The Perfect Poison Page 3

“You possess a most unusual psychical ability, one that enables you to feel your way through the most complicated locks. It also allows you to create small illusions that distract the eye of those around you while you go about your work. You cannot actually walk through walls but one could easily believe that you are capable of such a feat.”

  “Who are you?” Edmund demanded, trying to conceal his astonishment.

  “My name is Caleb Jones. I recently established a small investigation agency, Jones and Company, that handles inquiries of a most private and confidential manner. I am learning that upon occasion I require the assistance of consultants who possess particular talents.”

  “Consultants?”

  “I am presently conducting an investigation that requires your unusual abilities, Mr. Fletcher. You will be well compensated, I assure you.”

  “You said your name was Jones. That rings a very loud bell. Any connection to the Arcane Society?”

  “I can assure you that there are days when the connection is a good deal closer than I would like.”

  “What is it you wish me to do for you?”

  “I want you to help me break into a securely locked and well-guarded building. Once inside, we will steal a certain artifact.”

  In spite of everything, Edmund felt his pulse quicken.

  “I had rather hoped to avoid a life of crime,” he said.

  “Why would you want to do that?” Caleb Jones asked very seriously. “You have a talent for the profession, after all.”

  THREE

  THE ONE INSURMOUNTABLE, DAMNABLY ANNOYING DIFFICULTY that got in the way of trying to operate a psychical investigation agency was that the business necessarily involved clients.

  Caleb stepped down from the hansom and went up the front steps of Number Twelve Landreth Square. He raised the heavy brass knocker and let it fall a couple of times.

  Clients were the great drawback to what would otherwise have been an interesting and challenging profession. Discovering patterns and obtaining answers had always fascinated him, some said to the point of obsession. He was still new at the investigation business but already he could see that it promised a great deal of stimulation. It was also a welcome distraction from the other matter that consumed him these days.

  It was a great pity that there was no way to avoid dealing with the individuals who brought their questions to the Jones agency, however. Clients were always carrying on in a dramatic fashion. Clients got emotional. After contracting for his services they pestered him with messages demanding to know what progress he was making. When he did provide answers, clients tended to fall into one of two categories. Half flew into fits of rage. The rest broke down weeping. Either way, they were rarely satisfied. But, sadly, clients seemed to be a necessary part of the enterprise.

  At least on this occasion he was about to interview a potential client who promised to be decidedly out of the ordinary. In spite of his customary antipathy toward those who approached the agency seeking investigative assistance, he could not suppress an odd sense of anticipation.

  He had recognized her name, of course, the moment he opened her note. Lucinda Bromley, known in the sensation press as Lucrezia Bromley, was the daughter of the notorious Arthur Bromley. A brilliant botanist, Bromley had traversed the far corners of the world seeking out rare and exotic botanical specimens. His wife and daughter had often accompanied him. Amelia Bromley had died four years ago but Lucinda had continued to travel with her father.

  The expeditions had come to an abrupt halt some eighteen months ago, when Bromley’s longtime business partner, Gordon Woodhall, was discovered dead of cyanide poisoning. Immediately thereafter Arthur Bromley had committed suicide. Rumors that there had been a falling-out between the two men were splashed across the front pages of every newspaper in London.

  The headlines following the murder-suicide were nothing, however, compared to those that had riveted the public less than a month later when Lucinda Bromley’s fiancé, a young botanist named Ian Glasson, was found dead of poison.

  The scandal was compounded by the sordid gossip that had swirled around the events immediately prior to Glasson’s demise. Lucinda had been seen rushing away from a secluded corner of the gardens at the Carstairs Botanical Society, the bodice of her gown half undone. A short time later, Glasson had sauntered out of the same remote section of the grounds, still fastening his trousers. A few days later he was in his coffin.

  According to the lurid stories in the newspapers, Lucinda had fed her fiancé a cup of poisoned tea. They said she had secreted the lethal dose in a hidden chamber of a ring she always wore.

  It was in the wake of the Glasson poisoning that the press had bestowed the name Lucrezia on Lucinda. The reference was to the infamous Lucrezia Borgia, who was said to have poisoned any number of people. According to the legend, the lady had concealed the deadly substance in a ring.

  The door opened. A formidable-looking housekeeper eyed him as though she suspected he had come to steal the silver.

  “I’m here to see Miss Bromley,” Caleb said. He gave the woman his card. “I believe I am expected.”

  The housekeeper studied the card with a disapproving frown then reluctantly stepped back.

  “Yes, Mr. Jones. Follow me, please.”

  Caleb moved into a marble-tiled hall. A large mirror in a heavily gilded frame hung on the wall above an elaborately inlaid side table. The silver salver on top of the table designed to receive cards from visitors was empty.

  He expected to be shown into the drawing room. Instead the housekeeper marched to the back of the house and through a library crammed with books, maps, globes and papers.

  At the far end of the room the woman opened a set of French doors. Caleb found himself looking into a large conservatory. The fancifully designed glass-and-iron structure contained a verdant green jungle. Humid warmth flowed over him, carrying the scents of rich, fertile soil and thriving vegetation.

