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Grace arrived early for the first lecture on Monday morning, intending to catch up on the assigned reading. She settled into a seat in the back corner of the lecture theatre and pulled a battered pathology textbook out of her satchel. The words blurred in front of heavy eyelids. Ormsby’s death, two sleepless nights, and the memory of lips crushed against hers, as if their lives depended on it. So much for her firm intention to put her career before her heart.
A trio of Henry’s friends arrived before Grace had ingested a single paragraph. Fortunately, they were too busy talking to see her. Not simply talking, she realised, but gossiping with childish glee about the fatal soirée. Her first instinct was to blast them for disrespecting a friend’s deceased father. But what good would that do, other than to provoke their taunts?
“My father was at Ormsby’s soirée,” the group’s dominant male crowed. His favourite pastime was leaving body parts where Grace would come across them. Last week, he had slipped two eyeballs into her lunch tin. Rat, not human, but still... “Saw the whole sordid affair unfold. Pater swore the old man’s face was contorted in terror when they carried him back through the house.”
“Did Henry finally break and beat the old man to a pulp? Or did the evil stepmother get him with her poisons?” This from the cruellest of the three students – a sneaky, arrogant weasel.
“I heard Beechworth’s wife had a slanging match with Ormsby right before he died.” Student number three hovered on the edge of the group. Away from their influence, he verged on likable, but was far too easily led for Grace’s taste.
“No, you imbeciles,” Eyeballs replied, “the truth is far juicier than that. Penrose was there. The police suspect her of doing away with Henry’s old man.”
After a short interlude of gasps and titters, during which Grace sank below the desk and started crawling towards the rear exit, the third student spoke again, his voice tinged with a glimmer of scepticism. “Grace Penrose killed a man? Are you sure? Why would Ormsby invite her in the first place? Gads, why would Penrose accept, when Henry has made her life a misery?”
Eyeballs sniggered. “Reckon old Ormsby had heard of her loose reputation and fancied a chance to lift her petticoats. Penrose joined Ormsby Senior on a cosy little stroll. Alone, late at night. Henry actually saw them going at it, before she strangled the old man.”
“Gorblimey, might have a go myself if the Ice Queen has expanded her repertoire from scum to gentlemen,” Weasel said. “On second thoughts, maybe not, if she is a lunatic murderess.”
“Why didn’t Henry stop her?”
Eyeballs lowered his voice, forcing Grace to stop crawling so she could hear. “Perhaps it suited Henry to get his inheritance early, before the wicked stepmother takes it all. If Penrose doesn’t swing for this, I might even employ her myself to do away with Pater. My old man’s even tighter with money than Ormsby, except when it comes to throwing it away on mistresses and horseflesh.”
“Penrose will be kicked out of medical school, but I doubt she’ll swing for it,” Weasel sneered. “Everyone knows she likes a bit of rough with the coppers. She’s probably desperate for it, after the lowlife she was consorting with was accused of murder and ran for the hills.”
Grace was grateful for the dim light to cover the fire in her cheeks. She crouched on the floor under a desk, torn between defending herself and Charlie, and an aching desire to run for the hills herself. Before she could decide, she noticed that two pairs of legs were now visible at the entrance to the lecture theatre. She shrunk further into the shadows under the desk.
“If I hear any more of that foul language and scandalmongering, I’ll have the lot of you sent down and banned for life. Good God, you’re supposed to be gentlemen, not a bunch of back-alley guttersnipes.”
Thanks heavens, Grace thought. Her pathology lecturer to the rescue. Not that she liked being rescued, but she had yet to find an effective verbal method of countering her tormentors’ so-called “harmless banter”. How easy it was for them to turn a drop of truth into an ocean of malicious lies, not caring whom they hurt. Replying in kind was not only petty, but harmed her reputation – a lady being held to higher standards than a gentleman. Ignoring their insults was the only option, hence the Ice Queen taunt. (Naturally, Grace had denied all knowledge of the debilitating diarrhoea Eyeballs suffered each time he taunted her. It was entirely coincidental that she had supplied laxatives to a grateful patient of Lavender House, who just happened to be married to the barman who poured her tormentor’s midday ale at the local tavern.)
Grace was still frozen in place under the desk when the second man strode down the aisle towards the three students. His heavy boots drummed ominously on the floorboards. She heard an intake of breath and a porcine squeal as Eyeballs was hauled from his seat.
“What’s your name, boy? I’ll need it for the arrest warrant.”
The voice of Detective Constable Kelly, growling with suppressed fury. Grace almost felt sorry for Eyeballs. Declan Kelly was a tender-hearted Irishman who doted on his wife and children. But that was not the side he showed to villains and scoundrels. Kelly had the battered face and physique of a rugby player and wasn’t afraid to use it to his advantage.
