A few minutes later, his old friend Dr. Fox arrived, Mr. Mayhew trotting behind.
“Hope you don’t mind, Charles. I know this is not your specialty, but—”
“Not at all. Happy to help.” He started toward the man with the head wound, but Mr. George gestured toward the chambermaid. “See to Mary first.”
Frederick approved of the injured man’s gallantry, even as he worried he might swoon from blood loss.
The physician examined Mary’s eyes and limbs and listened to her heart, and he soon confirmed Miss Lane’s assumption that the girl had merely fainted and was otherwise unhurt.
Together, he and Frederick gently helped the maid to her feet.
In motherly tones, Mrs. Somerton said, “A rest for you, my girl.” She took one of Mary’s arms and Rebecca the other, and the two women led her away.
Dr. Fox tended to Mr. George next, cleaning and bandaging his wound.
When he’d finished, Frederick asked Dr. Fox to confirm that Mr. Oliver was dead, and to give a preliminary opinion on the cause of death.
Dr. Fox agreed and gave Ambrose Oliver a cursory examination, careful not to disrupt the scene. “There’s a head wound here. Looks like he was struck from behind, much as befell Mr. George, but with enough force to kill him.”
Dr. Fox stepped around to look at Mr. Oliver’s face, and then pointed to one of his hands. “Black smudges on his lips and fingers.”
“I saw that too. Assumed it was ink.”
“Probably right. Arsenic poisoning can cause blackening of the tongue and lips in some cases. But with all the ink on his hands and shirt cuffs, I agree ink stains seem far more likely.” He grimaced. “Either way, I’m afraid there will need to be a coroner’s inquest and perhaps an autopsy as well.”
Frederick nodded his agreement. He was thankful for the older man’s presence and experience, as he had never dealt with such a crime before. When his father died a few years ago, Frederick had assumed his title as baronet along with his duties as magistrate. During his brief tenure, he’d handled a few property squabbles, a poaching charge, and a drunken brawl. Nothing of this magnitude. Even in his father’s time, Frederick did not recall anything as dire as murder in their sleepy little parish. He hoped he would not make a muddle of it.
Frederick asked his brother to notify Mr. Smith—the nearest of the county’s elected coroners—and ask him to come as soon as possible. Thomas begrudgingly agreed and set off on horseback for the county town of Worcester, five or six miles away.
Frederick returned to room three, again surveying the scene. He noticed Oliver’s room key on the side table and no sign of forced entry, nor any sign of a struggle.
Mr. Mayhew tentatively followed him into the room, wringing his hands. His eyes flickered toward the still form on the chaise and quickly away again. “I still can’t believe it.”
Frederick said, “I must ask you to leave everything as it is until the coroner arrives. Please see to it that this room is locked and not disturbed, even by staff. May take a few hours.”
Mr. Mayhew nodded. “I understand.” He turned away, then sent a regretful look back. “That chaise dated to Queen Anne’s reign.” He sighed heavily as he departed.
A wait of a few hours would be of no consequence to Ambrose Oliver. He was not going anywhere and was beyond help.
———
On the heels of Thomas’s departure, the local constable, Noah Brixton, arrived. Mr. Mayhew led him upstairs.
The baker and father of two stood outside Oliver’s room in Sunday best, hat in hands, hair slicked back. The young man had even less experience as constable than Frederick had as magistrate.
Mr. Brixton stepped close, lowered his voice, and asked, “What do you suggest, sir?”
“Perhaps we should search the hotel and grounds first, and then the local area? If this was done by an intruder, he might still be nearby. Or a villager might have seen someone leaving the abbey in a hurry.”
“Good idea.”
With Mr. Mayhew’s help, several staff members were mustered to search the hotel for anyone lurking about who shouldn’t be there. Meanwhile, Frederick, a groom, and Robb Tarvin each took a horse and followed the roads leading away from the abbey and out of the village to see if they could spy anyone fleeing the scene.
Neither search turned up anything—or anyone—suspicious.
An hour later, aided by the hotel’s page and porters, the guests and staff were all summoned into the library and writing room, where Frederick had held the canal investors’ meeting.
Rebecca Lane and a shaken but plucky Mary Hinton entered first. Miss Lane gave Frederick a small smile of encouragement. The trust and approval radiating from her eyes boosted his confidence.
