s-hood in
a neighbouring garden. He mistook it for some other plant,
and commenced chewing it . . .
—DEVIZES & WILTSHIRE GAZETTE, 1833
CHAPTER 38
True to his word, Francis found Charlie—hunkered down in the churchyard—and gently escorted him home. He had twigs in his hair and torn breeches but was otherwise unharmed.
For two days, Lilly, Francis, Dr. Graves, and even Mr. Shuttle-worth took turns sitting with Mrs. Kilgrove, spooning distilled water and broth into her dry mouth, turning her to prevent bedsores, doing whatever they could. By unspoken agreement, none of them mentioned the incident to Dr. Foster, but Lilly guessed it was only a matter of time until everyone in Bedsley Priors and Honeystreet knew of it.
Late that second day, just as Lilly feared, a sharp knock sounded on the door. Rising from Mrs. Kilgrove’s bedside, she walked slowly, dreading to answer it. When she opened the door to Dr. Foster, his lip curled and he brushed past her without comment. He took himself into Mrs. Kilgrove’s bedchamber, felt the woman’s pulse, laid his ear on her chest, and lifted her eyelids, testing for responsiveness. All the while, Lilly hovered in the threshold.
“So. It has finally happened,” he said. “The Haswells have killed someone.”
Lilly sucked in her breath. “We have killed no one, sir, and I’ll thank you to lower your voice.” She was fleetingly tempted to tell him it had been the pills he’d ordered that had done this to Mrs. Kilgrove, but she knew that was irrational. If only Dr. Graves had taken Foster’s order to Shuttleworth’s instead!
“Yes, she lives, but barely. And not for long, I’d wager.”
“Is there nothing you can do? Or advise me to do?”
“I will do what I can, but I would not waste my breath on you, girl. You already fancy yourself too much the medical man.”
“No, I have—” She hesitated. Wasn’t he right? To know that she had injured, possibly even taken the life of another person was the worst feeling she had ever known. Worse even than losing her mother.
“Unprescribed digitalis. Past time that brother of yours was put away somewhere, if you ask me.”
Hot indignation rose up in her, only to be quelled by an icy chill as his words registered. This man held the power to do that very thing.
When Adam Graves came to take his shift, he immediately noticed that Miss Haswell’s expression was somber indeed. He could easily guess the reason. “Dr. Foster came?”
She nodded and sat heavily on the settee.
Remorse filled him. “He heard it somewhere and asked me directly. I could not lie.”
“Of course not.” She sighed deeply. “He all but accused us of purposefully harming Mrs. Kilgrove. Charlie would never intentionally hurt a soul. And she, always so sharp with everybody else, dotes on Charlie.”
She shook her head, over and over again. Clearly the reality of what they were facing had begun to sink in. “He is so innocent, so childlike. If they were to arrest him, to take him to . . . prison, or an institution . . . I could not bear it. He could not bear it.”
Tears cascaded down her cheeks, and he felt powerless to comfort her. He recalled how Francis Baylor had so naturally taken her hand. Why could he not do the same?
She pressed a handkerchief against the corner of one eye, then the other. “I must protect him. I love him more than my own life. Please, Dr. Graves. Please, help him.”
Dread gripped him. “I will try, Miss Haswell, but what can I do? You must know Foster will report this to the constable.”
“That man! Everyone knows Bill Ackers will do the bidding of whoever puts a pound in his pocket.”
“But will he not bring the case to the local magistrates to make any official ruling of wrongdoing?”
“But it was a mistake! An accident!”
“Neither of which are allowed in this profession,” he said, as gently as he could. “You must know that.”
She hung her head. “Tell them it was my fault, then. Charlie was only acting under my authority.”
He sighed. “Miss Haswell, I hate to be blunt, but you have no authority. Do you not realize what could happen if you are found guilty of poisoning someone?”
“Poisoning . . . ? What a nightmare this is! But . . . may she not yet live? Oh, God, that she might live. For all our sakes.”
He paced behind the settee. “I do not know. She may yet pull through, but you should not rely on it.”
She hid her face in her hands. Finally, he reached over and touched tentative fingers to her shoulder.
“I can bear the punishment, whatever it is,” she said. “But Charlie must be spared.”
Foolish girl! He strode around the settee to stand before her. “You don’t know what you are saying. Women have been transported or imprisoned for less. And should your part reach the ears of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, they would be well within their rights to tear apart your father’s shop, burn everything, and put him out of business for good. The Haswell’s you have been trying to save could very well be ruined forever.”