“Arrest warrant?” Eyeballs squealed. “What for? Unhand me, you cur. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’ll have you for assaulting a policeman if you don’t stop kicking me,” Kelly retorted. “I am minded to arrest you for slander and obscene language, not to mention spreading false information about the circumstances of a man’s untimely death. Perverting the course of justice is a very serious offence.”
Grace heard a thump and a whimper as Kelly dropped Eyeballs back into his seat.
“On the other hand,” Kelly continued, “I could let you go with a warning and wait for my best friend to find you and teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. My friend would not be pleased to hear you slandering himself and Miss Penrose. I should warn you, he once killed a man for threatening her.”
Grace knew a cue when she heard one. She scrambled to the rear door and stood up, pretending she had just entered the room. “Detective Constable Kelly, what are you doing here?”
Kelly swung around and grinned at her. “Come to get you, Miss Penrose. Your expert medical evidence is required as a matter of urgency. Your lecturer has given you leave.” He turned a final contemptuous glare on Eyeballs. “You owe Miss Penrose an apology, boy. Far from being a suspect, she ought to be commended as the one person in a roomful of medical experts who recognised the seriousness of Ormsby’s condition and acted on it.”
Only when they were safely away from the medical school, heading up the hill to the Ormsby house, did Kelly speak again. “You overheard that bucket of slime, didn’t you, Grace?”
“I’m used to it, Declan, but I am very grateful for your support. Would you mind not telling Charlie what the students said?” Declan nodded his understanding, which allowed Grace to change the subject. “I take it the police surgeon has passed on my concern over the possible cause of death.”
“Doctor Cranston-Hartfield thought it brave of you to come forward with the information, given its potential to implicate you. Wallace wants you present when we inspect the workroom where Mrs Ormsby made the poison, given your knowledge of the plant used.”
Grace took that as a welcome sign that Wallace did not view her as a serious suspect. “I’m willing to do whatever I can to assist, whether it implicates me or not. Besides, the whole of my class heard my toxic plant essay, which means many others within the medical fraternity will know of it too. Henry Ormsby apparently shared it with his whole family.”
“We’ll have to find out if Ormsby had any enemies,” Declan said.
Grace rummaged in her satchel. “Doctor Beechworth dropped off a list of people who disliked Edgar Ormsby, as well as a list of his surgical deaths. The families of deceased patients occasionally hold a grudge, although I admit it is unlikely that any of them would have expressed it in such an unusual and lethal manner.”
“You’re a step ahead of us, Grace.” Declan took the list and tucked it into his pocket. “If it was murder, I suspect we will find the culprit rather closer to home. Interesting that Henry Ormsby’s so-called friends thought he wished his father dead for financial gain, especially as he stood back and watched his father die.”
If there was a murderer, Grace would much rather it was Henry Ormsby than anyone else. She was still furious at him for accusing her, but couldn’t make up her mind whether Henry had been genuinely confused by what had happened in the pale moonlight or actively attempting to put the blame on her. If Grace let her imagination run wild, she might even be tempted to think he had given his father the poison mentioned in her essay to further implicate her.
However, there was no point in mentioning it. In her view, compelling evidence must be gathered before accusations were hurled. In truth, Richard Ormsby probably had the most to gain financially. And Mrs Ormsby would likely be the first suspect, as she was the one to extract the poison from the tutu.
At the Ormsby’s house, the butler showed them through to the drawing room, adjacent to the grand salon where the fateful party had taken place. Richard Ormsby sat in an armchair, his hands clenched white on the armrest.
Grace was not surprised at Richard’s ill-disguised trepidation. The sight of Detective Inspector Robbie Wallace sitting a yard away, looking like a grizzly bear in a doll’s chair, would be enough to unnerve the most innocent of men. Wallace’s woolly grey eyebrows formed a double thundercloud over seen-it-all grey eyes.
Grace had the advantage of knowing that Wallace was a kind man and a fine policeman, who followed the rules without fear or favour. “Good morning, Detective Inspector Wallace. I hope your new-born grandson and his mother are well?”
Wallace’s lips twisted up into a sentimental grin. “The bairn is the bonniest wee lad in the land, Miss Penrose. Shall we proceed straight to the workroom?”
Richard jumped to his feet and showed the way, keeping close to Grace, while glancing nervously over his shoulder. The workroom, where Mrs Ormsby produced her natural remedies, was on the far side of the garden from the house.
Charlie Pyke was lounging outside on a wooden bench. His eyes snapped open as they approached, settling on Grace for a long moment, before he rose with the lithe grace of a cat stretching after a nap.
As Richard appeared disinclined to talk, Charlie took the lead. “As you can see, the workroom Mrs Ormsby uses to prepare her tonics has been converted from the rear half of the stables. The workroom is accessible from the side road leading up to the stable entrance, as well as the garden path from the terrace, off the main house.” Charlie pointed at the two paths, before entering the building. “The workroom itself has only one entrance, off this small lobby, to the left. The door straight ahead of us goes through to the stables. The door on the right leads into dangerous goods store.”
