CHAPTER 29

Early the following afternoon, Gage and I were shown into the parlor with the porcelain birds again. We waited quietly, as we had during the carriage ride, speaking only to discuss the inquiry. Uncomfortable as it was, I preferred it that way. I was ashamed of my poor temper the day before, but I wasn’t yet ready to apologize. Not without Gage stating something of his intentions to either trust me or not.

Dr. Abercrombie admitted he was surprised to see us. “I thought I’d told you everything I knew the other day when you called,” he said, sinking into a well-loved chintz-covered sofa across from us.

I glanced at Gage, who nodded for me to take the lead. “I’m afraid we didn’t know the right questions to ask you, but now we do.”

The physician opened his hands face up, telling me to begin.

“Were you the physician of either the third Earl of Corbin or a Mr. Josiah Radcliffe?”

He sat back deeper against the cushions, and I knew I had hit upon something. “I’m not acquainted with Lord Corbin, but yes, I was Mr. Radcliffe’s physician.”

Gage and I shared another look, and I could see the same anticipation in his eyes that I felt.

“We know his death was said to have been caused by apoplexy. Were you the physician to decide that?”

His mouth flattened into a grim line. “I was. And I know what you’re going to ask next. I’ve heard about Lady Drummond’s poisoning.” He sighed. “Yes, I found Mr. Radcliffe’s death somewhat . . . abnormal, but at the time I had no reason to believe it was murder.”

I leaned forward eagerly. “How was it abnormal?”

“Mr. Radcliffe had been in what I would have called peak health, and while it’s not impossible that he could have had an apoplexy, it was certainly unusual. He also vomited profusely prior to his collapse, and was able to gasp that his insides were burning. These two things did not sound like the symptoms of an apoplexy to me, but the rest did.” He rubbed his temples. “Perhaps I should have insisted on further examination, but his wife was already weeping almost hysterically, and when I suggested an autopsy, she fainted. I had to administer a sedative to calm her.”

I frowned. I could only imagine.

“I could see no evidence of foul play, so I attributed his death to an apoplexy.”

I nodded, knowing there was no use criticizing the man for his decision. He had done what he thought was best, and since no one else had raised doubts, there had been no one to dispute it. However, I suspected he would think twice before ignoring such abnormalities again.

“But what does this have to do with Lady Drummond’s letter?” Dr. Abercrombie asked.

“We think she was coming to ask you about Mr. Radcliffe’s death,” Gage explained.

The physician’s eyes widened. “Why? Was she related?”

I pushed to my feet. “No. We think she suspected he had been poisoned to death. And that she knew by whom.”

•   •   •

“It looks like your misgivings were correct,” Gage said once we had returned to his carriage. “Now what do you propose to do? Confront Lady Rachel?”

I shook my head. “We have no proof. Just a string of events that appear to be coincidences.”

He tapped his fingers against his knee. “We need some way of linking Lady Rachel to the Chemist and the cream he poisoned with monkshood.”

I leaned forward to peer out the window. “Which is why we’re paying another visit to him tonight.”

Gage fell silent, so I turned to look at him. His eyes were watchful, revealing little of what he thought.

“I wrote Bonnie Brock and asked for him to arrange another meeting. It seemed the only way we could obtain the answers we need.” When he still did not speak, I clenched my fingers in my skirt, resisting the urge to snap at him. Instead, I added calmly, “Perhaps I should have consulted with you first, but it seemed the only solution to our problem.”

“No. You were right,” I was relieved to hear him say. He frowned at the floor. “There is no other choice.” His eyes lifted to mine. “But what did you have to promise Kincaid in return?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows arched. “So we’ll be in his debt.”

I suddenly became very interested in the passing scenery. “Maybe.”

Gage fell silent again, and I had just allowed myself to believe he’d let the matter drop when he casually remarked, “Did you know that Lord and Lady Kirkcowan were robbed last night?”

