Page 23 of The Case at Castle Rock Cove (Beau Monde Secrets #4)

B en more or less expected his relatives to greet his arsenic theory with disbelief. Though Marlowe Millington had caused trouble throughout his boyhood, Almeria had always been a pattern of perfection. Poisoning her grandfather for personal gain seemed out of character, to say the very least.

However, Ben was not prepared for his father to lay down an ultimatum after Ben discussed his poisoning theory.

“You need to think about where your priorities are, young man.” Sir Lewis sat in the study, behind Grandfather Marlowe’s desk, his hands neatly folded on the desktop. Between his scowl and his ramrod-straight posture, he gave the impression of a stern headmaster scolding a problem pupil.

His father’s attitude set Ben’s teeth on edge. He counted down from three, trying to calm himself enough to answer Sir Lewis.

But Sir Lewis spoke before Ben could formulate a reply. “I understand that you prefer the life of the mind over most social functions, Benjamin. And for the most part, your mother and I accept that. But even the most abstract thinker must sometimes deal with the practicalities of day-to-day life.”

“I do not understand what this has to do with the cause of my recurring stomach upsets,” Ben interjected. “Why are you changing the subject?” He had not yet explained all the evidence that supported his arsenic theory.

His father sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I am changing the subject because I think you need to take a close look at yourself and decide what is most important to you. Do you want to continue being an oblivious bookworm, or are you ready to embrace the responsibilities that come with adulthood?”

“What on earth do you mean?” Ben stared blankly. He still did not understand where his father was going with this argument, but he suspected he wasn’t going to like the destination.

“As I see it, you can continue to build castles-in-the-air about poison and murder, or you can focus on preparing yourself for managing a household and family.” His father caught Ben’s gaze and refused to let him look away. “If you continue to prioritize this ridiculous investigation over your very real responsibilities, I will no longer support your betrothal.”

Ben’s jaw dropped. For a long, painful moment, the only sound he heard was the beating of his own heart. How could that organ continue its steady, patient rhythm, when the rug had just been yanked out from under his feet?

“You can’t stop me from marrying someone,” he reminded his father. “I am not a minor.” Only people under the age of twenty-one needed parental approval to marry.

“Very true,” his father agreed. “But I can withdraw the financial support promised in the settlements. Do you think Lady Wilhelmina’s family will allow her to marry you without that income? You may not be a minor, but she is. ”

Feeling numb, Ben could only shake his head in dismay. His father was probably right. The Selwyn family had approved Willa’s betrothal because Sir Lewis had formally agreed to provide the couple with a modest home and an allowance. Willa’s family would probably not agree to her marrying a penniless man.

Ben stood to inherit a comfortable estate, but his father was still relatively young and in good health. Sir Lewis might yet live for decades. Ben did not, could not, expect Willa to wait decades to marry him. Their engagement would undoubtedly end if Sir Lewis withdrew his support.

“So, you are giving me an ultimatum, is that it? Either I give up investigating a suspected crime, or I abandon my intended bride.” He shook his head again. Sir Lewis had never truly understood Ben, but it was not like him to be so hard!

“Yes, that is about the long and short of it,” Sir Lewis agreed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some letters to write.”

Ben rose from his chair and stumbled away, stunned by the threat. It made no sense to him. If Sir Lewis was genuinely concerned about Ben’s well-being, shouldn’t he be glad that Ben had found some possible answers to all their questions about these strange digestive attacks?

In times of trouble, Ben liked to surround himself with familiar things. So, still walking in a daze, he made his way back to his workroom. He sat down at the table and stared at the toxicology book that had first put him on the right path.

If Ben were right, two of his cousins had tried to commit murder. A crime like that could not be ignored, especially since Grandfather Marlowe’s life might still be in danger. Turning away from the investigation would be almost a crime of its own.

But a gentleman was never supposed to break a betrothal, either. That was the lady’s prerogative. Only a scoundrel would jilt a woman after she accepted his proposal. True, it would not be breach of promise if Willa herself broke off the engagement due to lack of financial support. But it would still be ethically wrong, even if not legally wrong.

Ben’s father had set him an impossible choice. How could he choose between doing the right thing and loving the right person?

*

By the time Dr. Gladwell arrived, Ben had made up his mind. He let the elder family members talk to the physician first. Then, when Dr. Gladwell examined Ben to confirm his recovery, Ben revealed his theory.

