Page 57 of Evidence of Evil
For two nightsSolomon had lain beside her, without touching her except by accident. She had imagined she could never sleep in such a situation, but to her astonishment, she had found only a unique comfort in his nearness. So much so that she had once wakened cuddled into his shoulder. She had taken her time to roll away from him, telling herself she didn’t want to wake him with sudden movement.
This night, lying alone and staring into the darkness, she missed him.
Not just that peculiar comfort, or the way they could discuss the mystery before them. Buthim. His very presence.
Constance wanted to explore that, for she was curious by nature. It was part of friendship and trust, of course, to sleep in someone else’s presence. She had experienced that, but it had never been with a man before.
Am I falling seriously in love with Solomon?
She hoped not. It would be disastrous and could easily end the fragile friendship between them. The best she could hope for was that he missed her too.
Meanwhile, she tried to think of her next path of inquiry. She should talk to one of the doctors about poisons. She also still needed to find out who had been Frances’s lover. Her last lover.
As she began to drift off to sleep, she jolted awake again. What if Frances had returned to the father of her child? Had he given her the silver bracelet? If so, he must be relatively well off, no servant or farm laborer. A well-to-do tenant farmer, perhaps. Or the vicar’s son. She had not spoken to him yet…
Her dreams were troubled, full of threat and insult, but she woke more determined than ever to find out what had truly happened to Frances. This was no longer just for Elizabeth’s sake. It was for Frances herself.
Chapter Twelve
Determined to findout something concrete before Solomon returned, Constance took an early breakfast and set off to call on Dr. Laing.
“Dr. Laing’s at his breakfast, ma’am,” the doctors’ housekeeper told her at the door, “and Dr. Murray’s out on calls. Beg your pardon, but are you sick?”
“No, you might call it more of a social call,” Constance said.
“One moment,” the housekeeper said with a sniff of disapproval. She vanished into a room opposite the consulting room where Constance had met Dr. Laing before, and a moment later returned and asked her to follow.
Constance was shown into a tiny dining room, where Dr. Laing rose from his chair and invited her to sit and have a cup of tea.
“I have a few minutes before my next appointment. Murray’s doing the visits today, since I was up most of the night with a difficult birth.”
“I hope the outcome was happy for all concerned.”
“Mother and child doing well so far,” he said, resuming his seat after she took her own. The housekeeper put another cup and saucer on the table, and he poured Constance some tea while the housekeeper sniffed again and departed. “Toast?”
“No, thank you. I breakfasted before I left The Willows.”
“What can I do for you this morning?” he asked civilly.
“I am still inquiring into the matter of Miss Niall’s death.”
A frown flickered on his brow. “Really, I can’t help thinking you should leave such matters to the policemen. Or even to your husband, who is, I understand, up in London.”
“He should be back today. But two brains are better than one, doctor, and three better yet. Which is why I want you to tell me about poisons.”
“Poisons?” he said, startled. “We found no trace of poison in Miss Niall’s stomach.”
“But they don’t all leave a trace, do they? I’m thinking particularly of plants like foxglove or monkshood.”
“There is no point in speculating, Mrs. Grey,” he said impatiently. “We will never know, never have proof if they leave no trace—and the poor lady is already buried, in any case. And then there is the matter of how she could possibly have swallowed such poison. Arsenic tastes of nothing, but we tested for that. Most plant poisons taste bitter, and she would certainly have noticed it in her food or drink. Then again, no one in her household was taken ill either.”
Constance placed her cup carefully back in its saucer. “In your opinion, doctor, is there any chance she might have taken it herself?”
His eyes widened. “Deliberately?” For a moment, she could see him thinking about it, considering it, and then discarding it. “I would not go down that road, Mrs. Grey. Her family has suffered enough.”
“I would never bring it up,” Constance assured him, “unless it was a genuine possibility and they were about to hang an innocent woman. Look, doctor, I never knew Miss Niall, but I have spoken now to many people who did, and it seems to me she was a troubled soul, constantly looking for something she never found. In your opinion, was it possible she killed herself? Was she that unhappy?”
Dr. Laing pushed his plate aside and grasped his teacup with both hands. “You are right, I think, that she was a troubled lady, in search of something. But that something was not death. Miss Niall was a lady of great spirit, a fighter. She would never give in to such despair. She would find another way.”