“Were they?” I asked, hoping I’d displayed just the right amount of astonishment.

“Yes. Those jewels that Lady Kirkcowan stumbled upon in her dresser. Well, they were stolen from her husband’s safe. Along with a few other items.”

“How terrible. Then I suppose she would have been better off keeping them in her dresser after all.”

Gage’s shrewd gaze told me he was not in the least bit fooled, but I wasn’t about to admit anything to him. I stared back at him, blinking my eyes innocently.

When it became clear I was not going to talk, he turned away, the corners of his lips curling upward in a smile. “Much better,” he said with approval.

“Much better what?” I asked.

“Acting, my dear. Acting.”

•   •   •

This time Bonnie Brock directed us to meet him at the entrance to Robertson’s Close, across from the Royal Infirmary, I supposed to make it more difficult for us to memorize any part of the route to the Chemist’s shop. He also instructed us to dress in the plainest clothes we owned. After the incident in Grassmarket, I didn’t need the reminder. I wished to blend in as much as possible. Being recognized once was enough for me.

We arrived promptly at sundown, leaving Gage’s carriage closer to High School Yards and walking the remainder of the way to our rendezvous point. I thought my drab slate gray gown and old forest green cloak hid my status quite well, particularly in the dark gloom of an Edinburgh night. Gage was dressed in an old pair of trousers, a frayed greatcoat, and a low-brimmed hat. The strong smell of sawdust coming from his clothes made me suspect he was wearing the garments he wore while woodworking.

My lips curled at the thought that our scents might also mask our social standing, for I was sure the stench of linseed oil and gesso clung to my gown since I often painted while wearing it.

“Do ye find something amusin’?” Bonnie Brock’s familiar brogue asked me.

I turned in surprise, clutching my sketchbook to my chest, though I should have known he would choose to sneak up on us.

He arched a brow in curiosity.

I glanced to Gage. “Only that you could probably smell us coming before you saw us.”

Bonnie Brock sniffed. “Aye. But ye still smell sweeter than most of the city.” His head turned aside and his jaw tightened. “Ye havena the stench of filth and desperation.”

I didn’t know how to reply to that, so I didn’t try.

“Let’s get this o’er wi’,” he grumbled, and then nodded his head to the left. “Come.”

We fell in line much like before and set off down the close. Our track seemed to twist and turn all over the city until I had no idea which direction we were walking in. He seemed to be trying even harder than before to confuse us. I wondered if he realized that only served to make me think the Chemist’s shop was closer to the infirmary than he wanted us to know.

When finally we entered the courtyard where the Chemist was located, Bonnie Brock held out his hand, halting as if he sensed something Gage and I could not. He made us wait in the shadows while his men fanned out, inching along the perimeter of the square.

Bonnie Brock watched them through narrowed eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. His greatcoat was unbuttoned once again, as I’d begun to expect, though I now understood it was to give him easy access to the weapons held inside rather than because he did not feel the cold. Though I assumed he was more impervious than I was. I’d never seen him shiver.

“Did you speak to the porter?” Gage asked without preamble from where he stood on my other side.

“Aye,” Bonnie Brock replied without looking at him. “He was useless. Didna have any idea who the man was that gave him the letter, and he could only describe him in the vaguest o’ terms.”

“Which may be a clue in and of itself,” I asserted. Now knowing what I did, I wasn’t surprised.

Both men turned to look at me.

“You’ll see,” I replied.

One of Bonnie Brock’s men reappeared to signal to him in a way that I assumed meant the area was safe, for he struck off across the courtyard. I hurried to keep up.

Nothing in the Chemist’s shop appeared to have changed. It was still sparse and filthy, and the stifling scent of dust and decaying vegetation hung over the space like a miasma. However, the Chemist seemed more tired than the last time we had visited. His shoulders sagged and his garments hung on his frame like laundry on a line. Though I supposed it could be that he simply was no longer intoxicated with whatever drug he had taken before. His pupils were normal sized and his movements shaky.

