Friday Evening, September 17, 1937
Heatherwick
After tea, Wigglesworth cleared the dishes and the tablecloth, then set up the cribbage board and cards for us before leaving once more, perhaps to enjoy his own tea along with the leftover cakes and cucumber sandwiches we didn’t finish. This time, Verbina won once, I won twice, and Simon won once. The time flew by, and before we knew it Wigglesworth was back, letting us know that dinner would be served shortly.
“Goodness,” Verbina said, glancing at her watch, “it’s seven thirty already. How did it get to be so late?”
“Easy to lose track of time on a gloomy day like this, when the lights are on and the fire is so warm and bright, and we’re having such a pleasant evening,” Simon said. He looked happy and content for the first time since he’d gotten home.
“Quite true. Well, I should go up and freshen before dinner. I’ll see you two gentlemen shortly.”
“We shall await your return,” Simon said with a warm smile.
“You shall await her return,” I said. “You shall await both our returns, in fact, for I have to go and freshen up, also. But I won’t be long.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Mrs. Thorpe doesn’t tolerate people late to the dining room table,” Simon said with a mock stern look on his face.
“Yes, sir. I’ll fetch the book I’ve been reading, too. I’ve marked a passage I thought you might like to hear. Perhaps we can discuss it after dinner.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“It’s by Oscar Wilde.”
“Oh yes, you mentioned that book on the ship. Best get going, though, or you’ll be late, and there will be no pudding for you.”
“All right, I’m going!”
Verbina and I went upstairs together, and we were back in the dining room ten minutes early. Simon was already there, waiting for us. I set the book on the sideboard and we took what by now were our usual seats. The meal was as delicious as I had expected, served with ample wine and good conversation. Any discussion of Mr. Wittenham and other delicate subjects were once more avoided. When the last of the dessert had been polished off, along with hot tea and American coffee, Verbina sat back with a satisfied sigh. “That was superb. Whoever said English cooking is bland has not eaten Mrs. Thorpe’s food.”
“I’ll be sure and pass on your compliments,” Simon said. “And I quite heartily agree. I think it’s only due to my traveling so much that I haven’t gained a great deal of weight.”
“Well, I shall sleep well tonight. And on that note, I think I’ll go up to bed, if you gentlemen don’t mind. It’s been a long day,” Verbina said.
“Of course. Breakfast is buffet style in the morning room, just through that door to the right of the fireplace. It’s served between eight and ten. Come down as you wish, or if you prefer, Agatha could bring a tray up to you.”
“Breakfast in bed? Oh my, doesn’t that sound decadent? Do you think she’d mind?” Verbina said.
“Of course not, it’s her job,” Simon said. “I’ll let Mrs. Devlin know in the morning to have Agatha bring you a tray—some orange juice, toast, eggs and sausages, or something. Say about nine?”
“Yes, nine would be perfect. What a treat, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Are you coming up, Heath?” she said.
“Not just yet, Auntie. Soon, though.”
“All right, then. Good night, gentlemen.” She stood and so did we, and then she exited through the large doorway into the corridor.
“Fancy a cigar?” Simon said, looking at me.
“Why not?” I replied, though I’d only smoked one once and had nearly choked.
“Capital. Let’s retire to the study. I’ll have Wigglesworth get the fire going again.”
“Good idea, it’s gotten a bit chilly. Oh, and I’ll just take my book along,” I said, picking it up and tucking it under my arm. “I still want to read you that passage.”
Once more the two of us traversed the main hall and went into the study. Living in a house like this certainly would be good exercise. Wigglesworth started the fire in the study once more, and then stood.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Have the guest rooms been addressed for the evening?”
“Yes, sir, of course. Mrs. Devlin attended to Mrs. Partridge’s room herself, and I,” he looked at me, “turned down your bed, Mr. Barrington, though I couldn’t locate your nightclothes. I generally lay them out for the guests.”
“Oh, well, I must have forgotten to pack them,” I said, embarrassed.
“You could borrow some of mine, if you wish,” Simon said.
