“Forgive me,” I said hastily. “Your Grace, Mr. Danforth — I beg your pardon. I requested Dr. Bascomb’s opinion regarding the Danforth children, and he has been so kind as to sacrifice his Sunday to my benefit. You will not protest, I hope, if he satisfies our curiosity?”
“Eh?” the Duke replied. “Oh — of course. Very well. Proceed, man — proceed.”
Dr. Bascomb gazed keenly around the room. He nodded once, then adopted a position by the fire.
“I see from this letter,” he began, holding it aloft, “that Charles Danforth suspected the nature of his children’s deaths. Miss Austen has already discerned that I was in attendance upon little Emma, the eldest of the three; so much is noted in the stillroom maid’s book. I was called, as well, when Lydia Danforth was thrown into labour two months before her time; but in that case, I could do nothing. At the Duke’s insistence, a London doctor was called when Miss Julia fell ill in February; and though I looked in upon John d’Arcy in March, lie was already too far gone for my physick to save him.”
Lady Harriot’s countenance twisted; she threw her face in her hands.
“I was troubled by what I observed in Emma’s case. The child suffered a series of feverish attacks, each worsening in nature, over the course of a month; a slight indisposition became a gradual wasting; vomiting and violent purges ensued; and at the end, dehydration and death. In the intervals between these attacks, however, she appeared in complete health.”
“Our Hary-O had a similar passage,” the Duke observed, “and three nursemaids were dismissed on the strength of it, until Georgiana discovered the child surfeiting on sweetmeats in the pantry corner. Greedy little minx.”
“It was possible that the girl suffered from the sort of wasting complaints that every childhood is prey to,” Dr. Bascomb continued with a deferential bow. “I cannot number the young lives taken suddenly off, by a host of ills that plague every town in England. It is not even unusual for entire families to be lost. But in Emma’s case I suspected poison — arsenical poisoning, to be exact. I confided my fears to Charles Danforth. He was greatly disturbed in his mind, as should only be natural; but to his wife, who suffered greatly from her daughter’s death, he imparted nothing of my fears.”
“Were you well acquainted with the late and lamented Lydia,” said Andrew Danforth, “you would not question my brother’s decision. His wife was excessively fearful for the health of her children.”
“With cause,” murmured Lady Harriot.
“Danforth undertook to search out any supplies of arsenic that might be lying about the Hall, and ordered them destroyed,” Dr. Bascomb said. “The gardener’s shed was the most obvious culprit, as arsenic is often employed in the control of rats and other vermin; but the gardener himself could not be suspected of malice towards any of the children. He had been first employed in old Mr. Danforth’s time, and was a great favourite; his grandchildren, the Arnold girls, had grown up on the estate. I believe that Danforth was inclined to regard my words as fanciful — or worse, as the result of my unwillingness to accept responsibility for having lost the child. Mr. Danforth destroyed the poison he found, and ceased to consult or confide in me. I heard nothing further of the Penfolds household, until word was received of the second daughter’s death.
“It is significant, I think, that Charles Danforth was absent in London when Julia became ill. He was absent when John d’Arcy died suddenly, as well. The person responsible for their deaths made certain that she was unobserved by the one most likely to suspect her.”
“Are you saying,” Andrew Danforth broke in, “that you believe my brother’s claim that poor Tess intended to murder his family? I must regard that accusation as nothing more than the delusion of a broken mind — a mind destroyed by the effects of grief and unaccountable misfortune. Surely the maid can have had no reason to wish my nieces and nephew dead?”
Dr. Bascomb made no reply. His gaze, however, drifted over the room and came to rest upon me.
“Tess Arnold did not kill the children with arsenic,” I told Danforth, “but with a common solution that has been used for time out of mind in the administration of medicinal draughts to children. Black cherry water, Mr. Danforth — the distilled essence of cherry bark boiled in spring water. It has a palatable taste, and may disguise whatever is given to the patient; but I believe I am correct in thinking, Dr. Bascomb, that it has only lately been judged a poison in its own right?”
“Highly poisonous, Miss Austen. A single draught should be unremarkable, though vomiting might result; but when the application is repeated, and the doses increased, it is probable that the effect over time should be death.”
“But Tess could have possessed no notion of the pernicious effect!” Danforth objected. “She learned her stillcraft at her mother’s feet. Her remedies were the stuff of incantation, passed down through generations of healing women; she merely did as she had observed others to have done. If she killed Emma and Julia with the intention of healing them, surely we may absolve her of guilt!”
Dr. Bascomb merely lifted his shoulders. “I cannot profess to know the girl’s mind,” he said. “I only know that I had instructed her myself, most strenuously, never to give a draught in the common bitter waters to children. And yet, Miss Austen has found repeated references in the stillroom book to the employment of these very waters.”
A silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling of a log upon the fire.
“But why?”
Lady Harriot’s deep and penetrating voice carried across the room.
“Why kill those children Charles loved so well?”
I looked at Lord Harold and raised an enquiring brow.
“It is possible,” he answered slowly, “that she did so at Charles’s bidding.”
“Ridiculous!” Andrew Danforth cried.
“Is it? He stood to inherit a fortune if his heirs predeceased his wife; and you will observe that they did. He was warned by Bascomb that the illnesses looked like poison; and so he contrived never to have Bascomb in attendance again. Two of his children died, moreover, when Charles was himself away — so that he might never be suspected of guilt, should questions arise. And finally, he silenced Tess Arnold — the only party to his crimes.”
“He had no need of such a fortune,” Lady Harriot protested. “Charles was a wealthy man!”
“But he may, my dear Hary-O, have felt desperately in need of you,” Lord Harold said harshly, “and his wife and children stood in the way.”
She drew a sharp breath; her beautiful eyes blazed. “That is an unpardonable thing to say.”
Lord Harold inclined his head, but failed to apologise.
“I will never believe it!” Danforth exclaimed.
“Naturally you will not.” I summoned courage for what must come. “For it was to your benefit that the children died, and not your brother’s. Emma and Julia and little John d’Arcy — they stood between you and your inheritance, Mr. Danforth. And Tess Arnold had great ambition for you. Or should I say — for you both?”
Andrew Danforth went white. “Think well before you utter another word, Miss Austen, lest your speech disgrace you! A familiarity with Lord Harold may have taught you to forget what is due to civility; but a moment will suffice to recall it.”
“The spectre of disgrace has no power over me, Mr. Danforth,” I replied calmly. “Your brother’s sacrifice has absolved us all. You will recall what he said in his final letter? Her reasons for so doing I will not name, lest they embroil the innocent. Charles Danforth suspected that Tess would murder his heirs and place you in his stead. In the interval provided after his wife’s death, he had time enough for reflection; it was not the maid’s habit to act precipitately. Tess had allowed months between the children’s passing away. And so your brother was suffered to remain in health throughout the first part of the summer. And then, two days before the maid was killed, he endured a bout of vomiting himself.”