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His brows knit. Then he says, “Gastric lavage. Yes, that would be my next step, but we do not have time to get him to a hospital.”
Gray tells me what to look for—any kind of tubing, any kind of pump or suction device. There’s nothing to be had in this apartment, and while I’m searching, he’s doing his best to get Fischer to vomit. The man has passed out, and that makes it easier… until he starts to convulse. That’s when Gray sends me to get a cab. I race out, hoping to see Jack returning with help, but there is no sign of her.
I hail a hansom cab. Gray pays extravagantly for the driver’s assistance carrying Fischer down all those flights of stairs. Then he sends me in search of McCreadie.
I find the detective by the sheer luck of him being at the police office as I arrive, and we get to the Royal Infirmary, where Gray had convinced them to take Fischer in for urgent care.
At that point, with Gray not being a practicing doctor, he has to leave. McCreadie sets a constable at the door and informs the hospital that the man in their care is wanted for the murders of four people. After that, all we can do is wait.
I haven’t said a word since we left the hospital. I’m too deep in my thoughts. The doctors don’t know whether Fischer will pull through, and while I understand that McCreadie had to tell them Fischer is a murder suspect, I’m afraid that might affect their care.
By the time we got him admitted, it was too late for a stomach pumping—and I’m not sure how much good it would have done—so they’re using other methods that may at least slow the poison. Are those the right methods? I think Prussian blue is used for thallium in our day, but I’m not certain enough about that to do more than mention it… and back down after I get blank looks. The lack of a treatment doesn’t mean thallium is automatically lethal—just that the victim will survive or not, and that is largely out of the hands of the medical profession.
Fischer is unconscious and may never wake up. That bugs the hell out of me. Is it because I want him to face justice? Maybe, but my gut says there’s more to my unease. I want him to wake up so I can question him properly. Was he really shocked at finding that poison? Or was he faking it? Even if he was shocked, that doesn’t mean he isn’t the killer—someone who knew the truth could have planted the vials. Still, it raises a whisper of doubt, and I want to question him and be completely certain he is responsible for those deaths. That’s a sort of closure we don’t always get, and I might just need to deal with that.
McCreadie takes us to a pub. We’re in the New Town, and we should go home for the late dinner Mrs. Wallace made, but no one can face that. McCreadie sends a message to Isla inviting her to join us, and we take a tiny room in the back. A private room, I realize, as I catch Gray tipping one of the staff, who closes the door behind us.
We settle into chairs and say nothing. When the door opens, I expect to see a server coming for our order, but instead she carries a tray withglasses, a bottle, and steaming meat pies. She sets it down on the table and retreats with only a nod as the men thank her. Belatedly, I turn to add my own thanks, but the door is already shut.
Gray serves the pies and pours the whisky and, again, I belatedly realize I should at least have offered to do that. Each thought needs to shove past the gloom, and turning those thoughts into action seems like more work than it’s worth.
“You do not think Fischer is the killer,” Gray says to me.
I sip my whisky, feeling the burn of it and saying nothing.
“You think he is telling the truth that he was framed,” Gray presses.
I try to answer. I don’t want to be rude and ignore Gray’s questions. But the words won’t come. No, theliewon’t come.
Do I think it wasn’t Fischer? I don’t know. Do I think he was framed? I don’t know.
What Idoknow is that he kept talking about a woman, one who played Leslie like a puppet. When I asked who he meant, he said I knew who he meant.
And I do, don’t I?
Annis.
If Fischer doesn’t wake up to defend himself and indict her, should I keep my mouth shut? I wouldn’t if I knew Annis murdered four men and framed Fischer. But I’m not convinced that’s the story. He already tried to frame her by suggesting—as Morris—that he’d heard her arguing with Ware.
“It’s fine,” I mumble. “I’m just in shock.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Gray asks.
Damn it, Gray. Don’t push. Just don’t push. Not in front of McCreadie.
“Maybe later,” I say, as I gulp my whisky. “When I feel more myself.”
“You mean when Hugh isn’t here, and you can discuss what Mr. Fischer said about Annis without putting anyone in a difficult position.”
I glare at him.
Gray turns to McCreadie. “Mr. Fischer blamed Annis for the deaths.”
“He blamed a woman,” I cut in. “He just said ‘she.’”
“He said you knew who he meant. He called the woman a witch, which is obviously Annis.”
“That isn’t funny,” I say.
