“Certainly, if the purchase was made on her account. If you give me her name, I will consult our ledger,” the assistant offered.
“My mistress bought the gloves with ready money.”
“I see.” The assistant’s mien was rueful. “Unfortunately, we do not keep records of clients who pay in cash. Unless she has an account, I would not be able to identify which model of gloves she purchased.”
In other words, if the blackmailer paid in cash, we will not be able to trace his identity.
Thanking her, Evie left the shop, and James joined her in the carriage a few minutes later. She told him what she’d learned, and he shared his findings.
“I told the clerk I wished to replace several items obtained under the account of John Merrill. When said account was not found, I made a fuss, and the manager came and showed me the ledger. I insisted on flipping through the pages myself—and saw neither Merrow nor Murdoch listed under the surnames starting with ‘M.’”
“I suppose it was always a remote possibility that the glove would lead to the blackmailer.”
“Don’t lose hope, sweetheart. We may yet discover something at Murdoch’s offices.”
The physician’s fall from grace was evident in his address. Rather than fashionable Harley Street, Dr. Murdoch consulted from a building of shabby gentility on a narrow Bloomsbury lane. The office was surrounded by boarding houses and minor businesses.
“Wait here,” James said. “I shall be right back.”
He saw Evie struggle between desire and good sense. She wanted to accompany him, and she knew it was a bad idea, given that Murdoch might recognize her.
She sighed. “Be careful, darling.”
He kissed her before alighting. The building had three doors, and on the farthest left, he made out the words Dr. Ezra Murdoch, Physician & Surgeon engraved on a brass plate eroded by time. The knob squealed as he opened the door, revealing a steep staircase to the third floor. He made a rapid ascent, the floorboards creaking beneath his shoes.
The waiting room was furnished with chairs and a desk. The latter was blanketed by dust. The air was musty, with an underlying hint of rot. As the hairs on his nape rose, James headed toward the door to the consulting rooms. He pressed his ear against the wood—no sound came from within. Grasping the knob, he turned it. The door opened, releasing a smell that churned his stomach. Not a hint of rot, but putrid, full-fledged decay.
The origin required no deduction.
The body lay next to the desk, the hovering insects lending an illusion of movement. Holding a handkerchief over his nose, James forced himself to walk into the shuttered room and look down at what had once been a living man. Murdoch, as described by Evie, was still recognizable from his auburn hair and long-limbed figure, his garb that of a professional man. However, decomposition had distorted him, melting parts and blackening others. His eyes had lost their color, sunken into what remained of his face.
A cursory examination did not reveal a wound that would have caused Murdoch’s death. Something glinted on the floor by the desk chair: crouching, James saw it was a rather fine cut-crystal tumbler. Murdoch might have been drinking from it when he collapsed, which explained its current position. James picked up the crystal vessel, turning it in his gloved hands, noting the dried amber film on the side where it had landed.
Replacing the tumbler, he headed to the mahogany cabinet against the wall. The piece’s grandeur hinted at better times: the bottom half was fashioned as a sideboard and upon it was a tarnished tray holding crystal glasses that matched the one by the chair. There were two decanters, one of brandy, the other of sherry. Above the sideboard was a deep glass-fronted cabinet, and when James opened it, he saw an army of brown tincture bottles placed in exact rows. They were filled with murky liquids and labeled in precise copperplate. One bottle stood out from the rest—as if it had been recently disturbed.
James lifted it, and his blood chilled as he read the label:
Atropa belladonna.
Chapter Thirty
When Evie and James returned to Bottoms House the next day, Xenia and Gigi dashed into the entrance hall to greet them, their voluminous skirts swinging with their haste.
“There you are!” Gigi exclaimed. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for ages.”
James turned to Evie. “My love, why do I feel as if we have been run to earth before we’ve even crossed the threshold?”
“Come quickly.” Xenia, whose temperament was generally less excitable than Gigi’s, looked as if she were about to burst at the seams. “Mama is waiting for us.”
Evie’s curiosity was further piqued when they were led to Xenia’s private sitting room. Mama was there, sipping tea in the cozy chamber overlooking the garden. After greeting her, Evie and James settled on an overstuffed chintz sofa.
“The pair of you look refreshed.” Mama’s gaze was warm. “How was your lecture, dearest?”
“It went as well as I could have hoped.” Smiling, Evie interlaced her fingers with her husband’s. “James was a great support.”
“You shone on your own merit.” He kissed her hand before adding somberly, “We made some discoveries as well.”
He described the visit to the glovemaker’s shop and to Murdoch’s consulting rooms. The description of the physician’s death did not improve with a second telling, and Evie shivered.
