The Adventuress (12 page)

Once they were gone, I retreated inside, where I spent an extremely pleasant hour reading
Philoctetes
in the original Greek. I shall leave it to the astute reader to decide whether my choice of this particular work of Sophocles was appropriate to the situation. Confident enough time had passed that there was little chance of the picnickers returning for some forgot item, I set off on an errand of my own.

I started with visits to apothecaries, where I discretely inquired as to the availability of certain poisonous substances. My questions did not lead to anything of significance until I spoke with my fourth apothecary.

“We have occasional cause for such things, madame, especially for the elimination of pests,” he said. “As for strychnine in particular, the taste is so very bitter it puts off even the rats. May I inquire as to your interest in the substance?”

“It is only that—” I stopped.

“Are you a friend of the English gentleman who took his own life at the Hotel Britannia by this very means?”

“I am.”

“Then I am most heartily sorry for your loss,” he said. “I am afraid it will offer no consolation, but your friend's choice of method tells me that he had planned this in advance. No one in Cannes sells it—we have no need to—so he must have brought it with him.”

“You are quite certain?”

“There can be no question of this,” he said. “Arsenic and belladonna I have on hand, as do my colleagues. But strychnine? Never. I am confident about this. The town is small enough that we all know each other and our stock well.”

The notion that Mr. Neville had come to Cannes with the express intention of ending his life—and even had carried poison with him—made not the slightest bit of sense. Were he in such a morose state of mind, why would he have chosen an engagement celebration as the occasion on which he would commit such an act?

I thanked the apothecary and stepped into the street outside his shop, unsure of what I should do next. What exactly did this revelation mean? I walked for a while, considering the question. The fact that the entire bottle of whisky had been poisoned still tugged at me. Why would Mr. Neville have risked someone else drinking from it? Had he assumed its deadly nature would be immediately apparent to whoever found his body? Had he poisoned it before leaving London, knowing that none of his friends would balk at finding whisky in his luggage, particularly when he was traveling with Jeremy, but not wanting to risk carrying the poison separately, lest it be discovered? Or was his mind so full of despair that he had never considered what would become of the rest of the tainted whisky after his demise?

I wandered aimlessly, following side streets away from the water, up the hills, and then back down again. The second time I reached La Croisette, I changed direction, and walked parallel to the sea, going back and forth, street by street, until the sun hung directly overhead. The morning was behind me, but I felt I had not squandered it, even if I still wrestled with the questions that tormented me. As I crossed a narrow road in order to avoid a pile of rubbish on the pavement, I noticed a sign hanging above a doorway, indicating a physician's office. This was precisely what I needed.

Not, of course, to treat any ill of my own. My constitution is hearty, and I rarely succumb to the complaints that aggravate tourists. No, I wanted to speak with a doctor about Mr. Neville and suicides in general. Fortified with purpose, I pulled on the door handle, but it did not budge. All decent Frenchmen stopped work for a civilized lunch; my pursuit of knowledge would have to wait. I glanced at the watch pinned to my lapel and considered my options. It was unlikely the doctor would return to work for more than an hour at least—the French idea of a midday break is rather different from its English equivalent. I was not near the hotel, so I decided I would grant a respite of my own and walked until I settled upon an agreeable looking café, where I took a table and ordered lunch.

The waiter, a stout, personable man, treated me like an old friend rather than an inconvenience, an attitude quite unlike that of many of his Parisian counterparts. Noticing a flush from exertion on my cheeks, he suggested a glass of rosé, to which I did not object, and he brought it while I lingered over the menu. After a bit of lively discussion with him about the choices, I asked for ratatouille, and sat back, munching on the bread he had left for me.

My table, outside on the pavement, afforded me an excellent view of all the passersby in the street. A steady stream of tourists, identifiable by the red Baedeker's guides clutched in their hands, processed in seeming endless quantity, their line broken only on occasion by a Cannois, obvious by the bags they carried, full of fresh produce—and the occasional live chicken—from the local market. I sipped my wine. The rosé was lovely, crisp and cool, fruity and light, and somehow managed to diminish the burden I felt I was carrying whenever my thoughts returned to poor Mr. Neville.

The relief proved temporary. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck returned me to harsh reality. Someone was watching me, but considered analysis of the scene before me revealed nothing. Twice the gentlemen at a table near mine thought I was looking at them, and I blushed with embarrassment. Further study, however, revealed a slight figure standing in the shadows of a doorway on the far side of the street. His hat was lowered, obscuring much of his face, but the slim hands with their long fingers clasped over his walking stick were unmistakable. I recognized them at once as the fingers I had watched stroke the wings of that unfortunate butterfly, back at the castle wall.

Augustus had followed me.

Augustus, whom I had seen with my own eyes that morning enter the carriage occupied by his parents. Surely the picnic had not been abandoned. Rather than pretend I had not noticed him, I decided to take decisive action. I waved and shouted.

“Mr. Wells! Have you lunched? Do please join me!”

He started at the sound of my voice, but had few options other than to respond. He crossed the street and stood next to me. “I am not hungry, Lady Emily.”

“What happened to the picnic?” I asked. “You may not be hungry, but that is no cause to refuse all refreshment. Take a seat and I shall order you a glass of rosé. It is lovely.”

He frowned, but did not object. “The picnic … the very idea was tiresome. I thought I ought to join them, but we had gone no further than a mile down the road before I felt the inane conversation would drive me out of my mind. I ordered the carriage to stop so that I might alight from it. I walked back to town, and have been…” He paused here, his voice hanging in the air. “I have been having a bit of a wander. As have you, Lady Emily.”

My heartbeat quickened. Had he seen me visiting apothecary after apothecary? “My husband suffers from the occasional headache, and while peppermint oil offers him substantial relief, I have read that a concoction of neroil, sweet marjoram, and rosewood oil can prevent them from occurring altogether. It seems that the marjoram and rosewood are easy enough to come by, but I have yet to locate any neroil.”

