“Ah, there you are, deary. Feeling better, then?” inquired Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper.
Hortense opened her eyes and blinked blearily against the strong sunlight. She felt strangely disoriented, and as though she’d forgotten something important. She grasped at the remnants of her dream, but couldn't force her brain to recall anything. She sighed.
“Fine! I’m fine now, just as I was fine yesterday when that silly doctor insisted on dosing me, against my will, with enough laudanum to fell an elephant just because I’d had the misfortune to fall in a pond,” she huffed.
“Oh, well,” replied Mrs. Pomfret, unperturbed. “Miss Amaryllis wouldn’t rest until Dr. Quincy had been called, she was that worried about you. And, of course, it was handy that he was here, since Miss Amaryllis fainted, herself, the second you’d been tended to. ‘Overcome by the events of the afternoon,’ she said.” Mrs. Pomfret’s twinkling eyes met Hortense’s conspiratorially, and Hortense grinned in reply.
“In any case,” Mrs. Pomfret continued as she bustled around the room straightening the bedclothes and adjusting the curtains. “It was just as well you took the laudanum. Such strange dreams as you were havin’! Tossing and turning the night long, you were! And you weren’t the only one losing sleep around here, I’d wager. Nasty storm blew in last night, n’ brought down the last of the peaches I was savin’ for the fair. Ah, well,” she sighed.
A soft scratching at the door interrupted their conversation. “Please miss,” said Polly, the upstairs maid, apologetically. “Dr. Quincy’s come to see you.”
“Show him in, girl!” said Mrs. Pomfret, as Hortense opened her mouth to refuse. To Hortense, she added “Let the doctor give you a look-over and be done with it. It would take longer to argue.”
Hortense snapped her mouth shut. “Oh, alright. But I’ll not make conversation with him!” She closed her eyes and tried to feign sleep.
“Well, well, well!" bellowed Dr. Quincy as he entered the room. "Looking much better today, isn’t she Mrs. Pomfret? Appears that a pinch of laudanum and a cup of hot tea was just what she needed after all, eh? A bit peaked yet, though that’s only to be expected when one goes swimming in April. It’s the sort of hi jinks one might expect from a young man, but not what one expects from a lady,” he admonished.
“Buh…” Hortense sputtered, before remembering that she was supposed to be asleep. She sighed, as though dreaming, and concentrated on breathing evenly.
“Speaking of which,” the doctor continued to Mrs. Pomfret, in a lower voice. “Have you heard the goings on in the village this morning?”
Mrs. Pomfret mumbled that she had not.
“Tom the Innkeeper... Dead!”
“Tom Forkley? Dead?" Mrs. Pomfret gasped. "Never say so, Dr. Quincy! I just walked down to the village on Tuesday to see my sister, and didn’t I see Old Tom sittin’ out in front of the Bull and Finch playin’ that penny whistle of his? ‘Mrs. Burston,’ I said to my sister. ‘I don’t mean to be un-Christian, but I often wonder what Marie sees in that man. Never does a lick of work if he can help it, keeps her slaving away in the taproom all day long, though the crowd at the Bull does get rowdy and it’s not fit work for a woman. Marie could’ve done a lot better, I said.’ But he looked healthy as any man around, ‘cept for that peg leg of his. Whatever happened to him?”
“That’s just it!” exclaimed the good doctor, his hushed voice quivering with excitement. “No one knows for sure! He was found this morning near the rocks at Bald Head Point, and the Jade Lady is missing. Marie hadn’t seen him since eight last evening.”
“Oh, good Heavens! What a drunken fool to have taken that boat out in the storm!” Mrs. Pomfret shook her head.
“That’s just it, my dear Minerva! He didn’t die in the storm. He was…” Dr. Quincy paused for effect. “Murdered! Shot in the back of the head!”
Mrs. Pomfret gasped. Hortense could barely restrain a gasp of her own. As it was, she drew in breath sharply.
