I paused and drew breath for the next part of the tale. “Augusta detected the resemblance between Lorenzo and Beatrice the first night they were here. She had cut Lorenzo’s silhouette and noticed their matching profiles when she cut Beatrice’s. If any doubt about Beatrice’s identity remained, it was settled once and for all the following morning when Augusta and I both saw Beatrice in the rose bower, reading a book—a book marked with the d’Ambrogio crest of a golden bee. Augusta even made a point of handling the book after Beatrice left it behind. She would have recognised the cipher.” I turned to Augusta for confirmation and she nodded.
“Lorenzo lent me a book once,” Sir James put in slowly. “Bound in blue leather and marked with a bee.”
“As I imagine all of the d’Ambrogio library was marked,” I told him.
I turned to Pietro for confirmation. He nodded. “There were not many things left when her family died, but a few of the books were still in Lorenzo’s belongings sent from England. All of them were marked with the family colours and crest.”
That point settled, I resumed my narrative. “After seeing the resemblance and the book, Augusta realised that Beatrice must be Stella, the lost d’Ambrogio. After all, who better to seek vengeance for Lorenzo than his beloved little sister? She must have survived the fever which killed her mother—and we know Beatrice grew up in America. Yet she was not reared by her parents. She mentioned her aunt and her uncle, but never a mother or father.”
Pietro spoke up, his voice quiet. “She was sent to New York when she was orphaned. Her aunt and uncle had the raising of her. They were kind and had much money, but still my Beatrice never forgot where she came from and all that she had lost.”
“Indeed,” I said. “And Augusta determined that Beatrice would have to be eliminated before she discovered the truth of what happened the night Lorenzo died. The only question was how. When Augusta realised the extent of Beatrice’s heart troubles, she understood she had the perfect means by which to eliminate her. A little tampering with the heart tonic, something lethal added to the medicine, and Beatrice would no longer be a threat. Adulterating the tonic had the added advantage of meaning that Augusta need not be at hand to administer the poison herself.”
Sir James gave me a triumphant look. “There you are mistaken, my girl. My wife is no Borgia! She is not in the habit of travelling with deadly poisons.”
“But she needn’t be,” Stoker said evenly. “At dinner the first night, she spoke with Timothy Gresham, comparing notes on treatments at rest homes. I heard them discussing the uses of stimulants.Strychnine is frequently used as such, and it would have been reasonable for her to assume she would find a supply in the dispensary. And if that failed, surely something in the dispensary would serve her purpose.”
I picked up the thread of the narrative. “She needed only a moment’s access to the dispensary and she was lucky. She did find strychnine salts. Easily dissolved, quick, and invariably fatal, if gruesome.” Sir James made a moan of protest, but I forged on, addressing Merryweather. “You have paid a visit to the dispensary this morning, have you not, Merry?”
He blinked, as if surprised to find himself a speaking player in the drama unfolding before him. “Yes, I did.”
“And?” I prompted.
“Timothy Gresham was about to leave on a call—yesterday’s confinement has complications—but he supplied the information you requested. A new bottle of strychnine salts which ought to be full is nearly empty.”
“The dispensary cupboard ought to be locked,” Stoker put in with a frown.
“I did ask him about that,” Merry said. “Apparently he is forever forgetting to take the key out of the lock when he leaves the dispensary, especially if he goes in a hurry.”
“Slapdash,” Tiberius remarked. I had a feeling Timothy Gresham would be spoken to sternly about his habits in future.
I resumed my tale. “So Augusta has secured the necessary poison. There was only one moment of real risk for her—a narrow escape from detection. When she emerged from the dispensary, she saw me coming down the lane, a potential disaster if it could later be proven that Beatrice had died from strychnine secured at Timothy’s dispensary. She could not be seencomingfrom the dispensary. But she could be seen to begoing.”
Sir James blinked. “I do not understand.”
Stoker understood at once. “Augusta simply slipped out of the dispensary and instead of walking down the front path, she turned and knocked on the door so it would appear she had just arrived.”
I nodded. “It was a clever stratagem, and it speaks to Augusta’s audacity and quick thinking, as well as her ruthlessness. Now that she had the poison in hand, she had only to introduce it to Beatrice’s tonic. It was simple enough to do so. A quick visit to the Salviatis’ suite when no one was about, and she took the precaution of disguising herself as a maid. Unfortunately for her, I happened to glimpse the back of her as she left the Salviatis’ room during the time the tonic must have been poisoned. She was wearing the apron and white cap of an upstairs maid, but a black dress.”
“And none of the upstairs maids at Cherboys wears black,” Tiberius finished.
“Precisely. The chambermaids here all wear blue, and Augusta had not brought a blue dress with her. Even if she had, it certainly wouldn’t have been plain enough to pass for a maid’s frock. But, like many ladies, Augusta always travels with a simple black dress should she be unexpectedly required to put on mourning. A quick visit to the laundry to purloin a spare apron and cap, and her disguise was complete if imperfect. After all, who scrutinises the attire of a maid? Anyone passing her quickly would take her for one of the staff.
“She administered the poison, Beatrice obligingly died, and all that remained was to remove the tonic bottle from Beatrice’s pocket—easily done when she sat with Beatrice’s body. Someone might notice later that the tonic bottle was missing, but it might easily be presumed to have been mislaid in the commotion. She could not risk the bottle being tested should there be a proper inquest. That task accomplished, Augusta thought she was free. Until she realised she had overlooked one crucial piece of evidence. We saw Beatrice reading a poetry book belonging to Lorenzo. But it was a book he had carried with him duringthe visit to Cherboys. The only way Beatrice could have got her hands on it was if it had been shipped to Italy after his death with the rest of his things as Pietro has confirmed. And that meant that Beatrice had his notebook.”
“His notebook?” Sir James looked startled.
“His notebook,” I confirmed. “Augusta had written Lorenzo a note, summoning him to a rendezvous on the cliff the night he died, and she was clever enough to retrieve that note before pushing him over. But she could not know whether or not he had written about the meeting in his notebook. She ought to have taken it from his room the night he died, but I suppose she was too upset to think of it,” I finished.
“And the next day, Father ordered all of Lorenzo’s things packed up and sent to his family in Italy. She had no chance to retrieve it then,” Tiberius put in.
“Correct. But she needn’t have worried. The notebook does not mention her by name. Only his conversations with the ‘stranger.’ ” A ghost of a smile touched Augusta’s lips, but she said nothing.
“Lorenzo, he loved his nicknames,” Pietro said faintly. “Beatrice, his little star. And he called Augusta the stranger because she was the newest to our group. He said it with affection, I think.”
I wondered. His feelings towards Augusta seemed complicated in the extreme. If he, with his burdensome sense of honour, found himself attracted by his friend’s fiancée, perhaps referring to her only by a nickname was a means of holding her at arm’s length. But that was a secret Lorenzo had taken to his grave.
Sir James puffed out his cheeks, his moustaches trembling with emotion. “This is a fine story, if you like melodrama and the destruction of an innocent lady’s reputation. But you’ll find no proof of it because it never happened. And without proof, my solicitors will bring suit against every last one of you. I will hound you until you’ve nothing left but the clothes on your backs and you will have to sell those justto afford air to breathe, d’you hear me?” He looked at each of us in turn, fixing us with an accusatory stare.