“Dangerous goods?” Wallace queried.
Richard stepped forward. “The active ingredients of my stepmother’s preparations are often extracted with flammable substances such as alcohol and ether, which are also used in my father’s surgery. They are stored separately, for safety.”
Charlie inserted a chunky key into the lock of the left-hand door, which was solid enough to deter anything short of an axe-wielding intruder. “As I understand it, this is the main workroom. Is that correct, Mr Ormsby?”
Richard waved his hand around vaguely. “It is. The usual thing. Work benches, with sinks and gas connections for the burners. Under-bench cupboards for utensils such as mortars and pots. Overhead cupboards for general stores such as glass vials and harmless chemicals. The door at the rear leads to the storage cupboard, which is used for raw ingredients, finished preparations and chemicals requiring secure storage.”
Charlie opened the rear door. “The storage cupboard is much bigger than it looks, as it has been pushed out into the stable at the rear.”
“An old horse stall,” Richard confirmed. “The workroom was the former coach house. Look, I don’t wish to be obstructive to your inquiry, gentlemen, but why are you interested in my stepmother’s workroom when my father died of a heart attack?”
“We are keeping an open mind. Can you–” Wallace’s head jerked up. “What the blazes was that at the window?”
All eyes turned to a barred window, high on the exterior wall. There was nothing to see. A moment later, a pair of pigtails with ruby-red ribbons appeared, followed by an upside-down face. In a flash, the imp was gone again. Richard stormed out of the workroom. They heard the sound of a body scrambling down through tree branches, a few terse words, and a manic giggle.
Richard reappeared, red-faced. “I do apologise. My sister Agnes can be a little terror. Hence the security precautions. Mother had bars fitted to the window recently, after Agnes learned how to climb the tree and open the window. The little devil made a dreadful mess in here before she was discovered.” He sighed. “I’m sure I wasn’t half so naughty when I was seven.”
“And the keys?” Wallace prompted.
“My stepmother and I both have a key to the workroom door. Mother keeps a spare key on the top shelf of her wardrobe. I think Lawson uses that key, if she is here without Mother. Lawson is her lady’s maid, but she has proven herself a capable laboratory assistant. Nobody else should be in here, unless one of us is present.”
“You assist too, Mr Ormsby?” Wallace asked.
Richard’s expression showed the first sign of animation since their arrival. “I am a pharmacist by training, but I find natural remedies to be a fascinating area of study and a useful adjunct to modern drugs. My stepmother trained as a nurse. She’s a great proponent of the Florence Nightingale approach to germ theory and hygiene. She is also an exceptionally able chemist, when it comes to herbal preparations. Her kawakawa products show great promise. Indeed, we were working on a proposal to sell them more widely, only Father ... Well, suffice to say, my father was not in favour of investing in the business. ‘Mother’s little hobby’, he called it.”
“Do you keep poisons here, Mr Ormsby, as well as remedies?” Wallace asked casually.
Richard did not so much as flinch. “Most chemicals are toxic if ingested or used at the wrong dose, Inspector, which is why they are under lock and key. I expect there is some arsenic or strychnine in the storage cupboard to get rid of rats too. Quite a plague of them last summer, as I’m sure you’ll recall.”
“You mentioned your stepmother had experimented with a native plant as a rat poison,” Charlie said, looking to Grace with a raised eyebrow.
“Tutu,” she supplied.
Richard planted his knuckles on his hips. His bottom lip thrust out over his receding chin, which only made him seem petulant. “I want to know, right now, the reason for all these questions.”
Wallace nodded at Grace, who reluctantly took up the baton. “Mr Ormsby, you will appreciate that I know the effects of tutu on the human body, having written of it in my essay. I have to tell you that nothing else so closely matches the odd array of symptoms your father showed before his death.”
Wide eyes and open mouth formed a trio of circles within the circle of Richard’s face. Outside, a rustle of leaves segued into the rending sound of ripped fabric and a childish shriek. Grace and Richard reached the door at the same time, to see Agnes racing across the garden, bawling at the top of her lungs.
Her stepbrother started after her, but Wallace’s meaty hand gripped his shoulder. “Pyke, go to the house and get someone to see to the little girl. Mr Ormsby, I need you to show me the poison.”
Richard stumbled across the workroom to the storage cupboard. At the far end, he pointed to a jar of arsenic on the top shelf and a glass bottle beside it. Kelly found a stool and stood on it to reach the shelf. As Charlie had already mentioned the idea of fingerprinting the poison bottle, Kelly used a clean handkerchief to remove the glass bottle, touching only the narrow neck.
Grace stepped closer. Less than half an inch of dark oily slurry sat at the bottom of the bottle.
Richard stared at it too, his face a mask of shock. “The bottle was more than half full the last time I saw it.”
“And when was that?” Wallace asked.
But Richard had slid down the wall onto the floor. He curled his arms around his head and sobbed.