“Aha! Some trouble breathing, there. Could be an early sign of inflammation of the lung. I shall apply a poultice immediately to draw out the infection.”
Hortense had never felt less in danger of a lung infection in her life, but she allowed the doctor to apply the smelly poultice to her chest anyway, hoping that he would continue his story.
Her forbearance was rewarded when he continued. “Saw it all m’self this mornin’ when I examined the body. Squire Widdows rode all the way over from Haverton to begin an inquest, and I suppose I shall have to testify.” Dr. Quincy’s attempt to sound burdened by this necessity was an abject failure. He was clearly delighted to play a role in what must surely be the village’s most exciting event for generations.
“An inquest!” breathed Mrs. Pomfret, all horrified excitement. “But who do they think might have…” Her voice trailed off.
“Too early to tell, I’m sure. But based on some evidence they found, they’re looking at anyone who’s recently arrived in the neighborhood and, of course, they’re looking at McTavish and his gang.”
“Oh, what nonsense!” Mrs. Pomfret protested hotly. “The McTavish boys would never have anything to do with murder. I’ve known Henry McTavish since he was in leading strings. A kinder man you’ve never met!”
“Minerva, those of us who know McTavish might make allowances for his, er, passtimes…” the doctor whispered urgently. “After all, the war has been hard on trade, and a man has to make a living. But to anyone outside this village, a man who’s guilty of smuggling could just as easily be guilty of murder.”
Hortense’s brain, so unaccustomed to strenuous use in the months she'd been a companion, now struggled to take in all of this new information. She longed to “awaken” and ask a question or two, but was certain that would put an end to all conversation on the topic.
“Poor Henry!” Mrs. Pomfret cried. “They’ll string him up for sure, for there surely haven’t been any new arrivals in the area. Well, except for Miss Amaryllis and Miss Hortense, here, and they could hardly be suspected.”
“Hmmm…” the doctor mused. “You’d be surprised at who they might suspect. After all,” he continued in the barest whisper. “What do we really know about these girls? Amaryllis is Rose’s niece, certainly, but we know little about her beyond that. And this girl here, why… she has nothing to recommend her. Certainly, her rude and unappreciative behavior to me last night when I, in my capacity as her physician, insisted that she take a dram of laudanum, an accepted remedy and preventative against all forms of chill and ague since time immemorial, indicates a girl who was not gently bred,” he sniffed.
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Pomfret.
“And, what's more,” continued the doctor as though she hadn’t spoken. “Oliver Preston’s returned to the Castle.”
“No!” Mrs. Pomfret whispered.
“Indeed! I had the word from his cousin Digby just this morning. Arrived the night before last. Apparently he’s going to open up that monstrous house again after all these years, if you can believe it.” The doctor’s outraged tones suggested that he certainly could not believe it.
“And why shouldn’t he? I’ve never believed any of the talk about the Prestons, anyway. I grew up at Radulf Castle – my father was in charge of the stables over there. I knew his grandfather, and his father… kind, honorable men, both of them.” Mrs. Pomfret averred.
“Hmmm,” the doctor replied dubiously. “Time will tell, I suppose. Well, I must be off! Miss Amaryllis asked me to look in on her again before I leave.”
Mrs. Pomfret showed the doctor out, and Hortense sat up, removing the poultice and swinging her feet off the bed. Digby… he was the silly man who’d escorted them home yesterday. If he was talking about a castle and his cousin… then the man she’d spotted outside the castle walls yesterday afternoon must be the Oliver Preston that Dr. Quincy was talking about. Oliver Preston. She was certain she’d never heard the name before. Why, then, did it sound so familiar?
She shook off the uncomfortable feeling. Life as a ladies companion was playing tricks on her brain, causing her to "remember" names she'd never heard before and forget dreams that she desperately wanted to recall. "No matter," she thought, as she strode to the wardrobe and selected a dress for the day. Now she had something new to occupy her time and her thoughts -- the murder of Tom Forkley.
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