Page 41 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

Rose brooded over the dog incident as she went about her work.

A stray dog, of course, could have been dying anyway.

It might have been chance that it keeled over at that particular moment.

But it seemed a strange coincidence. And the boy she had once seen die of toadstool poisoning had gone the same way – vomiting and convulsing.

On the other hand, she was loath to believe that Martha, however much she resented her, would go that far.

It was chilling to think even for a moment that anyone could hate her enough to want to kill her.

And if it was true – what then? What should she – could she – do?

What about Michael? Should she tell him?

Would he believe her? And what could he do about it?

She slept badly, dreaming fitfully about people shouting at her, some shapeless creature pursuing her, a dead dog writhing with maggots crawling out of the ditch and dragging itself towards her. She woke with a jerk and a shudder, glad for once to be waking early.

As she reached the foot of the back stairs, she met Afton coming out of the plate room. He looked at her, concerned. ‘Are you ill? You look pale.’

She brushed him off. ‘I’m all right.’

‘I noticed you looked a bit under the weather yesterday,’ he persisted. ‘What’s wrong? Maybe I can help.’

She would never have unburdened herself to Mr Moss – and Mr Moss would never have asked. But Mr Afton was a different sort of butler. Perhaps he could give her advice. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem,’ she admitted at last.

‘Come and tell me about it, and we’ll see what we can do,’ he said comfortably.

He led the way to the butler’s room and she followed, half reluctantly.

No-one else was down yet, apart from the scullery maid scrubbing the kitchen floor.

She wondered why Mr Afton was about so early, but it wasn’t for her to ask.

In his room, she hesitated, wondering about the wisdom of it, then plunged in. ‘I think someone tried to poison me.’

He didn’t waste time with useless exclamations. He said, ‘Why do you think that?’

Her liking for him rose a notch. She explained. ‘I saw a kid die of eating a toadstool once. It looked like that,’ she concluded.

‘Hmm. But strychnine could cause the same symptoms,’ he said, ‘and there’s rat poison lying about in most barns. A stray could easily eat some while it was sniffing about for food. You said it seemed starving?’

‘It gobbled up the cake in a second. It seems queer, just after it ate it . . . And she ran after me to give it me. Why should she bake me a cake when she doesn’t like me?’

‘It’s a delicate business,’ he said, drumming his fingers on the desk in thought. ‘A person would have to be unbalanced to do such a thing.’

‘You mean queer in the head? Well, I think she is. Michael – Mr Woodrow – said she’s always been a bit strange.’

‘But strange enough to attempt murder?’

‘Murder?’

‘That’s what it is, if the cake was poisoned.’

It was what she’d been wondering, but it was a shock hearing the word. ‘The thing is,’ she went on after a pause, ‘what should I do? If it was her, I don’t want her having another go at me.’

‘A cook certainly has opportunities,’ he mused. ‘But I don’t think you’ve got enough evidence to go to the police.’

‘The police?’ She was shocked. ‘No! But what I’m wondering is, should I tell Michael? It’d cause ructions.’ She gave him an appealing look, not having the words to spell out all the scenes she could imagine.

‘Yes,’ said Afton. He saw well enough.

‘Or should I say nothing and just not see him any more?’

As she said it, she realised she didn’t like that option.

She had grown fond of him in a particular way – a fluttery and yet sharp-edged feeling, perilously hopeful, warm and comfortable and more than half amazed.

No-one had ever shown that sort of interest in her, and she had never thought anyone would. She didn’t want to lose it.

Afton said slowly, ‘I don’t see how you can say nothing. You have to put him on his guard. If she did try to poison you, she might try to poison him.’

‘Why would she want to kill him? I don’t understand,’ Rose said, frowning.

‘She doesn’t want to share him with anyone. She wants to keep him all to herself. And if he was dead, no-one could ever take him away from her, could they?’

She was silent. She thought at first that was stupid, but then it made a kind of sense. ‘You really think that?’ she said at last.

He lifted his hands. ‘I don’t know these people, only what you’ve told me about them. I’m just saying it’s possible, given what you’ve said.’

‘You think I should tell him what happened?’

‘It’s only fair. Apart from saving your own skin, think how you’d feel if anything happened to him.’

She shook her head doubtfully.

