Tiffany sighed and took a bite of the oat porridge. It was better than she feared. It had been seasoned with sausage grease and sprinkled with parsley. The sage tea had the usual slightly bitter, spicy flavor, but it went well enough with the porridge. She set the bread and apple aside for later.
When she had finished, Emily took her bowl and spoon away to be washed. Likely, there were not enough utensils for everyone to have their own.
“I’ll look for a newspaper, an’ maybe some paper and some kinda writin’ stuff,” Emily promised. “Doubt I’ll find such a thing as a book, but you never know.”
“Thank you,” Tiffany said gratefully. “It will give me something to do besides stitch and worry.”
Tiffany stitched away on the work Emily had brought, and tried to keep her mind as blank as possible.
I must not worry too much. I will put myself into a frenzy with nowhere to spend the energy. I do wish I knew how Percival is doing. Who could have done such a horrible thing to him?
Tiffany finished the work that had been brought to her shortly before the second candle had begun to sputter down into a puddle of wax. Folding the work neatly, Tiffany nibbled away the dry bread and ate the apple down to the core. Then, making sure she could easily locate the third candle Emily had brought to her, Tiffany snuffed the candle and lay down in the darkness. No need to burn a candle when she had no work that required a light.
Slowly she played back the events at the manor house in the evening. Sophie had delivered the message. Sophie had been glad to tell everyone that Tiffany was likely to be the guilty party because it was her father’s old knife that was found in Lord Northbury’s back. Could Sophie have done the deed?
It didn’t seem likely. Percival was not a robust man, but neither was he a weakling. He was more likely to play cards or chess with his friends than to practice at swords, but he did go to his club twice a week, as well as riding when the weather was fine. This she knew from changes in the household routine.
More than that, even Sophie, as cross-grained and gossipy as she could be, acknowledged that Northbury Manor was a good place to work. Why would she have harmed Percival?
She pictured the scene again in her mind—Percival slumped over the desk, the hilt of the knife sticking out of his back, the hasp cover nearly bent shut over the wound. She thought about that angle again.
“Someone,” she said aloud, “Miscalculated when they used my father’s old clasp knife. I think it folded shut when they struck the blow. Could that have made the blade slide across his back instead of into it?”
She thought about that some more. Then she replayed the last day they had spent together. Oh, if only she were some great lady and could be wed to her wonderful gentleman. But that was about as likely as fish were to fly.
Tears leaked from her eyes, and she brushed them away angrily. It would do no one any good at all for her to behave so mawkishly.
She rolled over onto her side, and for want of anything better to do, fell asleep in the empty dark.
Chapter 34
Dr. Hardwick tut-tutted over the swollen bruise at the back of Percival’s head. “That’s a wisty blow,” he observed. “You are fortunate that whoever struck it doesn’t seem to have gotten a good shot at it. Whatever it was, the instrument was long and narrow, and I believe it was made of wood.”
“Why do you think that?” Mrs. Twitchel asked as she set the basket of bandages down on a small table.
“Well, Madam,” Dr. Hardwick said, “If you will observe, the blow struck across the base of the skull just above the neck. From the bruising, the person was standing to Lord Northbury’s left, and the object impacted him slantwise, as if the person was a little shorter than the Marquess.”
“I can see that. But why do you think it was made of wood?”
“Metal would have done more damage, ceramic or glass would have broken and left shards in the wound.”
“But what about the stab wound?” McClellan asked.
“You say that he was found slumped over his desk?” Dr. Hardwick asked.
McClellan nodded.
“Well, whoever it was that struck the blow must have thought they could go between the ribs and into the heart from behind. But for whatever reason, the blade skimmed along the top of the ribs, across his back, into his shoulder, making a long cut in skin and muscle. I have no doubt that it produced a lot of blood, but His Lordship was never in danger from this wound.”
“I am overjoyed to know the relative severity of my injuries,” Percival said somewhat bitterly. “But must you all speak over me as if I were an invalid or a corpse?”
“You are a very lively corpse, My Lord,” Dr. Hardwick said heartily. “I’ve sent men back onto the battlefield with worse, although I daresay that you will have an abominable headache for several days and that the shoulder wound will be as sore as a boil.”
“That’s an extremely interesting way you have of comforting your patient,” Percival observed.
“Well, I do not usually have to worry about placating my patients,” the surgeon commented. “They are, in the ordinary way of things, usually in danger of bleeding out or they are running a dashed high fever. My fees are modest, but the indigent rarely seek help until there is no other choice.”
“I do wish to discuss the procedures the previous physician wished to carry out,” Smithers put in. “Just in case there might have been a reason for them.”
