Page 52 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
He waved toward the stairs, then fell in beside her.
She sifted through the many questions crowding her brain. “Did you call on the Bradshaws?”
“Yes.” He described how he’d found the family, confirming her assumption that the matters he didn’t want to broach while within the hearing of others were of a different ilk.
His report continued as they climbed the stairs, walked into and through the front hall and out of the front door. Closing it behind them, he waved her on; they circled the house via the narrow terrace that followed the walls and eventually connected with the wider formal terrace that ran along the disused wing.
The instant they were on that side of the house, he said, “I wanted to ask whether there was anything in the still room, perhaps some note from Joy, or something not as it should be, that might suggest a reason for someone to kill her.”
She’d anticipated the question. “I looked, but there was nothing at all that even vaguely struck me as out of the ordinary.”
“Did Joy keep a record of those she was treating? Could there be a clue there—someone she was treating for something they might not have wanted known? Had she ever treated Manachan?”
She held up a hand to stem his questions. “Like any good healer, Joy kept a ledger. She’s been supplying tonics and tisanes for several people in the house, and also on the farms, but they are all for perfectly mundane ailments—no motive for murder there. Or, indeed, anywhere else, I’m afraid.” She paused, then continued, “I’m concentrating on making sure Alice knows how to continue to supply all of the tonics Joy was making, and what to watch out for while doing it. There are a few of the stronger tonics I’ll need to teach her more about before I leave.” She drew breath. “However, to answer your last question, no. I looked back more than three years, and there’s no record of Joy ever treating Manachan. No regular tonic—not even a pick-me-up.”
Pausing, she met Thomas’s eyes. “I truly believe Manachan could use the help a good healer can give. I’d like to see if he’ll accept something to help him regain his strength, but I know men of his age and temperament don’t like admitting that their health is failing. I wasn’t all that surprised to learn that Joy never had a chance to treat him.”
Thomas paced alongside her for half a minute before saying, “My ride about the estate confirmed that there are…escalating problems. Difficulties that need to be addressed, but that Nigel prefers to ignore. That can’t go on, but the clan farmers don’t want to bother Manachan, deeming him to have enough troubles of his own. But they can’t influence Nigel, either. And nor can I.”
She nodded. “Because you aren’t the heir, and you therefore can’t step on his toes, and he already resents you because you are closer to Manachan, or at least closer in a different, more adult way than he is.”
That she’d seen that so clearly—could state it so clearly—was a comfort in itself. He had never met any other lady who understood the complex relationships of a clan.
“It seems,” she murmured, “as if all the issues impinging on the estate stem from Manachan’s illness. Because he fell ill—and no, I don’t know what he caught, but clearly he fell victim to something—his health crumbled and his strength fell away, and so he was forced to allow Nigel to take over the estate…” She paused, then, frowning, went on, “If Manachan was restored to something like his old self, could he retake control of the estate?”
“Almost certainly, although I doubt he would—at least not unless Nigel refused to properly deal with the issues arising in the clan.”
“By properly, I take it you mean in accordance with Manachan’s wishes.”
He nodded. After a moment, he drew a deeper breath and asked, “Do you really think you can help him?”
“I can’t be sure until I examine him, but…” Looking ahead, she seemed to choose her words. “He was always such a strong and robust man. His physical strength was a hallmark. From what I’ve observed, and from when we helped him back and forth from the curricle yesterday, it seems to me that while he’s lost muscle tone—the strength in his muscles—he hasn’t actually lost that much weight.” She frowned. “His problem seems to be a lack of vigor—he seems far weaker than he should be, as if everything takes more effort than it ought, and he just doesn’t have enough energy in him.”
“Exactly.” He couldn’t keep the grimness from his tone. “I spent all afternoon with him, and even though I’d brought back information he needed and wanted to hear about the problems the farmers are facing, he was…so weak, it was distressing to watch him trying to focus enough to take it in.” He paused, then confessed, “In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to push him to act—by that time, it seemed that it was all he could do to simply keep breathing.”
They walked on for several paces before he said, “The drive to and back from the Bradshaws drained him, and then he insisted on coming down to dinner because you were under his roof—a guest.” He grimaced. “He’s sleeping now, but only because Edgar told him you were staying, so he’s determined to come down for dinner tonight, too.”
“Hmm.” They reached the end of the terrace and halted. Head up, she gazed across the last stretch of the drive and into the stable yard. Eventually, she said, “There’s a limit to how much you can argue against the dictates of an old man’s pride. However, perhaps we can use his coming down to dinner to our advantage.”
He frowned. “How so?”
Turning, she met his eyes. “It’ll give me a chance to see if I can persuade him to allow me to treat him.”
He held her gaze, then quietly said, “I was going to ask you to leave—now, this afternoon.”
She looked steadily back at him. “Because of the adder.”
Not a question, he noted. Still, he nodded. “There’s no chance that adder got down to the still room on its own. Someone placed it there while you and Alice were out in the herb garden.”
Momentarily, her gaze grew distant, then she refocused on his face. “The herb garden is exposed—anyone from the house or elsewhere could have seen us there, and the doors are never locked here, are they?”
Jaw firming, he shook his head. “The house of a laird is always open to the clan. Which brings me back to my request. Is it possible for you to leave now? Perhaps return tomorrow to continue instructing Alice?”
She stared at him for long enough that his hopes started to rise—then she grimaced. “No. Not really. I don’t want to leave Alice until she’s confident she can manage on her own—in our calling, confidence is a foundation stone. Without it, without being certain and sure, it’s hard to take the decision to prescribe and treat people. But quite aside from that, the truth is that I’m more concerned by what I see in Manachan.”
She laid a hand on his arm; he felt her light touch through coat and shirt, and had to shackle his instantaneous response. They turned and started back along the terrace, and she took back her hand, clasping her fingers before her.
He lowered his arm, glad to be free of her distracting touch, yet, perversely, wanting the contact back. He clasped his hands behind his back the better to ensure he didn’t reach for her.
