CHAPTER TEN
Mrs Boothby was a tall, unsmiling woman. Seated on the chaise opposite Rose, she held herself rigidly though her graceful, careworn hands cradled an intricately decorated teapot, her grip sure and precise as she poured the tea into delicate porcelain cups. Her dress was plain, and serviceable, and she had scraped her white-blonde hair scraped back into a ruthless knot.
Rose had taken tea with Mrs Boothby before, and just as she had previously she marvelled at such a fine set in such a setting. While Mrs Boothby’s cottage was neat and well kept, the tea set was by far the finest object in the small sitting room. The curtains were of good quality but what had once been vibrant and colourful had faded with the passage of time, and the upholstery of the sofa Rose sat upon was threadbare in places. Mrs Boothby had never before spoke of her past, but the fine tea set suggested she had once have enjoyed a better circumstance than a worn cottage at the edge of a far-flung village.
When they had arrived, Mrs Boothby had betrayed through no twitch of expression she knew Rose, or that Rose had many times consulted and purchased remedies from her. She had led them to the sitting room where she took all her consultations, and now she offered them tea, folding her elegant hands in her lap.
Mr Evans—Nathanial—sat in an armchair, his fingers steepled before him, the tea Mrs Boothby had offered him sitting untouched on the side table to his right. He had said nothing since their arrival, his intense gaze trained on Mrs Boothby ever since their were seated. She ignored his regard, her features expressionless.
Nathanial offered no begin to their inquiry, and so Rose took the lead. “Mrs Boothby, thank you for your time.”
“Of course, Miss Webster. I assume you are here about Sir George’s death. I will assist you in any way I can.”
The woman’s stillness was unnerving. Rose cleared her throat. “This is Mr Evans, an inquiry agent from London. Lady Caroline has engaged his service to investigate the circumstances surrounding Sir George’s death.”
“I know of him.” She inclined her head. “Mr Evans.”
He did not respond, his fingers still steepled and his gaze intense.
Seemingly unperturbed, Mrs Boothby turned her attention again to Rose. “You have questions, Miss Webster?”
“Of course. You have heard Sir George was killed by poison?”
“I have.”
“And you have heard the constabulary believe the perpetrator to be a woman?”
Her expression soured. “I have.”
“You disagree?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Their reasoning is lazy, and incomplete. Poison does not mean a woman’s hand has administered it.” Her fingers tightened infinitesimally in her lap. “They only say such because a woman is more likely to seek help from someone such as I, and they see the help I give as borderline witchcraft. The study of herbal remedies is dismissed and derided, as though their medicines are not derived from practices that have been in place for hundreds of years.
Rose did her best to conceal her shock. She had never seen Mrs Boothby so full of passion. In truth, Rose knew the herbalist to be dispassionate almost to a fault.
“A woman is more likely to come to me to alleviate her troubles,” Mrs Boothby continued. “I do not dismiss her, nor do I patronise her. She is the keeper of her body, and she knows better than I when something is not right. I prescribe her as I see best, and she either takes my advice or she does not.”
A wealth of resentment lingered in her words, as well as a degree of bitterness. Rose would need to tread lightly, although she in no way disagreed with Mrs Boothby. “We have come to you as we know you to be an expert in this area. The constabulary have, unfortunately, been less than transparent in their dealings and do not wish to share information with us. As such, are you able to make an educated guess what poison was administered?”
“I have heard the rumours of the circumstances his death,” Mrs Boothby said. “However they are not substantial enough for me to make a—”
“He was said to be raving.”
Rose started. She had almost forgotten Nathanial sat with them.
The herbalist appeared startled as well. “I beg your pardon, Mr Evans?”
He took no note of her reaction, nor of Rose’s. “It is alleged that last evening he saw things that weren’t there. A footman saw him stumble through the north-east hall, disoriented and raging at shadows. He complained of a dry throat. The footman fetched him water and took it to him in the library. It was the last anyone saw of him. His body was discovered the next morning, his limbs splayed and his pupils dilated to an abnormal degree. A whisky glass lay beside him, the contents of which had long been consumed but a faint, foul aroma lay underneath the smell of the alcohol.”
A faint crease appeared between her brows. “Can you describe this smell?”
“I cannot.” Nathanial scowled, as if annoyed he could not liken a faint aroma precisely. “I would, however, know it again if given the opportunity.”
Mrs Boothby considered. “It could be any number of things,” she finally said. “However, if I were forced to conjecture, I would suggest thornapple.”
“Is it common?” Rose asked.
“It’s common enough. I have it in my herb garden, though I rarely prescribe it. Occasionally it is an effective anti-inflammatory, but the risks outweigh the gains and there are other herbs that can be taken with a similar result.”
“Have you prescribed any recently?”
“I have.”
“And to whom?”
Mrs Boothby’s spine straightened. “I do not divulge the names of my clients.”
“In this instance—”
“I do not divulge the names of my clients,” she repeated sharply. Gentling her tone, she said, “Not even in an instance such as this.”
Rose could not fault her integrity but it did not help them in their inquiries. Trying a different tack, she asked, “May we see the plant?”
‘If you wish. It is an unimpressive plant, and it has no use while planted. The leaves must be harvested and dried before it can be smoked.”
“It is smoked?”
