Chapter 17

James laid his quill down. Behind him, a low peat fire burned in the parlor fireplace, providing the room a comfortable warmth. Outside, a steady light rain pattered on the ground and against the inn windows. Downstairs in the main pub, voices and laughter rose and fell, punctuated with an occasional hearty hail across the large room.

He reread the letter he’d just written to Mr. Boyd Ratcliffe. He’d worked hard to make it nonjudgemental. He’d strived to present himself as merely a man sent to gather information for Mrs. Montgomery with no opinion as to the rightness or veracity of the information provided. That restraint had proved hard to do when every fiber of his being knew Soothcoor had been framed by Ratcliffe. What was the man’s motive? Was he involved with Mr. Montgomery’s death? There was so much he didn’t know.

He folded the letter and put Mr. Ratcliffe’s direction on the front. Hopefully Mr. Price had an ostler anxious to earn an extra coin who would take the letter to Mr. Ratcliffe and bring back his response. James stood up, stretching to relieve the kinks from sitting so long at the table. He decided to go downstairs to the pub to seek out Mr. Price instead of sending a servant for him.

Mr. Price knew just the man for James’s task and promised the letter would be delivered. James thanked him and, as he walked into the pub, he heard a Scottish accent. He followed the sound of the voice to see a tall, well-dressed, lanky gentleman ordering a meal from the barmaid. James walked in his direction.

“Might I join you?” James asked.

The man looked up and smiled broadly. “Aye, yer might, at that, and weelcum, too,” said the man. “Cameron Ramsay,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Sir James Branstoke,” James said, accepting the man’s handshake. He pulled out the chair and sat down. “And I think you are just the man I wish to talk to.”

The man sat straighter in his chair, his expression changing to suspicion. “And why be that?” he asked.

“Because you knew Malcolm Montgomery.”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “I did, aye. Known ’im nigh on fifteen years.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” James asked.

“Ten days ago.” He shook his head. “Ah told ’im he’d coom ta regret his mad decision ta fake his death, mor’n two year ago, and he had. He sent me a letter, that being why ah coom ta see ’im. Ratcliffe—the rat that he be—came to visit ’im to say his wife was lookin’ to marry Soothcoor—which ah already knew as ah’ve been in London watchin’ effter her fer Malcolm.”

James laughed. “Soothcoor’s nephew said you were always fluttering about her and that made them suspicious of you.”

“Ah liked the people in her society. Ah got too comfortable. We had a plan if the missus wanted to marry. Ah would get divorce paperwork signed by Malcolm and take it to Scotland ta file. But ta my lastin’ regret, I delayed doin’ this as ah knew the earl and Mrs. Montgomery wanted ta wait until after the lass, Miss Aileen Montgomery, was properly wed before they declared themselves, so I didn’t put the plan ta action when it should have happened.”

He shook his head. “I thought there was plenty of time fer me ta talk ta them first. But somethin’ happened ta make them change their minds and declare themselves. And then it were like a canon fired.”

James nodded. “What happened was Mrs. Montgomery became pregnant,” he softly told him, “and Mrs. Montgomery wrote to Mr. Ratcliffe, announcing her intentions to marry Soothcoor.”

Mr. Ramsay slumped back in his chair. “Then this is all my fault. Everythin’. Malcolm would be alive today if ah’d confided in them instead of that surprise announcement coomin’ froom Ratcliffe first. Ah came here ta see Malcolm as soon as ah could ta have him sign the papers and then ah set ooff ta Scotland ta file the papers fer divorce.”

“Why not file the papers in England?” James asked.

“Easier and faster ta get approved in Scotland since they are both Scottish and married in Scotland.”

“I don’t understand Mr. Ratcliffe’s role in everything. I know from the magistrate he was quick to place blame on Soothcoor. What does he gain from Mr. Montgomery’s death and the earl accused of the murder? It’s not like he wanted Mrs. Montgomery for himself as he is now married to Mr. Montgomery’s mother. And there is an heir to the Montgomery properties. Was he embezzling?”

“Not that I have been able ta determine.”

James shook his head. “I have requested a meeting with Mr. Ratcliffe tomorrow morning as Mrs. Montgomery’s emissary. I am awaiting his response.”

“I’d like ta go with you, if I might, as Mr. Montgomery’s solicitor.”

James frowned at first, then relented. “I’ll admit I should like to hear any conversation you have with him, so the reverse is only fair.”