I very much liked the thought of sleeping in his pajamas. “That would be splendid, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, I have several pair. See to it, Wigglesworth. The blue pair, I think. We’re about the same size.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you, Wigglesworth,” I said. “That was very nice of you to turn down my bed. And thank you for getting the extra pajamas. You certainly keep busy, lighting all the fires, serving dinner, and whatnot.”
That faint look of surprise crossed his face once more. “Yes, sir.”
“That will be all, Wigglesworth,” Simon said.
“Yes, sir. Good night, then, my lord, Mr. Barrington.”
“Good night,” I said.
When he had gone, I turned to Simon. “That’s the second time Wigglesworth has looked at me strangely.”
“It’s because you thanked him and made a fuss about him turning down your bed.”
I cocked my head, puzzled. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It embarrassed him. One doesn’t thank the servants, Heath.”
“I was just being polite.”
“They’re just doing their jobs. Does a banker thank his tellers every time they wait on a customer? Does a restaurant manager thank his waiters every time they take someone’s order?”
“Well, no, of course not, but still—”
“They’re thanked at Christmas with a bonus and a fat goose, that’s enough. It’s just how it’s done.”
“All right, if that’s how it’s done,” I said. It seemed the more I learned, the more I had to learn.
“It is. Wigglesworth is a proud man, and he takes his job seriously. He’s worked at Heatherwick longer than I’ve been alive. His young niece worked here for a short time, too, as a chambermaid, about three years ago.”
“Oh?”
“Clara, her name was. A pretty girl, hard to believe she was old Wigglesworth’s niece. Father hired her and then fired her just a few months later.”
“Why?”
“Rumor has it she was in the family way. Wigglesworth would never, ever, speak of it, nor would my father, but there was unmistakable tension between them after she left. I think Wigglesworth actually began to change toward my father around the time of the Gypsy girl, but it became more apparent after Clara left.”
“Tension?”
“Yes. I’m not sure Father ever noticed, but I did, even as a child. Wigglesworth is a hard person to get to know, quite proper, rigid, and formal, but since I’ve known him my entire life, I sense things about him, how he feels about people, about guests, other staff members, and how he felt about my father.”
“Interesting. Did you ever ask him about it?”
“Ask Wigglesworth? Of course not. He’s the butler. I would never intrude into his life like that, though I will say he didn’t seem to mourn Father’s passing much. Rumor has it, you know, that he’s related to Smith Wigglesworth, a noted evangelist who has been influential in the early history of Pentecostalism.”
“I’m not familiar with Smith Wigglesworth,” I said.
“I don’t know much about him either, but I do recall one of his quotes. ‘Great faith is the product of great fights. Great testimonies are the outcome of great tests. Great triumphs can only come out of great trials.’ Smith Wigglesworth said that.”
“Gee, he sounds like quite a figure, all right. And Wigglesworth is related to him?”
“That’s what he claims, anyway, and I’ve no cause to doubt him.”
“Gee,” I said again. After that, neither of us said anything for a while, and the house fell quiet and still, except for the crackling of the wood now burning brightly in the grate, and the ticking of the mantel clock. Simon handed me a cigar, which he lit for me along with one for himself. I inhaled and started coughing almost immediately.
Simon patted me on the back, which didn’t help. “Don’t inhale, Heath, just let it happen, naturally.”
I coughed a few more times, then tried again, this time managing not to choke.
“You all right, then? You look a bit green.”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Here, have a brandy. It will help.” He poured a drink from one of the crystal decanters on the sideboard and handed it to me before pouring himself one.
I drank, feeling it burn down my throat but almost instantly warm me up. “Thanks,” I said, feeling suddenly toasty and comfy.
“You’re welcome. Please, sit,” he said, indicating one of two dark brown leather wing chairs in front of the fireplace.
“This is nice,” I said, sitting and gazing into the flames as I let the heat embrace me.
“Yes. Normally I hate this time of day, right before bed, when the servants have been dismissed and I’m all alone.”
