Page 23 of And Then There Was the One
Dr. Severin’s surgery occupied the front half of the small, tidy cottage where he lived, which was just around a corner and down a narrow lane from the village high street. Georgie had not been into the building in years—both Severin and his predecessor made house calls, and Georgie was a fairly healthy sort of person. The front of the cottage was occupied by a thriving garden, featuring any number of herbs and native plants—Georgie spotted elderflower, evening primrose, and feverfew. She knew that, in addition to more modern medicines, Dr. Severin also prescribed various tinctures to his patients—Papa had been advised to use oil of honeysuckle to treat a sunburn just last month—but she hadn’t realized that he provided the necessary herbs himself. Georgie could not help but approve; Dr. Fitzpatrick, his predecessor, had been a kind man but one who turned up his nose a bit at so-called home remedies, even ones that Georgie knew for a fact were effective. When she’d learned that Dr. Fitzpatrick’s replacement was a recentgraduate down from Edinburgh, she’d expected a similar attitude to prevail, and had been pleasantly surprised.
Now, if only he were approximately thirty years older and very plain, and therefore not remotely interesting to Abigail.
The inconveniently young, broad-shouldered, and handsome doctor opened the door at Georgie’s knock, an expression of polite surprise flashing across his face when he spotted Georgie and Sebastian on his doorstep. “Miss Radcliffe. Is something wrong—is your sister unwell again?”
Georgie did not think she imagined the note of eagerness that entered his voice at the question.
“Abigail’s fine,” she said a bit shortly. She cleared her throat. “Er, you remember Mr. Fletcher-Ford, don’t you? From the inn yesterday?”
“I do.” Severin nodded at Sebastian. “I hope your head is feeling all right today, Miss Radcliffe?”
“It isnot,” Georgie said, pleased that an excuse had so readily materialized. “It is aching something terrible, and I was hoping you would be willing to take a look?”
“Certainly,” Severin said politely, standing back from the door so that Georgie might enter, and then offering Sebastian a curious glance. “Mr. Fletcher-Ford, you’re welcome to wait out here—”
“I’m afraid I’ve been tasked with keeping dear Georgie here company today,” Sebastian said, with the sort of easy smile that seemed to make people want to agree with him, no matter what he was saying. “I promised her father—old family friend, you know.” His gaze was wide and guileless. Severin glanced at Georgie, frowning.
“It’s fine for him to come in, too,” Georgie said, and Severin’s frown eased, though his thoughtful expression remained. He didn’t say anything, however, beyond a simple “All right.”
Once Georgie was seated in a chair in Severin’s small examining room, she pondered how best to approach her questions. “You must keep quite busy, here in Buncombe-upon-Woolly,” she said casually, examining her fingernails as if she were simply making idle chitchat.
Severin, who had been rummaging in a drawer, glanced over his shoulder at her. “Busy enough,” he said, turning, a penlight in hand. He reached a finger beneath her chin to tilt her head back slightly. “A doctor’s work is never done, after all.”
He bent toward her, shining the light from the outer edge of her right eye toward the center. He repeated this on her left eye, then straightened.
“I mean,” she attempted again, “what with all the… murders.” She bowed her head as if at church, allowing a beat of silence to pass before chancing a glance upward.
“Hmm.” Severin leaned back with his hip against the large, antique-looking chest of drawers that housed many of his medical supplies and looked at her warily. “It’s been… interesting, yes. Can you recite the months of the year backward, please?”
“Ooh,” Sebastian murmured, shaking his head. “Is that some sort of test for a head injury? Don’t know that I could pass it even on my best day.”
“Why does that not surprise me,” Georgie muttered, then complied. Before Dr. Severin had the chance to open his mouth, she pressed, “And, naturally, you were the first to arrive when Mr. Penbaker died recently.” She shook her head mournfully.“So tragic.” She chanced a small sniffle, as if overcome by emotion.
“Yes,” Severin said. “Although I wasn’t under the impression you two were terribly close.”
“What made you think that?” Georgie asked.
“Well,” Severin said dryly, “there was your lengthy argument with him about the poison garden at the murder exhibition at the village hall.”
“How did you hear about that?” she asked, nonplussed.
Severin snorted. “I think the entire village heard about it—Mrs. Chester said you were practically shouting.”
Georgie sniffed disdainfully. “He mislabeled hemlock and hogweed. They don’t evenlook alike. And,” she added, working herself into a proper temper as the opportunity to opine about one of her favorite subjects presented itself, “just last week, I noticed that monkshood and foxglove had somehow been mislabeled, too. How can we ever expect the children of this village to gain any sort of basic botanical education if village-sanctioned exhibitions are relaying false information?”
“You know, Miss Radcliffe, you are not giving me the slightest reason to worry that you might be concussed,” Severin said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I think I should just send you to the chemist for some aspirin.”
Sebastian cleared his throat; Georgie suppressed a sigh, fearing what was to come next. “The truth is, Severin, old chap, that Georgie here has been fretting somethingawfulover Penbaker’s death, ever since that knock on the head yesterday.”
“Has she?” Severin asked.
“It made her reflect on… mortality, I suppose,” Sebastiansaid with a sad shake of his head. “How quickly death can come for us all. We were talking about your erstwhile council chairman’s tragic death last night—how you never know what day might be your last, don’t you know?—and she began to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t more to it.”
There was something oddly transfixing about him as he spoke; his handsome face; wide-eyed, guileless demeanor; and the smooth, soothing tone of his voice made it difficult to turn away from him. She risked a glance at Severin and saw that his expression had softened.
Sebastian gave her a brief, small nod, and she tried again. “When Mr. Penbaker fell ill,” Georgie said, leaning forward in her seat as Severin’s gaze flicked back toward her, “was there anything about his condition that made you think it could be something more serious? Something like—”
“Poison?” Severin finished for her, then scrubbed his hands over his face in a gesture that conveyed extreme weariness. “Christ, I thought I was setting up a practice in a quiet village and that nothing at all interesting would happen here. Never seen so many dead bodies in my life.” He shook his head ruefully. “Mrs. Penbaker rang me the afternoon of her husband’s death because she returned home from a meeting to find him unwell—he was complaining of dizziness and chest pain, and by the time I arrived he’d suffered cardiac arrest. I was unable to revive him, as is often the case with heart attacks—they happen very quickly, often with little warning. It’s a tragedy, but I found nothing unusual in it.”
