The doctor arrived at half past midnight, a small, harried man named Dr. Pritchard who had been attending to the Ashwick family since before I was born. He carried a leather bag that seemed heavier than his frame could support, and his spectacles were perpetually fogged, as if he had been running through the rain—though the snow had stopped and the sky was now a clear, frozen black.
He knelt beside Beatrice, who had been moved to the settee by the time Harkness had finally appeared with a lamp and a look of profound displeasure. I had not called for help, but Richard had, and that was enough. The doctor pressed his ear to her chest, lifted her eyelids, sniffed her breath. His expression shifted from professional concern to something darker—uncertainty, perhaps, or suspicion.
"Tell me exactly what she drank," he said, addressing no one in particular.
Richard stepped forward, still holding the decanter as if it were evidence of his own innocence. "She had three glasses of sherry. The same as we all had. Well—the same as I had. I cannot speak for the others."
"Two," Celia corrected quietly. She had appeared in the doorway in a dressing gown that was too thin for the cold, her rosary still wrapped around her fingers. "I had two. And I am perfectly fine."
Henry hovered behind her, pale and trembling. He had not touched his wine at all, I noticed. He had never had a taste for alcohol. Or perhaps he had simply been too afraid.
Dr. Pritchard opened his bag and withdrew a small vial of something that looked like ammonia. He waved it under Beatrice's nose. She did not stir. He checked her pulse again, then her pupils, which were constricted to pinpricks.
"I cannot say for certain," he said slowly, "but this does not present as simple intoxication. The pupils, the frothing, the shallow respiration—these are consistent with a narcotic or alkaloid poison. Belladonna, perhaps, or a derivative thereof."
The room went very still. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
"Poison?" Richard's voice was a careful blend of outrage and bewilderment. "That is a grave accusation, Doctor. Are you suggesting that someone in this house—"
"I am suggesting nothing," Dr. Pritchard interrupted, holding up a hand. "I am merely describing the symptoms. The cause could be accidental—a contaminated bottle, a mislabelled tincture. I have seen such things before. But I would advise that all food and drink be examined, and that the household be confined to their rooms until I can conduct further tests."
"And Beatrice?" I asked. My voice was steady, almost clinical. "Will she recover?"
The doctor hesitated. "She is in a deep stupor. If the dose was not lethal, she may come round in a day or two. But there may be permanent damage—to the heart, the nervous system. I cannot promise anything."
He packed his bag with the air of a man who had said all he was willing to say. Richard escorted him to the door, and I heard the crunch of boots on gravel, the starting of a motor, the fading of headlights through the frosted windows. Then silence returned, thicker than before.
Celia was the first to speak. "We should pray," she said, her voice soft but insistent. "We should pray for Beatrice, and for the soul of whoever did this."
"Prayer won't find the poisoner," Richard said, returning to the room. He had abandoned all pretense of calm. His face was flushed, his beard bristling with something that might have been fear or might have been rage. "We need to search the house. Every room. Every cupboard."
"And what will we find?" I asked, leaning against the mantelpiece. "A bottle of belladonna labelled 'Poison—do not drink'? Whoever did this would have been careful. They would have disposed of the evidence."
"Unless they are still carrying it," Henry whispered. He was looking at Richard with an expression of naked terror. "Unless it is still on their person."
Richard bristled. "You dare to accuse me?"
"I accuse no one," Henry said quickly, retreating behind Celia. "I am simply saying—we do not know who we can trust."
Trust. The word hung in the air like smoke. I looked at my remaining siblings—Richard, flushed and defensive; Celia, pale and prayerful; Henry, trembling and childlike—and I realised that we had already crossed a line. The dinner party was over. The contest had begun.
I excused myself and went to my room, but I did not sleep. I sat by the window and watched the snow drift down onto the gardens, covering the dead rose bushes and the frozen fountain. In the distance, the moor stretched out like a grey sea, and I thought about the book in the library, the one I had closed only hours before. Belladonna. Foxglove. Hemlock. Aconite. So many ways to kill, each with its own signature, its own distinctive trail of suffering.
I had not poisoned Beatrice. I was certain of that. But as I sat there in the darkness, I began to wonder—could I have? Did I have the nerve, the precision, the cold patience required to slip a few drops of tincture into a glass of sherry and watch my sister choke on her own saliva?