“But you’re not alone tonight,” I said.
“No, I’m not, and I’m bloody glad of it. I’m glad you both came for the weekend, truly.” He touched the back of my hand, ever so gently. I was hot before, but now actual perspiration burst out on my forehead. “This is a lonely house, Heath,” he said, retracting his hand from mine suddenly as he took another drink from his glass, his cigar in his other hand.
“I suppose it would be,” I said. “It is big and isolated for one person. It’s a bit of a ways from the village.”
“Yes on both counts,” he said. “I don’t even use most of the rooms when I’m here by myself.”
“Seven bedrooms on the second floor alone,” I said.
He smiled. “Seven bedrooms on the first floor, actually. This is the ground floor, and above us is the first floor, and then the attic.”
“Oh, right. I forgot that’s how you do it here in England.”
“Differently normal,” we both said at the same time, and then we laughed.
“What’s up in the attic again?” I said.
“The female servants rooms are up there, along with a couple of guest rooms. The rest is mostly just storage and the old trunk room, but that hasn’t been used since the fire.”
“Fire?”
“Yes, it happened while I was away at boarding school, so they can’t blame me for that. No one was hurt, thankfully, but it destroyed the trunk room.”
“How did it start?”
He looked slightly ill at ease. “Faulty wiring, probably. Father never had it investigated, and he didn’t report it to the insurance company because he didn’t want the rates to go up. You know how those places work.”
“I suppose.”
“He did have an electrician in afterward, though, to check the rest of the wiring in the house. He didn’t want another fire breaking out.”
“Certainly not. A wise precaution.”
“Yes. There’s an old playroom in the attic, too. Charlotte and I used to love to be up there hidden away, just the two of us. In fact, she used to go up there even as an adult. It was her sanctuary, I think.”
“Were you close to your sister?”
“Close? I don’t know, honestly. I tried to be, at least later on. She was six years younger than me, you see. Our mother died shortly after giving birth to her, so it was just the two of us and the old man. Charlotte was a bit simple, and she struggled sometimes with numbers. She never could get the hang of cribbage or whist, try as we might, or most any game, really, yet she excelled at reading and writing, things that didn’t involve other people. She was a pretty girl, with lovely dark auburn locks and curls, and she grew into a lovely young woman, kind, gentle, childlike, but she changed as she grew.”
“In what way?” I said.
“She became angry, but I couldn’t figure out why. She stopped taking care of herself, not always combing her hair or cutting it short with scissors on a whim. She stopped wearing makeup and powder at times, stopped caring much about her figure. Still, Father adored her, much to my annoyance I have to admit, and I hate myself for having felt that way. Charlotte was an innocent caught up in an awful world, and I should have been there for her. I should have been her protector, but I was too involved in my own self. And then, when she killed herself, I felt like my world had ended.”
“I’m so sorry, Simon,” I said, feeling like I had opened a floodgate to his emotions. He probably needed to talk about this, but hadn’t anyone who’d listen before. “So it was suicide? I had heard the official report was that it was an accident.”
He took another drink and another puff on his cigar, the smoke billowing about his head. “My friend Alcott, the former inspector constable, stated officially that it was an accident because he thought it would be better for the family. Suicide can be scandalous and goes against the Church, not that I give a damn about that, but she wouldn’t have been able to be buried in the family crypt in the churchyard or even have a proper funeral mass. And then there would have been the gossip. I just couldn’t subject her memory to all that.”
“Kind of him to protect both of you.”
“Yes, that’s true. I found her, you know, on the night she died. She’d taken that dose of poison. No one knew, and no one knew where she was, no one had seen her. When she didn’t come down to dinner, I thought to check the old playroom in the attic. She used to go there fairly often, as I said, sometimes just to sit alone in the dark. Sometimes she actually played with the toys, even when she was grown. I didn’t understand it then, but I think I do now.”
“Finding her like that must have been awful for you.”
“Yes, it was. It still haunts me. She was alive, but just barely. Her last words to me were ‘I left a letter for you in the house.’”