Dr. Gladwell turned out to be an ideal listener. He sat patiently while Ben listed all the reasons why he thought the gastric illness might have been caused by arsenic, along with the ways he thought the arsenic had been administered and the people who might have had motive and opportunity to commit the crime.

“Do you mean to say that you have a sample of the poison?” Dr. Gladwell asked.

Ever precise, Ben clarified, “I have a sample that I believe contains poison intermingled with sugar. I did not feel confident enough about my knowledge of chemistry to try testing it to see if it really is arsenic.”

He studied the physician’s face for a moment. Dr. Gladwell looked interested and thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Would you like to see the sample?” he offered.

“Yes, if you please. I am no chemist myself, but your local apothecary should have all the equipment needed to test for arsenic.”

Ben dashed off to his workroom. As he ran down the corridor, he startled his aunt.

“What’s the rush?” she asked.

“No time to explain,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a medical problem.” Which was perfectly true, even if it was not the full truth. If he were directly asked about this investigation, Ben would tell the truth, but he saw no need to volunteer more information than necessary.

Dr. Gladwell continued to wear that thoughtful frown as he examined the white crystals Ben had found in the sugar bowl. But he revealed nothing of what he thought.

“Well?” Ben prompted when he could no longer stand the suspense.

Dr. Gladwell replaced the lid on the container. “It is possible, young man. It is possible,” he said judiciously. “More than that I cannot say. May I take this sample with me into town? I would like to consult someone with a better knowledge of chemistry.”

“Yes, of course.” It was on the tip of Ben’s tongue to ask if he could tag along, but he decided against it. There was no point in unnecessarily angering his father. If Ben left the investigation in Dr. Gladwell’s hands, he could honestly say that he had given it up.

When his aunt suggested that Ben should rest, he took to the couch with a novel in hand, pretending to recuperate. He might look the picture of innocence, but while his hands held the first volume of a G.W. Kirkland novel, his mind wandered through a labyrinth of possibilities. If the sugar really did contain arsenic, what would happen next? Would the local magistrate be summoned? And if the sugar did not contain arsenic, what did cause the epidemic at Marlowe Tower? Would they ever discover the truth?

Dressing for dinner did not put a stop to Ben’s speculations. He continued thinking about the suspected poisoning even after he joined his aunt and his father in the drawing room. Aunt Faith, who looked exhausted, sat with a glass of sherry in hand. Sir Lewis paced back and forth.

“Any changes in Grandfather’s condition?” Ben asked.

Aunt Faith merely sighed and shook her head. His father was the one who answered. “No improvements yet. He still complains of stomach pain, thirst, and cold, though he has no fever.”

Symptoms of arsenic poisoning! Ben turned to pour himself a glass of sherry, not because he wanted a drink, but to hide his triumph. When would Dr. Gladwell return? He could not wait to learn if his theory was correct.

Graves opened the drawing room door, and everyone turned, assuming that dinner was ready. Instead, the butler announced, “Mr. Millington.”

In his surprise, Ben actually spilled sherry onto the floor. “Marlowe, what are you doing here?” Had he come to finish the murder he’d started?

“Is that any way to greet your favorite cousin?” Marlowe flung himself into an armchair, propping his feet up on a nearby footrest. “Am I late for dinner?”

“Just in time.” Aunt Faith sounded wearier than ever. Ben suspected he wasn’t the only one annoyed by Marlowe’s unexpected arrival.

Even Graves looked frankly irritated as he said, “I will add another place setting to the table.”

Throughout dinner, Ben alternated between anxiously wondering when he would learn the results of Dr. Gladwell’s investigation and worrying about Marlowe’s intentions. If Ben were right and the Millington cousins were trying to murder their grandfather, Marlowe ought to be supervised at all times to prevent further harm.

On the other hand, if Ben even so much as hinted at the possibility that Marlowe meant to harm anyone, Sir Lewis might carry out his threat to withdraw support for the betrothal. Moreover, Marlowe would undoubtedly be furious if Ben accused him of attempted murder. Such accusations could lead to permanent estrangements between relatives.

It was a relief when the meal ended, and an even bigger relief when Ben’s father suggested that the gentlemen join Aunt Faith in the drawing room instead of lingering over their port. By that time, Ben had formulated a plan for dealing with Marlowe. He only hoped he’d have the chance to carry it out.