“But Charlie is
more important than the shop. Father would not disagree.”
He stared at her. “You have not told him?”
“Not yet. I fear what it will do to him.”
He knelt before her to look into her eyes and gripped her hand. This was not the topic he had imagined discussing from this position. “Tell him, Lillian. You cannot bear this on your own. I will do all I can to help, but I fear it is not a great deal.”
Lilly was sitting in a chair beside Mrs. Kilgrove’s bed when the woman’s eyes fluttered opened at last.
“Mrs. Kilgrove?” Lilly reached out and grasped her spidery hand. The old woman turned watery eyes in her direction.
“Rosamond?” she whispered hoarsely. “I knew you’d return.” Her head lolled to the side, and Lilly had to rise and lean over the bed to hear her murmur, “You did the first time, after all.”
Lilly’s heart hammered. “What do you mean, Mrs. Kilgrove?”
But the old woman did not answer, merely squinted toward the bedside table. “Why do the candles wear blue halos?” Her eyes closed and she said no more.
Mrs. Kilgrove was seeing things, Lilly realized. Had even mistaken her for her mother. No doubt what she had said about Rosamond’s return had been wild imaginings as well.
Despite the poor woman’s hallucinations, a tentative, fluttering hope filled Lilly’s breast. She tamped it down, lest it fly away at any moment. Fearing the old woman might yet take a turn for the worse, she waited and prayed. Her father came, brought by Charlie’s racked confession. There was nothing he could do, but it was still a relief to hear him confirm everything that could be done for Mrs. Kilgrove had been done. Later, the vicar came to pass an hour with her at Francis’s behest, offering words of comfort and prayer in his mellifluous voice.
That evening, Mrs. Kilgrove again opened her eyes. She turned to Lilly with a weak smile. “How nice to wake with someone beside me. Haven’t known that comfort since my John died a day back agone.”
“I am glad to be here,” Lilly said. “Do you know me?”
Mrs. Kilgrove frowned. “Foolish girl,” she whispered. “Have I not known you since an infant?”
“Yes, but you’ve been unconscious.” She did not add delirious. “How do you feel now?”
“Queer. My head aches.” She slowly moved her gaze across the room. “And everything seems rather . . . yellow.”
“Mrs. Kilgrove, do you remember the pills you took—the ones I sent over?”
She squinted in attempted concentration. “I don’t . . . to help me sleep?”
“Just so, and to calm your stomach. I am afraid there might have been one or two wrong pills in the lot. Do you remember taking any silver pills?”
She winced. “Lass, I am near eighty years old. I am happy to remember my name, much less the color of a pill I took . . . when was it?”
“Three nights gone.”
“Three nights? Some pills . . .” Her eyes drifted closed once more.
The next morning when Mrs. Kilgrove awoke, Lilly and Charlie were both with her. Charlie sat in a bedside chair, the woman’s cat on his lap. When he saw her eyes open, his voice shook. “I am dreadful sorry, Mrs. K.” Tears filled his wide blue eyes.
Mrs. Kilgrove turned her head toward him and reached out a shaky hand. “No need. I don’t blame you, Charlie. You may be small in the attic, but you have a big heart.”
Charlie bit his pronounced lip and ducked his head.
“Mrs. Kilgrove, will you take some water?”
The woman turned sharp eyes in her direction. “Why—is there no tea?”
Biting back a smile, Lilly rose to prepare some. While she was at it, she set a pan of broth to warming on the stove, broth Mrs. Mimpurse had kindly sent over, firmly believing the invalid would regain consciousness as well as appetite. Lilly certainly hoped she was right.
Francis Baylor was on his way to visit Mrs. Kilgrove and, if he were honest with himself, to see Lilly, who stayed so loyally by the woman’s side. He knew he was a fool. Graves, a good-looking, Oxford-educated physician, was courting her, was he not? Francis sighed. Still, he would do anything to help her.
From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Dr. Foster disappearing into Ackers Stables and Smithy, the establishment of Bill Ackers, the county-appointed constable of the neighbor villages.
His stomach seized at the thought of what trouble Ackers could bring down on the Haswells, and he knew the man was more than capable of doing so with relish. Francis changed course and crossed the road, stepping surreptitiously near the open stable door.
“Will you fail in your duty, Ackers?” He heard Foster say, voice sharp. “There has been a crime, man. A devilish crime.”
Francis blew out a puff of air. Worse than I feared.
