Reluctantly, Celeste withdrew to the door, where she was met by Miss Sedgewick and Betty. Miss Sedgewick, in an unusual gesture of sympathy held her hands out to the two younger women, squeezing them gently. They dropped hands after a moment, and stood quietly, waiting.
There is a quality of waiting when someone well-loved is ill and their loved ones are shut out of the sickroom. It is like a weight that presses down over every square inch of the skin. It seems unreal, as if the world were painted with a gray wash. It is a time of no words, because words can become sobs, and sobs can be heard by the beloved.
It was in this sort of time that the three of them waited to see if the men who tended the Duke would be able to save him. As they stood waiting, there came the sound of running feet, and the potboy from the kitchen came barreling toward them, his eyes wide with terror.
Chapter 48
Mr. McAhmladhson alternately swore and prayed as they worked over the Duke. The Duke’s breath was fast and harsh, his heart was racing. Gran’ther Tim brought out a soft brush that he ran over the Duke’s skin to remove the tiny fragments of herb.
“A tepid bath,” Gran’ther Tim called over his shoulder. “As soon as we have all the bits off him.”
“And a kettle of hot water and a tea strainer,” added one of the tall young men.
“What is your plan?” asked Dr. Dermott.
The young man replied, “As soon as we have all the discernable bits off him, we will wash him in a tepid bath with strong soap. Meanwhile, I will make a tisane of foxglove to stimulate his heart.”
“Stimulate?” the older doctor snapped. “It is racing now. I would not think…”
“There was a case in my village,” the young doctor replied. “In fact, it is the reason my people scraped together the money for me to go to medical school. The lad brushed against some monkshood growing in a hedgerow. We calmed his heart, and he was dead within minutes. There is no known antidote for aconite, otherwise known as wolfsbane or monkshood. It is so deadly that just brushing against it can poison a grown man within hours if it is not washed away.”
“Will he live?” Mr. McAhmladhson asked anxiously.
“That is our hope, and what we strive for. But in truth, it is in God’s hands whether we can save him or not.”
“In God’s hands and in the strength of the herbs. Where did his killer get so much of the stuff?” Inspector Ravensgard asked.
“From the orangery,” Gran’ther Tim said grimly. “We grow it in the poison room. It was one of the reasons that I only allowed Sister Agatha and Father Jacob to help with that part of the orangery. Some of the apothecaries in Edinburgh pay very well for it. Ratters sometimes use small amounts of it in their poisons. But it is always handled very carefully. As you know, the orangery was broken into yesterday, and all of our supplies of poisons stolen.”
Inspector Ravensgard frowned. “I truly question the wisdom of growing such stuff so near a population center.”
Sister Agatha said, “There are many potent herbs that, in the right hands, are powerful medicines. But in the wrong hands . . .”
“In the wrong hands, quite deadly,” said the tall young man. “Shave his head. We cannot chance that bits of herb are caught in his hair, ready to become a deadly tea in his bath.”
“I can do that,” the older doctor volunteered. “Sad though it might be to state, I received my training when surgeon and barber were often synonymous.” So saying, he produced a pair of scissors and a straight razor from his bag, and quickly divested the Duke of his soft, brown locks.
Having done the best they could to remove the bits of herb from the Duke’s skin, they eased him into the tepid bath, and began to scrub him mercilessly. The Duke’s eyes were wild, and once he cried out, a wordless protest against the indignities of medical science.
“It is all right, Jonathan,” Mr. McAhmladhson said gently, “I am here. We do only what is needful to save your life.”
The Duke lifted his good hand feebly, and clutched at his friend. Mr. McAhmladhson grasped the flailing hand and held it tightly.
“A good sign!” cried the young man. “Keep scrubbing gentlemen! Now, then, let’s have him out of the bath and dry him off.”
“Stop! Stop!” a young voice yelled out. “The towels, the linens . . .”
Everyone paused to look at the young potboy who often helped the cook. Celeste stood in the doorway behind him, her eyes wide. “The towels, sheets, tablecloths, all full of the filthy stuff. The cook found dead rats and mice in the linen cupboards. Those little red and white dogs made him look, cause they were barking and carrying on in front of the kitchen linen closet.”
“How then can we dry him?” asked the older doctor in stunned bewilderment.
Celeste said, “Take the sheets off my bed, or off any bed where folk have slept the night safely.”
“I’ll get them!” shouted the boy, caught up in the moment. He dashed out the door and down the hall.
Conscious of Celeste’s presence in the room and the Duke’s feeble pressure on his hand, Mr. McAhmladhson took off his coat and wrapped it around the Duke.
Although it seemed like hours, in short order the boy was back with an armload of variously scented sheets. “This is the cook’s pallet from the kitchen. Says he can be sure that it ain’t got no nasty herbs in it, since he is just out of it scarce an hour ago.”
