“Over a year ago, February,” Mr. Ramsay said.
Eccleston frowned and bit his lower lip. “While he was a patient here.”
“Yes.”
“Can a man suffering a mental condition legally draw up a will?” he asked.
“Dr. Worcham can attest to his mental state. Ah will say, in the discussion ah had with Dr. Worcham before we drew up the document, he considered Mr. Montgomery sane unless one of his other personalities were evident. They were not. I dealt solely with Malcolm.”
“And the witnesses?”
There were three. All at Mr. Montgomery’s request: Mrs. Worcham, Miss Hammond, and Mrs. Vance.”
“Mrs. Worcham was a witness?”
Mr. Ramsay nodded. “The executor named in the new will is Alaister Sedgewick, the Earl of Soothcoor.”
“My prisoner?”
“Yes. There is even an unusual paragraph in the will suggesting the earl marry his widow if he is not, himself, wed before Mr. Montgomery dies.”
“Most unusual.”
“The earl had no reason to want to kill Mr. Montgomery. And there are witnesses who will testify he returned to the inn in the same clothes he left in, and, as I told you before, they were not wet.”
“You are thinking this is reason enough to let him go?” the magistrate asked.
“I do,” said Sir James.
The magistrate frowned. “Possible. I say you need more than dry clothes. The first assize will occur at the beginning of next week. He can remain in jail until then, and let the judges decide if he should be freed or not—or you can identify another suspect for the murder with proof before then. Now excuse me gentlemen, I must continue the review you interrupted. I don’t expect to see you again unless you have another suspect with solid evidence.” He turned away from them, signaled the two men who had stood away while he talked to Sir James and Mr. Ramsay to return to his side.
“Well, that did not go as successfully as we might have wished,” Mr. Ramsay said.
“No, but about what I expected after my last conversation with him. I’d like to go to Camden House and discover if Cecilia has been any more successful, however I know it is near the lunch hour for the patients. Let’s return to The New Bell Inn. I can check on how the victims of Baron Stackpoole’s malicious honey illness are recovering,” James suggested.
Mr. Ramsay agreed.
After breakfastthe women returned to their wing. No one had approached them at breakfast about their activities theprevious night and Matron Mildred was not to be seen. Nor were there any whispered discussions concerning Miss Dorn or Mr. Turnbull-Minchin. The lack of gossip struck Cecilia as unnatural.
She said as much to Julia as she stopped before the door to her room.
“I agree. Most odd.”
“I’ll tell you what it means,” interjected Mrs. Vance. “It means Mr. Turnbull-Minchin has not been shown the door, that’s what it means. This is to be swept under the carpet like a lazy maid might do to an errant bit of mud.”
Cecilia frowned. “I sincerely hope not.”
“Harrumph,” Mrs. Vance voiced. She turned to Liddy. “Come child, let’s go to the library. I should like to hear you read.”
“Can we go for a walk outside afterward?”
“If the weather stays as nice as it is now, I should think we can,” Mrs. Vance assured her.
“Good. And I know just the book I shall read to you, too!” she said, skipping toward the stairs.”
“Slowly, my dear. This is not the floor for hoydens,” she reminded her.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Julia softly. “We were fairly hoydenish last night.”
