“I cannot! I am not a detective! I am not made for deception! You cannot think that I am a good choice for this.”
There was a curious stillness. Robert didn’t reply to that. He came in, kissed his wife on the forehead, and left without another word.
Charlotte hunched her shoulders. She appeared to be defeated.
Seventeen
Theodore and Robert took all manner of vehicles as they crossed London in search of a pharmacist called Cox. The omnibuses were packed but they were able to ride on the outside. The underground railway was positively dangerous with the overcrowding and the fumes. Cabs were rarely to be had. For the most part, they walked, slogging their way from shop to shop, standing in line to be served as people stocked up in advance on medicines for the coming attacks of dyspepsia.
Eventually they came to a rather smart looking place in Whitechapel, the second establishment so far where the proprietor was called Cox. The first one had actually been run by a Frenchman called Lacroix but he was going by Cox so as to not alarm his English customers with his continental ways.
This second one, however, looked far more promising.
The pharmacist in charge was a swarthy man who, according to Robert, looked very much like Mariana da Costa herself. As the afternoon was getting late, the crowds were now dissipating, and they were able to get to talk to him in private. Theodore asked him straight out.
“Sir, I must ask you a delicate question. Have you any daughters named Mariana?”
Mr Cox snarled, “I have no daughters. I have three grown sons. What do want to know this for?”
“She might not be called Mariana to you...”
“Again, sirs, I have no daughters, whatever you want to call them. Are you here for a particular reason? Has she – I mean, I have no daughters.”
Well, there was a telling proof, Theodore thought. “Might I see the poisons book?”
“No. You’re not a policeman.”
“Might I purchase some arsenic?”
“No. I don’t know you; you might be anyone. Return with a man that I know and trust who will vouch for you and then I might consider it. Good day, sirs.”
Robert stepped forward as if he were going to press his argument but Theodore stopped him. He tapped the brim of his hat and left the shop abruptly, but stopped once he reached the pavement. Robert was immediately alongside him.
“Well,” said Theodore. “I think we may conclude that Mariana da Costa does, indeed, hail from this very establishment but that she has been cast out of the family for some time.”
“Understandable, really,” said Robert. “Now, does this make her more or less likely to be a suspect?”
“She was tenuous at best,” said Theodore. “My suspicions would have increased if we had proof she was still connected with her family here, as that would give her access to the arsenic. That she has evidently been ostracised from this place, however, weighs in her favour. She has a link, yes, to Mr Dymchurch but nothing connects her to Mr Nettles directly.”
“So we are removing her from the pool of suspects?”
“I think that we must.”
“Who remains?”
Theodore thought deeply. “William Wiseman perhaps – and Octavia Dymchurch. Both have motives.”
“But Wiseman had more opportunity.”
“Perhaps. Yet as the poisoning itself must have been done through the hands of a servant, wittingly or not, I would argue that Mrs Dymchurch would have been better placed to put that into motion – don’t you think?”
ADELIA WAITED ANXIOUSLY for the return of Theodore, Robert and Charlotte. It was frustrating to be the one stuck at home, waiting. Charlotte had finally left to pay a call on Octavia, persuaded at last by her husband. She seemed to be furious with Adelia. Theodore and Robert were hopefully on the trail of Mariana da Costa’s true background.
Meanwhile Adelia was stuck in the townhouse while the servants put the finishing touches on the decorations and prepared as much food as they were able to do.
Adelia tried to have a nap. It was Christmas Eve, and she certainly intended on walking to the nearby church later for Midnight Mass. She was constantly disturbed by the comings and goings of people calling at the door, however. Beggars were chancing their luck due to the season, tugging at people’s heart strings with their tales of cold and starvation. Some carollers were out early. Hawkers of everything from hot muffins to fur-lined gloves seemed to be queuing up at the chance to flog their wares. The problem with a townhouse, Adelia thought crossly as she lay back on the bed, was that the street and its mass of humanity was so very, very near. There was no escape from it all.
The men returned first, about half an hour before dinner, and she listened to their tale with relief but also trepidation.
“Mr Wiseman does not seem to be a likely murderer to me. As for Mrs Dymchurch, though I told Charlotte that she was our main suspect, I do have to wonder if that could possibly be true,” she said as she dressed for the meal.
Theodore was already ready and he hovered by the door while Adelia was hidden behind a screen. Smith pulled and primped at Adelia’s clothing, muttering to herself. Theodore said, “Why not? Both of them had cause to wish Nettles dead. She was a jilted lover and he was a business rival.”
“Yes,” said Adelia. “But what about the note that went to Wiseman? Who sent it and why? Furthermore, Wiseman seems to be content with his lot in life and if he were to want to kill Nettles, he could have done it in a way that threw less suspicion upon him, surely?”
“And her?”
“And her ... well, let us listen to what Charlotte has to say on the matter when she returns. That, I think, will seal the matter one way or another.”
“I know what it is,” Theodore said, suddenly poking