The answer, to my surprise, was yes. Not with malice, not with hatred, but with the same detachment I might apply to pruning a dead branch or dissecting a frog. It was not love or hate that would drive me—it was curiosity. Pure, unadulterated curiosity.
The next morning, I rose early and descended to the breakfast room. Harkness had laid out cold meats, bread, and a pot of tea. He informed me that Beatrice had not regained consciousness, and that the doctor had sent word that he would return by noon with a chemist to test the remaining wine and sherry.
"Your father has requested that all family members assemble in the library at nine o'clock," Harkness added. His voice was as impassive as ever, but there was a tightness around his eyes that suggested he had not slept either.
I arrived in the library to find Father already there, seated in his wheeled chair by the unlit fireplace. He looked even more skeletal than the night before, as if the drama had accelerated his decay. But his eyes were sharp, darting from face to face with the hungry attention of a crow.
"I have been informed of the events of last night," he said. "Dr. Pritchard has suggested the possibility of deliberate poisoning. I find this—convenient."
"Convenient?" Richard repeated, incredulous. "Father, Beatrice nearly died!"
"And yet she did not die," Father said calmly. "Which suggests to me that the perpetrator is either incompetent or interrupted. Or perhaps—" he turned his gaze to me, and I felt its weight like a stone, "—the perpetrator was not aiming for death at all, but merely to throw suspicion upon another."
I did not flinch. I had learned long ago that flinching was a confession.
"Father," Celia said, stepping forward with her hands clasped, "we cannot live in a house where someone is trying to kill us. We must call the authorities—the county constabulary, at least."
"The authorities will not come," Father said. "This is a private matter, and I will not have the Ashwick name dragged through the local newspapers. You will stay, all of you. You will continue the year as I have decreed. And if anyone attempts to leave—" he paused, letting the threat hang, "—they forfeit their claim. Every penny. Every acre. I will leave it all to the church."
Celia's face went white. She was not pious—she was practical. The church would not feed her, nor would it clothe her in silk. She had no income of her own, no prospects, no suitors willing to take a woman past her prime with a reputation for sanctimony. She would stay. They all would.
And so would I.
But as the meeting dissolved and we scattered to our separate corners of the Hall, I noticed something that the others had missed. Richard's left sleeve was damp at the cuff, as if he had washed it hurriedly. And Henry, who had been sitting on the edge of his chair throughout the meeting, had not touched his tea—even though he had poured it and stirred it, his hand shaking so badly that the spoon clattered against the cup.
I followed Henry to the east corridor, where he had taken to hiding in a small study that overlooked the frozen lake. He was standing by the window, his back to me, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs.
"Henry," I said softly. He spun around, his face blotched with tears.
"Edmund—I didn't do it. I swear to you, I didn't."
"I did not accuse you," I said. "I only want to talk."
He collapsed into a chair, his hands pressed to his face. "I know what you all think. I am the youngest. The weakest. The easiest to blame. But I could never—I could not even kill a rabbit when Father took me hunting. I couldn't."
I sat down across from him. "Then why are you afraid, Henry?"
He looked up at me, and in his eyes I saw something that made me pause—not guilt, but knowledge. He knew something. He was terrified not of being accused, but of what he had seen.
"I was walking past the pantry last night," he whispered. "After dinner. I could not sleep. And I saw someone—they were standing by the decanter shelf. They had a small bottle, dark glass, and they were pouring something into the sherry. I did not see their face. It was too dark. But I saw their hand."
"Whose hand?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"Richard's," he said, and then immediately shook his head. "No—I do not know. It was a man's hand, I think. Large, with a ring on the forefinger. Richard has a signet ring. But so does Father. And the doctor, when he arrived, he had a ring as well. It could have been anyone."
Anyone. That was the problem, wasn't it? In a house full of heirs, every hand was a potential weapon, every ring a potential signature.
I left Henry to his trembling and walked to the kitchens, where I found Harkness supervising the preparation of luncheon. The cook, a heavy woman named Mrs. Gower, was chopping vegetables with the furious energy of someone who wanted to be anywhere else.
"Has anyone tampered with the food?" I asked.
Harkness turned to me with a frown. "I have personally tasted every dish, Mr. Edmund. And I have locked the pantry. No one enters without my key."
"Except the person who had a key to begin with," I said. "How many keys exist?"
"Only two—mine and your father's."
"And where does your father keep his?"
Harkness's jaw tightened. "In the safe in his bedchamber. Which is locked at all times."