“Where have you looked?” he asked.

“Several apothecaries.” I gulped the rest of my wine.

“I should try the Marché Forville, the local market. Do you know where it is, on the rue Louis Blanc?”

“I believe I do,” I said, shocked that he was offering what appeared to be a useful suggestion.

“There is a woman there who sells herbs and has a selection of oils. If she does not have that which you seek, she may know someone who does.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wells. I am much obliged. You are quite knowledgeable for someone who has never before been in Cannes. I am impressed.”

“I make it my business to know useful things. One never knows when they will come in handy.”

The waiter appeared with my ratatouille. Augustus looked at it with disdain and asked if he might have some tapenade. The waiter obliged quickly, bringing with it more fresh bread.

“Why did you wish to avoid the picnic?” Augustus asked as soon as the waiter had disappeared.

“I own the idea did not appeal to me,” I said, debating how candid I should be with him. “I am still upset by Mr. Neville's death and am finding it difficult to dedicate myself to the pursuit of pleasure. I do hope my inability to do so with abandon has not impinged upon your sister's high spirits.”

“Amity has never let anything impinge on her high spirits, as you so charmingly call them.” He covered a slice of bread with a thick layer of tapenade. “It is one of the many qualities in her that I admire and wish I could emulate. As it is, I am left to feel slights more deeply than she ever would.”

“Are you often slighted?”

“I am well aware that my manner appears odd to many people,” he said. “I pretend not to care and react by armoring myself with further eccentricities.”

“I am sorry if you feel misunderstood.”

“I have never been misunderstood, merely disliked. Amity is the only one who has ever taken pleasure in my company, and now I am to lose her.”

“You shan't lose her, Mr. Wells. She will always be your sister, but I do understand that her living in England after her marriage will change your relationship significantly.”

“Oh, she won't live in England, Lady Emily. She would despise that.”

“I am afraid she won't have any choice in the matter. Her husband-to-be sits in the House of Lords and has an estate to manage.” Granted, Jeremy had not voluntarily seen the inside of the Lords on any day but that of the State Opening of Parliament since he had inherited his title, and even then, he insisted he only went because he liked the figure he cut in his ducal robes.

“I think she would prefer to be even farther away from our parents,” he said.

This took me aback. It was a shocking confidence, blunt even for an American. I wanted to ask him to expound on his statement, but I did not wish to draw attention to it in case it scared him off. “I have always felt that England is not large enough to put adequate distance between myself and my mother.”

“Perhaps I have spoken out of turn,” he said. “I do not mean to leave you with the impression that my dear pater and mater are in any way unsatisfactory.”

“I would have thought no such thing. Your parents seem perfectly amiable.”

“I shouldn't think you would hold that opinion after the way Pater spoke to you on the pier.”

I coughed. “I was not aware anyone other than myself had heard his comments.”

“That is not quite true, is it, Lady Emily? My sister told you Bainbridge overheard the conversation, and I hear everything. I make that my business, too.” He popped the last bite of bread into his mouth. “Are you planning to finish your ratatouille? It did not appeal when I first saw it, but tempts me now and I should very much like a taste. You don't mind, do you?”

*   *   *

After lunching with Augustus, I felt more off balance than ever. He had proven simultaneously more congenial and more strange than I could have ever expected; I hardly knew what to make of him. When our table was clear and our check paid—by my companion—I excused myself, explaining that I intended to see a physician. I hoped he would not make further inquiries into the reasons for my plan, but, alas, Augustus Wells knew no social bounds.

“Are you ill? You seem fit as a fiddle.”

“What a charming expression,” I said. “I am not ill, but there are some matters … it is best that I do not explain.”

He stared at me, without blinking, until I started to wonder if he was having some sort of a fit.

“You will excuse me?” I waited for his response, but none came. “Mr. Wells?”

He turned on his heel and dashed away from me. Once he was out of sight, I started for the physician's office, keeping vigilant watch to be certain Augustus was not following me. The door was unlocked now, and a surly older woman told me that her son, the doctor—a man called Roche—would soon be at liberty to speak with me.

“I am most grateful for your time,” I said, taking the seat he offered me in his wood-paneled office. “You have no doubt heard of the suicide that recently occurred?”

“Yes, the Englishman. He was a friend of yours?”

“He was.”

“Then do accept my condolences.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me to better understand what happened, because the details of the incident strike me as unusual.” I gave him as thorough an accounting as possible of what had happened.

“Your concern, shall we say, over the issue of the entire bottle being poisoned is a valid one. Generally speaking, most suicides are careful to harm no one but themselves. However, Lady Emily, the state of mind in which an individual must be to take such action is by definition so unhinged that we cannot draw conclusions from what we view as irrational behavior. The very act goes against all of human nature. There is not much stronger in us than the instinct to survive.”

“I also believe that the fact he did this in his friend's room rather than his own may be significant.”

“Again, there is no way for us to know.” He removed his spectacles and polished them with a scrap of silk that had been sitting on top of his desk. “I apologize for not being able to better help you. He may have gone to his friend's room because he believed that his friend was capable of dealing with the fallout from finding him. He may not have wanted that burden to fall on an unsuspecting young hotel maid.”

“What about the fact that he left no note?”

“Romantic as the notion of suicide notes is, most people do not leave them.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have got ahold of strychnine in Cannes?” I asked. His response confirmed what the apothecary had already told me. “Why would he have come here, carrying the poison, and do such a thing now?”

“Are you quite certain he was as close as you think to this friend whose room he used? Perhaps his choice of location was deliberate. Perhaps he blamed this friend for ruining his life? Was there any resentment or jealously between them?”