When Graves brought out the tea tray, Ben came to attention like a hunting dog that had just scented a covey. There sat the sugar bowl that Ben believed had once contained poison. It had since been thoroughly cleaned and filled with pure, refined sugar... but Marlowe wouldn’t know that.

Ben maneuvered into place by Marlowe’s side while Aunt Faith poured tea. While Marlowe watched, Ben dumped three spoonsful of sugar into his teacup and stirred vigorously. Aunt Faith, who knew very well that Ben did not take sugar, scrunched up her face in confusion.

“I have a craving for something sweet,” Ben told her. Then he turned to his cousin. “I say, Marlowe, I like the way you tied your cravat tonight. What do you call it?”

Marlowe, who knew that Ben cared little about fashion, stared blankly at him. Then he glanced down at his cravat. “Er... it is just a barrel knot. Nothing terribly fancy.”

“Tied it yourself, did you? Do you suppose you can show me how you do it?”

“Er, I suppose?” Though Marlowe still looked confused, he began to unwind his cravat. “I did not know you needed this much help with your neck cloth, Ben,” he sneered.

While Marlowe was distracted, Ben put his own teacup down on the table a mere inch away from Marlowe’s cup.

This was the trickiest part of Ben’s plan, and he more than half expected it to fail. Incredibly, it worked: Marlowe was so busy looking down at his cravat that he did not notice when Ben switched the cups, moving the heavily sugared tea to where Marlowe’s cup had rested a moment ago.

Ben lifted the teacup he’d swapped from Marlowe, as if he were about to drink, but he kept his eyes fixed on his cousin.

“Is something wrong?” Marlowe asked. “Am I tying this crookedly?” He squinted down at the cravat.

“No, no,” Ben said. “I was merely distracted by a passing thought.” Trying to look natural, he lowered his eyes and took a sip of what should have been Marlowe’s tea. “Thank you for showing me. I believe I will try tying my cravat that way, too.”

“You’re welcome, Benji.” Marlowe still sounded baffled, but he shrugged away his confusion and picked up the nearest teacup.

When Marlowe drank from the switched cup, his reaction was everything Ben could have hoped for and more. He spat the tea out, right there in the middle of the drawing room.

“Marlowe!” their aunt exclaimed. “What on earth?”

“What the hell? This isn’t my cup!” His eyes flicked to the cup in Ben’s hand, then up to Ben’s face. Something there must have given Ben away, for Marlowe said, “You did that on purpose! You are trying to poison me!”

“What’s this about poison?” Aunt Faith demanded. “What are you talking about, Marlowe?”

Ben’s smile grew as his cousin realized how he had exposed himself. Marlowe scanned the room. Like Ben, he must have seen how concerned Sir Lewis and Aunt Faith looked.

“Ah ha ha!” Marlowe attempted to laugh it off, but that only made matters worse. Everyone stared at him as he explained, “I must have picked up the wrong cup. This one is far too sweet.” He glared at Ben. “It seems to contain more sugar than tea.”

“What’s wrong with sugar, then?” Sir Lewis spoke in a dangerously soft voice, the one he employed only in serious situations. “A few teaspoons of sugar never hurt anyone. Did it?” He narrowed his eyes.

Before Marlowe could answer, Graves reentered the room and spoke to Sir Lewis. Ben could not catch what the butler whispered, but he heard his father reply, “Yes, send him in. I have some questions.”

Then Sir Lewis turned back to Marlowe. “You might be interested in Dr. Gladwell’s answers, too, Mr. Millington.” He said nothing more, but the cup in Marlowe’s hand began to shake.

When Dr. Gladwell entered the room, his eyes immediately alighted on Ben. “Ah, there’s young Mr. Radcliffe.” He beamed as he said, “Sir, you were right! There was arsenic mixed in with the sugar!”

“Arsenic?” In her surprise, Aunt Faith dropped her saucer. The tinkling sound of breaking china filled the whole room. “You mean poison?”

“Oh, God.” Marlowe clapped a hand over his mouth. “I must beg to be excused, as I feel very sick.”

“You are not going anywhere by yourself,” Sir Lewis growled. “Not if I can help it.” His eyes flicked towards the open door, where Graves and the footmen stood, not even bothering to hide the fact that they were listening in. “Graves, please send a messenger to the nearest magistrate. We have a crime to report.”

Meanwhile, Marlowe tried to make himself vomit, without success.

Ben sat down, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled. Eventually, he would inform Marlowe that the sugar in his cup was untainted. For now, he leaned back in his chair and savored his triumph.