Macbeth
Mordecai Bent’s rooms were exactly as I had expected. Tiny, overwarm, and so cramped with books and medical equipment that it was difficult to move. But the fire was cheerful and Mordecai was hospitality personified, as if entertaining angels unaware.
“This chair, my lady,” he said, sweeping up a pile of papers and an errant sock. “It is the most comfortable and nearest the fire. Mr. March, may I offer you the bench by the bookcase?”
Val, mesmerized by the contents of the bookcase, barely waved a hand. “If you do not object…”
Mordecai flushed with pleasure.
“Oh, no! Please, look at anything you like. It is so seldom I have the pleasure of speaking with another medical man.”
This time Val flushed, and it occurred to me that introducing them might have been a tiresome mistake. If I was not quite careful, the conversation could easily move into deeper and duller waters than I could navigate with patience. I cleared my throat delicately.
“Doctor Bent, we have called because I recently discovered something concerning my husband’s health. Something that might have bearing upon this case.”
Bent’s eyes flew to my brother’s tall figure, silhouetted against the bookcase. “He is entirely in my confidence,” I assured him. Bent smiled. There was a dot of custard on his lapel, and a button swung gently from a single thread at his waistcoat.
“I shall be too happy to help,” he told me. “But Nicholas wrote that he was going to Paris, and that the investigation was in abeyance until his return.”
“Oh, of course. But this information just fell into my lap, most unexpectedly, and I thought I might save him a bit of time by consulting you in his absence.” The lie fell smoothly from my lips.
He seemed satisfied with that and sat forward, his eyes gleaming with interest behind his spectacles.
“It appears that my husband suffered from syphilis, Doctor Bent. He had had it for some time.”
He considered this a moment.
“Hmm. Yes, that does complicate matters,” he said, his brow furrowing. If I had not been so humiliated by having to tell him, I might have been amused. He did not consider the personal ramifications of the syphilis, only its application to the case—a true medical man.
“Do you know how long he had the disease?”
I shrugged. “He contracted it sometime before we were married, a few months, perhaps. I am told he experienced a relapse of sorts some months after we married.”
Bent nodded. “Yes, although it isn’t precisely a relapse. From what we understand of the disease, it normally follows a pattern—an initial infection, then a period of dormancy, followed by another outbreak. Then a second period of dormancy. These quiet periods can last for years, during which time the patient is completely asymptomatic.”
I must have looked blank, for he amended the word quickly. “Without symptom. The second phase of dormancy can even last the duration of the patient’s natural life. But in most people, the second dormancy is followed by the most extreme symptoms of the disease—a breakdown in general health, uncertain temper, that sort of thing.”
I thought of Edward’s turns, his periods of malaise, his little black rages, and that short, terrible moment when we had looked at each other, the bits of broken vase littering the carpet between us, his hand raised, poised and twitching at my cheek….
“Doctor Bent, is it possible that Edward did not suffer from heart trouble?”
“But he did,” Valerius put in quietly. “He’d had it from boyhood, don’t you remember? Old Cook always saying he’d never make old bones, just like all the Greys?” I did remember. I had told Brisbane of it only a few weeks before. But I had felt the ground shift under me when Cass had bestowed her revelation, and I found myself wondering which memories were true and which were lies. And I knew I would continue to do so for many years to come.
I turned to Bent, who was nodding, his eyes shrewd.
“Yes, sometimes syphilis will lodge in a patient’s heart or lungs, especially if there is an underlying ailment. It is possible that the disease worsened his heart condition, or perhaps it affected it not at all. It is impossible to say without a proper postmortem, and of course, it is too late for that.”
I shuddered, thinking of Edward’s corpse, moldering away, the evidence quietly decaying during the months that I had wasted.
“Is it possible that Edward was not poisoned, after all? Could not the disease have accounted for his symptoms and the, er, discoloration?”
Val looked away and Doctor Bent reddened slightly. “No, my lady, I fear not. His symptoms were clearly those of poisoning. In fact, I think I have discovered the cause.”
He put his hand out to rummage through the papers stacked precariously on his desk. After a moment he grunted in satisfaction. He extracted a single paper, an illustration of a flower. He handed it to me and Val came to look over my shoulder. There was a Latin inscription at the bottom of the page.
“Aconitum napellus,”I read out. “Monkshood.”
Bent nodded. “It is the only natural poison I could find that fits both the symptoms and the method. It is absorbed through the skin, and ferociously deadly in quite a short period of time.”
