A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(102)

“What did she say?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t the only one whose interest had been piqued by those words.

“As to that,” the nurse replied, her expression growing more serious. “Perhaps we might step into the next room so we dinna wake the lass. But first I mun tell ye that she thinks the poison was in the chutney in her saddlebag. She said it tasted off somehow, and so she spat it out and stopped eatin’ it.”

I pressed a hand to my chest, grateful she’d detected the taste and spit it out. Otherwise, the consequences didn’t bear considering. “We’d just deduced as much,” I began to explain, but Anderley spoke over me.

“Why didn’t she say something?”

Mrs. Mackay’s steady gaze shifted to the anxious valet. “I dinna ken. But I suspect she figured there was nothin’ to be done until you’d returned here and could get help.”

“Yes, but we could have ridden faster,” he protested.

“Not in the dark,” Gage reminded him. “You might have broken your necks.”

“You did well,” I told Anderley, knowing he wouldn’t listen, but it needed to be said regardless.

His gaze dropped to Bree’s face, which was soft in repose. Whether she would be pleased at the idea of Anderley seeing her in such a state—with her hair still lank and grimy and her lips chapped and dry—I didn’t know. But given his evident anxiety and the way he was looking at her, I suspected her looks didn’t matter one iota in how he felt.

“Let’s step through the dressing room,” I suggested. “We can leave the door cracked.” Now that Bree had woken once and spoken to someone, I felt less anxious about her state. Though by no means was she out of the woods.

“May I stay with her?” Anderley asked. “Just for a few minutes.”

Had they been of the upper classes, it would have been a highly improper request. Even as servants, it bordered on inappropriate. But I had always found such strict rules to be ridiculous anyway. Anderley would never harass a woman, let alone one who’d been ill and could barely lift her head. Even one he loved.

“For a few minutes,” I confirmed and then turned to lead the others from the room.

Even so, Mrs. Mackay, Gage, and I stood just inside our bedchamber, with the two doors leading to and from the dressing room wide open. I nodded for Mrs. Mackay to tell us what she’d learned from Bree, but she said something even better.

“I think I may ken what the poison is.”

If any lingering lethargy had remained, it was pulverized by this statement. “You do?”

She nodded. “Miss McEvoy and I were discussin’ her symptoms, and those o’ the MacCowans, and the fact that both were hidden in deep red dishes.”

That was an interesting distinction. I’d overlooked the coloring in favor of the strong flavors.

“It brought to my mind the jequirity bean.” Her gaze darted back and forth between me and Gage. “Do ye ken?”

I shook my head. “The jequirity bean?”

“Aye. Mayhap ye ken it as the paternoster pea. ’Tis the seed o’ a flowering plant. It’s not native to Scotland, or England for that matter, but the red beans are often used for jewelry—necklaces and such, and especially rosaries.”

“And they’re poisonous?” I clarified, surprised to discover such a bean would be used in those objects.

“No’ by touch. The poison is deep inside the hard shell and has to be crushed or chewed to be released. ’Twas used in trials by ordeal long ago.” She tilted her head. “Though some o’ the accused were informed ahead o’ time that if they swallowed the bean whole, it would pass through them, leavin’ ’em unscathed.” She lifted her finger. “But if it was chewed, ’twas supposed to cause a right terrible death, includin’ bleedin’ from the eyes, nose, and mouth.”

“That’s it, then,” I exclaimed. “That’s our poison.” I turned to Gage. “Then we just need to find these paternoster peas and figure out who possesses them.”

“I ken someone who does.”

My eyes widened in surprise, and I could tell from her expression that the answer troubled her.

“Who?” Gage asked.

“Miss Ferguson.”

Gage and I shared a look of misgiving.

“I noticed she carries a rosary, and it’s made from paternoster peas.”

As if joining the voices of accusation in my head, we heard a wail from the nursery next door.

“Thank you for telling us,” I told the nurse.

She nodded and then hastened to the nursery to check on Emma and relieve the nursemaid. Meanwhile I stood rooted to my spot, wishing I’d spoken to Rye and insisted we lock up Miss Ferguson until the matter could be investigated further instead of letting her return to her charges and wreak more destruction on those around her. I hadn’t thought to ask Mrs. Mackay whether she’d said so, but Bree must have also seen her rosary—or maybe Miss Ferguson had thought she had—and hadn’t realized the significance of the beads.

“We don’t know yet for certain that it was her,” Gage reminded me, rubbing circles in my back. “There may be someone else with jewelry made from paternoster peas.”

“That would be awfully coincidental.”