But as she watched, apprehensive, Adam appeared from the direction of his store, striding fast toward the house. He, too, took the steps two at a time, his face a mask of deep concern. Deciding that she could not go next door now that Adam was there, Annie pulled up a chair near the window and sat down with her bobbin pillow, keeping an eye on the Hunts’ house. When Adam left, she would go. A sick child was such a worry—Delia would need support.
The clock on the wall ticked monotonously, the sky grew even more menacing, and the wind stopped. It was almost as if the world were holding its breath, Annie thought. Then, finally, the front door opened and Dr. Grogan reappeared. He was walking slowly now, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. Without a thought, Annie dropped her work in the chair and ran out to the street, catching him as he was putting his doctor’s bag into his buggy.
“Dr. Grogan,” she said breathlessly, “I saw you and Adam—Mr. Hunt—going into the house a little while ago. How is she? Is there any way I can help?”
The doctor turned. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Mrs. Duncan?” He peered at her over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Haven’t seen you for quite some time, have I? Since the baby, was it? I trust you’re keeping well.”
The wind was picking up again, and Annie’s skirts whipped around her ankles. “Well enough, thank you,” she said. The doctor was a talkative old man; he would run on forever if she didn’t prompt him to the subject. “Please—how can I help?”
Dr. Grogan’s mare nickered and shifted her weight, impatient to be home before the rain came. The old man patted her nose affectionately. “We’ll be off in a minute, Gracie. We have another couple of stops before you can go to your barn.” To Annie, he said, “Yes, yes, of course. Good of you to ask, my dear. You might take little Caroline to your house and give her some supper—perhaps keep her overnight, if that seems right to you. The hired girl has been sent home and I doubt whether Mr. Hunt will think of it. He’s distraught. Quite naturally, of course, as anyone would be. And the child is old enough to know what’s happened. She is very upset.”
“Take . . . Caroline?” Annie faltered. “Then, it’s not Caroline who is ill?”
“No, not the child. It’s the mother.” The old man fixed her with mild blue eyes. His tone was deeply sympathetic. “She’s gone, my dear. Quite unexpectedly, I’m afraid. You’ve been neighbors for some years—I suppose you were close friends?”
Annie gaped at him stupidly, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. A few raindrops splattered on the shiny roof of Dr. Grogan’s buggy, and she felt them wet against her face. “Delia is gone?” she asked, her voice rising. Had she gone off with Mr. Simpson? “Gone . . . where?”
“I don’t wonder you ask, it’s so surprising.” The doctor began untying his horse. “Mrs. Hunt died a half hour ago. I should have been sent for earlier, but Mr. Hunt was at work the whole day and the stupid hired girl didn’t have the brains to think of it.” He tut-tutted. “Really, these girls are so careless. One would expect—” He broke off, frowning at her. “Are you all right, Mrs. Duncan?”
“Dead?” Annie whispered. She felt as if she had just been hit hard in the stomach. The world was whirling around her as if it were propelled by the rising wind. She grasped the buggy wheel to steady herself. “But that’s not possible! We spoke just yesterday—” She stopped, trying to remember the last time she had seen Delia. Had it been at Mrs. Crow’s? “No, not yesterday. Two days ago, perhaps.” She put up a hand to push the hair out of her face.
“Mrs. Hunt had been ill since last night, I’m told,” the doctor said. “But she’d had gastric problems earlier in the year, and that’s what she thought it was at first. Nausea, vomiting, the usual abdominal pain. This morning she experienced cardiac symptoms. And then convulsions, seizures, coma.” He shook his head. “All very typical, I’m afraid. Even if I’d been called earlier, I couldn’t have done much to help. Of course, under the circumstances, there’ll be an autopsy. We’ll know more when that’s done.” There was a flicker of lightning to the east.
Convulsions, seizures, coma. Annie couldn’t quite make sense of what the doctor was saying, but she managed to gasp, “Typical . . . of what?”
“Why, of hemlock poisoning,” the doctor said, over the growl of thunder. “I’ve seen it before, you know. Probably every doctor in this country has seen it, one time or another. But I didn’t have to guess. There was the evidence, right there in the drawer of Mrs. Hunt’s bedside table. An envelope with some of the seeds still in it. Both seeds. All I had to do was look at them and I knew what had happened.”
“Both . . . seeds?” Annie whispered, trying to understand.
“Yes, both. But after all these years, I should have thought Mrs. Crow would be more careful.” He was still frowning at Annie. “You’re pale. Before you take little Caroline, I advise you to go home and pour yourself a stiff drink. You look like you can use it.” He looked up at the sky as if he were surprised. “Why, bless me, I believe it’s going to rain.”
“Wait, please,” Annie said, putting out her hand. “I don’t understand. Hemlock poisoning? How is that possible? And what does Mrs. Crow have to do with it?”
The doctor climbed into the buggy and picked up the reins. “Because Mrs. Crow is the one who supplies the local ladies with
