Dr. Turpin nodded. “How long has it been aching?”
The truth was about five minutes. Or perhaps from the moment she met Mary Sherard.
“Since the inquest,” she said instead. “I’m wondering if it is from the stress.”
“A fair assumption. Do you often get headaches?”
“Not as a rule, no. Though I also haven’t been sleeping well since... well, since we found Mr. Treadway.”
“Is that so?”
Mira nodded, continuing the lie. “I keep dreaming that he was stabbed.”
Byron stepped forward. “I’ve told her that is quite impossible. You would have known when you looked at the body, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, and if I had, it would have come up at the inquest. A head wound like the one found on the body is consistent with what one might expect from a fall.”
“And the scratches on him? That couldn’t have come from a knife?” Byron asked.
“No. They weren’t deep enough.”
“See, there isn’t anything to worry about, Miss Blayse,” Byron said. “It was only an accident.”
“Hysteria is only natural after having such a beastly experience,” Dr. Turpin said. He moved over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a bottle. “It is likely that all the stress has built up and caused your headache and the nightmares. If you can release the stress, both should go away.” He pouredsome purplish liquid into a little cup and handed it to her. “This syrup of figs should help move the process along.”
Mira drank it down. It had a sickly-sweet taste and coated her tongue.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel quite silly about the whole thing.”
“Nonsense. As I said, it is only natural for you to have an adverse reaction to such dreadful things. And you certainly don’t have the worst case of hysteria I’ve seen, even this week.”
“You mean Miss Harris?” Mary asked.
“Why, yes. From what Admiral Hoddle has told me of her symptoms, if she doesn’t improve soon, I may have to recommend her to an asylum.”
“Surely it isn’t that bad,” Mira said, real nausea coming over her at the thought of Maureen in an asylum.
“It would be for a very short time, just to rehabilitate her. The Mendip hospital in Wells is very nice, so I’ve heard, and I’m personal friends with Dr. Wade, the superintendent. Maureen has so many bad memories. This whole ordeal with Mr. Treadway has only made things worse.”
“I still can’t believe it myself,” Byron said. “From what I understand, he had survived so much in the Sudan. Sent home because of a leg injury. Then to die from a fall like that, by pure accident. Poor fellow.”
Dr. Turpin frowned. “A leg injury?”
“You seem surprised.”
“A little, yes. He never complained of his leg when hunting, and surely the motion of a horse aggravates leg injuries. And I don’t recall seeing any damage or scarring on the leg during the post mortem.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Byron said. “I never talked to the man myself.”
“Could be.” Dr. Turpin returned the bottle to the cabinet. “Isthere anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I think my head is already starting to feel better,” Mira said, truthfully.
“I’ll see you out then.” Dr. Turpin opened the door to the surgery and the group filed out. “Give it a few weeks and you’ll be right as rain. If you keep having the headaches and nightmares past the end of the month, you ought to see someone about it.” They reached the front door and pleasantries were exchanged on both sides. Just as they were about to leave, Dr. Turpin said, “A moment, Mr. Sherard? I have a question for you.”
Byron lingered at the door while the women moved down to the carriage.
Mrs. Sherard walked next to Mira. “That was quite the performance.”
