Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [105]
“I am a personal friend of Sir Matthew’s,” he said aloud. That at least was perfectly true. “He asked me to make a few further enquiries on his behalf. He is not well at the moment. He met with an accident in the street a few days ago, and was injured.” He watched Murray’s face intently, but saw not even a flicker in his eyes.
“I am so sorry,” Murray sympathized. “How very unfortunate. I hope it was not serious?”
“It seems not, but it was very unpleasant. He could have been killed.”
“I am afraid it happens all too often.”
Was that a veiled threat? Or only an innocent and truthful observation?
“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” Murray continued, folding his hands across his stomach and looking at Pitt gravely. “If you are indeed a friend of Sir Matthew’s, you would do him the greatest service by persuading him that his father’s death was in many ways a mercy, before he became sufficiently ill to damage his reputation beyond recall, and possibly to have suffered greatly in his more lucid moments. It is most unpleasant to face, but less damaging in time than to go on fighting against the truth, and possibly causing a great deal of unpleasantness along the way.” A smile flickered across his face and disappeared. “Men of goodwill, of whom there are many, wish to remember Arthur as he was, but to rake the matter up over and over will not allow that to happen.” His eyes did not waver from Pitt’s.
One moment Pitt was sure it was a warning; the men of goodwill he referred to were members of the Circle, large in number, but immeasurably more powerful than number alone would suggest. They would retaliate if Matthew pressed them.
Then the next moment he knew there was no proof of that. Murray was simply a doctor stating the obvious. Pitt was developing a delusion about being persecuted himself, seeing plots everywhere, accusing innocent people.
“I shall be better able to convince him if I have some facts and details to tell him,” he replied, not moving his gaze either. “For example, had you ever prescribed laudanum for Sir Arthur before? Or was this his first experience with it, as far as you were aware?”
“It was his first experience,” Murray replied. “He told me that himself. But I did explain to him most carefully both its properties and its dangers, Mr. Pitt. I showed him precisely how and when to take it, and how much would produce a sleep of reasonably natural depth and duration.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But in his confused state … he was confused, was he not? Irrational and contradictory at times?”
“Not with me.” Murray said what he had to, to protect himself, as Pitt had expected. “But I have subsequently learned from others that he had some strange obsessions, not altogether rational. I take your point, Mr. Pitt. He may have forgotten what I told him and taken a lethal dose, thinking it would merely give him an afternoon nap. We can’t know what was in his mind at the time, poor man.”
“How was the laudanum made up?”
“In powders, which is the usual way.” He smiled very slightly. “Each dose separated and in a folded paper. It would be difficult to take more than one dose, Mr. Pitt, unless one had forgotten and taken a second in absentmindedness. I regret it could not more satisfactorily fill your theory. It is a precaution I usually take.”
“I see.” It did not affect Pitt’s real belief. It would still have been perfectly possible for Murray to make up a dose that was lethal and put it in with the others. He kept the look of agreeable enquiry on his face. “When did Sir Arthur come to you, Dr. Murray?”
“He first consulted me in the autumn of 1887, over a congestion of the lungs. I was able to help him and he effected a complete cure. If you are referring to this last visit, that was … let me see.” He looked through a calendar of appointments on his desk. “April twenty-seventh.” He smiled. “At four-forty