Family Plot Page 14

  “Who found him, did they tell you?” Secondhand testimony would be inadmissible in court, but it would be interesting to determine whether the Kirkbrides’ accounts squared with the doctor’s.

  “Apparently Miss Kirkbride heard her father retching and rose to check on him. For what it’s worth, nausea and vomiting are also symptoms of digitalis poisoning.”

  “And so she sent a footman to fetch you?”

  “Yes, and she was most urgent in her summons. The footman had instructions not to return without me.”

  Pickett could not doubt it. Despite her dishonesty in the matter of her identity, no one had a greater reason to keep Angus Kirkbride alive, at least until the will could be changed. Duncan, on the other hand, was quite another matter. Pickett would be most interested in hearing an account of that gentleman’s evening activities.

  “Have you any idea what time you were summoned, Doctor?”

  “You are trying to fix the time the poison must have been administered, I presume,” the doctor observed. “I fear I can be of little assistance. I do recall hearing a single peal of the clock as I was shown upstairs to Mr. Kirkbride’s room, but that offers very little information. One stroke might indicate any half-hour. I do think the one o’clock hour may be ruled out, for the guests would hardly have been gone long enough for the necessary sequence of events to transpire.”

  Pickett looked up inquiringly from his notebook. “And what events, in your professional opinion, would have been necessary?”

  “Well, let alone giving time for the household to settle down after the evening’s festivities, the killer must have had time to administer the fatal dose, then time for it to take effect.”

  “How much time?” the magistrate put in, anticipating Pickett’s next question.

  “The first symptoms—headache, nausea—would occur shortly after ingestion as the heart rate begins to fluctuate. More severe symptoms—vomiting, blurred vision, delirium, and eventually death—would follow in anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes. In a man with an already weakened heart, I would guess nearer to twenty.”

  “And yet he was still alive when you arrived? You must live quite near the Kirkbride house, if you were able to get there so quickly,” Pickett observed.

  “Aye, I’ve a house on the other side of the manor from the inn.”

  “May I call on you there, if I have other questions?”

  “Certainly you may, although you might not find me in. A message left with my housekeeper will always reach me, however.”

  “Thank you,” Pickett said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  Having concluded his interview with the doctor, Pickett sought out Mrs. Church and found her downstairs in the drawing room. The room appeared somehow disreputable in the early morning light, the furniture still pushed back against the walls to allow room for dancing, the rugs still rolled up.

  “Let me say, Miss Kirkbride, how sorry I am for the loss of your father,” said Pickett, making his bow. He had made up his mind not to confront Mrs. Church with her charade; better by far, he decided, to allow her to play her part and see what, if anything, she might let slip.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pickett.” She sank gracefully onto the sofa positioned against the wall and gestured for him to join her. “Father’s health was not good, so his death should not come as a shock, but it does so nevertheless.”

  To any outside observer, it might have appeared that Pickett seated himself beside Mrs. Church on the sofa, but in his mind he was many miles away, watching his father board a ship for Botany Bay. “I doubt if any of us are ever ready to say goodbye to a parent, no matter how unsurprising that parent’s end.” He shifted uncomfortably, then dismissed the memory and regarded Mrs. Church with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Miss Kirkbride, I fear I have enjoyed your family’s hospitality under false pretenses. My name is indeed John Pickett, but I am not in Scotland on a pleasure jaunt. I am the Bow Street Runner your father requested.”

  She nodded, curiously unsurprised by this revelation, but showed no inclination to confide in him in return. “I knew, of course, that Duncan had persuaded my father to send for one.” Her answering smile was enigmatic. “I believe he doubted whether I was truly his cousin Elspeth.”

  “Can you imagine any reason why he might harbor such doubts?” Pickett asked. He had a sudden image of a boxing match, the two combatants circling in the ring, each one attempting to size up his opponent before throwing the first punch. He was forced to admit that Mrs. Church was the most attractive pugilist he had ever seen.

