“Furthermore, who do you think they will blame?” I asked Stoker gently. “If she were poisoned, it must have been at someone’s hand. And whose hands prepared the last food she ever ate?”
He gawped at me. “You cannot mean to suggest you think Julien poisoned Beatrice,” Stoker demanded, his colour rising angrily.
“Certainly not! But this is not about the truth—it is about what people will believe,” I reminded him. “Julien is a dark-skinned French-speaking immigrant to our shores. You must realise people will assume him guilty on the strength of those qualities alone, no matter how unjust.”
“The moment it is put into record that Julien’s food was the last thing Beatrice ingested, it is finished for him,” Tiberius said, pressing the point home. “His employment at the Sudbury Hotel, his reputation—all of it, wrenched from him for no better reason than he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Stoker sighed. “Of course we must protect him,” he began. Tiberius had been watching him closely, but something eased a little when he realised Stoker meant to let him have his way.
“Excellent,” he said smoothly. “So, we are in agreement. You will say nothing and allow me to conduct my business as coroner as I see fit.”
Stoker clamped his lips shut and gave a short nod. He was clearly seething, and I had reason to know his moods could last for some time. I turned my attention to Tiberius instead.
“It is strange,” I began, “that Beatrice should be the victim of this latest attack. It is far likelier that her death was a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“She means that someone meant to poison Sir James or Pietro instead,” Stoker put in. “Or perhaps they meant to poison you.”
Tiberius bared his teeth in a smile. “How kind of you to care.”
Their tempers were clearly rising and I hurried on before a proper quarrel could break out. I had no desire to spend the rest of the evening either stitching one of them up or setting bones. “It was cramped in the Megalosaurus. The servers were constantly jostling one another and us. It would have been an easy matter for any of them to have slipped something into the food.”
“What do we know of the servers?” Stoker asked.
I held my tongue, wondering exactly how to broach the subject of J. J. I could not bring myself to believe she was in any way involved in Beatrice’s poisoning; the very notion was laughable. I might distrust her motives occasionally, but though her ethics might be pliable, she was no more capable of violent crime than I.
I was further inclined to protect her because she might prove useful. It was possible that her reporter’s eye had observed some small detail which might shed light on the evening’s horrors. And if that were not enough, I was acutely aware of Tiberius’ distaste for the members of her occupation. He had little use for the press and none whatsoever for the journalists who wrote on sensational topics. If he learnt that I had known of her presence in the house and not informed him, he would be less than pleased, and placating an angry viscount was a complication I did not need.
I turned to Tiberius, who responded to Stoker’s question with a shrug. “Some are regular staff. Collins will vouch for them, I have no doubt. You know how it is—everyone in service here has family who has worked at Cherboys since God wore sailor suits. Julien brought some down from London—kitchen help and servers. I will ask him in the morning, but I believe they are all well-known to him from the Sudbury. None would have had motive to poison anyone at the table.”
“Money?” Stoker guessed.
“I suppose it is possible that one might have been bribed,” Tiberius agreed grudgingly.
“I think not,” I said firmly. “First, do not complicate matters. We already have a murderer amongst us that we know of in Lorenzo’s killer. We need not look further afield.”
The brothers Templeton-Vane turned as one to look at me, their expressions eerily identical. They were skeptical, and I went on, attempting to give voice to my conviction. “But beyond that, this is a personal crime—even if Beatrice were an unintentional victim. Someone is targeting the remaining Seven Sinners. They are calling the tune, as a conductor will command an orchestra. There is a good deal of power in that. The cuttings,” I reminded them. “They were designed to stir fear, to inflict terror in the next victim. This murderer has amused himself by contemplating the horror he has created. Would he wish to accomplish his aim at a remove? Or would he want to be there, directly on hand to witness the final crescendo?”
“How dreadfully theatrical,” Tiberius mused. “But you do make an excellent point, my dear. Whoever is responsible for these crimes does strike me as the sort of monster who would enjoy watching the death throes of an enemy rather than pay someone to do the deed for him.”
Tiberius rose, straightening his waistcoat. “I am going to ask Timothy to give Pietro some sort of sedative and encourage the poor man to rest. There will be much to do tomorrow, but nothing more at present.”
Outside the room, we found the Greshams, sitting on a velvet bench in almost identical attitudes of shock. Tiberius had to call Timothy’s name twice before the fellow roused himself.
“What’s that? A sedative, my lord? I am afraid I haven’t anything suitable with me,” Timothy said feebly.
If Tiberius was surprised by Timothy’s reluctance to attend to Pietro, he did not have a chance to address the matter directly. Elspeth spoke up.
“Mrs.Brackendale will. You gave her a small bottle of laudanum when she had the toothache several months back, remember?”
“Then it will doubtless be used up,” Timothy said.
Elspeth’s tone was one of exaggerated patience. “No, she didn’t care for the effects. Preferred oil of clove.” She turned to Tiberius. “You know what a frugal soul she is, my lord. I’m quite sure she would have kept it by should it come in handy.”
Beatrice’s death seemed to have affected our previous bonhomie. Gone were the forenames and comfortable familiarity. No more “Tiberius” but “my lord” instead. With the spirit of the house party dampened, the Greshams appeared to have remembered they—like everyone else in Dearsley—were dependent upon Tiberius’ goodwill.
“Excellent thinking, Elspeth,” Tiberius assured her. He gave Collins, hovering discreetly in the background, the necessary orders and turned back to bid the Greshams good night.