“You’d like ’at, would’n ye?” Bill Ackers spoke in a voice passed down from generations of family members who’d never ventured beyond Wiltshire. “Haswell’s dippin’ in yer pockets, innum?”
“No. He is nothing to me.”
“Now, long as the woman lives, there’s been no murder, mind. And no one’s gawpus enough to believe ’at young dummel meant to harm the old ghel.”
“It is a fine thing when a body can poison an innocent person in your village, Ackers.”
“Now, Foster. Let’s not jarl. You know I’ll be watchin’. And when summateruther happens, I’ll see to it, I will.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
There was a pause. Thinking the conversation at an end, Francis was about to move away when Dr. Foster spoke again.
“Perhaps, Mr. Ackers, we might discuss this further at the Hare and Hounds? I for one grow thirsty standing here.”
“If yer buying, I’ll go along,” Bill Ackers said. “Always were a fair-minded man.”
A robin red breast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
—WILLIAM BLAKE, AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE
CHAPTER 39
As Charlie was finishing his breakfast of eggs and sausages the next morning, Lilly slipped briefly from the kitchen, then returned with arms full. “I have something for you, Charlie.”
Still chewing, Charlie’s gaze tracked her progress across the room.
At her mother’s old place at the table, Lilly set down a bandbox with bored-out air holes. Anticipation prickled within her as she watched her brother’s face. Though his memory was poor, she thought she saw a glint of recognition in his blue eyes.
He swallowed his bite and said, “I had somefing very like it once.”
“Indeed you did. I am pleased you remember.”
A flick of white batted against one of the holes and disappeared.
Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “Am I to have a puss?”
With effort, she kept her voice calm. “Open it and see.”
Still he hesitated.
“Go on.”
Charlie carefully removed the lid. A young cat, older than a kitten but not fully grown, lifted his grey head and put two white paws on the edge of the box. He sniffed the air, and when Charlie offered him his fingers, sniffed those too.
“Hallo, boy.” Charlie looked up at her anxiously. “He is a boy, innum?”
“I am no expert on such, mmm, identification, but Mr. Fowler assures me this is indeed a male.”
“Good. ’Twould be a queer fing to call a girl-cat Jolly.”
Her heart warmed and ached at once. “Is that what you will call him?”
He nodded. “Does he look like the first Jolly, Lilly? I can’t remember.” “Well, I do remember, and he looks a great deal like your old Jolly. I daresay this lad is his grandson or grandnephew.”
“Oh, ’at’s fine! Fine!”
But then Charlie’s smile faded. He faltered, “But she said I weren’t ever to have another.”
“She . . .” Lilly hesitated, then said gently, “Mother is gone. But Father and I want you to have it.”
“But what if he runs away again?”
Lilly answered thickly, “Then I sha
ll help you find him. And you will love him and care for him better than anyone in Bedsley Priors. As I love you.”
The cat put its muzzle close to Charlie’s face, sniffing his cheek and mouth.
Lilly smiled through her tears. “He seems to like you a great deal already.”
Charlie stroked the cat. “I fink he does. Or the milk I drank wi’ breakfast.”
“Look how gentle you are with him.”
“Mrs. K. taught me.”
A movement caught her eye, and Lilly looked up to see her father leaning against the doorjamb. Their gazes met for several ticks of the clock, and she saw that hers were not the only eyes filled with tears.
Three days later, just before closing time, Bill Ackers strode boldly into the shop. Lilly felt her heart jerk as wildly as from foxglove itself. Ackers was a big, broad man in his late twenties with arms strong from his smithy work and years of starting and breaking up fights. Broom in hand, Charlie froze, staring up at the man.
“Charlie Haswell, there thee bist. I’ve come for ye.”
Charlie’s mouth drooped open. “She died, did she, Mr. Ackers? Poor Mrs. K. gone to the churchyard?”
“Not yet, she ain’t. No thanks to you and yers.”
“Thank God,” Lilly breathed.
“There’s still wrongdoin’ to be answered for, lad. That’s why I’m come to take ye in.”
“To the blind house, Mr. Ackers?” Charlie asked.
“Aye.”
“Mr. Ackers,” Lilly protested, panic rising. “If anyone is to blame, it is I.”
“You poisoned Mrs. Kilgrove then?”
“No one poisoned Mrs. Kilgrove. That word conveys such vile intent, does it not? A mistake has been made, I own. She swallowed one small pill of the wrong sort. Not poison. Not for a healthy stout person. But for an eighty-year-old woman . . .”