Page 44 of Redemption for the Baron

Grenville took a step forward. “Doctor?”

Dr. Manning straightened, rubbing his chin in thought. “The wound is small, precise. Not a deep cut but placed with intent.” He leaned down again, inhaling briefly before his expression turned grim. “And there is… a smell.”

Barrington frowned. “A smell?”

Dr. Manning gave a sharp nod. “It is faint, but unmistakable. Belladonna.”

A hush fell over the room.

Judge Scofield, who had been silent until now, stiffened. “Belladonna? Are you saying he was poisoned?”

Dr. Manning exhaled slowly, his voice firm. “Yes. But not in the way you might expect.” He turned to the others. “A blade, dipped in belladonna, delivered the fatal dose directly into his bloodstream. The poison would have acted swiftly, his pupils show classic signs of belladonna poisoning.” He gestured toward the slight rigidity in Alastair’s fingers. “Muscle paralysis wouldhave set in almost instantly. He wouldn’t even have time to cry out.”

“The magistrate at Bamburgh Castle should be notified,” Scofield said. “I’ll leave at once.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode briskly from the icehouse, the door creaking shut behind him.

Bridget’s stomach twisted. A stab wound alone could have killed him, but this? This was something else. This was deliberate, insidious.

Grenville’s voice was quiet but cold. “He was lost the moment the blade struck.”

Dr. Manning nodded. “Precisely.” He stepped back from the body, glancing between them. “Whoever did this was skilled. They knew that even a small wound, if laced with the right poison, would be just as deadly as a sword to the heart.”

“Then the fall was a ruse,” Townsend restated. “Whoever did this wanted us to believe it was an accident.”

Grenville exhaled slowly. “And they nearly succeeded.”

Bridget stared down at Alastair’s still face, a deep unease settling within her. She found it all difficult to believe. The wound, the poison, the deception, this was no crime of passion or momentary rage. This had been planned. Carefully. Methodically.

She turned to Grenville. “I had hoped we were wrong. This was more than murder. It was an execution. What do we do?”

Grenville briefly met her gaze, and for once, he did not argue. “We find his executioner.”

Bridget inhaled, steadying herself. “And whoever did this… is still here.”

The gravity of her words settled over them like a storm rolling in.

Dr. Manning turned back to his grim work, his voice low as he spoke to Judge Scofield. The conversation drifted beyondBridget’s awareness, a steady hum of duty and procedure, necessary, but not something she could bear to hear.

The walls of the icehouse seemed to close in, the air too heavy, too thick with the scent of cold stone and death. She had seen enough.

Bridget stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, though no one stopped her.

Slipping out, she moved through the dim corridors of the manor, each step precise, though her thoughts raced ahead. The hush of the house was deafening, thick with uncertainty and suspicion. Each guest was now a potential killer.

Scofield had already departed for Bamburgh Castle. His absence, though reasonable, left the household in an uneasy limbo, and not everyone believed it was wise.

At last, she reached the quiet sanctuary of her room. The moment the door shut behind her, she released a slow breath and crossed to the window.

Now, she sat staring out over the estate, the landscape stretching before her in eerie stillness.

The chase had been for sport. But the real hunt had only just begun.

*

Catriona stood bythe wardrobe, carefully folding one of Bridget’s shawls. The mood was subdued, but the silence was overwhelming.

“What’s the gossip below stairs?” Bridget asked lightly.

Catriona turned with a small smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Oh, the usual sort. The scullery maid’s got her eye on the new footman, but he’s too green to notice. And everyone’s fretting over Lady Marjory. They say she hasn’t been eating much.”

---