But what?
Temptation had been nipping Graham all evening, like an annoying horsefly that would not go away. It began the jaw-dropping moment the Balfour House door had opened, revealing Amelia in a green gown, with her hair done up and her cheeks aglow, and continued in the shadowy carriage ride, when every touch of her knee brushing against his was a sweet agony. The woman was a danger. An enchantress. One he should guard his heart against.
But it was too late. The little pixie had already breached his defenses.
His gaze followed her out of the room, lingering a little too long on the sway of her hips, before he snapped out of his trance. Shoving back his chair, he stood. Now that she was occupied by Mr. Peckwood, this might be his only chance to speak alone with Mr. Waldman.
He spied the man off at a liquor cart in the corner, pulling out the stopper of a decanter. Judging by the ripe colour of the man’s nose, he ought to be pouring water instead. And as Graham drew closer, it only confirmed his suspicion. Alcohol wafted off the warden in waves, just as it had that day the man had chanced a visit to the surgery.
Graham stopped a few paces away lest he fall victim to intoxication by proximity alone. “Excuse me, Mr. Waldman. Might I have a word?”
Washed-out blue eyes turned his way. “Let me check.”
Graham blinked. Check with whom? The man was the highest authority at St. Peter’s.
Waldman fumbled about in his waistcoat and produced a pocket watch. He flipped open the lid, held it out at arm’s length, then close to his nose, and finally ended up scowling at the thing while tapping his fingernail against the glass face. “Criminy!”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“Yes.” He snapped the lid shut. “Mr. Peckwood asked me expressly to direct these people into the next room promptly at nine o’clock. Not a minute sooner nor later. Then I’m to dim the lights at nine sixteen and restore them at nine thirty sharp.”
Graham glanced at the man’s white-knuckled grip on his watch. “And your timepiece is not working?”
“Blasted thing. I should have known better than to trust a gift from my mother-in-law. Cheap piece of rubbish.” He tossed the thing onto the liquor cart then drained the entire contents of his glass.
“Here.” Graham held out his own watch. “You may return it to me at the end of the evening.”
“Why, many thanks, Mr. Lambert.” A sloppy grin lifted Waldman’s thick lips as he snatched up the timepiece and glanced at the face. “You have exactly six minutes, sir. What can I do for you?”
Ever since his chance encounter with the rat catcher—who would live, thank God—Graham had walked the streets, mulling over the man’s claims of Peckwood’s involvement in his brother’s death. According to Ratter, Peckwood had diagnosed his brother with a case of periodic fits and committed him to the asylum—where he died only months later, supposedly at the hands of Mr. Peckwood. Which of course made no sense, for St. Peter’s had its own staff surgeon. And yet Peckwood did spend a fair amount of time at the asylum, so it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility. But what was Graham to do? Sashay up to Peckwood and ask, “Oh, by the by, have you recently murdered any lunatics?” Ludicrous. Nearly as absurd as questioning a pickle-brained warden who paid more attention to distilled spirits than the souls who inhabited his institution. But what other choice did he have?
Graham glanced over his shoulder. Satisfied Peckwood was yet out in the corridor with Miss Balfour, he stepped closer to Mr. Waldman. “I wonder if you could enlighten me on a certain inmate. A patient by the name of Robert Felix was brought in last year and died a few months afterwards. Do you recall the name?”
“I don’t…well, maybe it sounds a bit familiar.” The man’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, and slowly his head started bobbing. “Yes,” he murmured, then louder, “yes, I do believe I remember the fellow. He was one of Mr. Peckwood’s cases.”
Peckwood’scases?Graham rubbed the back of his neck. What jurisdiction did the doctor have at the asylum? “Why was Mr. Peckwood called in? It is my understanding that St. Peter’s employs a staff doctor.”
“Yes, but you know. Overworked. Underpaid.” Waldman refilled his glass, offering the decanter to Graham, who shook his head. “At his leisure and my request, Mr. Peckwood takes on those patients who are not deemed critical. The man is a saint, I tell you, caring for the mad out of the goodness of his heart.”
Graham stifled a snort. Did Peckwood possess such goodness? If so, he’d seen scant evidence of it. Not that the old doctor was a hard-hearted fiend, but he did tend to put himself above others. No, Peckwood was no saint. He must be getting some sort of payment from St. Peter’s…which did nothing to explain the overdue statement he’d found in the man’s office.
“So this Felix fellow.” Graham angled his head. “How did he die?”
Waldman swirled the dark red liquid in his glass. “If I remember correctly, it was a purging gone bad. Wait. No, no. That was a different one. In Felix’s case, I believe it was a medication mix-up.”
“But you said Peckwood only tended the noncritical. Why was Felix on medication?”
“By the stars, man! I am a warden, not a surgeon. You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Peckwood.” Once again he downed the contents of his glass in one big drink.
He sighed. The man was virtually no help whatsoever. “Do you know what the medication was?”
Waldman set his glass on the cart, then glanced at the watch before shoving it into his pocket. “I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Lambert. I dare not keep Mr. Peckwood waiting.”
Graham grabbed his arm. “The medication, please. What was it?”
“Not singular, but several.” Waldman frowned at the grip on his sleeve. “Something to do with Dover’s powder and ano-something-or-other.”
“Anodyne?”