“What did the letter say?”
“I never found it. The fact that she told me she wrote that letter is what led me to believe it was suicide, and at first I tried to convince everyone she had killed herself because of it, but Alcott told me why I shouldn’t. Maybe it was foolish in hindsight, I don’t know. My vacillating from suicide to accident probably raised more questions than not.”
“You did what you thought was best at the time, and on the advice of a friend.”
“I’m not so sure. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she was just telling me she’d written me a letter, but it had nothing to do with her death.”
“But you don’t really believe that.”
He shook his head slowly. “No, not really. Suicide just fits with her state of mind at that time. If only I knew what she had written. I’ve searched everywhere, but this house is so large, a letter like that could be tucked almost anywhere. I still search for it occasionally, though not as rigorously anymore. I’ve been through every one of the books in the library and in here, page by page. I’ve looked through all of her belongings, and I’ve looked through every drawer in the place. I don’t understand why she couldn’t be more specific as to where in the house she left it, but that was Charlotte.”
“I wish I could have known her,” I said.
“She would have liked you, I think, and you would have liked her, once you got to know her. But she was a hard person to get to know. At times she was timid and shy, other times volatile and angry. Some people think I had something to do with her death, and that hurts me greatly, truth be told. I don’t mind them thinking I had something to do with my father’s death, I don’t even mind that idiot Walter thinking it, but for any of them to think I would hurt Charlotte…”
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with either one.”
Simon looked at me, his eyes moist. “Thanks for that, truly. I feel her presence sometimes, you know. I talk to her.”
“That must be comforting.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Sometimes it’s maddening, because I can almost hear her voice, hear her answering me when I speak to her. Sometimes I can smell her perfume, or I think I catch a glimpse of her going up the stairs to the playroom.”
“The playroom and the toys are all still up there?”
“Yes, old, dusty and worn out, like everything else in this place.”
“I’d like to see it, the playroom, I mean.”
“Why?”
“I’m just curious. Old houses like this fascinate me.”
“There’s nothing up there that would interest you, Heath. Just dust, ghosts, and memories. I don’t want anyone poking around, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I understand. Sometimes it’s best to let the past be the past, I suppose.”
“Yes, I’d like to be able to do that myself. Maybe if I could find Charlotte’s letter, things would be different depending on what it said. Perhaps I could let her go, let it be, and perhaps she could let go at last. If I could know she didn’t blame me, you see? But I haven’t found the letter, at least not yet. It’s the curse, I think.”
“Why do you keep going on about this supposed curse? Even your cousin mentioned it. Can’t you just forget about it?”
“Because it’s real, it must be. I can’t not think it, after all that’s happened. Mother dying just after childbirth, Charlotte being simple-minded, my father being killed, the fire, my being the way I am, Charlotte taking her own life. How could it not be the curse?”
“It could be a lot of things,” I said quietly. “Women have childbirth-related deaths fairly often, and some children are born different. It happens.”
“The doctor said mother died of puerperal fever, an infection contracted during the birth. He said it could have affected Charlotte, too, but what does he know?”
“He’s a doctor, Simon. I’d say he knows a lot. As for your father being killed, it was a burglar, a vagabond, and you couldn’t help that. And if Charlotte committed suicide, her reasons had nothing to do with you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I do know one thing. You said you think the curse has something to do with you being the way you are, but there’s nothing wrong with the way you are,” I said.
“Of course you’d say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“The curse is true. Would you like to see it?”
“See what?”
“The curse, or the words of it, anyway. An old Gypsy woman left it in a bottle on the doorstep of the house. Father kept it all these years. He enjoyed showing it to people, making fun of it.” Simon walked over to the bookcase behind the desk and extracted a volume titled Legends, Myths, and Warriors of the Eighteenth Century, which he set on the desktop. “Father pressed it in the pages of this book a long time ago.”
Intrigued, I moved closer, looking at the yellowed parchment paper Simon took out from between the pages and set upon the desk.
