He looked up when he heard rain against the already wind-rattled windows. Though approaching summer, the weather stubbornly held onto winter. A fire would be welcome for all. He rang the bell.
While a servant coaxed fen-sourced peat bricks into a fire, James thought about Malcolm Montgomery.
Had he killed himself? It was not outside the realm of imagination. If he loved his family, as he appeared to, the sacrifice he made to leave them and enter a sanatorium attested to his love. If he’d learned his wife wished to remarry, might he have chosen suicide to clear the way for her legally? He wished he knew his manner of death, that would inform their investigation. He wondered why Mrs. Montgomery had not been told. And why was Soothcoor so quickly a suspect?
He didn’t like Cecilia doing covert investigation as a patient. His delightful wife was intelligent. —She could also be impulsive.He counted her and himself lucky that nothing had yet happened to her due to her impetuous nature. She cared deeply and that, he knew, was the root of her behavior.
The servant kneeling in front of the fireplace rose to his feet. “There you go, sar,” he said. “Don’t know what experience yous had with a peat fyr ’afore, but a peat fyr don’t burn hot likes a wood fyr, but ’tis more even-like heat. It’ll warm this room up, you’ll see.”
“Thank you,” James said, rising to his feet. He slipped the man a coin.
When the man left, he almost ran into Mr. Stackpoole, who stumbled backward, then recovered and slid past him into the room. He came toward the fireplace and its heat.
James passed a mug of ale toward Mr. Stackpoole when he sat opposite him before the fire. “The inn is quite modern. Do you know anything of its history?” James asked.
Mr. Stackpoole nodded as he took a sip of ale. “It was built right before John Rennie became the engineer involved with building canals for more fen drainage,” he said, “an investment by the Marquis of Widmirth.”
“The inn or the canal project?” James asked.
“What—? Oh, both!” he said. “He organized a new group ofGentlemen Adventurers—much like the Earl of Bedford did in the 17thcentury—for investment in both projects.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the area,” James observed.
He shrugged. “I read history at the university and I’m curious. I like to know things, so I ask questions.” He frowned. “My father says I ask too many questions.”
“I imagine the ability to ask the right questions would be an advantage in diplomatic work,” James observed.
“Yes! Exactly my thought!” Mr. Stackpoole said excitedly.
James swirled the ale in his mug. Mr. Stackpoole’s curiosity could be a benefit or a hindrance to their investigation.
“Mr. Stackpoole,” he said carefully, “I would caution against your natural curiosity at Camden House.”
“I beg your pardon? Caution me, why?” the young man bristled.
“Sometimes one learns more by silence,” he said. He raised his eyes from contemplating his ale. “And patience. Silence and patience—though I’ll own those are not habits of Lady Branstoke,” he said ruefully as the door to the parlor opened.
“What are not my habits?” Cecilia asked as she entered the parlor, then, looking over her shoulder, louder, “You were right to encourage me to rest, James,” she said in a plaintive voice. “Sarah rubbed some lavender water into my temples and that helped as well. Oh, that this melancholy might lift!” she whined, crossing to the bench before the fireplace.
A maid walked into the room behind her carrying a large tray. She set it down on the round table in the center of the room. “Mr. Price says as how you’d like sum brandy now after your travels, along with hot tea, and the mistress said as how my lady should like a soothing tisane as she’s feeling peaked."
“Did you bring enough for me as well?” Mr. Stackpoole asked. “I like Mrs. Price’s tisane after a day of traveling. I’ve had it many times over the years. I’ve tried to get the recipe from her; but she rebuffs me with a laugh,” he told the Branstokes.
“There is plenty, Mr. Stackpoole. Mrs. Price knew as how you’d like some, too. She even had me bring honey as she knows you like it with honey. It’s a jar Baron Stackpoole left here.”
“My father left a jar of honey here?” He laughed. “He must have received it as a gift. He hates honey. Or at least claims to,” he explained to the Branstokes.
“That is very kind of Mrs. Price. Please tell her so,” James said.
“Aye, sar,” the maid said. She bobbed a curtsy then left the room, closing the door carefully, though not completely, behind her.
James frowned and rose to quietly push the door until it latched.
Lady Cecilia’s lips quirked up on the side as she saw his action. She straightened on the bench. “While I appreciate Mrs. Price’s thoughtfulness, I should rather have a watered ale,” she declared.
James laughed and crossed to the table to pour her a mug of ale and add water. She did like an occasional mug of watered ale for her digestion.
“If you do not mind then, I’m for the tisane. It is wonderfully relaxing for me,” Mr. Stackpoole said. “I’m still feeling chilled on the inside, and my room lacks a fire.” He poured himself a cup and sat in a chair at the table.
