A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(104)

Miss Ferguson crossed her arms in front of her as her gaze darted around the cottage, looking as if she half expected something to leap out at her. Her eyes eventually fell to that patch on the floor between the two rooms, and her face paled, obviously deducing the reason for its discoloration. Then they lifted to meet mine, their depths frantic.

“I didna kill ’em,” she blurted, and then gestured toward Gage. “I didna even ken those beads on my rosary were poisonous ’til ye told me. How could I?” Her voice rose in pitch. “I mean, who strings a rosary wi’ somethin’ that can kill ye?”

“Perhaps your mother warned you of them, or you read about them in a book? There are any number of ways you might have learned about them,” Gage pointed out with faultless logic.

“But I didna!” She stamped her foot, some of her earlier defiance returning. “I would never have killed my uncle and cousin. Especially no’ for a paintin’.” She motioned wildly toward the bedroom. “I assume that’s what ye think. That I hoped to inherit it. Well, I didna. I didna even ken aboot it. And ’twill likely go to my aunt anyway.”

She was right. There were problems with the painting being her motive, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t another one as yet unknown.

“The fact of the matter, Miss Ferguson, is that you are the only person who has been discovered to be in possession of the source of the poison,” Gage informed her sternly, his stance widening as he towered over the petite woman. “You were also seen visiting Mr. MacCowan at this cottage by me and Mrs. Gage, and you concealed your relationship with both victims.” His eyes narrowed. “You also had access to the kitchens at Barbreck Manor and could easily have poisoned Miss McEvoy’s chutney yesterday afternoon.”

“But I didna!” Her eyes were wide with panic, and her chest rose and fell with each anxious breath. “I would ne’er hurt Miss McEvoy. I would ne’er hurt anyone!” She clutched her head between her hands, staring at the floor several feet away. “I didna put poison in Miss McEvoy’s chutney,” she stated more calmly, though her voice was still ragged with distress. “And I didna put poison in my cousin’s or my uncle’s food.” She clasped her hands before her, as if in prayer, as her gaze bounced between the three of us. “Please! You have to believe me.”

Part of me wanted to. I didn’t want to believe the woman who had been charged with the care and education of Rye’s children could do such a thing. But the evidence as Gage had laid it out was difficult to ignore or dismiss. She was the only person in possession of the poison. Or at least, the only person we’d discovered so far. There was a possibility someone else had access to paternoster peas.

There was also the question of how exactly she’d contrived to dose her cousin, Mairi, with the substance. We’d shifted our focus to the raspberry compote once Miss Margaret had come forward to suggest she might have been the intended target, and the compote might still have been the substance containing the poison, but it might also have been something else. Miss Ferguson might have met her cousin on her day off as she was journeying to her father’s cottage and given her something then.

Or maybe I had been wrong about the length of the poison’s latent period—the time between consumption and effect. After all, the time between Bree’s having ingested it and her beginning to vomit had been shorter, though I wondered if my maid had either consciously or unconsciously induced her own vomiting. I would have to verify that. But it was possible the poison struck more quickly than I’d believed, and Mairi had consumed it after arriving at her father’s home, but he had not eaten it until later. Though that would contradict Mr. MacCowan’s assertion that she’d eaten nothing he hadn’t. And what of her cough and the other symptoms she’d exhibited on her arrival at this cottage?

Whatever the truth of those details, Miss Ferguson was still our most viable suspect, and unless a better one presented themselves or she could prove her innocence, our chief suspect she would remain.

I scrutinized Miss Ferguson’s features, thinking back to our conversation the day before. “You say you didn’t know about the painting, that you don’t expect to inherit it, and yet yesterday when I asked you about it, I could sense your interest.” She turned her head to the side, her shoulders inching upward. “It was perfectly apparent that you weren’t as indifferent as you wished to seem. Perhaps you were intrigued by the money you could make from selling it.”

She surprised me when she suddenly snarled, “I dinna want anythin’ to do wi’ any paintings my uncle might o’ possessed.”

Gage and Henry appeared just as taken aback as I was.

I narrowed my eyes, realizing she knew much more than she was saying. “Why is that?” I pressed, careful not to divulge anything that might muddy the waters of her guilt or provide her an excuse for her actions.

She clamped her mouth into a tight line, perhaps angry at herself for revealing as much as she had. How much loyalty did she feel toward her uncle and cousin? Would she still keep their secrets, even in death?

“Obviously, ye already ken they were involved in the forgeries,” she snapped, her gaze searching mine for confirmation. “Well, involved in keepin’ it all quiet anyway.”

“Go on,” I coaxed when she broke off.

“Uncle worked for Lord Alisdair. ’Twas wi’ him mornin’, noon, and night whenever his lordship was at Barbreck, and cared for his cottage when he wasna. And when Mairi’s mam died, my cousin was there, too. Helpin’ oot or playin’ quietly in a corner. They kent all his secrets.”