  “When I was young, Mr. Pickett, I was given to histrionics. When I left home fifteen years ago, I staged my own death, thinking to make them all sorry for using me so shabbily.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “I suppose I made a better job of it than I realized. There were reasons, too, why Duncan might not be delighted to see me again.”

  “You are thinking of your father’s intention of changing his will?” Pickett guessed.

  She shrugged, dismissing Duncan’s inheritance as of no importance. “That, among other things. But tell me, now that Father is dead, will you shift the focus of your investigation? The doctor believes he was hastened to his death.”

  Pickett nodded. “So he told me. I am no medical man, but his reasoning appeared sound.”

  “So am I now a murderess as well as a fraud?” There was a hint of fear as well as a challenge in the words.

  “Everyone must be considered a suspect at this point, but I confess, I can see no reason why you should murder Mr. Kirk-bride now when you might have waited twenty-four hours and inherited the lot. Now, can you tell me, as nearly as you can recall, what happened last night?”

  She stared unseeing at the opposite wall, her gaze unfocused as she cast her mind back. “It was quite late by the time we sought our beds. Father, although exhausted, was agitated from the evening’s festivities, and took a paregoric draught to help him sleep.”

  Pickett withdrew the notebook from the inside breast pocket of his coat and began to write. “Did he take this draught often?”

  “I believe ‘often’ may be too strong a word, although my cousins tell me he needed it frequently in the days following my return. Let us say, rather, that it was not unusual for him to require some sort of soporific.”

  “And did it have the desired effect on this occasion?”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “It certainly seemed to, at least at first. My bedchamber is next to his, and after his valet prepared him for bed and left the room, there were no sounds that might lead me to suppose he was having difficulty sleeping. Unless—” She broke off abruptly.

  “Unless?” Pickett prompted.

  “I heard a door close,” she said slowly. “I had not thought of it before—I had assumed it was Ramsay, Father’s valet. But he would have taken the servant’s stair.”

  Pickett knew, from his investigation into Lord Fieldhurst’s murder as well as his own brief stint as Lady Fieldhurst’s footman in Yorkshire, that the bedchambers of the wealthy had discreet servants’ doors tucked away in the wall that allowed the servants to come and go without cluttering up the corridors. The best servant, he knew from experience, was an invisible one.

  “And when was this?” he asked, pencil poised above the page.

  “It was past one o’clock when I sought my bed, and I could hear Father’s conversation with Ramsay for some minutes after, although I could not distinguish the words spoken,” she said, glancing at the long-case clock as if she might still read the crucial times on its face. “It was probably a quarter of an hour before the sound from Father’s room ceased. One-thirty, perhaps?”

  “Do you recall hearing the clock chime?”

  “No, but then, I wouldn’t have heard it in any case. My bedroom is on the opposite end of the house from the drawing room.”

  “And after the room grew quiet, how long was it before you heard the door?”

  “Not long. Ten minutes, perhaps. Early enough that I was not
yet asleep.”

  “You heard no other sounds from the corridor? No footsteps, no voices?”

  “Not at that time. It was some time later that I heard sounds of distress from Father’s room. Alas, I can give you no idea of the time, as I was awakened from a sound sleep.”

  Pickett shook his head. “Never mind that. What were these sounds, and what did you do when you heard them?”

  She grimaced. “They were groans and—and retching noises. I threw on my dressing gown and ran to Father’s room, to find him out of bed on his hands and knees, becoming violently ill all over the carpet. I rang the bell for Ramsay, and he came at once, so apparently it was early enough that he was not yet asleep, although he was wearing his nightshirt. Gavin heard the commotion and came running as well.”

  “But not Duncan?”

  She shook her head. “When Duncan did not appear, I dispatched Ramsay to awaken him.” She looked up at Pickett, her face pale and strained. “When Ramsay came back, he said Duncan was not in his room, and his bed had not been slept in.”

  Pickett jotted down this information in his notebook. “And your father? Was he conscious? Did he know you?”

  “He seemed to,” she said thoughtfully. “He didn’t speak to me directly, but then, he was so very ill.”