“It’s written in blood,” Simon said.
I stood next to him then, almost touching him, as I looked at it. “How do you know it’s blood? It’s not red.”
“Blood doesn’t dry red, it dries brownish.”
“Oh. Well, still. It could be anything, and probably not human blood. What does it say? It’s hard to read.”
“I can recite it almost from memory,” Simon said.
A curse upon the Quimby clan,
every woman, child, and man.
Misfortune and mayhem to them befell
while they live beneath this spell.
The curse will stand and not be broken
until the truest words are spoken
by one whose heart is pure and strong,
who proves his worth and rights the wrong.
Consigned by the Queen to victory
to solve the hidden mystery.
“Gee, I said. “It’s poetic, but it’s just words on paper, Simon. Meaningless.”
“Not meaningless if you’re a Quimby. Walter’s lucky he’s a Wittenham, like he said. You know, I used to think if the curse were ever broken, I’d somehow change. I’d be attracted to girls, to women. Sometimes I still think that.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Why wouldn’t I? To not have to hide my feelings, my desires? To not have to pretend? I grew up playing a part, as did you, I’m sure, a version of myself I knew others wanted to see, and I had to do it to avoid humiliation and ostracization, but it wasn’t the real me, or at least, not the complete me. I just want to be normal.”
“I think you are normal, Simon, and so am I. We’re just differently normal than everyone else, remember?”
He laughed rather bitterly. “Sure, differently normal. But I want to be normal normal.”
“You know, I think now would be a good time to read you that passage I marked in my book.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“It’s from Oscar Wilde’s The Soul of Man under Socialism.” I picked up the book from where I had laid it previously and opened it to the marked page. “‘The things people say of a man do not alter a man. He is what he is. Public opinion is of no value whatsoever. Even if people employ actual violence, they are not to be violent in turn. That would be to fall to the same low level. After all, even in prison, a man can be quite free. His soul can be free. His personality can be untroubled. He can be at peace. And, above all things, they are not to interfere with other people or judge them in any way. Personality is a very mysterious thing. A man cannot always be estimated by what he does. He may keep the law, and yet be worthless. He may break the law, and yet be fine. He may be bad, without ever doing anything bad. He may commit a sin against society, and yet realize through that sin his true perfection.’”
“You’re saying my sin, our sin, is our perfection?”
“I’m just quoting Mr. Wilde, but I imagine he knew a thing or two about such matters. He was in a position such as yours, you know, with societal expectations and whatnot.”
“Maybe so, but he didn’t have to contend with the Quimby curse.”
“You can’t blame who and what you are on the curse, or any of what’s happened.”
“Perhaps not, but it seems logical to me. That’s what being like this is, a curse. You should know.”
“I do know. I used to think I was the only one in the world who felt this way, but I’m discovering day by day there are lots of us, men and women, and we’re not alone.”
“I’m alone.”
“You’ve got me.”
Simon looked at me, but I couldn’t read his expression. “Do I? I’ve no relations left, really, except for my idiotic cousin.”
“Mr. Wittenham, you mean.”
“The one and only. We don’t get on very well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. He’s always been jealous of me, jealous of Heatherwick, jealous of the title, of everything, but Father seemed to like him well enough. He even made him the estate manager, as Walter pointed out at lunch. Father did make a point of telling Walter he had rewritten his will leaving Heatherwick to him and cutting me out entirely, but it was just a cruel joke. Father was trying to get back at me because of an argument we’d had before dinner. When Father’s will was read a short while later, Walter was shocked to find out he wasn’t in it at all, except to list him as the estate manager ad infinitum. He did that just to vex me, I think.”
“Do you believe your father would have really changed it to cut you out if he had lived?”
“Walter tried to press that point, even hiring a solicitor, but the will stood. So, for better or worse, this place is all mine.”
“It’s a pretty nice place.”
“To visit, perhaps. But do you know what it’s like to live here by myself, day after day, with just ghosts and memories to keep me company? Do you have any idea?”
