ThePerfectPoison










THIRTY-FOUR

“YOU’RE SURE HE’S DEAD?” LUCINDA ASKED.
“It’s not the sort of condition one is likely to misdiagnose,” Caleb said. There was no emotion whatsoever in his voice.
“Sometimes a state of unconsciousness can mimic death.”
“Trust me, he’s dead, Lucinda. You’ll soon see for yourself.”
They were in her carriage on their way to the scene of the confrontation. A short time ago she had been so relieved to see Caleb walk into the ballroom that it was all she could do not to break down, weeping in relief. But the moment he had reached her side she sensed the volatile energy of violence shimmering in the atmosphere around him.
She knew then that her anxiety throughout the evening had not been a product of her imagination. Caleb had nearly died. It would, she thought, take a long time for her nerves to recover from that shattering realization.
But she was more concerned for Caleb. Something was very wrong. She could feel it. He had just been in a battle for his life, she reminded herself, and he had killed a man. Such things took a terrible toll.
“He said his name was Allister Norcross?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Were you acquainted with him?”
“No.”
“What did you do with the body?”
“I was obliged to leave it in an abandoned building.” He looked out the window into the fog-shrouded night. “There was no choice. It is difficult enough to find a hack or a hansom in that part of town if one happens to be alive. I did not think I’d turn up any drivers willing to accept a dead passenger.”
“Why do you want me to look at the body?” she asked.
“Because you may be able to discern things with your talent that are unclear to me.” He turned back to face her. “I am sorry to put you through this, Lucinda. But I think it is important.”
“I understand.” She pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. She was shivering, not from the chill of the night but in response to the ice-and-fire currents of his aura.
Shute brought the carriage to a halt in an empty street outside a darkened building. Caleb got out first. Lucinda followed quickly.
“Stay here and keep watch,” Caleb said to Shute.
“Aye, sir,” Shute said. “Here, you’ll be wanting the lantern.”
Caleb took the lantern and lit it. The splash of fiery light turned his eyes into pools of fathomless shadow. Another chill went through Lucinda. The sense of wrongness deepened.
Without a word, Caleb turned and led the way down a narrow alley. He stopped at a door and pushed it inward. She collected her nerve and her senses the way she always did when she knew she was about to encounter death and moved cautiously into the room.
So much for the possibility that Norcross might be in a coma. There was no question but that the man on the floor was dead.
“Do you recognize him?” Caleb asked.
“No.”
“He is not a botanist or a scientist you might have met? Perhaps at a lecture or a talk? Someone your father knew?”
She shook her head. “I do not know him, Caleb.”
“What can you tell me about his death?”
She looked up, startled by the question. “You said you killed him.”
“Yes.”
“I . . . assumed you used your gun,” she said hesitantly.
“No.”
“A knife?”
“Take a good look, Lucinda,” he said very softly. “There is no blood.”
Reluctantly she went closer to the body. “Perhaps he struck his head in the course of the struggle?”
“No,” he said again in that same flat and deadly tone.
Cautiously she opened herself fully to the psychical residue that clung to the body. At once the lingering energy of strange and dangerous herbs splashed across her senses. She sucked in a sharp breath and took a step back.
“What is it?” Caleb asked.
“There is poison here,” she said quietly. “But it is unlike anything I have ever encountered. It is definitely of a psychical nature, however, and would have affected this man’s talent in unpredictable ways. It is highly corrosive in its effects, destroying even as it temporarily intensifies the senses.”
“The founder’s formula.” Caleb sounded very certain. “He said Hulsey gave him a new, improved version this afternoon.”
“I can assure you that if you had not killed him, the drug would have. And quite soon, I think.”
He took out a handkerchief and crouched beside Norcross. His hands were protected by his leather gloves but he used the square of heavy linen to remove a small object from the dead man’s coat.
The lantern light gleamed on an elegant gold snuffbox decorated with a triangle fashioned of small green stones.
“He used snuff?” She frowned. “I did not sense any tobacco on him.”
“There is a powder inside this box. I think it is the drug.”
She adjusted her eyeglasses and peered more closely at the lid of the box. “Those look like emeralds.”
“I’m sure they are.” Caleb studied the snuffbox as though it were a tiny explosive device. “The design itself is alchemical, the symbol for fire.”
She heightened her senses again.
“Whatever is inside that snuffbox contains the ingredients in the poison that the dead man was taking,” she said.
“Is it safe to handle the box?”
“Yes. I very much doubt that merely coming into contact with the powder would have any serious or lasting effects. One would have to inhale at least a dose or two before it began to affect the psychical senses in a permanent manner. Initially, at least, the effect would actually be quite stimulating. The victim would no doubt think that the drug was heightening his powers.”
“When, in fact, it was killing him.”
“Yes.” She hesitated, trying to judge the lethal essence of the powder. “A strong young man like Norcross might last as long as three or four days at most. An older or weaker one would succumb more quickly.”
Caleb contemplated the tiny emerald-and-gold object. “How do you suggest we destroy the powder inside that box?”
“Almost anything will render it harmless. I can sense that the composition of the formula is extremely fragile and unstable. An acidic substance such as vinegar will destroy its power. So would alcohol or strong spirits. Heat would also disrupt its harmful properties.”
“What would happen if one ate it?”
“Very little, I should think. The digestive process would destabilize it. But I would not suggest ingesting it.”
“I wasn’t planning to do so.” Caleb wrapped the snuffbox very carefully in the handkerchief and got to his feet. “I will get rid of this as soon as possible.”
She looked at Norcross. “What of him?”
“I will notify Inspector Spellar. He will deal with it.”
“But how will you explain the manner of death?”
“That is Spellar’s problem, not mine.” Caleb scooped up the lantern. “Which is fortunate, under the circumstances.”
She followed him toward the door. “I can understand that you do not wish to be involved in a murder investigation but it was, after all, a matter of self-defense.”
“That is not the problem, Lucinda.”
“What do you mean?”
“The problem is that I do not know how I killed that man.”