He nodded to Bonnie Brock before turning to us. “You again,” he said wearily.

“Yes. We just have a few more questions.”

He sighed as if this was a great inconvenience, but he couldn’t be bothered to argue about it. “Aye?”

“You told us about a man who asked you to mix monkshood—devil’s cap . . .” I corrected, remembering that’s what he’d called it “. . . into a jar of cream.”

“Aye.”

“You said you couldn’t describe him because he was wearing a hood and hid his face. But I hoped you might try. I brought a few sketches I made, and I wondered if you could identify him from those.”

He stared blankly at me.

“It could prove a tremendous help,” I wheedled.

He sighed again and nodded.

I moved forward to lay my sketchbook on the counter, opening it to the pages I most wanted him to look at. “And by chance, do you recall whether you mixed devil’s cap into anything else? Such as a bottle of rosewater or a vial of lavender oil, for instance?”

His eyes took on a faraway look. “Oh, aye. I forgot aboot the lavender oil. Same lad,” he declared, lifting a finger. “He wanted teh be able teh sprinkle the devil’s cap o’er some sort o’ fruit, but I told him the taste’d be too bitter.”

I looked to Gage, whose mouth was flattened in annoyance, clearly thinking the same things I was. Why hadn’t he recalled this the last time we visited him?

The Chemist bowed his head to examine my drawings, and no more than a few seconds passed before he pointed to one of the pictures. “That’s him.”

I stared at him in surprise. I hadn’t even shown him the sketch I had made of the man in a hooded cloak. “I thought you said his face was hidden.”

“Aye. It was. That first time. But no’ when he visited me today.”

My eyes widened. “Today?” I lifted the picture he’d pointed to. “This man visited you again today?”

“Aye.”

A sick feeling of dread flooded through me, turning my stomach. “What did he want?”

“Another jar o’ cream laced wi’ devil’s cap,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“The same type of jar?”

He tipped his head. “Slightly different.”

I didn’t ask for further clarification. I didn’t need it. I snatched up my sketchbook and charged toward to door. “We have to go. We have to go now!”

I reached the top of the stairs and began to charge across the courtyard before Gage caught up with me and grabbed my arm.

“Kiera, slow down. What’s going on?”

“The cream,” I gasped, barely able to speak through my panic.

He clutched my shoulders. “Take a deep breath, Kiera. What about the cream?”

“It was meant for me, but I . . .” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I gave it to Alana.”

Gage’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Ye gave your sister poison?” Bonnie Brock asked, looming over us to the left.

Gage scowled at him. “Back up, Kiera. You’re not making sense.”

My muscles were screaming at me to move, but I inhaled deeply and tried to gather my thoughts. “The day before she died, Lady Drummond ordered some creams and ointments from Hinkley’s for my sister, because of the dry skin caused by her confinement.”

Gage nodded in understanding.

“They were delivered the morning of Lady Drummond’s death, and . . . I suppose Lady Rachel saw them when she came to visit me,” I elaborated, thinking aloud. “I gave them to Alana as Lady Drummond wished. But if Monahan just collected another jar of cream today, as the Chemist confirmed by pointing to his picture, then I can only assume it was meant for me since their other attempts to get rid of me failed.” My chest tightened in fear. “But I gave my jar to Alana, so . . .”

“Yes, yes. I understand,” Gage replied hastily, turning to Bonnie Brock. “We need to go back.”

He nodded grimly, before barking instructions to his men.

Our return trek through Edinburgh was far shorter than our initial trip, and I could only assume Bonnie Brock had taken pity on me. However, each minute we traveled still felt too long as I prayed desperately I was wrong. That the cream had not been meant for me. That it had not been delivered to Charlotte Square.

But I knew with chilling certainty I had been right. The poison was intended for me. And if Alana used the tainted cream on her skin in her weakened condition, it could prove terrifyingly and agonizingly fatal.