The Untamed MacKenzie

“Traces of prussic acid were found on the broken pieces of teacup the bishop held. None in Louisa’s.” That had been a great relief. Even if she’d drunk from her cup, Louisa would have been safe.

On the other hand, the fact that she’d by chance chosen the innocent cup woke Fellows up at night cold with fear. What was to say the poison hadn’t been meant for Louisa in truth? Perhaps Hargate had poisoned the cup himself then drunk the wrong one by accident. Or had there been no target—only a madman waiting to see which guest dropped dead?

Either way, Louisa had survived a close call. Fellows, who hadn’t prayed since he’d been a boy and forced to church on occasion, had sent up true thanks to God for that.

“No poison in the teapot, then?” Eleanor asked.

“None. In the bishop’s teacup only.” Fellows took a sip of coffee, which was rich and full, the best in the world. Of course it was. “Lady Louisa, since you are here, I’d like you to tell me—think carefully—why you picked up that particular cup to hand to the bishop.”

Louisa lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “It was the easiest to reach.” Her voice was tight, as though she hadn’t used it for some time and hoped she wouldn’t have to. “A clean one, placed on a tray. I had to reach all the way across the table for one for me. I poured Hargate’s first, to be polite.”

“So, if Hargate had gone into the tea tent alone, or someone else had, and wanted tea, they’d have reached first for that cup?”

“Yes. It would have been natural.” Louisa paled a little. “How horrible.”

“Deliberately killing another person so cold-bloodedly and letting an innocent receive the blame, that is horrible, yes.” And too close to home. Fellows wanted the man—or woman—who’d done this. He’d explain to them, slowly and thoroughly, how they’d enraged him, and what that would mean for them.

He turned to Eleanor, who’d listened to all this with interest in her blue eyes. “I’ve come to ask you, Eleanor, to tell me about Hargate. I want to know who were his friends, his enemies, and why someone would want to poison him.”

“So you are taking the assumption that he was indeed the target?” Eleanor asked.

“In a murder like this, even if it seems arbitrary, malice is usually directed at one person in particular,” Fellows said. “If the killer wanted to cause chaos and much harm, he’d have poisoned the entire pot, or all the cups. Not just one, for one person alone.”

Louisa shivered. “Gruesome.”

“The world is a gruesome place,” Fellows said to her. He wanted to shove aside his coffee, go to Louisa, sit next to her, put his arms around her, and hold her until her shaking stopped. “It never will be safe, as much as we tell ourselves we can control danger or even hide from it.”

Louisa looked back at him, her green eyes holding an equal mixture of fear and anger. He liked seeing the anger, which meant she hadn’t yet been broken by this ordeal. But there would be much more to come. Fellows longed to comfort her, to shield her from the horrors, to kiss her hair and tell her he’d make everything all right for her. But at the moment, he was trapped into being the good policeman, with no business wanting to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

He made himself drag his gaze from Louisa and continue. “Now, Eleanor, tell me about Hargate.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “What information can I give you? Louisa knew him much better than I did. She’ll have to answer.”

Louisa shot her a look that would have burned a lesser woman. Eleanor sipped tea and paid no attention.

“I didn’t know him all that well,” Louisa said, when it was clear Eleanor would say nothing more. “He was ambitious and became a bishop rather young, and he had family connections that helped him. But everyone knows this.”

“He was charming too,” Eleanor said. “At least, some people thought so. I never found him to be, but I’m told he had a persuasive way about him. He charmed his way into every living he held, apparently. The only person who ever blocked him was Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, and he and Hargate had words over it.”

So had every single person Fellows interviewed told him; they’d told him as well that Earl Scranton had later taken much of Hargate’s money in fraudulent schemes.

“Why did your father cause problems for him over the living?” Fellows asked Louisa.

Louisa shrugged, looking past him and out the window. “Father didn’t approve of young men getting above themselves. The living at Scranton is quite prosperous, and Hargate wanted it. He was the Honorable Frederick Lane then. My father didn’t like him and didn’t want him to be the local vicar. He found Hargate foppish, and said he preferred an older clergyman.”

“Simple as that?” Fellows asked.

“As simple as that.” Louisa looked at him again, her eyes green like polished jade. “Hargate was angry, of course, but once he began his rise to power, he forgave my father. Well, he said, rather deprecatingly, that taking my father’s church would have held him back, so it was all for the best.”

“Forgave him enough to let your father invest money for him?” Fellows asked.

Louisa’s smile was thin and forced. “Investing with my father became the fashionable thing to do. Everyone wanted to say they’d of course entrusted their money to Earl Scranton.”

All the worse when the scheme came tumbling down. “And Hargate was angry when everything fell apart?”