Page 81 of A Devilish Element
“Caused by?”
Bell chewed over the question but didn’t supply an answer.
“I’ll find an alternative.” George galloped toward the exit, round face flushed and a pinch betwixt his brows that concertinaed the flesh. Henrietta trailed after him.
“’Tis no doubt the work of that horrid ghost,” Jem overheard her saying. “He ought to have heeded the warnings. We’d be wise to all of us heed the warnings. The old mistress doesn’t approve of us invading her domain and is determined to drive us out.”
“Do curb your tongue, mother. I wish you wouldn’t prattle on so with the maids. Drive us out!” He huffed. “Where would you have us go? The exchange was to be made this evening. All is not yet well and may never be well if we don’t secure that—”
“I am perfectly apprised of the situation, George, and whose fault it is.”
“Mother,” George turned about sharply to face her, bringing the plump dove to an abrupt halt. “Cease, please. I don’t wish to spend Christmastide in a cell. Neither for debt nor murder.”
“The doctor said it was a problem with his gut.”
“Aye, and he also claims that bloodletting can’t possibly cure a headache, meat is bad for you, and that human beings do not contain a soul.”
Suitably outraged, she huffed and strutted off towards the hall.
“Poison?” Jem ventured once there was only the two of them left. “You may have removed the onus on us to preserve the scene and provide testaments by refusing to speak your suspicions, but it’s what you actually believe, isn’t it?”
“Walk with me, Whistler.” Ludlow led them out and to the stairs to his basement lair. “There’s only one way to prove the matter. And—”
“You can spare me the explanation. I know perfectly well why you called off the hounds.”
Bell nodded, and the two of them followed the body down to his surgery, where Bell instructed the servants to rest him on the table in the back room, where a sheet was draped over his still form. Jem collapsed onto the chaise in the main room. The skeletal remnants of his chemistry remained half-assembled on the table; the silk balloons gathered in a wooden crate beside them. He was tempted to stick his head into one and let the gas snuff him into insensibility.
Bell dropped to one knee before him and felt his pulse, before turning to his shelf of ingredients. He returned a moment later with a glass of amber liquid. “Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Cognac. One of the poor sod’s best.”
Jem took the glass. “What have you dissolved in it?”
Bell shook his head. “Not a goddamned thing. I need you lucid. God knows, you’ve reasons aplenty to be responsible for this, but it doesn’t make sense that it would be you.”
A sob erupted from his body, causing him to clap a hand over his mouth. Bell nodded at the glass, and Jem swallowed the contents. If Bell was drugging him, then there was no taste of it in the smooth liquid as it heated his throat.
“Better?”
“Not in the slightest. If not me, then who is it you think has done this?”
Bell steepled his long fingers and tapped them to his lips. “I don’t know. Nor am I sure it will serve us any purpose to speculate at this point, not until I’m confident as to the cause of death.”
“So, you do mean to cut him open?”
“I’d make for a very poor anatomist if I did not, and time is not on my side at this point.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that if he is dead by virtue of something other than ill fortune, he is dead for a reason, and that as I do not know that reason, it’s impossible to say whether the person who meted out such justice is satisfied with the result. They may strike again. Also, I feel it is of note that it is Lord and not Lady Linfield who lies next door, whereas all the ghastly visitations that have occurred since we arrived here have been targeted at her.”
“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.” Jem nevertheless felt that Bell was scratching at a scab. Nay, not a scab, more like a festering sore. “Are you suggesting that perhaps Linfield wasn’t the intended target?”
Bell did not reply, though both his brows raised in a meaningful sort of way.
“But wait… Wasn’t Linfield our chief suspect for orchestrating his wife’s misery? He would hardly deliberately poison himself, and while I agree the man lacked wits, he was not so dumb as to be lackadaisical about drinking from a poisoned chalice, or whatever means by which you presume the substance was delivered.” Indeed, Linfield had exhibited a talent for self-preservation, frequently at the expense of others. His entire philosophy was founded on the principle of putting himself first and not giving a damn about everyone else.
