I held him, murmuring words of very little consolation, I was sure. He sobbed openly on my shoulder as I held him fast. Sir James and Merry joined Tiberius and Stoker, lifting the table to carry it to the water’s edge and onto the trireme. The rest of us assembled in the other boats and we rowed back the way we had come, conveying Beatrice up to the house with slow and sober dignity. It was a grave and terrible procession, wending through the gardens, past the shocked faces of the rest of the staff who had heard the news of Beatrice’s collapse. Once inside Cherboys, the men shifted her onto a sheet and conveyed her up to her room, where she was laid gently upon the bed. Pietro fell to the floor, clutching her hands, and Augusta went to him. She turned to the rest of us.
“I will stay with him,” she said firmly. She seemed to have recovered herself, her manner decisive although her colour was still bad and her hands shook as she reached out to clasp Pietro’s.
Tiberius turned to Sir James. “A drink. Go to the drawing room. Merry will make certain you have whatever you require,” he added with a meaningful look at his youngest brother.
Merry, as he had done since Beatrice’s collapse, rose to the occasion. “Of course.”
“I will go with them,” Elspeth Gresham said quietly.
The sad little trio left us, Merry suddenly seeming taller and more certain of himself with a task at hand. Tiberius looked to me and gathered Stoker in with a glance. “My study. Now.”
He turned on his heel and strode from the room. He said nothing until we were closed in his study, locked away from prying ears. He poured a quick whisky and downed it in a single go. He poured another and then flung the glass, shattering it against the marble mantelpiece.
“Tibe,” Stoker said, using the childhood nickname I had heard only a handful of times previously.
Tiberius turned to him with naked emotion in his eyes and then to me. “I did not intend for this. Whatever you think of me, you must believe that.”
“Tiberius, that was never in doubt,” I assured him. “This was a dreadful misfortune. Beatrice’s heart was weak, to be sure, but you could not have imagined that it would give out so suddenly or in such a dramatic fashion.” I stopped as I noticed the brothers were staring at one another, Stoker’s expression meaningful as Tiberius shook his head. I ought to have seen it before, but I can only claim that the rapidity of the evening’s unexpected events had been so marked that I had not had time to reflect upon the implication.
“Oh,” I said, sitting heavily upon a convenient hassock. “She was murdered.”
I looked to Stoker for confirmation and he nodded gravely, but Tiberius made a gesture of impatience.
“Her heart was bad,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “She clearly died from her heart troubles.”
Stoker made an effort to speak gently. “Yes, she did have a heart condition. And yes, her death was due to her heart failing her. But this was not due to natural causes. She was poisoned, if I had to guess.”
“You do not have to guess,” Tiberius told him firmly. “In fact, I require nothing whatsoever of you.”
Stoker ran a hand over his hair, ruffling the ebony locks. “I know you are distressed, but you must face facts.”
Tiberius gave him an imperious look. “Facts? The musings of a former naval surgeon?”
Stoker managed to hold his temper in check, but a cold fury seemed to have settled on him as he spoke. “You may dismiss my experience as you like. However, these are not mere musings. I have seenthis sort of poisoning before. Did you note that terrible smile upon Beatrice’s face as she died?”
Tiberius’ nod was grudging.
“The risus sardonicus, the rictus grin, is a contraction of the facial muscles not found in a simple cardiac attack. It is indicative most frequently of tetanus—a disease from which we know Beatrice did not suffer—and poison, specifically strychnine. Furthermore, strychnine poisoning is associated with the sort of convulsions Beatrice demonstrated in her death throes. Strychnine in its most toxic form is derived from the strychnine tree, sometimes known quaintly as the dog button. Its scientific name is Strychnos nux-vomica, not to be confused with Strychnos ignatii, St. Ignatius’ bean, which also contains lethal amounts of strychnine, as do many of the plants and trees of the family Loganiaceae. While small amounts of strychnine are believed by some physicians to have a stimulating effect and are prescribed in health tonics—”
“Enough!” Tiberius roared. “Very well. You have proven that you know a very great deal about poisons. It changes nothing.”
“Tiberius, you must call an inquest,” Stoker insisted. “I will give evidence. I know what I saw.”
Tiberius said nothing but merely stared at Stoker coolly. Having once deserted him, the Templeton-Vane sangfroid was firmly in place and Tiberius would not succumb to emotion again.
I rose from the hassock and turned to Stoker. “Tiberius is right,” I said slowly, finally understanding. “There can be no inquest.”
“But there must—” Stoker began.
“No, there mustn’t,” Tiberius countered swiftly. “So long as the deceased has been seen by a doctor recently and has a condition to which the death may easily be attributed, the matter may be resolved by the coroner’s own judgment. That is the law.”
“Tiberius”—Stoker’s voice was a growl—“she was murdered.”
“And she will have justice,” Tiberius promised. “But not through the law.”
“How can you say that?” Stoker demanded. “Youarethe law here.”
“And as soon as a jury is convened, the matter would be out of my hands,” Tiberius said.
