Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry Page A

struggling with brush and color to translate some of his emotions into vision. He had two pictures in progress, one a landscape commissioned by a patron, the other a portrait of Sybilla for his own pleasure. Today he was working on the landscape; spring trees, full of April sunlight and sudden, stabbing cold. It was a mood evoking the frailty of happiness and the eternal imminence of pain.
    The morning room door opened and the doctor returned. He had a deeply lined face, but they were all agreeable lines, marks of mobility and good nature. At the moment he looked profoundly unhappy. He closed the door behind him and turned from Eustace to Vespasia and back again.
    “It was his heart, as you supposed,” he said gravely. “The only shred of comfort I can give you is that it must have been very quick—a matter of moments.”
    “That is indeed a comfort,” Eustace acknowledged. “I am most obliged. I shall say so to Lady Ashworth. Thank you, Treves.”
    But the doctor did not move. “Did Lord Ashworth have a dog, a small spaniel?”
    “For heaven’s sake, what on earth does that matter?” Eustace was astounded by the triviality of the question at such a time.
    “Did he?” the doctor repeated.
    “No, my mother has. Why?”
    “I am afraid the dog is also dead, Mr. March.”
    “Well, that really hardly matters, does it?” Now Eustace was annoyed. “I’ll have one of the footmen dispose of it.” With an effort, he remembered his position, and thus his manners. “I’m obliged. Now if you will do whatever is necessary, we will make arrangements for the funeral.”
    “That will not be possible, Mr. March.”
    “What do you mean, ‘not possible’?” Eustace demanded, the pink mounting up his cheeks. “Of course it’s possible! Just do it, man!”
    Vespasia looked at the doctor’s grim face.
    “What is it, Dr. Treves?” she said quietly. “Why do you mention the dog? And how do you know about it? The servants did not call you to see a dead dog.”
    “No, my lady.” He sighed deeply, the lines of his face dragging downward in acute distress. “The dog was under the foot of the bed. It died of a heart attack also, I should judge at about the same time as Lord Ashworth. It appears he fed it a little of his morning coffee from the tray served him, and drank some himself. In both cases, a very short while before death.”
    The color fled from Eustace’s face. He swayed a little. “Good God, man! What on earth do you mean?”
    Vespasia sank very slowly into the chair behind her. She knew what the doctor was going to say, and all its darkness was already crowding in upon her mind.
    “I mean, sir, that Lord Ashworth died of a poison that was in his morning coffee.”
    “Nonsense!” Eustace said furiously. “Absolute nonsense! The very idea is preposterous! Poor George had a heart attack—and—and the dog must have got upset—death, and all that—and it died as well. Coincidence! Just a—wretched coincidence.”
    “No, sir.”
    “Of course it is!” Eustace spluttered. “Of course. Why on earth would Lord Ashworth take poison, for heaven’s sake? You didn’t know the man, or you wouldn’t suggest such a damnable thing. And he certainly wouldn’t try it out on the dog first! George loved animals. The damn creature was devoted to him. Irritated my mother. It’s her dog, but it preferred George. He wouldn’t dream of hurting it. Bloody silly thing to say. And I assure you, he had no reason whatever to take his own life. He was a man of”—he gulped, glaring at Treves—“every possible happiness. Wealth, position, a fine wife and son.”
    Treves opened his mouth to attempt again, but Vespasia interrupted him.
    “I believe, Eustace, that Dr. Treves is not suggesting that George took the poison knowingly.”
    “Don’t be idiotic!” Eustace snapped, losing his self-control entirely. “Nobody commits suicide by accident! And no one in this household has any poison anyway.”
    “Digitalis,”