The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [385]
He shrugged.
“Who could blame her for stealing away into the kitchen garden to enjoy it?”
Jocasta and Ulysses snorted simultaneously, making it reasonably clear what they thought of the blameworthiness of Betty’s action. Roger coughed and hurried on with his analysis.
“Right. Well. But the dose didn’t kill Betty. Either the murderer miscalculated or . . .” Another bright thought occurred to Roger. “Perhaps he didn’t intend the drug to kill Duncan. Maybe he only meant to render him unconscious, and then tip him quietly into the river. That would have been even better. Ye can’t swim, can you?” he asked, turning to Duncan, who shook his head in a dazed sort of way. His one hand rose, mechanically massaging the stump of his missing arm.
“Aye. So a nice drowning would have passed for accident, no worry.” Roger rubbed his hands together, looking pleased. “But then it all went wrong, because the maid drank the drugged punch, not Duncan. And that’s why she was killed!”
“Why?” Jocasta was looking quite as dazed as Duncan.
“Because she could identify the man who’d given her the cup,” Jamie put in. He nodded, lounging thoughtfully back in his chair. “And she would have, the minute folk started in on her about it. Aye, that’s sense. But of course he couldna make away with her by violent means; the risk of being seen coming or going to the attic was too great.”
Roger nodded approval at this quick appreciation.
“Aye. But it would have been no great trick to get your hands on ground glass—how many goblets and tumblers were floating through this place during the day? Drop one on the bricks and grind the shards under your heel, and there ye are.”
Even that might not have been necessary; there had been shattered glass all over the paths and the terrace, after the post-wedding celebrations. I had dropped one glass myself, when surprised by Phillip Wylie.
I turned to address Ulysses.
“There’s still the problem of how the ground glass was administered. Do you know what Betty was given to eat or drink, Ulysses?”
A frown rippled over the butler’s face, like a stone thrown into dark water.
“Dr. Fentiman ordered her a syllabub,” he said slowly. “And a bit of porridge, if she were awake enough to swallow. I made up the syllabub myself, and gave it to Mariah to take up to her. I gave the order for porridge to the cook, but I do not know whether Betty ate it, or who might have carried it.”
“Hmm.” Jocasta pursed her lips, frowning. “The cookhouse would be madness. And with so many folk about . . . well, we can ask Mariah and the others, but I shouldna be surprised if they dinna recall even carrying the dishes, let alone someone tampering with them. It would take nay more than a moment, ken; distract the girl, whisk in the glass . . .” She waved a hand, indicating the scandalous ease with which murder could be committed.
“Or someone could have gone up to the attic under the pretext of seeing how she was, and given her something to drink, with the glass in it then,” I suggested. “A syllabub would be perfect. People were coming and going, but Betty was alone up there for long stretches, between Dr. Fentiman’s visit, and the time the other slaves came to bed. It would be quite possible for someone to go up there unseen.”
“Very nice, Inspector Lestrade,” Brianna said to Roger, sotto voce. “But there’s no proof, is there?”
Jocasta and Duncan were sitting side by side, rigid as a pair of Toby jugs, carefully not facing each other. At this, Jocasta took a deep and audible breath, obviously forcing herself to relax.
“True,” she said. “There’s not. Ye dinna recall Betty offering you a cup of punch, a dhuine?”
Duncan gnawed fiercely on his moustache for a moment, concentrating, but then shook his head.
“She might have . . . a bhean. But