“Excuse me, Sir James, this just come to you from Camden Hall.”

“It’s from my wife, I recognize her hand. She wouldn’t write unless it were important.” He opened the letter.

“E’gad! It’s the honey, it’s the bloody damn honey!” James exclaimed. “Excuse me,” he said to Mr. Ramsay. I shall be back shortly.” He spun out of his chair. “Price!” he called out. He spotted the barmaid. “Where’s Mr. Price?”

“In the kitchen, sar, as Mrs. Price be sick.”

“Where is it? Through there?” James asked, pointing to a hall off the bar.

“Yes, sar,” said the maid, frightened by Sir James’s manner.

James ran into the large kitchen and scullery combined.

Mr. Price was helping the staff plate food for the people in the bar.

“Sir James!”

James grabbed him by the shoulder. “Where’s the honey?”

“Honey, sir?”

“The honey Baron Stackpoole left for his son! It’s what is making people sick!”

“The honey! But?—”

“Where is it!” James demanded, shaking him.

“On the tea tray Marly just took up to Mr. Stackpoole.”

“Take me to Stackpoole’s room, now.”

“But, sir?—”

James shook him. “Now!” he repeated.

The man nodded and led him out of the kitchen toward the stairs.

“Faster. We have to stop him from adding that to his tisane. It’s what is keeping him sick and what is making others sick who he lets have some of his honey.”

“My wife!”

“If she had any of his honey, then that is what has made her sick, too.”

Mr. Price ran faster up the stairs. He pointed to Mr. Stackpoole’s door. James rushed into the room.

“Oh, hello, Sir James,” Mr. Stackpoole said cheerily as he stirred his tisane. James removed the cup from Mr. Stackpoole’s hands.

“Did you just put the honey in the cup or is it in the pot as well?”

“What? Oh, just the cup.—Why did you take my cup away?”

“This is not regular honey. This is Mad Honey.”

“What? No, it can’t be, my father wouldn’t do that to me.”

“He would if he didn’t want you to meet Mr. Montgomery. He tried to give it to Mr. Montgomery first, but sweets are not allowed at Camden House, so if he couldn’t prevent a meeting by making Mr. Montgomery sick, he would make you sick instead.”

Mr. Stackpoole blinked. “And all the other people who got sick they had some of my honey.”

“Yes. Has any been removed from this jar and put into another jar?” James asked as he poured the contents of the cup into the slops pot.

“No—Yes! I gave some to Mrs. Price yesterday since it goes so well with her tisane.”

James removed the honey jar from the tray. “You should get better now,” he said as he left the room.

“Wait—” Mr. Stackpoole called after him. James didn’t stop. He had to get the rest of the honey from Mrs. Price.

He came down the stairs to encounter Mr. Price coming from their rooms on the ground floor; he held a jar in his hand.

“Is that the honey Stackpoole gave your wife?”

“It is.”

“She didn’t give any to anyone else, did she?”

“She says not. This is really the source of the sickness?” he asked as he handed the jar to James.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever have honey again,” the innkeeper said.

James laughed. “You need to know your sources.”

“Aye.”

Mr. Ramsay watched from his position in the pub.

James carried the jars with him as he returned to the table. He briefly told Mr. Ramsay about the note from Cecilia.

“Ah wonder if Mr. Ratcliffe likes honey,” Mr. Ramsay said.

James laughed. Then he sobered and looked at Mr. Ramsay intently. “My wife’s note told me something else interesting. She said you were at Camden House a year ago to draw up another will for Mr. Montgomery.”

He nodded. “Mr. Montgomery Senior had recently died and made Mr. Ratcliffe the estate guardian, given the supposed death of Malcolm, and Hugh’s young age. It left him as executor of the estate and in control of all of Mrs. Montgomery’s funds. Malcolm dinnae like that. And though he weren’t ready ta coome out as alive because Ratcliffe was doin’ a decent job with the estate—or had been under his father, he dinnae want him ta be the estate guardian and executor should or when he really died. He wanted a separate will that took those rights away from Mr. Ratcliffe. He dinnae trust Ratcliffe not ta do somethin’ ta the detriment of his family when he ultimately passed on.”

“Did Mr. Ratcliffe know about this will?”

“Ah advised against tellin’ Mr. Ratcliffe of its existence; however, ah believe Malcolm told Ratcliffe as a way ta ensure his continued good health.—And Ratcliffe’s good behavior toward his family.”