He said, ‘When I lived in New York, there were some friends of my master, a married couple – he was a wealthy businessman, she was the daughter of a railroad baron, with a lot of money of her own that she’d inherited.

She was supposed to have a delicate stomach – every now and then she’d have vomiting fits, and take to her bed, and live on boiled water for a few days.

She recovered each time, but it was taking its toll.

She was gradually getting more frail. The doctor put her on different diets but still these attacks came back.

Then one day she had really bad one, and died.

It was very sad. But I remember my master saying to me one day a few months later, when I was shaving him – gentlemen often unburden themselves when they’re being shaved – that this businessman had been in trouble.

He’d borrowed unwisely and from the wrong people, and his wife’s death had saved him.

They didn’t have any children, so all her money went to him. ’

He looked at Rose, and she said, ‘You thought . . . ?’

‘I didn’t think anything, it wasn’t my place.

But my master dropped the acquaintance after that.

And I often think about that poor woman, maybe being poisoned just a bit, over a long time, getting sick and getting better for a while, so as to prepare everybody for the big one when the time came.

Arsenic, I believe, is the thing, if you get the dose right.

A weak stomach . . . Lots of people suffer from that, don’t they? Who’s to know?’

Rose looked at him, head up and neck stiff, like a frightened horse. ‘You’ve got a very dark mind, Mr Afton, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Michael Woodrow seemed a fit and healthy man.

But if his food did disagree with him now and then, no-one would think anything of it.

And lots of people died of violent stomach pains, and no-one thought anything of that .

Not if they weren’t important people. Your insides were full of all kinds of tripes, and things could go wrong with any of them, any time.

‘I think I’d better talk to him,’ she said unhappily.

* * *

Mr Cowling was still away a great deal, with Portsmouth and Nottingham added to his usual rounds, and he apologised to Nina.

‘It’ll get better as things settle down.

I’ve got Decius back now, and Truman, and Tullamore is proving himself a real find – worth his weight in gold, that young feller.

He really knows his stuff. His father must be kicking himself for letting him go!

He’s going to need a Decius of his own before long.

He’s well worth the big salary I’m going to give him – don’t want anyone else poaching him away from me!

And if he marries that nice girl, all the better, because marriage settles a young chap down, there’s no doubt about it. What was I saying?’

‘You were apologising for leaving me alone – in London, during the Season, when of course there is no-one around and simply nothing to do,’ said Nina.

‘Aye, you’re roasting me now, Mrs Cowling!’ he said, laughing. ‘Are you really all right?’

‘I’m not all alone, you know. I have Kitty, and Lepida Morris, not to mention Lady Manningtree and Lady Rachel. And there’s Richard to keep an eye on me when he’s up. And my aunt.’

‘Aye, that Miss Lepida is a very clever young woman! Though I think Mawes and Mrs Morris have brought her up a bit too clever, because who will marry her?’

‘ You married me ,’ Nina pointed out. ‘Of course, I’m not as clever as Lepida, but you always gave me to understand you thought I was cleverer than the average girl.’

‘Roasting me again! I’m just a butt of fun to you, aren’t I? How is your aunt, by the way?’

‘Just exactly the same as she always is. She never changes the slightest bit.’

‘Well, give her my respects when you see her. Now, to what I was saying: when the Season’s over, I thought maybe you’d like to go away somewhere – to the Continent, if you like: France, Italy?

Think about it, any road. And while you’re in London, why don’t we throw a grand dinner party?

I’ll be coming and going, so if you arrange it, I’ll make sure to keep the date free. ’

‘How grand?’ she asked.

‘As grand as you like. Go all out. You never do spend enough of my money to please me. I’ve told you again and again.’

‘Yes, you have. You’d like me to be dripping in diamonds like a chandelier.’

He looked at her fondly. ‘You’d suit ’em better than all the old duchesses who wear ’em. Let me buy you something now, this week. Just to show you what I feel about you.’

‘If you really want to please me . . .’ she began beguilingly.

‘You know I do.’

‘Then be here for dinner on Friday.’

‘A party?’

‘No, just close friends, but it would be nice to have you there.’

He glowed at the thought that she wanted his company, and she was pleased to have pleased him.

‘I’ll make sure to be there. Decius must get me out of anything that’s in the diary.’

‘Oh, Decius is invited too,’ she said. ‘And Lepida Morris. It’s to be a very talking dinner.’