Bridges waited till Crowther had cooled his patient’s forehead and measured again the struggling pulse before taking his arm and leading him into the hall.
“You think it is poison?” he asked.
“I am sure of it.”
“Is his mind still secure? Can we find from him how this came about? Some accident, perhaps.”
“I have given him a sleeping draft: if you wish to talk to him, do so now, then I may dose him with a more generous hand. His suffering is extreme.”
The squire sucked his teeth and nodded. “Very well, very well. From where do you think the poison came?”
“I have not yet examined the bottles or foodstuffs in the kitchen, but I suspect the aqua vitae he received from the hand of Mr. Thornleigh. The maid said he took some just after Mrs. Westerman and I left here. The symptoms came so hard and sudden I can think of no other cause. The lemonade we drank together was obviously not tainted. You can see that by the fact I stand here and speak to you now.” Crowther’s whisper was harsh and violent.
“Indeed.” The squire replied. “Unless it was only his glass that was tainted, as you put it.”
“That we can clarify with experiment swiftly enough. Give a sample of the liquor to any dog in the street. If it does not die within the hour you may believe what you like.”
“Very well, very well, Mr. Crowther.” The squire put his hand on Crowther’s arm and held it for a moment as a man might steady himself on a moving ship. “And you maintain the nurse was murdered also?”
“I do. Do you doubt it?”
“It is not a matter of doubt, I simply cannot understand what is happening here. Might it be a series of unrelated, unhappy events? Might that not be the simplest of conclusions?”
“It is unbelievable. These people have been murdered, and not by some lone thief.”
“You point to Mr. Hugh Thornleigh.”
“If Alexander is never discovered, or found dead, then he inherits the estate! Who else stands to benefit so?”
The squire looked at him hard in the gloom. “And if both brothers are removed? One by stealth and one by the law-who gains there? I would not expect you to be so keen to see a man hanged for the murder of one of his family.”
Crowther flushed. “I am not keen, as you choose to say it, to see any man hanged. But do not ask me to believe this an accident or Nurse Bray a suicide so you can keep Hugh safe!”
“Hugh may be better than what comes after him.”
“Even if he murders?”
“I do not necessarily believe that a murder has been committed.”
“Perhaps you might like to discuss that with the victim.”
Crowther pushed the bedroom door open again. Michaels had taken his place at the bed, and now moved aside to let him approach. He nodded at Crowther in such a way he suspected the conversation outside the door had not gone unheard. Bridges bent over the bed and cleared his throat.
“Now then, Mr. Cartwright, I hate to see you in such a state! What has happened here? Some mistake with the household poisons?”
Cartwright opened his eyes and the squire recoiled slightly. The breath came in rattling gasps.
“Water,” he said.
Crowther filled the glass and pushed past the squire to give him drink. Cartwright sank back, then sighing, opened his eyes again.
“Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. We were killing mice last Sunday.” He looked up into the squire’s round face with desperate eyes. “I took water with the liquor Captain Thornleigh brought. Perhaps. Must have been so.”
The squire rocked back on his heels with a satisfied smile and blinked innocently at Crowther. The latter said nothing, but did not trouble to hide his disdain. Joshua he would not blame. If the draper wished to believe himself a victim of accident, and that belief soothed him, then so be it.
Turning to the table, he added a few drops to the water glass from a brown bottle. A swirl of light purple sunk and spread in the water, and he offered the glass again to his patient. The eyes suddenly opened and locked onto Crowther’s face. Cartwright put up his hand and held the glass away from him, his bloody palm fixing round Crowther’s wrist with force, pulling him close to his lips. Crowther could smell death on him.
“Tichfield. It was Tichfield Street.”
Crowther felt the blood in his brain stir. He nodded carefully to show he understood; the tension fell away from Cartwright’s limbs and his eyes closed. He let himself be fed the water, and with a slow sigh slipped under the waves of his suffering again.
The squire stepped forward. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing but the delirium of his brain.” Crowther did not take his eyes from Joshua’s face. “He will not speak again.”
It was past three in the morning when David returned to Caveley for the last time. The ladies had not gone to bed. Harriet would not give up the watch, and Rachel would not leave her. He came in without removing his cloak and handed over the paper to Harriet, but she could have guessed half of what it contained by the expression on his face. She smiled at him very sadly. He looked pale and uneasy in the candlelight.
“Thank you, David. You have been very good. Rest now.”
He looked for a second as if he wished to say something, then turned away, but paused again at the door.
“Just wished to say, ma’am, Miss Rachel, that Mr. Crowther was a gentleman to Cartwright. I hope I get care like that when I go. Though I hope not to die so hard.” He left before they could reply.
The door shut behind him and Rachel got up and took her position behind Harriet’s chair, so she could read over her shoulder. The note was short and to the point.
It is over. The dose was massive. I know where Alexander is.
19 APRIL 1775, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS BAY, AMERICA
They set out like boys promised a picnic that morning, but it was a shocked and bloody army that made its way back to camp the following evening.
Hawkshaw had a tear in his cheek from a farmer’s blunderbuss, and he had lost three of his company to the rebels on the retreat from Lexington. He had not seen Hugh since the carnage of Bloody Angle, where the rebels had taken advantage of a sharp turn in the road to ambush and harry his men. He had never felt so exposed. These pretty wooded hills and valleys with their irregular roads and riverways made for pleasant farming country, but it was the devil’s own work to fight in. The rebels came up out of nowhere at them as they made their way back into Concord, some piling right into their midst to send off a shot though it was certain death to do so. The army could not be sanguine about any meeting with these men in the future, surely. They were ragged and undisciplined, but brave, and knew how to use the land to their advantage.
Hawkshaw pulled off his coat in the relative peace of his quarters and tried to wash out his wound. He took some of the water from his bowl in his mouth and spat it out again, thick with his own blood. He had even seen a woman firing by the side of her husband from one of the farms along the way. Both had been killed, and the house set alight, but it was a chiling scene. If they could make their women fight like that, how great a force would be required to subdue them? More than were here, and more than were likely to come soon, and in the meantime they were in danger of being pinned down in this bloody bay like animals in a pit. The rebels seemed to him like little boys throwing sharp rocks at bears. Not much of a competition in a straight fight perhaps, but if they could not reach out a claw and connect, and the stones were sharp enough, it was plain where any sensible man should lay his bets.