  Other kinds of currents flowed from the conservatory, as well. He felt the unmistakable whispers of energy. It was a remarkably invigorating sensation. The atmosphere in the conservatory acted like a tonic on all his senses.

  “Mr. Jones to see you, Miss Bromley,” the housekeeper announced in a voice that was loud enough to carry to the far end of the conservatory.

  The sea of greenery was so thick and so dense that Caleb did not notice the woman in the gardening apron and leather gloves until she appeared from behind a waterfall of purple orchids. A prowling excitement whipped through him, tightening muscle and sinew. An inexplicable sense of urgency unfurled. The word invigorating came to mind again.

  He did not know what he had been expecting but whatever it was, Lucinda Bromley engineered an extremely rare feat. She caught him entirely by surprise.

  He supposed that, given her reputation, he had been anticipating a sleek, sophisticated lady with a façade of charm and polish that might just possibly conceal a venomous heart. Lucrezia Borgia had a certain reputation, after all.

  But Lucinda looked more like an absentminded, scholarly Titania, Queen of the Fairies. Her hair put him in mind of an exploded sunset. She had attempted to tame the frothy red curls with pins and a couple of ribbons but to little avail.

  Intelligence lit her features, transforming a face that would otherwise have been described as passable into one for which the only suitable word was riveting. He realized that he did not want to look away. She peered at him from behind the sparkling lenses of a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Her eyes were a deep, fascinating shade of blue.

  She wore a long, many-pocketed leather apron over a plain gray gown. In one hand she gripped a pair of pruning shears. The long, sharp blades of the tool had the appearance of some bizarre medieval weapon designed to be worn by an armored knight. A number of other equally dangerous-looking implements were festooned about her person.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shute,” Lucinda said. “We’ll take tea in the library, please.”

  Her voice was not at all fa
iry-like, Caleb decided, pleased. Instead of the irritatingly high tinkle of little elfin bells that so many women cultivated, her tone was warm, confident and determined. Energy radiated from her in an invisible aura. A woman of power, he thought.

  He had met other women with strong talents. They were not that uncommon at the higher levels of the Arcane Society. But something inside him responded to Lucinda’s energy in a way that was new and oddly unsettling. He had to fight the urge to move closer to her.

  “I’ll fetch the tea, ma’am,” Mrs. Shute said. She turned and went back through the doorway.

  Lucinda gave Caleb a cool, polite smile. He could feel the wariness in her. She was not certain that she had done the right thing by sending for him, he realized. Many clients developed reservations after making the appointment.

  “Thank you for coming here today,” she said. “I know you must be very busy, Mr. Jones.”

  “It was no imposition at all,” he said, mentally dismissing the long list of pressing projects and responsibilities that would otherwise have occupied his attention. “Happy to be of service.” It was certainly the first time he had ever said that to a client. He suspected it would be the only time.

  “Shall we go into the library?”

  “As you wish.”

  She untied her dirt-stained apron and slipped it off over her head. The ungainly assortment of tools and implements in the pockets clanked. He watched her strip off the thick leather gardening gloves. There was, indeed, a ring, he noticed, just as the press had reported. It was fashioned of heavy, intricately worked gold and decorated with dark blue lapis and an amber gemstone. The ring looked old and vaguely Renaissance in style. It was certainly large enough to conceal a small compartment, he thought, intrigued.

  She stopped in front of him and gave him an inquiring look.

  He realized that he was standing there, directly in her path, staring. He pulled himself together with a monumental effort of will and stepped aside to let her enter the library. When she went past him he deliberately heightened his senses, enjoying the little rush of energy that stirred the atmosphere. Oh, yes, definitely a woman of power.

  Lucinda seated herself behind a cluttered mahogany desk and indicated the chair across from her.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Jones.”

  She was defining their relationship quite clearly, he realized, amused; making it obvious that she perceived herself to be the one in command and that she intended to retain the upper hand in their association. He found the subtle, unspoken challenge as stimulating as her aura.

  He lowered himself into the chair she indicated. “In your note you mentioned that the matter was urgent.”

  “It is.” She clasped her hands very tightly together on top of the blotter and fixed him with a very steady look. “Have you, by any chance, heard of the recent death of Lord Fairburn?”

  “Saw something about it in the morning papers. Suicide, I believe.”

  “It may have been. That is still to be determined. The family, or at least one member of the family, Fairburn’s son, has asked Scotland Yard to investigate.”

  “I had not heard that,” he said.

  “For obvious reasons, the family would like the inquiry to remain quiet.”

  “How did you come to learn of it?”

  “The detective who is conducting the investigation asked me to give my opinion. I have consulted for Mr. Spellar on a number of occasions.”

  “I know Spellar. He is a member of the Arcane Society.”

  “Indeed.” She gave him a defiant little smile. “As am I, Mr. Jones.”

  “I am aware of that. No one outside the Society would likely be aware that the Jones agency even exists, let alone know how to contact me.”

  She flushed. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. I fear that I am occasionally inclined to be somewhat defensive.” She cleared her throat. “My family has something of a reputation. I’m sure you’re aware of the gossip.”

