The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [314]
“Here. Did you know this was one of Duncan’s cups?”
“No.” He arched one brow, frowning. “What d’ye mean, ‘Duncan’s cups’?”
“Aunt Jocasta had a set of six cups made for Duncan, for a wedding present. She showed them to me yesterday. See?” She turned the cup in her hand, to show him the engraved monogram—“I,” for “Innes,” with a tiny fish, its scales beautifully detailed, swimming round the letter.
“Does that help?” she asked, seeing his brow crease in interest.
“It may.” He pulled out a clean cambric handkerchief and wrapped the cup carefully before putting it in the pocket of his coat. “I’ll go and find out. Meanwhile, can ye find Roger Mac?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Well, it does occur to me that if yon Betty drank part of a cup of rum punch and was laid out like a fish on a slab, then I should like to find whoever drank the first part of it, and see if they’re in a similar condition.” He raised one brow at her. “If the punch was drugged, then likely it was meant for someone, aye? I thought perhaps you and Roger Mac might look round discreetly for bodies in the shrubbery.”
That aspect of the matter hadn’t struck her in the rush to get Betty upstairs.
“All right. I should find Phaedre or Ulysses first, though, and tell one of them that Betty’s sick.”
“Aye. If ye speak with Phaedre, ye might inquire whether yon Betty is an opium-eater as well as a bibber. Though I will say I think it unlikely,” he added dryly.
“So do I,” she said, matching his tone. She took his point, though; perhaps the punch had not been drugged, but Betty had taken the laudanum herself, on purpose. It was possible; she knew Jocasta kept some in the stillroom. If she had taken it herself, though, was it for recreational use—or had the maid perhaps intended to commit suicide?
She frowned at Jamie’s back, as he paused at the foot of the stair, listening before stepping onto the landing. It was easy enough to think that the misery of slavery might dispose one to suicide. At the same time, honesty compelled her to admit that Jocasta’s house servants lived reasonably well; better than any number of free individuals—black or white—that she’d seen in Wilmington and Cross Creek.
The servants’ room was clean, the beds rough but comfortable. The house servants had decent clothes, even to shoes and stockings, and more than enough to eat. As for the sorts of emotional complications that could lead one to contemplate suicide—well, those weren’t limited to slaves.
Much more likely that Betty was merely a toper, of the sort who would drink anything even vaguely alcoholic—the reek of her garments certainly suggested as much. But in that case, why take the risk of stealing laudanum, on a day when the wedding party insured there would be an abundance of every kind of drink?
She was reluctantly forced to the same conclusion that she was sure her father had already reached. Betty had taken the laudanum—if that’s what it was, she reminded herself—by accident. And if that was so . . . whose cup had she drunk from?
Jamie turned, lips pursed to enjoin silence, and beckoned to her that the coast was clear. She followed him quickly across the landing and outside, letting out her breath in relief as they arrived on the path unobserved.
“What were you doing there in the first place, Da?” she asked. He looked blank.
“In the kitchen garden,” she elaborated. “How did you find Betty?”
“Oh.” He took her arm, fetching her away from the house. They walked casually toward the paddock; innocent guests bent on viewing the horses. “I was just havin’ a word wi’ your mother, over by the grove. I came back through the kitchen garden, and there the woman was, flat on her back on the shit heap.”
“That’s a point, isn’t it?” she asked. “Did she lie down in the garden on purpose, or was it only an accident that you found her there?”
He shook his head.
“I dinna ken,” he said. “But I mean to speak to Betty, once she’s sober. D’ye ken where your mother is now?”
“Yes, she’s with Phillip Wylie. They were headed for the stables, I think.