“It is how it is administered. However, if the seeds are crushed they become highly toxic, and can result in death in a large enough amount.” She held up a hand. “And before you inquire, I never administer seeds. No client of mine would obtain such from me.”
“But they are aware you grow the plant?” Nathanial interrupted.
Annoyance crossed Mrs Boothby’s expression. “I cannot presume to know what my client’s think and I dislike conjecture.”
“But if you were to guess?”
She frowned. “Some are aware, some are not. As I said, I dislike conjecture.”
He made no further comment, resting his steepled fingers on his chin.
Mrs Boothby still frowned at Nathanial. Rose could only presume she took his abrupt comments as rudeness, which was not unwarranted. From Rose’s observations, Nathanial possessed little patience and did not seem to believe in gentling his tone as a concession to another’s feelings.
Rose, though, did not believe such. Offering a small smile, she said, “Perhaps we may walk through your garden, Mrs Boothby.”
“Only if you take care. My garden is precisely arranged, and many of my plants are delicate. I will not have you trample through it and put my hard work at risk.”
“Alone,” Nathanial interjected.
Rose did not blame Mrs Boothby for her annoyance. “I have just said, Mr Evans—”
“You are not yet removed from my list of suspects, Mrs Boothby, and as such your presence must be removed when Miss Webster and I confer.”
Mrs Boothby’s spine became ramrod straight. “I am a suspect?”
“You are.”
The herbalist appeared as if she had swallowed something foul. “If I am not there to guide you, how will you know which plant is which?”
“Thornapple, or datura stamonium, is a freely branching herb with long, smooth, toothed leaves between three to eight inches, the upper being dark green while lighter beneath. The flower is trumpet shaped, and the shade varies from white to cream to violet.”
Mrs Boothby closed her mouth. “You know your herbs.”
“I know everything.” Nathanial stood, either oblivious to how arrogant his words were or choosing to ignore it. “Which way to the garden?”
Mrs Boothby rose as well “I will show you.”
“We wish to observe alone.”
She offered a tight smile. “I understand, Mr Evans. I will not, however, put my livelihood at risk because a London inquiry agent has determined me a murder suspect.” Her tone indicated precisely how ridiculous she found that statement. “Once we are in the garden, you and Miss Webster may proceed alone, but only after I have instructed you on the proper path.”
“Very well,” he said. “Come, Rose.”
Mrs Boothby’s head whipped to her, a crease forming between her brows.
Gritting her teeth, Rose ducked her head as she stood. That Nathanial did not mean the use of her given name as others would interpret it did not stop questions arising in the minds of others, but there was little point in becoming annoyed at him. He had over and again demonstrated he did not understand why it was inappropriate to treat her with such familiarity. That he made her life a little bit harder did not seem to occur to him either.
She took a breath. She had no call to comment on the actions of her betters. That he insisted on treating her an equal did not mean he was. Those better than her were often arrogant and dismissive, never considering her feelings or her situation. She was used to it. It should not matter if Nathanial acted the same.
Mrs Boothby led them to her garden, explaining the intricate web of paths and in which section the thornapple grew. As they walked through the garden, Nathanial said suddenly, “What have you purchased from Mrs Boothby?”
Rose almost missed a step. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are a client of hers. On your behalf, or for Lady Caroline?” He smirked. “Ah, for both. Of course.”
She gritted her teeth. She knew it unlikely she could conceal anything from him, and no doubt she and Mrs Boothby had given themselves away in a thousand small ways that would go unnoticed by others. She would not praise him for something that came so easily to him…so much so he chose to lord it over others.
“Now you wish to know how I deduced you are her client,” he continued. “You may ask.”
The smugness of his tone set her teeth on edge. “There is no need,” she said sharply.
“I could tell you other things, such as what you purchased from her.”
“I do not need you to tell me what I already know.”
“It was motherwart, and ginger. Crushed fennel as well. In a tincture, I would suspect.”
“Congratulations. You have guessed correctly.”
“It is not a guess. It is an observation.”
“The congratulations on your correct observation.”
He scowled. “You are not reacting correctly.”
“Why? Because I am unimpressed by your vast powers of deduction?”
“Precisely.”
“I do not care to offer accolades when it is down in poor spirits.”
Stopping abruptly, he turned to face her. “I am not acting in poor spirits.”
Less than a pace separated them. Crossing her arms, she glared up at him. “You are being smug, and unkind. There is no need to act such, neither with Mrs Boothby or with me. You are doing it simply to show off.”
He scowled.
Of a sudden, she noticed how close they stood. The puff of his breath caressed her cheeks, and the scent of cloves and mint mixed with warm skin wound about her.
Her breath hitched. Her heart began a rapid pace, her skin tingling.
“I am not showing off,” he said sullenly.
Dazed, she nodded, her blood thick in her veins. A pulse beat low in her belly, the air around them charged. Her gaze drifting to his mouth, that full pouting mouth with the fuller upper lip.
Something flickered in his expression, his gaze darkening. “Rose?”
She couldn’t tear her eyes from how that full mouth shaped her name. She wet her lips.
“Rose,” he rasped again, his voice like gravel.
She swayed toward him. He bent his head, their lips barely a breath from touching—
A loud crack rent the air.
She jumped, her gaze flying to his.
A gunshot. It was a gunshot.
Someone had fired at them.
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