  “I have heard a few rumors,” he said neutrally.

  “I do not doubt that.” Her fingers tightened visibly until her hands appeared clenched, not merely clasped together. “Will those rumors affect your decision concerning whether or not to accept my case?”

  “If they did, I wouldn’t be here. I should think that much would be obvious, Miss Bromley. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Arcane Society does not always conform to the same rules that govern the social world.” He paused a beat. “And neither do I.”

  “I see.”

  “I suspect you have heard gossip about me, as well.”

  “Yes, I have, Mr. Jones,” she agreed quietly. “It is one of the reasons I asked you to come here today. Among other things, it is said that you are greatly intrigued by mysteries.”

  “To a fault, I’m told. But in my own defense I will say that I am only intrigued by very interesting mysteries.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure my situation will qualify as interesting to you but I assure you I find it extremely worrisome.”

  “Why don’t you tell me a little more about your mystery?”

  “Yes, of course.” She straightened and squared her elegant shoulders. “As you may know, I possess a certain amount of botanical talent. Among other things, I can detect poison. If that poison is based on herbs or plants, I can usually determine the precise nature of the ingredients in the toxic substance.”

  “You deduced that Lord Fairburn was poisoned?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “You do indeed jump straight to the appropriate conclusion, I see. Yes, he most certainly drank some very lethal concoction. The only question now is whether it was a case of suicide or murder. To be honest, I think it highly unlikely that Inspector Spellar will be able to prove the latter.”

  “It is notoriously difficult to prove a case of murder by poison even when there is strong evidence, as in the case of arsenic or cyanide. It is too easy to convince a jury that it was an accident or that the victim took his own life.”

  “Yes, I know. But if there are extenuating circumstances—” She stopped abruptly.

  “Why are you so concerned with the outcome of this case, Miss Bromley? Surely it is Spellar’s responsibility to decide if it was murder, not yours.”

  Lucinda drew a deep breath and visibly braced herself. She was trying to conceal her tension but he could detect the undercurrents as clearly as if he could see her aura. She was not just anxious about the outcome of the Fairburn case; she was frightened.

  “When Inspector Spellar summoned me to view the body at the Fairburn town house yesterday,” she said slowly, “I confirmed that—”

  “You viewed the body?”

  She gave him a quizzical frown. “Well, yes, of course. How else could I assess the possibility of poison?”

  He was stunned. “Good Lord. I had no idea.”

  “No idea of what?”

  “I understood that Spellar occasionally asked you to consult but I did not realize that you were obliged to physically examine the bodies of the victims in order to give an opinion.”

  She raised her brows. “How did you think that I went about providing my consultations?”

  “I suppose I didn’t,” he admitted. “Think, that is. I just assumed that Spellar brought you some of the evidence. The poisoned cup, perhaps, or the victim’s clothing.”

  “I can see that you do not consider what I do for Inspector Spellar to be suitable work for a lady.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No need.” She waved one hand, dismissing his attempt to vindicate himself. “I assure you that you are not alone in your view. No one, with the exception of Inspector Spellar, approves of what I do. Actually, I don’t think that Spellar entirely approves, either, but he is dedicated to his profession and, therefore, more than willing to take advantage of whatever assistance I can provide.”

  “Miss Bromley—”

  “Given my somewhat unusual family history, I am quite accustomed to disapproval.”

  “Damn
it, Miss Bromley, you will not put words in my mouth.” He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, flattening his palms on the desktop. “I am not passing judgment on you. Yes, I was astonished to discover that your consulting work requires you to view the bodies of the victims. You will concede that sort of thing is, generally speaking, a somewhat uncommon occupation for a lady.”

  “Is it?” She unclasped her hands and sat back quickly. “And just who do you think is usually responsible for attending to those who become gravely ill and die in the vast majority of households? Most people do not go to hospitals to die, sir. Most people die at home and it is women who are at the bedside when the end comes.”

  “We are talking about people who are murdered, not those who expire from natural causes.”

  “Do you think one sort of death more violent than the other? If that is so, then you have not been called upon to witness many passings. I assure you, a so-called natural death can be far more dreadful, more painful, more lingering than one brought on by a quick case of poison or a bullet to the head.”

  “Devil take it, I cannot believe I am engaged in this ridiculous argument. I did not come here to discuss your consulting work, Miss Bromley. I am here because you sent for me. I suggest we get on with our business.”

  She gave him a steely glare. “You’re the one who started the quarrel.”

  “The hell I did.”

  She blinked and angled her chin. “Do you always use that sort of language when you are in the company of a lady, sir? Or is it that you feel free to employ such colorful vocabulary because of the particular lady you happen to be with at the moment?”

  He smiled grimly. “My apologies, Miss Bromley. But I must admit that I’m surprised to learn that a lady who consults at murder scenes is shocked by a little rough language.”

  She matched his smile with a very chilly one of her own. “Are you implying that I am not a proper sort of lady?”

  He straightened abruptly, turned and stalked to the window. “This is the most bizarre conversation I have had in ages. Also the most pointless. If you will be so good as to tell me why you summoned me here today, perhaps we could get on with this meeting.”