But Fletcher was unconvinced.
“With all due respect to Dr. Wentworth, Your Grace, he doesn’t spend nearly as much time on this estate as either you or I. Understandably, you did not often have a reason to interact with Timothy while he was yet with us—”
“True, but I do remember handing him a basket of fruit as an expression of my gratitude for his hard work during the night of the dinner party.”
“That’s right, Your Grace.” Fletcher continued, “And please accept my humblest apology, I did not mean to imply anything negative about your professional connection to Timothy.”
“I am simply trying to explain that I happened to spend quite some time with the boy due to the nature of my role in this household. So would it be fair to say that I knew him somewhat better than you did, Your Grace?”
Anthony acknowledged that this was a justified point.
Fletcher asked if he could drink some water before proceeding. He downed an entire glass before speaking again.
“Your Grace, the day after the dinner party, Timothy gave me the grapes from the fruit basket you gave him.”
“He explained to me that for as long as her could remember, grapes had never agreed with him. Whenever he ate even just a handful, he would suffer from rashes and a sudden difficulty in his breathing. So I accepted the grapes from him with gratitude.”
Completely bewildered by this seemingly insignificant anecdote, Anthony crossly asked, “That was a very nice thing of him to do, Fletcher, but I am failing to see the point.”
“Your Grace, Timothy avoided grapes in all their forms, including wines. Yet on the morning he died, I spotted what I initially thought was a drop of blood on his shirt but turned out to be a drop of wine.”
“I know this for if it was blood, it would have turned brown within a few hours. But since it was wine, it maintained its pinkish hue. I myself have often washed out wine stains during the days of my young adulthood. So I am most certain that it was wine on young Timothy’s shirt.”
Anthony had never seen Fletcher look so distraught. Even on the night when Anthony almost fired Fletcher for lying about Meredith’s personal and educational background—that night felt ages away now—Fletcher had still managed to remain totally calm. And now here he was, white as a sheet.
“Fletcher, have you considered the possibility that perhaps Timothy’s seizure was brought on by his taking of wine, despite knowing his body was intolerant towards it?”
“Ihaveconsidered it, Your Grace. But such actions would be completely incongruent with Timothy’s character. He had strong control over himself and never so much as craved wine. I can vouch for that fact.”
Anthony felt his leg start bouncing up and down.
“Fletcher, are you aware that what you are insinuating is quite sinister?”
“Yes, Your Grace. But I have conducted a discreet investigation of my own and I have determined that my suspicions are not without cause.”
Each of Fletcher’s words only increased Anthony’s anxiety. For one thing, Fletcher had a good instinct and intuition about him. More often than not, his suspicions were spot-on. So if he suspected that something sinister had happened to ill-fated Timothy that night, then there was a high chance that he was right.
Anthony dreaded what Fletcher would say next, but he had no choice but to ask. He needed to know as much as possible in order to keep his staff, but more importantly Cecilia and Meredith, safe.
“And what did you find out, Fletcher?”
“I learned that Timothy used to frequent the stables and play cards with the some of the helper boys there. According to Mr. Reeves—who often tends to the hedges near the stables—Timothy loved to play, but was quite bad at it. Apparently, he owed one or two of the boys quite a bit of money.”
Suddenly feeling very hot, Anthony stood up and began pacing around the room.
“And Mr. Reeves is certain about this?”
“Yes, Your Grace. And Mr. Hawkins did confirm to me that Timothy spent a lot of time in the stables. However, he had no idea that the boys were placing bets on their games.”
“I don’t know, Fletcher. Would those young boys really murder a friend for the sake of some unpaid gambling debts?”
Fletcher threw up his hands, “Likely not, Your Grace. But perhaps they hadn’t intended to kill him. Perhaps forced him to drink some wine as punishment because they had underestimated the effects it would have on him. And then when his seizure proved fatal, they could have carried him back to his bed and acted as though they knew nothing.”
“I know that this is mainly conjecture at the moment, Your Grace. But I have a gut-wrenching feeling that something is very wrong in this house.”
Anthony sighed. “If I didn’t know you any better, Fletcher, I would say you were being overly superstitious.”
He resumed his pacing.
