Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry Page B

Treves put in with quiet weariness. “Quite a common medicine for heart complaints. I understand from the lady’s maid that Mrs. March herself still has some, but it is perfectly possible to distill it from foxgloves, if one wishes.”
    Eustace collected himself again and his eyebrows rose in superb sarcasm. “And Lord Ashworth crept out at six o’clock in the morning, picked foxgloves in the garden, and distilled some digitalis?” he inquired heavily. “Did he do this in the kitchen with the scullery maids, or in the upstairs pantry with the lady’s maids and the footmen? Then, if I understand your implication correctly, he went back to his bedroom, waited till his coffee came, accidentally poisoned the dog, then poisoned himself? You are a raving fool, Treves! A blithering and incompetent ass! Write a death certificate and get out!”
    Vespasia felt unaccountably sorry for Eustace. He was not going to be able to cope. He had never been as strong as he imagined—perhaps that was why he was so insufferably pompous.
    “Eustace,” she said quietly and firmly, “Dr. Treves is not suggesting that George took it accidentally. As you observe, it is absurd. The inevitable conclusion is that someone else put it in his coffee while it was in the pantry—it would not be difficult, since everyone else takes tea. And poor George had no idea it was poisoned, either, when he gave it to the dog, or when he drank it himself.”
    Eustace swung round and stared at her, suddenly hot with fear. His voice was hoarse and came with a squeak. “But that would be ... murder!”
    “Yes, sir,” Treves agreed softly. “I am afraid it would. I have no alternative but to inform the police.”
    Eustace gulped and let out his breath in a long sigh of pain. The struggle was obvious in his face, but he found no resolution.
    “Of course,” Vespasia acknowledged. “Perhaps, if you would be so kind, you will call an Inspector Thomas Pitt. He is experienced and—and discreet.”
    “If you wish, my lady,” Treves agreed. “I really am very sorry.”
    “Thank you. The butler will show you the telephone. Now, I must make arrangements to have Lady Ashworth’s sister come to be with her.”
    “Good.” Treves nodded. “For the best, as long as she is a sensible woman. Hysterics won’t help. How is Lady Ashworth? If you wish me to call on her ... ?”
    “Not yet—perhaps tomorrow. Her sister is extremely sensible. I shouldn’t think she’s ever had hysterics in her life, and she’s certainly had cause.”
    “Good. Then I’ll call again tomorrow. Thank you, Lady Cumming-Gould.” He bowed his head very slightly.
    Emily would have to know; telling her would be most painful. First Vespasia would see old Mrs. March. She would be outraged. And that was about the only gossamer-thin thread of perverse satisfaction in all that had happened: Mrs. March would have something other to do than embarrass Tassie.
    She was in her boudoir. The downstairs sitting room was reserved for ladies—or it had been, in the days when she ruled the house, as well as her daughters, two nieces, and an impoverished and thus dependent female cousin. She had clung on to her dominion of this strategically placed, octagonal room, renewing the suffocating pink decor, keeping the drapes on the mantelpiece and the pianoforte, the banks of photographs of every conceivable family group, and keeping the numerous surfaces ornamented with dried flower arrangements, wax fruit, a stuffed owl under glass, and multitudinous pieces of embroidery, doilies, runners, and antimacassars. There was even an aspidistra in the jardinière.
    Now she was sitting here with her feet up on the pink chaise longue; if she had remained in her bedroom she would have been too far from the center of the house and might have missed something. Vespasia closed the door behind her and sat down on the overstuffed sofa opposite.
    “Shall I send for a fresh dish of tea?” Mrs. March asked, eyeing her