Page 52 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
“Now, if you had a physician. One from afield perhaps. They might be able to look at Sir Edward and let you know what’s what.”
Hope bubbled up. Brief. But still there. “That was our plan. I was headed to Exeter this afternoon to see if I could bring a friend of mine back.”
“Exeter, you say. He’s not the superstitious sort, is he?” Dr. Quick looked rather affronted at the idea.
“Not a bit. I’m afraid he’s German.”
“Well, we can’t all be Cornishmen, can we?” Dr. Quick flashed me a bright smile that faded away as he tilted his head to Ruan. “Boy… go over to that shelf, would you? There’s a blue bound book on the second row.” His gnarled forefinger pointed to the old rosewood bookshelf by the window. It was a piece from an earlier time, with diamond panels of glass crisscrossing the doors.
Ruan stood, made his way to the shelf, and pulled open the glass framing. His fingers traced over the spines before settling on the volume Dr. Quick described and retrieving it.
“It’s my diary. I’ve kept one ever since I started practicing. Open the cover. Should be the period you want. I kept my reflections and notes on cases. Don’t know much that would help you, but you might find something in there to help your doctor friend.”
Ruan opened the cover, his dark brows drawn up as he read whatever was there before snapping it shut and dropping it into his jacket pocket. “Thank you. I’ll give it to him.”
Dr. Quick settled deeper into the floral cushioned sofa, crossing his legs. “I only wish I could help you more, lad. There’s nothing worse for a man who spent his whole life being useful than to have nothing to do but sit around and wait to die.”
“Come now,” Ruan said with a start. “You’ve earned your rest.”
Dr. Quick snorted. “I’d rather be tending the ill. Don’t let time catch you, lad. For she’s a terrible thief.”
The edge of Ruan’s mouth quirked up. “I’ll try to avoid it.” The two men were alike. Similar in so many ways that it heartened me to see it. There was at least one person in this village who wasn’t afraid of Ruan Kivell. Granted he was nearing ninety.
That same parallel symmetry between two people put me in mind of Mrs. Martin and our conversation this morning. “George Martin,” I said softly. “Do you remember him? Did you see his body as well?”
Ruan sighed. “I told you, Ruby. He killed himself. I cannot fathom why you are so interested in the poor fellow.”
I shook my head, not quite certain either. But there was something there. I was convinced of it. Though I doubted it had anything to do with Sir Edward.
The old doctor’s expression shifted to one of suspicion, his fingers lightly on the tops of his trousers. “What makes you ask me such things, child?”
“I don’t rightly know. I spent the evening with Mrs. Martin and I cannot get George from my thoughts.”
He let out a wry chuckle, shifting his weight as his sightless eyes moved toward the light of the window just past my shoulder. “You and half the maids in the village. But I will tell you, something about his death didn’t sit right with me.”
I furrowed my brow, glancing to Ruan, who shifted in his seat.
“Do you mean to say you don’t believe he killed himself?”
“Ruby!” Ruan shot me a quelling look. As if he had the right.
Dr. Quick shook his head. “No. I am convinced of it. That boy didn’t kill himself any more than I have.”
I sat with the revelation for a few seconds. If George didn’t kill himself, someone else must have. I wet my lips, repeating the words again in my head. I’d never believed in coincidences, and for two murders to occur within eighteen months in a town as small as Lothlel Green—it was inconceivable that there wasn’t something connecting them. Before I realized it, the words tumbled out on their own. “Do you think it couldbe somehow connected? Sir Edward, George Martin, the previous baronet?”
Dr. Quick sucked in a breath and shook his head. His spotted hand drew up to rub his smooth jaw. There was something about his face that reminded me of an old pocket map. Folded and unfolded time and again. “No. I don’t see how they could be. And rightly I don’t know what to think of the whole affair, only that Reverend Fortescue didn’t want me to ask questions—which is what first raised my suspicion. At first, I assumed he wanted to keep everything quiet—being a suicide and all. But Fortescue has never been one to avoid a chance to prove his virtue over that of his flock.”
“Quite,” Ruan growled.
“Well, why should the vicar care one way or the other? If he was already known as a suicide, what harm could come from you inspecting the body?”
“See, that was my thinking as well. I had mostly settled into my retirement, as my eyes had begun to fail me, but I could still see enough in bright light to know what was what.”
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“I paid a call on the curate at the time. Lad’s been long since cast out—sent to the Outer Hebrides likely for having let me in that night, I’d imagine—you see, young George’s body was being held in the chapel the night before the ceremony. Ordinarily it would have been at the family home, but the reverend was worried for Mrs. Martin’s mental state. Rightly so, if you ask me. Said it was too terrible a thing for a woman of her delicate constitution to bear and insisted he keep the body at the church overnight.”
Alice Martin delicate? Brokenhearted, yes, but she didn’t seem to me the sort of woman to crumple in time of crisis. “Is that unusual?”
