Mr. Brixton nodded and blew out a puff of air. “Well, that spares me from an awkward job. Especially as our young witness is less likely to take an oath once he hears Miss Lane roundly denies it.”
Frederick nodded, but was not at all certain he had done the right thing.
Rebecca knocked on her brother’s door and was not surprised when he didn’t respond.
She knocked again. “John? It’s Rebecca.” Trying the latch and finding it unlocked, she announced, “I’m coming in,” and gingerly opened the door.
She made out a rumpled mound on the bed and heard John’s telltale snore.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw a jar on his desk she had not noticed before, the handle of a paintbrush propped inside.
She sniffed the contents of the jar but smelled nothing. Beside the jar lay a small brown bottle on its side, empty.
She went and sat on the edge of the bed, sitting on something hard beneath the twisted blanket. She rose and fished out the offending object—another small bottle with a glass stopper, all but empty.
Carrying it to a thin shaft of light between the shutters, she pulled the stopper and took a whiff, instantly recoiling at the strong, sweet smell. A reddish-brown residue clung to thebottom like spoiled molasses. Tincture of opium, if she had to guess. Heavy on the opium.
Her heart sank.
She returned to the bed and, with her free hand, shook her brother by the shoulder. “John?” She patted his cheek to no avail. His breathing was shallow, and holding his wrist, she felt a sluggish pulse. Her brother would not be answering her questions anytime soon.
She heard a heavy sigh and glanced up. Rose stood there, shoulder against the doorframe. She looked from John’s prone form to the bottle in Rebecca’s hand. “It’s as I feared. Apparently he did meet Leo Stoker.”
The local man with an unsavory reputation was rumored to deal in smuggled liquor and other substances.
Rebecca winced. “Oh, John.”
On his bedside table, she noticed a copy of a book their father had read to them as children,The Arabian Nights Entertainments. She picked it up, and for a moment, childhood memories warmed her.
Then she remembered John’s favorite story from the collection, and the fleeting warmth froze in her veins.
15
The inquest reconvened, and Dr. Fox was the first to be sworn in and deposed.
Mr. Smith began, “As you were here in the hotel when the incident occurred, we will allow you to give your professional opinion on the cause of death.”
“How gracious,” Dr. Fox wryly replied.
Frederick heard the barb in his friend’s tone, while the coroner’s expression remained placid.
“Full name and residence?”
“Charles Fox, MD. I live at Woodlane, near Cheltenham.”
“And what brought you here?”
“Sir Frederick Wilford is a friend of mine. I came to support the canal project he plans to undertake in the area. Meeting was a few days ago. I’ve stayed on for a bit of a holiday with my wife.”
“I see. And you were called in when the victim was discovered?”
“Yes, after I treated Mr. George’s head wound, I was asked to confirm Mr. Oliver’s death and complete a cursory examination. I disturbed nothing, I assure you.”
“How gracious ofyou,” Smith countered. “Now, beforeyour deposition, I feel I should inform the jury that you are not a surgeon, nor a physician in general practice. You have little experience with bodily injury as you deal mostly with diseases of the mind. Is that not so? You are, in fact, a mad doctor.”
Fox’s face tensed. “I object to that term. My patients are not ... mad dogs. They are human beings with personalities and emotions. Fears and hopes, like any of us. Yes, they may suffer from various manias or hysterias, but they are still humans created in God’s image and deserving of dignity.”
“Are you suggesting God is mad?”