  “You say he didn’t speak to you ‘directly.’ Did he say anything intelligible at all?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “He said ‘Gavin.’ ”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF

  ELSPETH KIRKBRIDE

  * * *

  “Gavin?” echoed Mr. Pickett. It would be convenient, of course, if Angus Kirkbride identified the killer with his dying breath, but in his admittedly limited experience, such things only happened in Gothic novels. In any case, the doctor had said that delirium was among the symptoms of advanced digitalis poisoning, so it was quite possible that the old man’s singling out his nephew meant nothing at all. Still, any lead was worth pursuing. “Why Gavin? Was Mr. Kirkbride particularly close to his nephew?”

  “He was pleased at the prospect of having Gavin for a son-in-law, but I should have said he was closer to Duncan, particularly in view of certain things that are now ancient history.”

  Pickett had his doubts that anything relating to the Kirkbride family was ancient history; in fact, he was convinced the events of fifteen years ago, whatever they were, still controlled the Kirkbrides today.

  “Forgive my candor, Miss Kirkbride, but I feel as if I am fencing in the dark. Ever since I arrived, I have heard vague references to a scandal fifteen years ago. I realize the memories may be painful to you, but I should like to hear a candid account of those events, if you please.”

  “Of course, if you feel it will help.”

  Mrs. Church rose from the sofa and walked slowly across the room to stand before the French windows overlooking the terrace, her gaze fixed upon the sea beyond. Had he not known the lady’s true identity, he might have supposed her to be recalling old memories; knowing what he did, however, he suspected she was most likely rehearsing her lines.

  “We grew up together, Duncan, Gavin, and I,” she said at last. “Their parents were still alive then, my aunts and uncles, so it was a large, happy family living here. Then the time came that the boys were sent to England to be educated, while I stayed here with my governess. Things were never the same after that. Duncan’s father died, and his mother returned to Edinburgh to be closer to her own family. Gavin’s father held a seat in Parliament, so Gavin spent his school holidays in London with his parents.”

  “You must have missed your childhood companions,” Pickett observed.

  “Oh, I did! I thought it terribly unfair that they should be able to go abroad, as I thought of England in those days, while I was kept at home merely because I was a girl. When I next saw them, they were twenty-one years old, and had completed their studies at Oxford.” She chuckled at the memory. “I was seventeen, and quite dazzled by my handsome, grown-up cousins. Duncan, especially, was most flatteringly attentive.”

  Her smile faded. “It was exactly what Father had expected, nay, had counted upon! By this time both of his brothers were dead, and he was very much aware of his own mortality. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but he was actually my stepfather. He had married my mother, a war widow, when I was hardly more than an infant. The disposal of the estate was much on his mind after the deaths of his brothers and, unbeknownst to me at the time, he had conceived the happy notion of marrying me off to one of my cousins, and letting that cousin inherit the lot—thus providing for me and at the same time keeping the property in the family, so to speak. No, Mr. Pickett, there would be no Season in London for me, no presentation at Court, just marriage to whichever of my cousins was desperate enough for money to tie himself to a seventeen-year-old bride.” Her voice shook and she controlled it with an effort, that magnificent voice that carried all the way to the back rows of Drury Lane Theatre. “Suffice it to say that I did not take the news well. I felt twice played for a fool, once by my father, and again by Duncan.”

  “So what did you do?” Keeping the skepticism from his voice presented no problem; so convincing was her performance that Pickett found it hard to believe she had not actually experienced the events she recalled. Whoever her tutor had been, he (or she) had done the job well.

  “There was another cousin, a distant one whom we did not talk about. Apparently my great-grandfather Kirkbride was a bit of a lad, as they say. Certain physical characteristics of the Kirk-brides are not uncommon amongst the general population of the village. One possessor of said characteristics was employed in the Kirkbride stables. I contrived to be found in a compromising position with Neil.” Her lips twisted in a cynical smile. “My intention, of course, was to enrage Father. I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. He cast me off without a farthing.”