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to answer or not, so I took another puff on my cigar, another drink of my brandy, and looked into his beautiful eyes, noting the fire dancing in them.
“When I am home alone, which is most of the time since Charlotte died, my days are pretty much the same. I take my morning constitutional, weather permitting, and then retire to the library where I meet with Wigglesworth and Mrs. Devlin to approve the menus, get updates on the estate, sign checks, and pay bills. Then I usually read the morning paper and look through the post Wigglesworth has brought, make a few telephone calls, and do some correspondence. After lunch I’ll sometimes nap, read a book, or play solitaire until teatime. After dinner, I usually sit in the drawing room and listen to my radio programs. Before bed, I review the evening post, and then it’s time for slumber, only to get up and do it all over again, day after day after day, all by myself.”
“Gee, that sounds awfully lonely.”
“It’s hell, in a word. That’s why I travel so much, spending my inheritance. Why I don’t like being here. I can’t even go into Brockenhurst for a pint for people talking and whispering behind my back.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes. Sometimes when I get too lonely, I drive down to Battramsley, where I’m not really known, and visit a pub called the Pig and Pint for a whiskey and a game of darts. I use a false name and wear old clothes and a cap. It’s what I have to do, living at Heatherwick and being who I am.”
“Why do you stay, then? Why not sell the house and move to London, get a swanky flat in the heart of it all?”
“It’s crossed my mind more than once. But the curse will just follow me wherever I go, until it’s broken. And it’s my obligation to stay here, isn’t it? To society, to the servants, to my heritage, to continue Heatherwick, to marry, raise a family, and pass it on as my ancestors did.”
“You told me you don’t want that. You want to live your life.”
He sighed and turned away. “I know. I always struggle with what I want versus what I feel I need to do. It’s hard to explain, and for you to understand, I imagine. But when one is born to a family like mine, when one is a Quimby, a lord, a baron, and is raised to act a certain way, to behave in a particular manner, to realize your life is not really your own, well, it’s different.”
“Your life is your own, Simon, if only you’d realize it. If you sell Heatherwick, the servants may stay on or move on or retire, but they are not your obligation. You said yourself, they’re your employees. And Heatherwick will go on with another family who will take care of it.”
“I can’t imagine anyone but a Quimby living here. I certainly can’t imagine Walter Wittenham and his brood. I’m the sixth-generation Quimby, you know. It’s my obligation to take care of it, and to pass it on to the seventh.” He gazed at the fireplace then. “Quem legari ad id tuam patres tui, Si tibi earn denuo possideres eam.”
“That which thy fathers have bequeathed to thee, earn it anew if thou wouldst possess it,” I said.
“Well done.”
“But you don’t have to possess it, Simon. Just because your father bequeathed it to you doesn’t mean you have to keep it.”
“You don’t understand.”
I shook my head slowly. “I guess I don’t understand, you’re right.”
“I’m sorry, Heath, truly. Maybe if I ever found that letter Charlotte wrote, perhaps I’d be able to move on, but how could I leave now? What if I sold the house and someone else found it and just discarded it?”
“How do you know she even really wrote a letter? Maybe she meant to but never did.”
“I can feel it. She told me she did, and I believe her. Charlotte was never known to lie. I don’t think she had it in her.”
“I guess it’s your life to live.”
“For better or worse, Gypsy curse and all.”
“Why did this Gypsy curse your family, anyway?”
“My father used to say it was because her daughter was interested in him romantically, and he rejected her. But the old woman told a different tale to anyone who’d listen. She said her daughter and my father were having an affair, and he promised her a piece of land and some money, but when Father found out my mother was expecting with Charlotte, he broke it off cold with the girl and went back on all his promises.”
“So the Gypsy mother was angry,” I said.
“Yes, and she put the curse on us, and it just keeps coming true. I thought it might end with the old man’s death, since he’s the one who brought all this on, but it didn’t.”
“You mean when the burglar killed him.”
“That’s right. He died in his bed, probably napping.”
“How awful,” I said. “And the burglar was never found?”
