She stared at me suspiciously. “Are you feeling quite well, my lady?”
“Quite,” I returned briskly. “Pack the rest of these up and remove them. I shall need the space for my new things.”
She bobbed her head and set to work, still throwing the odd glance at me over her shoulder. I did not care. While she packed away my mourning, I went to my writing table and dashed off a letter containing very specific instructions to Portia’s dressmakers, the brothers Riche. In a very few minutes I finished the letter and dispatched it with a footman, feeling absurdly pleased with myself.
That mood lasted until I read the letter from Doctor Griggs. It was a thorough disappointment, from start to finish.
My dear Lady Julia,
I cannot tell you how very distressed I was to receive your letter. It has been my privilege to act as physician to the Grey family for these many years. During this time, I have diagnosed and treated Sir Sylvius Grey, his son Sir Edward, and now his nephew, Sir Simon. It has ever been apparent to me that the men of this family suffer from an illness that is of an hereditary and most vicious bent. I had hoped Sir Edward would escape this curse, but I realized in his youth that this was not to be. This weakness of the heart and lungs was said to be present in Sir Sylvius’ father and grandfather, as well. It is for this reason that I say it is a mercy Sir Edward left no issue. Such a weakness in the constitution of such otherwise fine and noble gentlemen is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude, but it is not to be helped by modern medicine. I did all that any man could for Sir Edward and Sir Sylvius, just as I do now for Sir Simon.
As for your ladyship’s own difficulties, I should prescribe a sleeping draught of poppy to provide a good night’s sleep and all its healthful benefits. Should this not prove efficacious, I would further prescribe an interview with the vicar to offer some spiritual comfort.
I remain your very faithful servant,
William Griggs
Pooh, I thought, tossing the letter to the desk. Not a scrap of useful information. He had taken me for an addle-witted, superstitious ninny.
Or he had poisoned Edward himself and deliberately put me off the scent. I straightened, feeling quite startled by the notion. It seemed absurd on the surface, but it was entirely possible. Who better to help a sick man along to the hereafter than his own doctor?
I rose quickly. It took only a matter of minutes to slip upstairs for my things and make my way out of the house unnoticed. Between Brisbane’s lectures on discretion and Valerius’ stolen Crown property, I was very certain I did not wish Brisbane to call at Grey House. I walked a little distance down Curzon Street and hailed a cab near the Park. We made quite good time to Brisbane’s rooms, where the plump little housekeeper admitted me promptly this time, waving me up the stairs with a smile.
I rapped sharply and was greeted by Monk, looking somewhat strained.
“We did not expect your ladyship,” he began.
“I know, but I have something to discuss with Mr. Brisbane. Business,” I said, brandishing the letter. He stepped back, reluctantly, I fancied, and admitted me to the room.
“If you will wait, my lady. I will tell him that you are here.”
I nodded absently and made myself comfortable. I removed my gloves and hat and coat, piling them on a chair in the corner. There was a copy ofPunchon the table. I ignored it for several minutes, but as the time ticked past and I remained alone, I grew restless. I was more than halfway through the issue when Brisbane appeared.
“My lady, please forgive my tardiness,” he said. I almost did not hear him, I was so surprised by his appearance. He was deathly pale under his usually swarthy colour, and there were faint new lines etched on his brow and on either side of his mouth. His eyes, usually so bright and watchful, were dull and sunken in his face.
I made to rise. “Mr. Brisbane, are you quite well? If I have called at an inopportune time—”
He waved me back to my seat. “Not at all. A trifling indisposition, I assure you.”
But I was not assured. He moved slowly, without his usual grace, and I wondered what ailed him. Embarrassed at having pushed in at such a time, I thrust the letter at him.
“This is the reply from Doctor Griggs. It is disappointing, I am sure you will agree.”
He read it over, his brow furrowing tightly as he looked at the paper. He held it for several minutes as if he were having trouble making out the words. At length he returned it.
“Disappointing, indeed.”
“I wondered if perhaps he might be concealing something.”
Brisbane passed a hand over his eyes. “Such as?”
“Perhaps he poisoned Edward. He had as good an opportunity as anyone, and the advantage of being in a position to certify the death as natural.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, but what motive? What profit to him to murder one of his most illustrious patients?”
I blushed wretchedly. Not only had I disturbed him at a time when he was clearly not fit for company, I had done so without having rationally appraised my sudden notion of Griggs’ duplicity. “I had not thought that out. I came simply on impulse. I am sorry.”
He tugged gently at his collar. “It makes no difference. There could be a hundred motives we have not yet discovered.” He paused, as if gathering strength, then went on, his voice marginally less thready. “I have a friend, a surgeon. If we describe the symptoms of Sir Edward’s collapse to him, I daresay he could come up with something useful.”
