She gasped. “He was poisoned?”
Alfred nodded.
“By his own hand?”
“This morning’s papers said the police hadn’t ruled out foul play.”
“Good God.” Mary wondered how she would tell Louisa.
“And there is something else,” Alfred said. “About Rawlings and Mister Allen. But it might be best to read it for yourself. Shall I bring the newspapers to the library? Your letters are there.”
“Thank you. And Alfred . . . please keep the papers away from Mrs. Allingham unless she asks for them.”
While she waited for Alfred, Mary picked up her post and sat by the garden window. She shuffled inattentively through a stack of envelopes until one with a Soho return address stopped her. Mary opened a letter from Will Quain.
Would you care to join me for a day of plein air painting? Monday, I thought, after your return from the Isle of Wight. I know a perfect spot at the edge of Hampstead Heath. I’ll hire a carriage for the day and provide luncheon. Bring a maid to chaperone if you must, but I assure you, my intentions are honorable—more or less.
Mary smiled.Cheeky, but irresistible.Not only the invitation but also the man. She’d missed him. The ten days she’d been away had crawled like a month.
Will’s invitation added something else she’d rather keep from her sister-in-law. Mary sighed, knowing she had to tackle two tricky subjects: Dr. Scott’s death and an unchaperoned outing with Will Quain.
Then Alfred handed her the Sunday newspapers.
CHAPTER17
On Monday morning, Julia ignored the newspaper and absorbed herself in Dr. Scott’s casebook. She looked up when her grandfather joined her for breakfast.
“Interesting reading . . . or at least legible?”
“Murder victims haven’t a right to privacy, but this case cracks open the personal lives of the doctor’s patients.” Julia closed the book. “I came across a notation about someone I know. Louisa Allingham.”
“Inevitable if you’re to do a thorough review.”
“Sad, because Doctor Scott notes a pregnancy that will end in a miscarriage. He shaded his entry with foreboding. And his desire to conceal his pessimism.”
“Does he say why?”
“No, but Mary mentioned Louisa’s several failed pregnancies.”
Julia took a last sip of tea, dropped her napkin on the table, and gathered up the book.
“Busy morning, my dear?”
“Not enough to fill it. Two patients, then I’m off to Whitechapel. I’ll read a little more before they arrive.”
By the time Julia left for the clinic, she’d reached Scott’s notes for the end of September. She found a terse entry recording Louisa’s miscarriage.
The likely outcome,he’d written.Tragic.
Then, in late October—only weeks after Louisa lost her baby—Scott saw a patient who surprised Julia, although his diagnosis did not. “Mrs. Margaret Miller” was pregnant but showed “no sign of vaginal chancres, although that is inconclusive.” Julia looked up from the page.He suspected syphilis.
Julia scribbled a note to Inspector Tennant.I’m halfway through the casebooks and have found no medical motives for his death. But I thought you should know this: two of your murder victims knew one another. Margot Miller was Doctor Scott’s patient.
Julia resumed her reading and came across a November entry about Charles Allingham.
Good Lord.She closed the casebook. According to Dr. Scott, Allingham had begun to show the early signs of third-stage syphilis.
His disease, Louisa’s miscarriages, and Scott’s looking for early symptoms in Margot Miller all fell into place. She arrived at the clinic just before twelve, having read the last entries for 1866.