He paused for a moment and looked uncomfortable. Around them, the pub filled with locals here for the evening. “Can we go ta yer private parlor ta talk?” he asked.

James raised a brow but nodded. “Of course.”

On the way to the stairs, James requested Scottish whisky for them from the barmaid.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Ramsay with a wry half smile. “We may both need it.”

James and Mr. Ramsay settled into armchairs set before the fireplace. The peat fire had been renewed, warming the room. The peat burned with an odd, attractive smell of sweet earth. Outside it continued to rain. The men did not bother with candles or lamps, so they could only see each other in the glow from the hearth before them. They didn’t need to see better.

James held up his whisky glass, swirling the contents and watching the play of light on the rich golden-brown liquor. He seldom drank whisky, yet enjoyed the aroma and its strong, fortifying taste on this rainy night. It seemed to go with the smell of the burning peat.

Mr. Ramsay set his glass on the table between them and steepled his fingertips. “Malcolm was not born with his affliction,” he said.

“I didn’t think so.”

“From what Gregory told me?—”

“One of his ‘others’?” James clarified.

“Aye. Malcolm split into these…these…” He shook his head.

“In speaking to Mrs. Montgomery, we determined to call them ‘others.’ My wife thought it a better term than anything else that might have a negative connotation.”

“Others, aye, ah like that as well. Malcolm split into these ‘others’ when he were about a five years old wean.”

“He told Soothcoor he felt like a split log.”

“Aye. That be an appropriate description, ah suppose. It was his escape, a way ta rune away.”

“What was he running away from?”

“Ah don’t know, but, ah have me guesses.”

“I likened it to the trauma some of our soldiers had when the war ended. Some, to this day, can barely sleep for the war going on in their heads a year after the last battle at Waterloo, or they can’t stand loud noise; they startle easily or can’t relate to others as just some of the results of the war. How do you believe it developed for Mr. Montgomery?”

“Ah hesitate ta conjecture completely. Here are the facts ah know. Then we can discuss conjecture. In 1780, Mr. Montgomery was sent ta India with his regiment, the 73rd Foot. He were a major. They’d been sent ta India ta fight in the Mysore wars. His wife and Malcolm stayed behind at Clandora, their home.

“In 1781 there were a nasty fire that destroyed their estate. Malcolm and his mother went ta live with Mr. Boyd Ratcliffe while their house was rebuilt, and while waitin’ for Major Montgomery ta return hoome. It would be nearly three more years afore Major Montgomery returned ta Scotland and sold his commission. I believe whatever happened ta Malcolm happened while he and his mother lived with Boyd Ratcliffe.”

“Mr. Ratcliffe was not married at this time?”

“Nay. And if ah be followin’ yer thinkin’, you think Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Ratcliffe became lovers.”

“That did cross my mind.”

Mr. Ramsay took a deep breath. “It were rumored in Scotland that they were.”

James nodded, his lips compressed in a tight line.

“Aye. Effter Mr. Montgomery returned, those rumors are what drove Mr. Ratcliffe ta come south ta England.”

“What did Mr. Montgomery think of the rumors?”

“He dinnae believe them. Said he knew his nephew too well. They were close in age, you know.”

“I’d heard that.”

“And his wife projected a great affront ta the suggestion. Mr. Montgomery loved her too much to disbelieve her. But it does make one wonder when after his death she quickly marries Ratcliffe, who fortuitously is a widower himself at that time.”

“You are a man for innuendo.”

Mr. Ramsay shrugged. “These things happened. Malcolm didn’t like ta be around Ratcliffe.”

“Did he never tell his father about his mother and Ratcliffe?”

“Malcolm claimed he didn’t remember much of his time livin’ with Mr. Ratcliffe. He were too afraid ta remember, I’m thinkin’.”

“Odd. Mrs. Montgomery told us they couldn’t get hm to go away to school.”

“That were after Mr. Montgomery returned. Mr. Ratcliffe never said anythin’ about schoolin’ for Malcolm when Malcolm lived wit ‘im. —No. Mr. Montgomery wanted him to go to school and tried every punishment he could think of ta get Malcolm ta do as he said. With regards ta going away from home, or his uncle visitin’, nothing his father said or did had an impact on Malcolm. He was a fair man so eventually he gave up, but he dinnae like havin’ his will thwarted!”