  “And Duncan?”

  “Duncan, quite understandably, lost all interest in marriage to me.” She leaned forward and placed her hand over Pickett’s. “I was very young, Mr. Pickett. I acted without thinking, acted out of pain and injured pride. In truth, Neil and I did not—did not do nearly as much as I allowed Father and Duncan to think we had. But when I realized I had pushed Father too far, it was too late. The damage had been done. My protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears, and why not? I had done my work only too well.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “What else?” she asked, with a cynical twist of her lips. “I proceeded to make matters worse. In the time-honored tradition of youth, I resolved to make them all sorry. I staged my own death by walking into the sea, even making sure to take off my shoes so that they might wash in on the next high tide. In fact, I rounded the point and, once out of sight of the house, managed to tread water until a fishing boat came to my rescue. It was low tide, so I was never in any real danger. As luck would have it, the fisherman who plucked me out of the sea had recently quarreled with Father over fishing in the shallows adjacent to the house. He was only too happy to take my part against Father.”

  “And this man’s name?” asked Pickett, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

  “Muir, but it won’t do you any good. He’s dead.” Seeing Pickett’s skeptical expression, she added, “It has been fifteen years, you know.”

  “Fifteen years for a woman, little more than a girl at that, to make her way in the world all alone,” Pickett remarked. “How did you survive?”

  Her gaze fell to the carpet. “I don’t know.” She raised a trembling hand to her forehead. “There is still so much I don’t remember.”

  Very convenient, thought Pickett, unconsciously echoing Duncan’s sentiments.

  “I am only thankful I was able to reconcile with Father before he died,” she said, raising misty eyes to his.

  “Yes, your timing was providential, was it not?” Pickett agreed. “Tell me, now that you know Mr. Kirkbride intended to leave everything to you, do you intend to challenge the will?”r />
  She stiffened. “File a legal claim against my father’s estate before he is even underground? Is that what you think of me, Mr. Pickett?”

  Pickett shut his notebook with a snap and tucked it away in his coat pocket, then rose to his feet. “Shall I tell you what I think of you, Miss Kirkbride? I think you are playing a very dangerous game, and I only hope I am not called upon to investigate another death before it is over. Now, if you will excuse me, I should like to see what I can discover about the strange disappearance of Mr. Duncan Kirkbride.”

  He had scarcely left the room when a door further down the corridor opened and Gavin Kirkbride emerged. “Ah, just the man I wanted to see. It’s true, then, that you are the Bow Street Runner my Uncle Angus sent for?”

  News apparently travelled fast in the country. “It is,” Pickett said, nodding in acknowledgment.

  Gavin plunged into speech. “I realize it looks bad for me, Uncle calling my name with his dying breath.”

  “Not at all,” Pickett assured him. “It is true that everyone must be considered a suspect at this point, but the doctor assures me that those in the final stages of digitalis poisoning are usually delirious. Mr. Kirkbride’s last words might mean anything, or nothing at all.”

  “I believe he had a message for me.” Gavin dabbed at his eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief, appearing not to have heard Pickett’s assurances. “I believe he was asking me to take care of his daughter.”

  This assertion, true or not, raised a question Pickett had not yet considered. “Where does that leave the wedding plans, now that the family is in mourning?”

  Gavin shook his head. “Elspeth and I have not yet had time to discuss the matter. It hardly seemed the time to—but I shall, of course, defer to her wishes in the matter.”

  “I should think she would be thankful for the comfort of a husband’s presence in her time of loss,” Pickett suggested.

  “Perhaps, but it was her father’s wish that she wed one of her cousins,” Gavin confessed. “His wishes were not necessarily hers. I have always been fond of my cousin Elspeth, and was naturally delighted when she returned to us very little the worse for whatever adventures she must have endured. Given that those adventures must render her an ineligible wife for most gentlemen, I was happy to please my uncle and provide for my cousin by taking her to wife. But now that Uncle Angus is dead, God rest his soul, Elspeth may choose to marry according to her own inclinations.”