“No. Probably some transient passing through, a vagabond, like I said at lunch. The constable thinks he may have been sleeping in the garden shed.”
“Why?”
Simon shrugged. “These are difficult times financially for many people. The Depression has affected everyone, some more than others. It’s not too far-fetched to imagine a poor man trudging down the road, seeing the gates to Heatherwick. He slips in, goes up the road to the house unnoticed, and makes himself comfortable out of the weather, in the shed. Then one night, he sees the open window and climbs up the tree to investigate.”
“Intending to steal, but he ends up murdering your father in cold blood,” I said.
“Yes. Father probably woke up and confronted him. Not being able to escape, the burglar grabbed the letter opener and stabbed him before he could summon help, and then stole his watch and wallet, escaping out the window. They found the broken watch and empty wallet at the base of the tree, dropped in haste by the burglar, no doubt.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle?”
“No. Why? What’s gotten into your head?”
“Well, if your father confronted the burglar it seems there would have been a struggle. And if he was napping and hadn’t woken up, why would the burglar stab him?”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
“Say, I just had a thought. Was an autopsy done on your father?”
“An autopsy? No, there was no need. Cause of death was a stab wound directly to the heart. The death certificate lists it quite clearly.”
“I was just thinking about your father being in bed, fully dressed, and no signs of a struggle. It’s a bit odd, don’t you think? You said he was probably napping, but surely he wouldn’t have fallen asleep so soundly that he wouldn’t have heard a burglar enter through the window. He would have had time to react, to pull the bell cord for a servant, to fight off the intruder, or something. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“I recall one of our conversations on the ship, the second time I went to your cabin, when you pretended to slip me a Mickey. Maybe someone slipped your father a sleeping potion. Perhaps the real murderer drugged him at dinner to incapacitate him. They knew he’d go to his room, probably because he wasn’t feeling well. They waited a short while for the potion to take effect, then stabbed him and stole his wallet and watch to make it look like a burglary.”
“Because if he had been given a sleeping draught he would have been tired, causing him to lie down and fall deeply asleep. But why not poison instead of a sleeping draught? Wouldn’t that have been easier than drugging him and then sneaking in to stab him?”
“Yes, but I’ve read that most poisons have ill effects, like vomiting or convulsions, things a doctor examining the body would have noticed. But a sleeping potion not so much.”
Simon shook his head. “You will indeed make a first-rate detective one of these days, Heath. Or a first-rate murderer.”
“The former, I think.”
“Good to know. It’s an interesting theory, but that would mean someone at dinner that night was a murderer.”
“Or attending at dinner.”
“Mrs. Devlin?”
“Possibly. Or even Wigglesworth. You mentioned he had brought your father a peppermint tea right after dinner, just after Mrs. Devlin served dessert. A sleeping potion could have easily been put into either of those, the tea or his piece of the dessert. And neither of them seemed too fond of your father. Then there was the incident with Wigglesworth’s niece, Clara. Your father tossed her out on the street after she became in the family way. That would certainly have been a motive for Wigglesworth.”
“Preposterous. Wigglesworth and Mrs. Devlin have been with the family for years.”
“It’s been known to happen, Simon.”
“I suppose it has, but not with either of them. I still say it was a random burglar.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth investigating more fully? Perhaps speak to the current constable?”
“And say what? That you have a new theory on what might have happened? It’s been two years, Heath, too late for an autopsy now. My father is dead and buried, let him rest. Digging it all up again will serve no purpose.”
“But there may be a murderer in the house.”
“Well, there’s no one left to murder but me, and if that happens, so be it.”
I stared at him and realized he looked overwhelmingly melancholy again. “All right, have it your way, then.” I rubbed my eyes. “I think I’ll go up to bed. I’m tired and it’s gotten late.”
“Yes, good idea. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning. I may stay up and do some reading for a while. Speaking of that, don’t forget your book.”
“Right,” I said, picking it up. “Good night, then.” I tossed my cigar butt in the fire, set my glass on the desk, and left.