Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [28]
“That will not be possible, Mr. March.”
“What do you mean, ‘not possible’?” Eustace demanded, the pink mounting up his cheeks. “Of course it’s possible! Just do it, man!”
Vespasia looked at the doctor’s grim face.
“What is it, Dr. Treves?” she said quietly. “Why do you mention the dog? And how do you know about it? The servants did not call you to see a dead dog.”
“No, my lady.” He sighed deeply, the lines of his face dragging downward in acute distress. “The dog was under the foot of the bed. It died of a heart attack also, I should judge at about the same time as Lord Ashworth. It appears he fed it a little of his morning coffee from the tray served him, and drank some himself. In both cases, a very short while before death.”
The color fled from Eustace’s face. He swayed a little. “Good God, man! What on earth do you mean?”
Vespasia sank very slowly into the chair behind her. She knew what the doctor was going to say, and all its darkness was already crowding in upon her mind.
“I mean, sir, that Lord Ashworth died of a poison that was in his morning coffee.”
“Nonsense!” Eustace said furiously. “Absolute nonsense! The very idea is preposterous! Poor George had a heart attack—and—and the dog must have got upset—death, and all that—and it died as well. Coincidence! Just a—wretched coincidence.”
“No, sir.”
“Of course it is!” Eustace spluttered. “Of course. Why on earth would Lord Ashworth take poison, for heaven’s sake? You didn’t know the man, or you wouldn’t suggest such a damnable thing. And he certainly wouldn’t try it out on the dog first! George loved animals. The damn creature was devoted to him. Irritated my mother. It’s her dog, but it preferred George. He wouldn’t dream of hurting it. Bloody silly thing to say. And I assure you, he had no reason whatever to take his own life. He was a man of”—he gulped, glaring at Treves—“every possible happiness. Wealth, position, a fine wife and son.”
Treves opened his mouth to attempt again, but Vespasia interrupted him.
“I believe, Eustace, that Dr. Treves is not suggesting that George took the poison knowingly.”
“Don’t be idiotic!” Eustace snapped, losing his self-control entirely. “Nobody commits suicide by accident! And no one in this household has any poison anyway.”
“Digitalis,” Treves put in with quiet weariness. “Quite a common medicine for heart complaints. I understand from the lady’s maid that Mrs. March herself still has some, but it is perfectly possible to distill it from foxgloves, if one wishes.”
Eustace collected himself again and his eyebrows rose in superb sarcasm. “And Lord Ashworth crept out at six o’clock in the morning, picked foxgloves in the garden, and distilled some digitalis?” he inquired heavily. “Did he do this in the kitchen with the scullery maids, or in the upstairs pantry with the lady’s maids and the footmen? Then, if I understand your implication correctly, he went back to his bedroom, waited till his coffee came, accidentally poisoned the dog, then poisoned himself? You are a raving fool, Treves! A blithering and incompetent ass! Write a death certificate and get out!”
Vespasia felt unaccountably sorry for Eustace. He was not going to be able to cope. He had never been as strong as he imagined—perhaps that was why he was so insufferably pompous.
“Eustace,” she said quietly and firmly, “Dr. Treves is not suggesting that George took it accidentally. As you observe, it is absurd. The inevitable conclusion is that someone else put it in his coffee while it was in the pantry—it would not be difficult, since everyone else takes tea. And poor George had no idea it was poisoned, either, when he gave it to the dog, or when he drank it himself.”
Eustace swung round and stared at her, suddenly hot with fear. His voice was hoarse and came with a squeak. “But that would be ...