ThePerfectPoison
TWENTY-FOUR
IN AN INSTANT, CALEB SAW IT ALL WITH PERFECT clarity.
“He assaulted you because you tried to end the engagement that day,” he said.
“In the wake of my father’s death, something changed in our relationship,” she said quietly. “I began to see the flaws in Ian. Once my eyes were opened, many things soon became obvious. I discovered that he was having an affair with a certain widow.”
“When he realized that he was about to lose you, he did the only thing he could think of. He tried to compromise you so thoroughly that you would have no choice but to marry him.”
She was startled by the quick summation of events but she nodded once, warily. “Yes, that is precisely what happened. It transpired that all he really wanted from me was my inheritance.”
“You were seen fleeing from the remote corner of the gardens where he had tried to force himself on you. You were disheveled and your gown was torn. That sort of behavior could be ignored if there had been a wedding. But when word got around that the engagement had been terminated, you were suddenly notorious.”
“Congratulations, sir. You did your research well.”
Something in her tone told him that her words were not intended to be complimentary but he was too immersed in the maze that he was constructing to pay close attention. He started down the nearest graveled path, moving deeper into the jungle.
“Did you use your pepper powder on him?” he asked.
“No, it wasn’t necessary.”
“How did you escape his clutches?”
“I rammed my fan first into his midsection and then toward his eye. He was quite surprised, I think, or at least unprepared for that response. He released me in an instinctive movement to protect his eyes and I escaped.”
Caleb contemplated the image of the stout length of a folded fan. “Never considered how dangerous one of those things could be.” Admiration welled up inside him. “Very clever, Lucinda.”
“Yes, well, I expect it was all those plant-hunting expeditions. One learns things.”
“They do say travel is broadening,” he said. “Within days after the engagement was ended, Ian Glasson was found dead of poison.”
He heard her dainty, high-button boots crunching on the graveled walk behind him.
“Everyone assumed I was responsible,” she said.
“Everyone was wrong.”
Her footsteps came more swiftly on the gravel as she tried to keep up with him. “What makes you so sure of that? There is no doubt but that Ian was poisoned.”
“By cyanide, according to the reports in the press.”
“Yes.”
“Not a poison you would have used.” He looked around at the massed greenery. “You would have employed a far more subtle, undetectable substance. I’m sure there is no lack of raw material in this conservatory.”
There was a short, tense silence behind him.
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said without inflection.
“It was merely a statement of an obvious fact.”
“A fact that no one else ever noticed.”
He stopped, lowered himself onto an iron bench, stretched out his legs and contemplated a large palm with fan-shaped fronds. “Just as no one paid any attention to the fact that your father supposedly committed suicide with a pistol and that his partner was also murdered with cyanide, not a botanical-based poison.”
She sank down beside him. The intricately draped skirts of her gown brushed against his leg. He opened his senses to her energy.
“What are you implying, Mr. Jones?” she said quietly.
He could feel the new tension in her. She had already guessed what he was about to say. Sometimes it seemed as if she could almost read his mind. No one else had ever been able to sense the direction of his thoughts as she did.
“In all three instances the killer wanted to make the deaths appear suspicious. He intended that the finger of blame point at someone. But he used the wrong method to murder your father.”
“The pistol? Well, it would have been next to impossible to poison Papa. His talent was similar to mine. He would have sensed a toxic substance, even cyanide, no matter how well concealed.”
“But if your father truly had intended to kill himself, he would likely have taken poison.”
“Almost certainly.”
“The killer used cyanide on the other two victims because it is both fast and dramatic. Bound to be noticed.”
“He even left bottles of the stuff at the scene,” she said.
“When your father’s partner was discovered dead of poison, your father was the obvious suspect. And when Glasson was found in similar circumstances, suspicion fell on you.” He nodded once. “One must admire the symmetry of the plan.”
“It is rather neat and quite tidy,” she agreed, sounding quietly stunned.
“Yes, it is.”
It was very satisfying to be able to discuss the logic of the case with her. In fact, it was more than satisfying, it was extremely helpful. Something about talking to Lucinda clarified his own thoughts.
“But there is one thing missing from your theory,” she said.
“The identity of the killers?”
“Well, yes, that, too. But I was thinking of motive.”
“When we find that, we will find the killer.”
She studied him intently. “You believe that a single person killed all three men?”
“Given the time and techniques involved, I would estimate the probability that whoever killed your father and his partner is also responsible for the death of your fiancé to be in the neighborhood of ninety-seven percent.”
Her brows rose. “You’re sure it isn’t ninety-five or ninety-six percent?”
It was a reasonable question, so he recalculated swiftly.
“Definitely ninety-seven,” he said.
The faint gleam of amusement vanished from her expression. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But that makes no sense. What possible link could there have been between my fiancé’s death and the deaths of my father and his partner?”
“I don’t know yet, but whatever it is, it is connected to the theft of the fern and the death of Mrs. Daykin.” He studied the foliage in front of him. “This conservatory is the thread that runs through the entire affair. The answer lies here somewhere.”
“Hmm.”
He turned his head sharply to look at her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know how it could possibly be significant but shortly before my father and his partner were murdered, there was another theft.”
Energy crackled across his senses.
“A plant?” he asked, wanting to be certain.
“Yes. It was a strange, unidentified species that we found on that last expedition to the Amazon. I sensed that it had some unusual hypnotic properties. I thought it might prove therapeutic. But it disappeared shortly after we returned. There wasn’t even time to name it.”
“How long after your return was it taken?”
“A couple of weeks, I think. When I noticed that it was missing, I immediately told my father. He was extremely upset by the theft but as far as I knew that was the end of the matter. One can hardly call in Scotland Yard to investigate a stolen plant.”
“No, of course not. Such a case would be far beyond the abilities of the police. Plant theft is best left to expert investigation firms such as the Jones agency.”
She smiled. “Why, Mr. Jones, was that a small attempt at humor?”
“I have no sense of humor. Ask anyone.”
“Very well, let us assume you are correct in your deductions.”
“I usually am.”
“Yes, of course,” she said dryly. “Assuming you are infallible, how do you explain the fact that the first three murders occurred almost a year and a half ago, well before the theft of my fern and the death of Mrs. Daykin?”
“I don’t know yet.” He looked down at his hand wrapped around hers. “But there’s a pattern. It is becoming more obvious by the day.”
He was searching for the words to explain what he perceived so clearly with his talent when Mrs. Shute called from the far end of the conservatory.
“Mr. Jones? Are you in here, sir?”
Lucinda rose quickly and started along the path toward the French doors. “We’re back here, Mrs. Shute. I was just showing Mr. Jones the medicinal herbs.”
Caleb got to his feet, wondering why she had felt it necessary to invent a small lie to explain their presence in the rear of the conservatory. He noticed she was looking rather flushed, as well. Belatedly it occurred to him that she was concerned lest Mrs. Shute conclude that her employer was engaged in some improper activities among the foliage. His liaison with Lucinda was becoming complicated.
He rounded a corner and saw the housekeeper. She looked unusually tense and anxious.
“What is it, Mrs. Shute?” he asked.
“There’s a young boy at the kitchen door, sir. Says his name is Kit Hubbard. Claims he’s got an important message for you. Something about a dead man.”
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