But locks could be picked. Keys could be copied. And trust, I was learning, was a currency that had never been abundant in Ashwick Hall.
I took my luncheon alone in the breakfast room—cold ham, bread, and a glass of water that I watched Harkness pour from a fresh bottle. I ate slowly, methodically, and I thought about the game. Father had set the terms. One year. One heir. And a house full of people who had every reason to kill each other—and every reason to deny it.
But what did I want? I had never cared for the estate, not really. I had no use for land or title or the suffocating weight of tradition. What I wanted was simpler, and far more dangerous.
I wanted to see what I was capable of.
That afternoon, I visited the library again. I took down the treatise on poisonous plants and read it with renewed attention. Not to plan, not yet—but to understand. Belladonna caused dilation of the pupils, not constriction. The doctor had noted constriction. That meant the poison was something else. Opium? A derivative of hemlock? Or something more exotic, something I had not yet encountered?
I made a list in my journal: symptoms. Timing. Accessibility. And I added a second list: possible suspects. Richard, with his rash temper and his damp cuff. Celia, with her hidden resentment and her knowledge of herbal remedies—she had studied at a convent school that taught nursing. Henry, with his terror and his inconsistent testimony. And Father himself, who had the most to gain from dividing us, from turning us against each other until only one remained.
But there was another possibility. One I had not considered until that moment.
It could have been me.
Not that I had done it—I knew I hadn't. But I had the knowledge. I had the access. I had the motive, if one considered boredom a motive. And if I, the quiet observer, the forgotten second son, could be suspected, then anyone could.
That was the genius of it. In a house where everyone was guilty of wanting something, innocence was impossible to prove.
Evening came, and with it, Dr. Pritchard's return. He brought with him a stout, grey-haired chemist named Mr. Ferguson, who set up a small laboratory in the dining room and began testing the remnants of the previous night's beverages. The rest of us were confined to the library, waiting in a silence that was broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional cough from Father.
At nine o'clock, the chemist emerged with a troubled expression.
"The sherry decanter," he said, "contains a trace of a compound I cannot identify with certainty. It is not a common poison—not arsenic, not cyanide, not strychnine. It appears to be an alkaloid derived from a plant in the nightshade family, but it has been processed, purified. This is not the work of a gardener foraging in the hedgerows. This is the work of someone with pharmaceutical knowledge."
Richard's face went white. Celia's lips pressed into a thin line. Henry looked as if he might be sick.
And Father—Father smiled.
"Interesting," he said. "Very interesting. So we have a chemist among us. Or a doctor. Or someone who has been reading the right books."
He looked at me. I met his gaze without flinching.
"Edmund," he said, "you were always the bookish one. The one who spent his hours in this very library, reading about—what was it? Botany? Medicine?"
"I read many things, Father," I said calmly. "But reading is not doing. And I would remind you that I was not the one who poured the sherry for Beatrice. I was at the other end of the table."
"A detail," Father said. "A detail that can be easily arranged."
But he did not press further. Instead, he announced that the investigation would continue, and that any further attempts would result in the immediate forfeiture of the perpetrator's claim—and their immediate removal to the county asylum.
We dispersed to our rooms, but I did not go directly to mine. I walked instead to the greenhouse—a neglected structure at the back of the Hall, where the glass was cracked and the plants had long since died. It was cold, dark, and empty.
But I knew the soil there was rich. I knew that, with the right seeds, something could grow.
I had brought a small pouch in my coat pocket. It contained a few dried seeds of foxglove—digitalis—that I had collected years ago from a cottage garden in Kent. I had never thought to use them. But now, standing in the broken glass and the frozen earth, I knelt and pressed them into the soil.
Not to poison anyone. Not yet.
But to have the option.
Because in a house where murder was already on the table, the only way to survive was to hold the knife.
I returned to my room and wrote in my journal: "December 1st. The game has begun. Beatrice may live. She may not. But I have planted my first seed—in the ground and in their minds. Let them suspect me. Let them suspect each other. Confusion is my shield."
And then, as I closed the book, I heard a sound from the corridor. A soft footstep, then a creak of the floorboard outside my door. I blew out my candle and waited in the darkness.
The door handle turned, slowly, silently.
I held my breath.
The handle turned back. The footsteps retreated.
And I was left with a question that would not leave me until dawn: was the visitor coming to kill me—or to warn me that someone else already had that plan?
I did not know.
But for the first time in my life, I was eager to find out.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!