Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [72]
Isobel drew breath. She looked down at her clasped hands. “My husband's energy was high and his appearance youthful, despite his years. I did not anticipate his passing so soon.”
Mr. Bott sniffed, and peered at Isobel with sharp eyes. “Do you recall, my lady,” he said slowly, “what the late Earl of Scargrave consumed the evening of his death?”
“He partook of the repast laid for the ball, as did all our guests. It included such victuals as roast beef, a variety of vegetables, roast goose and pudding, pasties and oysters; for drink we had a spiced mulled punch and claret.” At this, my friend sought my eyes, her own filled with doubt. “I cannot think what else.”
“And how many guests did you entertain that evening, my lady?”
“Some hundred from London and the surrounding country.”
Mr. Bott paused before the next question, and looked significantly at the jury. “And you will swear, my lady, that all partook of the same food as the Earl?”
“I must believe it to be probable,” Isobel replied. “I myself was handed a dish by my husband; and that he had fetched mine in the same span as fetching his own, I know to be true.”
“And did your husband betray any sign of indisposition while the ball held sway?”
The Countess hesitated, and Mr. Bott leaned forward expectantly. “He was in excellent form and spirits for some hours,” Isobel told him, “but was overcome after midnight by severe dyspepsia, having drunk down a glass of claret in toasting my health.” Her voice faltered, and I keenly felt all her distress. “We bore him to his rooms. I bade our guests farewell.”
Fanny Delahoussaye's attention was clearly wandering, like a child's in the midst of the vicar's lengthy sermon; her blond head drifted around the room, seeking an object worthy of her interest, until recalled to dignity by a pinch from her mother.
“And did his lordship then request anything further?” Mr. Bott continued.
“He asked for a milk toddy and sweetmeats, in hopes that it might settle his stomach.”
The coroner fairly pounced. “Did you partake of either my lady?”
“I did not, sir.”
“Did any in the household?”
“I do not believe so.”
Fitzroy Payne's brows were knit in perturbation. As I gazed at the Earl, Tom Hearst leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear. Beyond them sat Mr. George Hearst, so clearly absorbed in his own thoughts that he must have heard little of what passed before him. He might better have escorted restive Fanny back to the Manor, since neither was engaged by the proceedings.
Mr. Bott's dry voice demanded my attention. “And who, my lady, assembled the plate of sweetmeats?”
“The plate and toddy were brought to my husband by my late maid, Marguerite.”
“Were you within the room at this time, my lady?”
“I was, sir, attending to my husband's comfort.”
“And was anyone else of the household permitted into your presence?”
“All but the maid had sought their beds.”
“Indeed. The maid, your ladyship says.” Mr. Bott looked to his jury with a barely perceptible nod. “And did Lord Scargrave consume his sweetmeats and milk, my lady?”
“He did.”
“And did his condition improve?”
Isobel hesitated, and looked for me.
“Did it improve his condition, Lady Scargrave?”
“It did not,” Isobel said faintly. “Within a very short time, he progressed from pain to vomiting, and his deterioration was swift.”
“How short a time?”
“A quarter-hour, perhaps a half-hour; I could not undertake to say.”
“And when did you send for Dr. Pettigrew?”
“The village surgeon we assayed first, believing the Earl's illness to be of a common nature; but within an hour the man declared himself unfit for the management of his lordship's case. It was then decided that we should send for Dr. Pettigrew.”
The memory of that terrible night overcame me—the Earl's moans banishing sleep from the house, and my own fearful shuddering as I lay alone in the massive mahogany bed, awaiting Isobel's summons.
“What hour of the clock would this have