“Starved.”
“Good.” Within minutes, she had a hot plate of sausage, fruit, and blueberry-jam toast before him. He tried to eat slowly. He was hungry enough to ravish everything in two minutes flat. “I spoke with those who knew Elisabeth.”
He’d updated Mrs. Musgrave on what he’d found in the registry the day he visited the church. She’d shaken her head, dubious that the two had any connection.
“She died like your husband. While Mr. Foxcroft was still in the room.” She perked. “Then it is true.”
“We dinnae know anything for sure.”
“Tommy—”
“I’ve known Mr. Foxcroft a long time.” His hunger dwindled. “I’m not saying he did this. Only that someone thinks he did.”
“But you will not consider the possibility yourself.”
“He would not do this.”
“He did.”
“What makes ye so sure?” Tom pushed his chair away from the table, a fume of anger traveling through him. “Last time we spoke, ye had as many questions as me.”
“I still do, dear. I do not mean to be unkind.” She sighed and sat in the chair across him. “You remember the day you discovered me in Dr. Bagot’s chamber at the inn? I was not there to give him treats as you presumed. I wanted to speak with him. I wanted to find out if what happened to Elias was accidental or deliberate.”
“He was gone.”
“Yes. So I wrote to him instead.” She hesitated. “The letter came two days ago. Without a body to examine and more knowledge of whatever was ailing my husband, his answer was inconclusive. But he did think it strange. That it should happen there, with Mr. Foxcroft, and without warning.”
The taste of blueberries soured in Tom’s mouth. He came to his feet. “I need ye to keep Joanie a wee bit longer. I’ve someone to speak with. Someone who knew Elisabeth.”
“We have so little idea who all Mr. Foxcroft might have hurt. Is it not too hopeful, my dear, to think a loved one of this unfortunate woman might be whom we seek?”
“Aye. Maybe.” Tom gripped the back of the chair with frustration. He wanted to curse. “But it’s all we have.”
There. She’d found him.
Meg stepped through the kitchen and leaned into the adjoining stillroom doorway. The small, mustard-colored room was crowded with a brick oven, two tables, and a pottery still. Various dried flowers hung from a board attached to the ceiling, and their strong floral scents sent a flicker of familiarity through her body.
Which was impossible.
She’d never been down here in her life.
“Took a look at the medicine cabinet.” Uncle did not so much as look up as he stuffed dried chamomile into a jar. “Missing some tinctures.”
“That is generous of you. I am certain Lord Cunningham shall appreciate you refilling his stock.”
“Get a stool.”
“Pardon?”
“You need to know these things.”
“Oh.” She smiled, but finding no stool, cleared off a space on the table and pushed herself up. She watched with mild interest as her uncle poured alcohol into the jar, crushed the flowers, shook it, then screwed on the lid.
“Needs to sit.”
“How long?”
“Couple fortnights.” He lumbered across the room and slid the jar onto a shelf. She wasn’t sure it belonged there among what appeared to be a stock of freshly cut soaps, but she did not argue. “Still need clove essence. Case of any toothaches.”
