A Bitter Feast(71)
“But what if he simply felt very ill and was trying to get back to his hotel? When Nell leaves the pub, say, half an hour later, she finds him wandering in the village, obviously ill. Nell was a hospital administrator. She certainly had enough experience to know he needed medical attention urgently.”
Slowly, Booth nodded. “That intersection, where she crashed into you, Duncan, would have been the quickest route to the hospital in Cheltenham.”
“Oh my God.” Gemma felt suddenly queasy as the idea came to her. “Everyone says how sensible Nell was. We see car crashes caused by distracted driving every day—people fussing with their Happy Meals or sending texts—but Nell was responsible, and careful. But—what if she looked over at her ill passenger and realized that O’Reilly had died?”
“Christ,” Kincaid said, his voice strangled. “She said— She tried to tell me something, but it didn’t make any sense to me then. She seemed so distressed, and not for herself. She said, ‘Tell them he—’ and that was all she managed.”
Looking at Kincaid, Gemma saw to her dismay that his eyes had filled with tears. “You didn’t tell me you spoke to her.”
“I— It was only a few seconds. Waiting for help. And then she was—gone.” Kincaid stood up, almost tipping over his wooden chair. “Excuse me, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, he left them, walking quickly across the courtyard and disappearing through the arch into the car park.
“He’s a bit upset, I think,” Booth said to Gemma.
She took in his lack of surprise. “You knew, didn’t you? That he spoke to Nell.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to tell strangers when something really gets to you.” Booth leaned forward, keeping eye contact with her. “You know. You know how it is on the job.”
After a moment, Gemma made an effort to relax her shoulders and let her breath out in a sigh. “Yes. You’re right. But still—”
“Head injuries can do funny things as well. Emotionally, I mean. I got seriously smacked once, playing rugby for the police team. I cried for weeks over anything, even telly adverts. You can imagine how well that went over on the job. I’d recommend that you make sure Duncan gets that head injury checked out.”
Gemma realized then what had been nagging at the edge of her awareness—how odd it had seemed that Kincaid hadn’t tried to run Booth’s investigation, whether it was officially his case or not. So accustomed was he to being in charge that it came as naturally to him as breathing, and ordinarily he’d have been organizing and suggesting, politely, of course. But he wasn’t. She said, “I’ve decided I’m not going back to London tomorrow. And I’ll make certain he sees someone first thing in the morning.” Looking towards the car park, she added, “Should I go after him?”
Booth shook his head. “No. I’d give him a few minutes to sort himself out.”
Gemma shooed a few more wasps while she tried again to order her thoughts. From the kitchen, she heard the rattle of dishes and the hum of voices, but she couldn’t distinguish the speakers. “Have you ruled out the possibility that O’Reilly might have overdosed on his own medication?” she asked Booth.
“Not entirely, until we can check out his home address. But I think if he’d been taking prescribed tablets, we’d have found them in his hotel room or on his person. Dr. Mason—the pathologist—says the toxic dose is five to ten times the therapeutic dose, but we’re still talking small tablets. The lethal amount would depend on the person’s health and sensitivity.”
Gemma scanned her phone screen again. “This says onset of symptoms from a lethal dose is thirty minutes to two hours. But it might not have been heart tablets. Apparently, all parts of the plant are highly poisonous, even dried seeds and leaves.”
Booth met her gaze. “Because of Jack Doyle’s death, we have to seriously consider the possibility that Fergus O’Reilly was deliberately poisoned. And, given the time frame, that it happened in or near the pub.”
“And that it’s highly likely the digitalis had to have been administered in his food or drink,” added Gemma, not liking this at all. “Which puts the pub staff squarely in the picture.” Looking towards the kitchen again, she shook her head. “I just can’t believe that any of them would have done that.”
“Well, we don’t know where O’Reilly was before he came to the pub Friday evening, so we can’t rule out the possibility that he ingested it somewhere else. And the plant grows bloody everywhere.”
Including the garden at Beck House, thought Gemma. She remembered seeing the distinctive leaves in what Addie had told them was the White Border, modeled on Gertrude Jekyll’s white borders. Hybrids of the foxglove seeds Jekyll had developed were available even now from catalogues, Addie had added.
“Nor do we know where he stayed those nights he didn’t use his hotel room,” Booth went on, still focused on O’Reilly. “Or who he met. Damn the man.”
“We need to get into his mobile,” said Gemma, then realized that with the plural, she’d just included herself in an official investigation, but Booth merely nodded in agreement.
“I’ve got forensics working on getting a fingerprint or facial recognition scan from the body, but that will take some time. I also need to liaise with the Met on checking O’Reilly’s London address. But it’s Sunday, and I doubt I can get anyone to return a call before tomorrow morning. And I’m seriously understaffed this weekend on all fronts.”