Her face brightened. “Would you? That would be very kind. I don’t really want to leave the apartment today.”
“Of course not. Tell me what to get, and I’ll go as soon as I’ve tidied up after breakfast.”
“Mr Fothergill knows. You’re very good, Jamie.”
He blushed, and his hand rose instinctively to remove his spectacles for polishing, but he forced it down again. “Georgie… something odd has happened. Sophia… is suffering the same tragedy as you.”
Georgie jerked upright. “Her baby? Oh! That is… a coincidence?” There was a questioning tone in her voice.
“I wondered… what precisely did you eat at dinner last night? Perhaps some of the meat was off. Did you have the pork? What about the lobster?”
“Neither of those. I ate very little — the chicken, some fish, a little of the stewed beef. I wasn’t hungry.”
“Full of cake, I expect. Sophia was at the other end of the table, near the veal and ducklings. But so many others ate from the same dishes, it is hard to imagine that it would only affect the two of you. What about your cakes yesterday? Did either of you eat one type in particular?”
“I can’t remember, but again, everyone ate everything. If there was anything poisonous, surely we’d all have been affected.”
“Hmm.” He frowned. “What about the tea? If it tastes odd this morning maybe it was odd yesterday.”
“Oh, it was. At least, I thought so, although no one complained. We all drank lots of it, but it had a strange bitter taste. It’s Rowena’s favourite type. I had to borrow some as I’d run out.”
“And Sophia drank it too?”
“Yes, several cups, but we all drank the same tea, Jamie. There can’t be anything wrong with it.”
Nevertheless, when he had tidied away the breakfast things and sent Georgie back to bed, Jamie went to find Hester.
“Is it possible there is something wrong with Mrs Richard’s tea? Georgie thinks it tastes… unusual.”
Hester looked dubious. “Rowena has been drinking the same sort since she arrived here, Jamie. She would surely notice if anything were amiss.”
“If it came on slowly… a mould or some such.”
Hester opened the caddy and showed him the tea. “Look at it, and tell me if you think it there is any mould there.”
“I agree, it looks just as it should but—”
“Jamie, I know you like to find a reason for everything, but sometimes when a person dislikes a certain type of tea it is just a question of taste. Georgie dislikes it, that is all.”
“May I take a sample to show the grocer?”
Hester laughed. “Of course, if it will set your mind at rest. All our tea comes from Fothergill’s”
She found an empty medicine phial, and filled it with tea leaves, and Jamie set out to walk to Brinchester. It was more than three miles by road, but by cutting through the grounds of the neighbouring estate and then by a farm track, it was possible to shave off more than a mile. It made for a very pleasant walk, but there was one serious hazard to be faced. Compton Grange was the home of the Martin family, owners of Martin’s Bank, and the elder Mr Martin had three spinster sisters who spent their lives, or so it seemed, at an upper window whence they could see not only their own grounds but most of the village and part of Staineybank, too. Jamie always walked through their shrubbery at as brisk a pace as he could contrive, but somehow one or other of them would pop up before he could reach the gate to the farm track. Then he would be held by the rules of courtesy for half an hour being drained of every last iota of gossip from the duke’s household.
Today it was the youngest Miss Martin who accosted him, and wanted to know all about the physician’s visit. Then she enquired after every inhabitant of Staineybank not forgetting the junior housemaid who had recently had a tooth drawn. No matter was too trivial, no detail was overlooked, and if Jamie hesitated for a moment, the lady would raise an eyebrow and say encouragingly, “Is it so indeed? And then…?”
When he was eventually allowed to continue on his way, with a cheerful, “But I must not keep you from your important business,” he always felt drained, as if he were a prize fighter who had been pummelled half to death. Today he could barely dredge up the energy to answer, for his mind was all on Georgie and tea… but mostly on Georgie.
It was market day in Brinchester, the square filled with sheep and pigs, stalls of vegetables and baskets and brooms and slabs of meat, while women with carts sold eggs, butter and cheese. Jamie weaved through the crowds to the High Street, where Fothergills was busy, as usual, but Mr Fothergill found time to listen courteously to his concerns. He took him behind the shop into the family kitchen, and brewed tea with Jamie’s sample and with a fresh batch from their own supply. He called in his mother and an elderly uncle to taste the two.
“Oh, this isn’t right!” the uncle said at once, trying Rowena’s sample. “The regular brew is fine, but this one… ugh!”
“It tastes fine to me,” Mrs Fothergill said. “A strong flavour but… what do think is wrong with it, Toby?”
“My wife says it is bitter,” Jamie said.
“Bitter… yes, perhaps,” the old man said. “It’s something nasty, that’s certain.”
