Mr. Smith looked from juror to juror. “Thank you for your service, gentlemen. You are now dismissed. Be sure to give an account of any expenses to Sir Frederick Wilford before you go.”
Afterward, Dr. Fox followed Frederick out of the coffee room. “Are you satisfied?”
“Not quite.”
“If it helps put your mind at ease,” Charles said, “I received a message from my colleague who tested the contents of Mr. Oliver’s cup and bowl. The available tests are not foolproof, but he detected no obvious narcotic, nor, employing the reduction method, did he find any traces of arsenic.”
Frederick nodded, not really surprised. Thinking of the sage’s poisoned pages, he considered asking Dr. Fox to test the burnt remnant as well. But since the autopsy had revealed no evidence that Ambrose Oliver had been poisoned, it seemed a waste of time.
“So we are back where we started. If Mr. Oliver was not drugged nor poisoned, why did he sit there while his assailant approached?”
“Perhaps the killer entered with gun drawn and told him not to move.”
“Maybe. But then why go behind him to deliver the blow?”
“Shooting him would be too noisy.”
“True. However, to me only one explanation makes sense—the one Miss Lane suggested. Mr. Oliver must have been acquainted with whoever it was, willingly let him or her in, then sat back down, not suspecting he was in any danger.”
“Who, then? His publisher?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
Rebecca walked beside Lady Fitzhoward on the way to the refectory for luncheon, listening halfheartedly while the woman talked about departure plans and possible destinations.
As they passed the quiet coffee room, Lady Fitzhoward said, “The inquest is over, by the way. I happened to ... overhear ... the verdict.”
“Oh?” Rebecca felt sweat prickling her brow.
“Unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.”
“And the cause?” Rebecca asked, thinking,Please not poison, please not poison...
“As expected. The blow to the head. No evidence of poison.”
“Oh, good!” Relief overwhelmed her.
Lady Fitzhoward looked at her askance. “Is it?”
“Well, yes. Poisoning would show such ... premeditation, while a blow might have been struck in a moment of anger.”
“I am glad you approve,” the older woman dryly replied, then returned to her one-sided debate about where to travel next.
Could Rebecca go off again with Lady Fitzhoward, knowing what she knew? Leave John as he was—his already troubledself and now his attempt to poison Ambrose Oliver, aborted though it was?
Having heard the results of the autopsy, a part of her wished she had never mentioned theArabian Nightsto Sir Frederick, never hinted at her own suspicions. Should she say nothing more about it and leave her brother to Rose’s care as she had the last few years, or should she share John’s confession with Sir Frederick and let justice take its course?
She knew how Frederick’s logical mind worked, knew he must wonder about, if not outright suspect, her brother. After all, if John was willing to poison Ambrose Oliver, then was he not the most likely to have struck him as well—resorting to a surer method? But Rebecca didn’t want to believe that. It had to be someone else. She thought again of Mary seeing Miss Newport dressed as the abbess. Had Miss Newport killed the man? Mr. Oliver would certainly have let her into his room. If only Rebecca could prove it.
Entering the dining room, she saw Frederick sitting with an elegant older woman dressed in a fur-trimmed redingote and matching hat.
Noticing them, Sir Frederick stood. “Ah, Lady Fitzhoward, Miss Lane. Allow me to introduce my mother.”
His mother turned toward them. When Lady Fitzhoward remained still and silent, Rebecca dipped a curtsy. “A pleasure to see you again, my lady.”
The dowager’s light brown hair held a touch of silver, fine wrinkles framed intelligent brown eyes, and her jawline had softened, yet she was still a handsome woman.
“Miss Lane. How are you keeping?”
