Page 36 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Perfectly timing his entrance, Honeycutt arrived with the supper announcement, forestalling any further conversation, inane or otherwise.
The dining room at Rosehaven was aglow with soft candlelight, each flame mirrored in the cut glass of decanters and polished silver. The long table gleamed beneath a crisp white cloth, while the scent of roast duck, winter vegetables, and warm bread clung to the air.
Dr. Vale was seated to my right. Cosmos had arranged the seating, naturally, ensuring his guest would be flanked by willing conversation and no escape. Chrissie, seated on my left, looked faintly resigned as she reached for her wine glass. Cosmos, naturally, was in high spirits, eager to showcase the guest he’d brought into our world.
We began with polite exchanges—the weather, the difficulties of maintaining a greenhouse in the English climate, and the recent lecture at the Royal Botanic Gardens. Dr. Vale responded with quiet eloquence, offering insights without arrogance. Still, there was a precision in his speech, a deliberateness that caught my attention.
After the soup had been cleared, I turned to Dr. Vale with polite curiosity. “And what area of study currently holds your focus?”
He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and replied, “Papaver somniferum. The opium poppy.”
Chrissie froze mid-sip.
“Ah,” I said mildly, “not a topic one hears over dinner every day.”
“True,” he allowed. “But it’s one of the oldest cultivated plants in human history. Revered by the Greeks, traded by the Ottomans, and now, of course, heavily employed by our own chemists and apothecaries.”
Cosmos leaned in. “He’s just published a paper on its alkaloids. Morphine, codeine—remarkable compounds.”
“It’s remarkable,” Chrissie murmured, “that anyone survives childhood with what’s sold in London apothecaries. Laudanum, Godfrey’s Cordial, Mother Bailey’s Quieting Syrup—all laced with opium, and handed out like barley sugar, all administered to children without a second thought.”
Dr. Vale’s smile was faint but not without humor. “Laudanum, in particular, is a fascination of mine. Itsformulation is as much alchemy as science—equal parts pain relief and dependence.”
I folded my hands on my lap. “Do you consider it a dangerous drug?”
“I consider it a powerful one,” he said. “Like all medicines, it can heal or harm depending on the hand that administers it. The real danger, Lady Rosalynd, lies in ignorance—patients who dose too freely, physicians who prescribe too carelessly, governments who profit too eagerly.”
His eyes found mine then. Cool, clear, and steady.
“Have you studied its social effects?” I asked, voice level. “Among the poor, the sick, the addicted?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “And among the aristocracy, who suffer no fewer vices—only better packaging.”
The room grew quiet.
Cosmos cleared his throat and attempted to steer the conversation toward botanical cultivation in China, but the mood had shifted.
I sipped my wine, never taking my eyes off Dr. Vale.
A man who knew the power of a plant to dull pain, cloud the mind, or control a body. And who chose to study that power with deliberate fascination.
The footman arrived with the next course, breaking the tension like a blade tapping crystal.
Once the meal was done, the gentlemen remained to linger over port. I excused myself and retreated to the drawing room, Chrissie trailing behind with a dramatic sigh of relief.
“He's not dreadful,” she said, sinking onto the settee. “But if he uses the word alkaloid one more time, I may fling myself into the fire.”
I smiled faintly. “He’s intelligent. Perhaps too intelligent.”
“He’s the sort of man who names all his houseplants in Latin.”
“Cosmos does that.”
“Yes, but we’re related to him. There’s no helping it.”
We both laughed softly, and the warmth of it smoothed the edges of the evening. Before long, the gentlemen joined us. Vale entered behind Cosmos, glass still in hand, eyes alert beneath the glint of his spectacles.
I rose as he approached me.
