Page 118 of Murder in Highbury

She and George exchanged an incredulous glance. Normally, an episode of this magnitude would have prompted her father to take to his bed for a few days, at least. She hardly knew what to make of him anymore.

“Then since you are feeling better, sir,” said George, moving to the side of the fireplace, “I hope you won’t mind discussing what happened last night.”

“Indeed, no,” he replied. “Unfortunately, I can hardly remember a thing.”

Mr. Perry had warned Emma that such might be the case. Under the circumstances, that was most unfortunate.

“Father, how did you feel when I escorted you upstairs?” she asked. “You seemed fine when Simon came in to help you prepare for bed.”

He nodded. “I was a trifle fatigued, I will admit. All this murder business and that dreadful poultry thief cannot help but weigh on one’s mind.”

“Perfectly understandable,” George said. “In fact, one might even expect one’s sleep to be disrupted.”

“Dear me, yes. How can one properly sleep knowing that such a desperate villain is at large?”

“Which is why I suggested you have a glass of ratafia,” Emma said. “I thought it might help you relax.”

“It seemed a sensible suggestion, my dear. But I did feel quite woolly-headed after I drank it.” He grimaced an apology. “After that, I seemed to have dozed off in my chair. Simon helped me to bed, but I have only the vaguest recollection of him doing so.”

Emma put up a finger. “You didn’t finish your glass. Do you remember that?”

He’d left the wineglass, almost half-full, on the round table beside his reading chair. That was how Dr. Perry had been able to ascertain that the ratafia had contained a fairly large dose of laudanum, one that—given her father’s age—could have caused a fatal heart spasm if he’d imbibed the entire thing. That horrible image made her blood turn icy, and for once, she was grateful for the warmth of the fire in the grate.

Her father frowned, as if struggling with the question. Then his brow suddenly cleared.

“I remember now. I didn’t finish the drink, because it tasted rather odd. I thought perhaps that our wine supplier had sold us an inferior bottle.” He shook his head. “You must speak to him, Emma. We cannot be serving inferior wine to our guests.”

“It was the laudanum that altered the taste,” she patiently replied. “Remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. My memory is so frightfully bad. I don’t know how you manage to put up with me.”

She patted his hand. “We do so very well, I assure you. Now, this is important, Father. Do you think it’s possible that you might have put the laudanum drops in the ratafia yourself and perhaps miscalculated the dose? You’ve given yourself laudanum in the past, usually just a few drops, when you had trouble sleeping. Perhaps you were afraid that you would lie awake and worry?”

He frowned again. “I must have, even though I have no recollection doing so. How else would the drops have gotten in my drink?”

George crossed to her father’s dressing table. It held a large silver tray containing several small bottles of various tinctures, as well as packets of headache powders, provided by Mr. Perry.

After selecting a small dark brown bottle, he returned to them. “Is this it?”

Emma nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you recollect how full it was before last night?”

She took the bottle and studied it, willing her brain to dredge up the memory. Alas, her brain was refusing to cooperate. “No, unfortunately. How frustrating.”

“Please do not fret yourself, Emma,” her father said. “Since neither you nor Serle nor Simon administered the drops, the only explanation is that I did so myself. I shouldn’t be surprised at all, since one cannot possibly think clearly with dangerous villains running about Highbury. I’m sure I was distracted and simply failed to properly count the drops.”

George nodded. “That is the most reasonable explanation. In the future, however, it might be best to have only Emma or Simon administer your drops from this bottle. Then you may be sure the dosage will be correct.”

Her father looked rueful. “How very foolish of me. I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re both very angry with me for causing such a commotion.”

Emma leaned forward and pressed his arm. “Dearest, of course we’re not angry! We simply wish to make sure that nothing like this ever happens again.”

He pressed her hand with his own. “With you and Simon taking care of me, not to mention George and Serle, I’m sure it will not. You always do everything so perfectly, my dear.”

She mustered a smile, even though she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow failed him—and failed to get to the heart of yet another mystery. Even within the domestic sanctuary of Hartfield, the truth was proving elusive.

CHAPTER23