“You remember the conversation that we had those weeks ago, in the church?” I said to her.
She nodded.
“Well, you were right, and I was wrong,” I answered, “but never mind that now.
I have suspicious of worse beside, but I must have final proof.
I think she has tried to poison me, and that she did the same to Ambrose.”
Louise said nothing.
Her eyes widened in horror.
“It does not matter now how I discovered it,” I said, “but the clue may lie in a letter from that man Rainaldi.
I am going to search her bureau here, to find it.
You learned a smattering of Italian, with your French.
Between us, we can reach some translation.”
Already I was looking through the bureau, more thoroughly than I was able to do the night before by candlelight.
“Why did you not warn my father?” said Louise.
“If she is guilty, he could accuse her with greater force than you?”
“I must have proof,” I answered her.
Here were papers, envelopes, stacked neatly in a pile.
Here were receipts and bills that might have alarmed my godfather had he seen them but meant little to me, in my fever to discover what I sought.
I tried again the little drawer that held the packet.
This time it was not locked.
I pulled it open, and the drawer was empty.
The envelope had gone.
This might be an added proof, but my tisana had been poured away.
I went on opening the drawers, and Louise stood beside me, her brows knit with anxiety.
“You should have waited,” she said. “It is not wise. You should have waited for my father, who could take legal action.
What you are doing now is what anyone might do, a common thief.”
“Life and death,” I said, “do not wait for legal action.
Here, what is this?”
I tossed her a long paper, with names upon it.
Some of them in English, some Latin, some Italian.
“I am not sure,” she answered, “but I think it is a list of plants, and herbs.
The writing is not clear.”
She puzzled over it, as I turned out the drawers.
“Yes,” she said, “these must be her herbs and remedies.
But the second sheet is in English, and would seem to be notes on the propagation of plants; species after species, dozens of them.”
“Look for laburnum,” I said.
Her eyes held mine an instant, in sudden understanding.
Then she looked down once more to the page she held in her hands.
“Yes, it is here,” she said, “but it tells you nothing.”
I tore it from her hands and read, where her finger pointed. “Laburnum Cytisus. A native of south Europe. These plants are all capable of being increased by seeds, and many of them by cuttings and layers. In the first mode, the seeds should be sown, either in beds or where the plants are to remain. In spring, as about March, and when of sufficient growth, transplanted into nursery rows, to remain till of a proper size for being planted in the situations where they are to grow.”
Beneath was an added note of the source from where she had taken the information: The New Botanic Garden.
Printed for John Stockdale and Company, by T.
Bousley, Bold Court. Fleet Street. 1812.
“There is nothing here about poison,” said Louise.
I continued searching the desk.
I found a letter from the bank. I recognized the handwriting of Mr. Couch. Ruthless and careless now, I opened it.
“Dear Madam, We thank you for the return of the Ashley collection of jewels, which, according to your instruction, as you are shortly to leave the country, will remain with us in custody until such time as your heir, Mr. Philip Ashley, may take possession of them.
Yours faithfully, HERBERT COUCH.”
I put the letter back, in sudden anguish.
Whatever Rainaldi’s influence, some impulse of her own directed this action.
There was nothing else of any matter.