The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,16
“Early this morning, Mrs. Bennet sent a footman to me with a small brown clay bottle she had found on the floor of her ladyship’s room, half-hidden by the bed-curtains. She felt I should know about it. It contained a drug—but not any drug which I had ever prescribed for her ladyship. I sent it to an apothecary to confirm my suspicions. I’ll not worry you with its Latin name, milord, but tell you shortly that the little phial contained a most dangerous drug, whose continued use would be mind-destroying.”
Lord John stared at him with a stunned expression. Then, “God!” he snapped. “Are you telling me that Nadine—”
“I am telling you nothing except that Mrs. Bennet says she found this near your wife’s bed.”
“Bennet wouldn’t lie,” said Lord John heavily. “Is this the reason for these wild tales of Nadine’s?”
Dr. Anders regarded him sourly. “You jump to conclusions, milord. No one has suggested that her ladyship is in the habit of dosing herself with that foul muck.”
“Then how—who—?”
“Bennet told me that your wife was put into considerable agitation at the presence of her dresser—”
“Donner!” shouted Lord John, and turned to leave the consulting room in haste.
“Lord John!” The doctor halted him. “Again you go too fast, milord. Nothing is yet proven. But we now have,” he relented enough to admit, “some alternate speculations which may eventually lead us to the truth about this disturbing matter. My counsel at the moment is that you investigate quietly, first ascertaining the whereabouts of the woman Donner and placing her under close observation—”
“Too late,” admitted his lordship wryly. “My cursed impulsive nature! I sent her packing yesterday.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “You had better make sure she actually went.”
“By God, I’ll do that,” promised his lordship grimly, and took his leave.
*****
His second call was at the elegant lodgings of one of his two best friends, Mr. Randall Towne. That exquisite was entertaining the third member of their friendship, Lord Peter Masterson, at a belated breakfast.
Two less similar men would have been hard to find among London’s haut ton. Randall was slender, dark-haired, volatile; Lord Peter appeared to be a lazy giant of a man, but his reflexes were amazingly fast, as his intimates had reason to know.
Randall greeted the new arrival with his usual high good humor. “What ho, Johnny! Whither away so early this fine morning—or is it afternoon?”
Lord Peter contented himself with a slow smile and a simple “Johnny.”
Randall continued, “Draw a chair and have a bite of this ham. It’s quite tolerable. And some ale, or coffee? I think there’s some left.”
Lord Peter was unobtrusively scanning his friend’s face. Now he said quietly, “Do sit down, Johnny. Is something wrong?”
Lord John took a chair at the table and accepted a cup of coffee. He stirred it slowly. “I need—”
His friends waited.
“What?” prodded Randall, after a moment.
Peter kept chewing ham meditatively, his eyes on his friend.
John shrugged. “Help? Advice? Yes, perhaps that’s the word. I need your advice.”
The other two men exchanged wary glances.
“Lady Nadine hasn’t—” began Randall.
“Only too happy—” Peter was saying at the same instant. Both stopped, disconcerted.
Lord John considered them for a moment, then said, “I shall have to confide in you. My—that is, Nadine—fell down the stairs yesterday and broke her arm—”
Randall broke in, “Have you forgotten, old chap? That’s what you had us informing all your guests last night, while you were at the palace making your excuses to His Majesty.”
“Needn’t treat Johnny like the Village Idiot,” murmured Peter, “even if he occasionally acts that way. He remembers what we did last night. This is probably something else. Why don’t you let him tell us?”
Ignoring this exchange, John said, “The broken arm is the least of the troubles.”
“You don’t mean that painter feller—?” began Randall.
Peter silenced him with a frown. “Let him finish!”
“My wife tells me she is someone called Kathryn—” began Lord John.
“Catherine what?” interrupted the irrepressible Randall.
“What does it matter?” snapped John at the end of his patience. “We know her name is Nadine.”
But Randall wouldn’t accept this. “Much better to find out who she is. It could matter a great deal. I’ve known some pretty frightful Catherines in my time, old boy. I had a cousin, twice removed . . .! And there was that shrew Kate in the Taming play—”
“Ignore his maunderings,” advised Peter wearily, “or we’ll never get to the problem.”
John set his teeth. “I come here on a matter which is, to me at least, of great importance, and you clowns