“The lad’s name. Clement. He told me.”
“Oh? When was this?”
“When I found Isherwood. I remember now.” I closed my eyes, hoping the rest of the night would come flooding back, but it did not. I recalled Clement helping me find my way out of the Pavilion, and my cold and stumbling walk back home, but nothing between being with Grenville in the Steine and finding Isherwood’s dead body.
I told Grenville about Clement then studied my empty goblet. “I do not recall imbibing enough strong drink to take away my memory. I suppose I must have done, but usually when I overindulge, I simply fall asleep and wake feeling miserable. I have never wandered about town, had conversations with Quakers, and then dueled with a man, killing him with his own sword.”
“It might not have been drink,” Grenville suggested. “Another substance, perhaps.”
“I had nothing but wine at supper and port afterward, all of which were excellent, and I was not the only one who drank them. I rememberyouenjoying them quite soundly.”
“I did. Perhaps you took something else and you simply cannot recall it.”
“Possibly,” I conceded. “But what substance would affect me so? I use laudanum to combat the pain in my knee when it becomes too great, but again, if I take too much, I merely sleep.”
“As to that.” Grenville rose. “If you will sit here a moment, I will return in no time.”
I helped myself to another brandy as Grenville slipped out, and was halfway through it when he returned.
He brought Marianne with him. I stood up politely as Grenville ushered her in and closed the door, but Marianne waved me back down. She drew a straight-backed chair next to my softer seat, sat down, and leaned to peer hard at me.
“What are you doing?” I asked her nervously.
“Studying your eyes.” Marianne’s were marvelously blue. She wore her hair in a matronly knot tonight, revealing the strong bones of her face.
“What is the matter with them?”
“Nothing.” Marianne continued to stare at me. “A bit bloodshot. Your pupils look normal, but …” She suddenly pushed her hand at my face.
Soldier’s instinct made me grab her wrist, but I instantly gentled my touch and released her. Grenville had started for me when I’d latched my fingers around her arm, but he subsided, looking a bit abashed at his reaction.
Marianne resumed her scrutiny of my eyes. “You were slow to focus. Whatever substance you took is lingering, though mostly gone, I think. The wine and brandy you have drunk today will slow its dispersion, but I believe you will be well by morning. Have a good sleep tonight.”
I was torn between amusement and alarm. “Are you now a physician?”
“My dear Lacey, in a theatre company, one learns all sorts of tricks—for keeping oneself awake, for example, or ensuring a sound sleep amidst noise and chaos. Laudanum or opium for relaxation. Belladonna to brighten the eyes. The magical gas that takes away pain and makes you silly. And of course, gin, when one wants to forget one’s troubles.”
“Could the gas have done this to me?” I remembered inhaling an odorless concoction at a gathering a few years ago, and the sudden and surprising absence of pain. But I recalled every moment of that day, no blurring of memory.
“Possibly. Possibly not. On the other hand, the opium eater sometimes forgets hours, or entire days, even the act of taking the opium itself.”
“Does it cause bad dreams?” I asked.
“Yes, the dreams when one comes down can be awful.” Marianne cast a quick glance at Grenville, who was listening intently. “Do not worry—I am not an opium eater myself. I’ve watched too many become a slave to it to wish to inflict that upon myself.”
An opium delirium would explain both the memory lapse and the dreams last night, I decided. Also my fear that I was going mad.
“But look here,” Grenville broke in. “Opiummightbe the solution, but how would an enemy get it into you, Lacey? I cannot imagine you tamely swallowing a bottle or smoking a pipe of the stuff at another’s suggestion.”
“Neither can I,” I agreed. “But what if I thought the opium was something else?”
“The smell and taste are distinct and unpleasant,” Marianne said. “You could not have mistaken it. I suppose someonecouldhave dosed a strong enough tea or coffee and you might not notice it.”
“It was late when we left the Pavilion. I rarely have coffee after midnight.”
“You might have drunk it, nonetheless, and simply do not remember,” Marianne said. “I have known actors who have lost entire weeks of their lives while they ate opium. They’d take the stuff even before a performance and muff their lines, which was most annoying for the rest of us.”
“You met the Quaker fellow,” Grenville reminded me.
