“Not that we knew of, but at her age—”
“There were bruises on her back?” I pointed to the notes, smudges sketched on an outline of a body, which lined up with the pollen stains on her nightgown. “That didn’t seem suspicious?”
Dr. Munjal shook his head. “They were post-mortem, after death.”
I didn’t mean to stop, but this gave me pause. “Really? You can tell that? How?”
“It’s the most reasonable explanation. She was injured during the heart attack—she convulsed, most likely—or when the constables removed her from the bathtub. Which was also,” he added, “how the water got all over.”
I nodded slowly. “What about the stains on her nightgown?”
Dr. Munjal sighed and took the report back from me. “I think we’ve covered everything, don’t you? Again, I must apologize for your ordeal this afternoon, and I’ll be certain that my daughter apologizes as well.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said impatiently. “I wanted to ask about—”
“Miss Hardcastle.” His soft voice was heavy now. “It’s five o’clock. My tea is waiting. You’ve had a long, upsetting afternoon—”
“I’m not upset,” I said. “It was interesting.”
“—and it’s time for you to go home. Shall I drive you?”
I almost said yes. But then Dr. Munjal would have to explain why I was late to Father—and he’d had such high hopes for this outing, which hadn’t included me breaking into the morgue and arguing with the Police Surgeon. It didn’t take a keen deductive mind to know how he’d feel about that. So, with as much dignity as I could muster, I offered my hand to Dr. Munjal.
“No, thank you, Doctor. I can manage very well. Thank you for an enlightening conversation.”
He gravely returned my handshake. “Miss Hardcastle, I’d appreciate your not mentioning what you saw in here,” he said, indicating the experiment with the flies. “It’s a thing many people would not understand.”
I may have been frustrated by my thwarted examination of my witness—but not enough to deny a fellow Investigator such a favor. “Of course, Doctor.”
And I walked out into the rain, in my dreary new silk faille gown, its fabulous pockets loaded down with the absolutely nothing useful I’d found.
v
Father wasn’t home yet, thank goodness, and Cook was too busy arguing with the hob to notice me squeezing in late, soaking wet. I tiptoed up the back stairs to the schoolroom, where Miss Judson paced, staring out the rainy windows.
“Myrtle!” Miss Judson clapped her hand to her chest. “Where on earth have you been?”
Wearily, I went over to the fireplace and stirred the embers with the poker. “LaRue and Caroline locked me in the carriage house.”
Her face flamed with fury. “Those brats!” she cried. “Wait. Why were you in the carriage house?”
Now that I was home and safe and getting dry, I couldn’t stop shivering. My teeth were chattering—which saved the need to answer her.
“Take those things off,” Miss Judson commanded. “I’ll fetch us some cocoa. And then you can tell me all about what you found at the Police Surgeon’s house.”
Said like that, it sounded bad.
By the time Miss Judson and the cocoa returned, I was bundled in my quilted dressing gown, and the slightly wrinkled but mostly intact new dress had been hung neatly—sort of—in my wardrobe. I had my notebook out and Volume VIII, DEA–ELE, of my encyclopædia, and was sprawled with them before the fire.
Miss Judson knelt on the floor beside me with the tray, knees and skirts folded smartly at her side. “What are you looking for?”
“Digitalis,” I said through a mouthful of toast. “Why didn’t you come fetch me?” I hadn’t meant it to come out like that, so rude and peevish.
“What, planning to poison my cocoa?” she said mildly. “I did come. LaRue told me you’d gone home. And may I point out that had you seen fit to share your plans with me, I might have been on hand to help. Those girls are horrid. We won’t go there again. Now. Tell me about your Harrowing Adventure.” She made it sound that way, capitalized, like a story in a penny dreadful.
Leaving out a few details, I gave an account of my search of the files, the blowflies in their meat, and decapitated?, rounding off with Dr. Munjal’s defense of his findings. By that point I’d had three pieces of toast and two mugs of cocoa and was feeling quite cheered. Miss Judson was enjoying my tale immensely, laughing and exclaiming at all the right bits.
“What’s this about digitalis, then?” She leaned over the encyclopædia, and I told her about Mr. Ambrose’s client who’d died from an overdose of it.
“Maybe Dr. Munjal was right, and she did have a heart attack,” I conceded. “But maybe we’re right, too. What if she was poisoned with something that gave her a heart attack?”
Miss Judson took this in. “Digitalis comes from foxgloves,” she said thoughtfully.
“Those are flowers, right?” I sat up. “Did Miss Wodehouse have any? What do they look like?” Volume VIII neglected to include an illustration of the plant, and I was feeling too snug and lazy to get up for Volume X.
Miss Judson reached for her sketchbook. “I think I have one . . . here. From that planting near the front doors.” She held out a drawing of a spiky plant with rows of bell-like flowers surrounding a central stem. Digitalis means “finger-shaped,” and it was easy to imagine foxes wearing them as mittens (though scientifically improbable).
I consulted the encyclopædia entry again. “ ‘A treatment for heart disease, edema’—that’s dropsy—‘and kidney ailments,’ ” I read. “Did Miss Wodehouse have any of those?”
“We’d have known if she had dropsy,” she said. “She was a skinny little thing, remember.”
“So no swelling, then. But heart disease might not show up externally. Or kidney problems.” I took a sip of my cocoa, which had grown cold. “It says it’s dangerous to give digitalis to a patient who doesn’t have a heart condition or kidney problems. Even a small amount can be fatal.”
Miss Judson sat down again, rocking back on her heels. She fished a piece of toast from the tray but didn’t eat it. “If she died of digitalis poisoning,” she said, “which is by no means certain, then she either ate the plant or took the medicine.”
“Or somebody gave it to her.” Before or after shoving her into the mud.