Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [71]
“Your physick, it would seem, did little to cure your patient.” Mr. Bott peered severely at Dr. Pettigrew.
“Even the wisest counsel is useless when it is unheeded,” Dr. Pettigrew said, in a tone of reproof. “The Earl was fond of fine food and drink, and little accustomed to having his habits of indulgence checked.”
“And how would you describe Lord Scargrave's condition prior to his death on the twelfth of December last?”
“He was severely ill—so severely ill that all help was past by the time I arrived just before dawn. His lordship was bloated and possessed of difficulty in breathing; his vomiting had then occurred some hours without cease; and as is usual in such cases, a dizzyness had come on that prevented him from sitting or standing upright.”
“And yet you believed his lordship to be suffering merely another attack of dyspepsia?”
The doctor adjusted his spectacles with great dignity. “I thought that Lord Scargrave had achieved the final result of careless indulgence—acute gastritis brought on by steady abuse of the digestive tract. That he was brought to sickbed following a celebratory ball for his bride, and that following a three months’ holiday, made it likely that all dietary strictures had been cast off for some time; and so I bled him, and hoped for the best.”
Mr. Bott's quill paused in mid-air. “And what was the result?”
“His lordship departed this life a mere half-hour after the bleeding.”
There was a murmur at this from the assembled folk, rising behind us like the first hint of thunder on a warm summer's eve.
The coroner's reproachful gaze shifted from his witness to the audience, and he snorted with disapproval. “You may stand down, Dr. Pettigrew.”
Next to be called was the Countess herself, deathly pale and faint of voice. Arrayed in outmoded black sarcenet, with her red hair drawn severely behind her ears, Isobel looked the very picture of distressed widowhood; and a hope rose within me that even Mr. Bott might view her with pity, and go gently in his questions. She was sworn, stated her name and place of birth as the Barbadoes, and was questioned as to her familiarity with her husband's dietary habits.
“Had his lordship experienced such an indisposition at any time during your travels?”
“On several occasions in Paris, and again in Vienna,” Isobel replied, her voice quavering.
“Harlots and debauch!” someone cried from the gallery.
Mr Bott glared at the crowd and struck the table with a small mallet provided for this purpose. “Silence!” His head, so like a sparrow's, turned sharply towards the Countess. “And these would have been on what dates, my lady?”
Isobel reflected, her gaze distracted. “In early September and again at mid-November, I should say, sir.”
“But this was not an ailment the Earl combated daily.” Mr. Bott's hand moved swiftly over his parchment.
“It was not during the period of our marriage, assuredly.”
“Did you consider your husband to be in good health when you married him, my lady?”
“The Earl was a vigourous man of excellent aspect.” Isobel spoke in so low an accent as to be almost inaudible. “I anticipated a long and fruitful life in his company.” Her eyes drifted to where Fitzroy Payne sat, splendidly elegant in dark coat and breeches; I saw him smile encouragement, and hoped that the jury did not observe the exchange.
“Though he was a gentleman some”—at this, Mr. Bott peered narrowly at a paper before his nose—”six-and-twenty years your senior?”
“Married him for his fortune, she did,” came another voice from behind me.
Tom Hearst started to his feet and looked about the room, his indignation on his face. To my relief, I saw his brother George reach a restraining hand to his elbow, and with unconcealed reluctance the Lieutenant regained his seat.
“Silence!” Sir William