Page 15 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"I presume, my lord," he replied—very slowly, as though he thought Ivo somewhat lacking in brains, "That you will have to arrange a funeral."
"I meant, what should we do next about the poisoning?" Ivo answered, his temper rather frayed, "We must inform the local constable and begin an investigation."
To Ivo's surprise, the doctor's lips began to twitch under his moustache, as though he was suppressing the urge to laugh.
"Of course," he said hastily, as he spotted Ivo's quelling glare, "I shall inform him at once. I will leave now, if that is acceptable to you, my lord; you are more in need of a gravedigger than a doctor at this point."
"Of course," Ivo nodded his head, and stepped aside so that the doctor could pass him.
Once Dr Bates had left, Ivo walked the perimeter of the bedchamber, on the lookout for anything suspicious. A most difficult task, when he had never set foot in the room.
"My lord?" Newman interrupted his search, his voice holding a tone of censure. "Might I ask what you are about? While I do not think you the murderer, it is still rather unseemly for you to be poking about in Lord Crabb's things."
"I am looking to see if anything is out of place," Ivo grumbled in return, as he checked the sash windows to see if they were locked—which they were. The room was furnished in a spartan manner, containing only an old four-poster bed—its small size more suited to a lord of the middle ages—a washstand and basin, and a bedside table. Ivo sauntered over to the table and opened the drawer to see what was inside.
"Perhaps there is someone else more suited to that task?" Newman suggested, his tone pained as he watched Ivo rummage through Lord Crabb's things. "Like Mr Harold, the viscount's valet."
Ivo agreed, and Newman left to find Mr Harold, returning a few minutes later, with a stooped-back man of about ninety years.
"My lord," Mr Harold greeted Ivo with a slight bow—accompanied by the sound of cracking bones as he bent his spine.
"Mr Harold," Ivo, who had expected a much younger man, was forced to soften his tone—though he did have to raise his voice for the benefit of the valet's aged ears.
"I wish to know if you noticed anything amiss, when you came to wake Lord Crabb this morning?"
Mr Harold shook his head, his rheumy eyes distant as he envisioned the scene that he had encountered that morning.
"No unusual plates of food?" Ivo pressed, but again the valet shook his head.
"What about these bottles?" Ivo pointed to the open drawer of the bedside table, where several empty amber-glass bottles were stored, "What are these?"
"Lord Crabb's tonic, my lord," Mr Harold replied, "He drank half a bottle a night since he was a young man."
"Do you think it's possible the bottle was contaminated?" Ivo mused aloud, but Mr Harold shook his head.
"No, my lord. For he drank the second half of the bottle last night, and if it was contaminated, he would surely have died the night before last?"
A dead end, Ivo thought, annoyed that his one avenue of investigation had been cut short so soon.
"Did you help his lordship dress for bed?" Ivo asked, as a sudden suspicion had overcome him. Allen had told the world that Ivo had been the last person to see Lord Crabb alive, but that might not be the case after all. Mr Harold had most likely dressed the late viscount for bed, and knew that he would be drinking the second half of his tonic—it was entirely possible that he had perpetrated the murder.
"Of course I did, my lord," the valet looked surprised to be asked such a question, "As I have done every night, for the past five and sixty years."
Though Mr Harold presented a rather pitiful figure—a man long past good health, let alone his prime—his closeness to Lord Crabb necessitated that Ivo regard him with suspicion.
"Had you any reason to wish Lord Crabb dead, Mr Harold?" Ivo questioned bluntly, eliciting a gasp from Newman.
"Wish his lordship dead?" Mr Harold's lip wobbled, "I've been living in fear of him dying before me since 1795."
"That's a rather exact date."
"It's the year that I upset his lordship by accidentally ruining one of his wigs," Harold explained, with a slight catch in his voice, "He took away my pension as punishment, told me if I managed to redeem myself that he might reinstate it. He never did, and I have been living in hope, ever since, that the good Lord would call me before he called the viscount."
Behind Mr Harold, Ivo could see his own horror echoed in Newman's expression. It was terrible to think that a man of such advanced years should be forced to work until his dying day—not to mention, incomprehensible. How on earth had Mr Harold kneeled down to take off Lord Crabb's boots each evening, when his own knobbly knees in his uniform breeches, looked to be made half of dust?
"I know you have no need of me, my lord," Harold continued, "What with you already having Mr Newman there to dress you, but I beg you, please don't cast me out. I can wash dishes, scrub pots and pans. I am not so old as to be completely useless."
Lord Crabb's death had not touched Ivo in the slightest, apart from a momentary feeling of pity for the man. Mr Harold's passioned plea, however, near brought tears to Ivo's eyes—and had actually brought them to Newman's, who wiped his cheeks discreetly with a handkerchief as Mr Harold finished speaking.
