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I glance at the man. “He had not retired then?”
“He would not, despite his doctor’s urging,” the housekeeper grumbles. “He said he could find no one to take over the business, but there are many young men who would have been happy to do so.”
“What was his profession?” I ask.
“He was a solicitor.”
There’s a moment where I link this to Mr. Burns. To me “solicit” means sales. Then I remember where I am. Mr. Ware was a lawyer, the sort who advises on the legal matters that won’t land you on the gallows… at least not without a great deal of creative ingenuity.
“Was he in the office today?” I ask.
“He was in the office every day,” she mutters. “Even Sunday, if he can manage to sneak there while I am at church.”
“His office is here in the New Town, I presume?” I say. That’s a reasonable guess given the luxury of his surroundings.
“It is here in the house, miss,” the young maid says.
I must look confused, because she continues with, “Mr. Ware’s office is on the third floor, and there is a separate staircase. It lies… outside Mrs. Hamilton’s domain. He hires me to clean it weekly.”
Mrs. Hamilton resumes her grumbling at that. So Mr. Ware keeps his offices right here in his town house, but off-limits to his housekeeper, which may explain why he spends so much time in there.
I suspect when I get access to that office, I’ll find he’s built himself a cozy little bachelor pad, complete with forbidden foods.
Forbidden foods that may be poisoned.
Unless Mrs. Hamilton is lying and poisoned him herself. While she isn’t his wife, I’m getting the sense of something close to a longtime marriage,one held together more by necessity than love. Two organisms dependent upon each other for survival. In that situation, would Mrs. Hamilton rid herself of her boss? Only if doing so would win her a sizable inheritance, and something tells me that won’t be the case. If I had Mrs. Hamilton makingmyfood, I wouldn’t give her any reason to hurry my demise.
I walk over to Gray. He’s busy checking Mr. Ware’s legs, which has Mrs. Hamilton yelping at the sight of her employer’s bare skin. I notice redness on his lower legs, and his big toes are bright red.
When I frown and move toward Mr. Ware, Mrs. Hamilton sputters and says, “Cover the poor man up,” but Gray ignores her.
“The redness and swelling,” I whisper when I am beside Gray. “I didn’t see that with the others.”
“It is gout.”
“Ah, a preexisting condition.”
Gray nods toward the cane and asks Mrs. Hamilton, “He has difficulty walking from the gout, I presume, but had it grown any worse lately?”
“The gout is always growing worse,” she snaps. “On account of his poor eating.” Then she says, grudgingly, “But, yes, it was much worse yesterday. He came down from the office early and went straight to bed. He said his gout was something fierce. I brought him a plain dinner, but he could not eat it, complaining of pain in his stomach and his legs. He asked for the doctor.” She quickly adds, “In the morning. He asked that he be sent for in the morning.”
I glance down at that cord, still clutched in Ware’s hand. I picture him asking Mrs. Hamilton to send for the doctor right away. Had she refused? Or claimed she would and then didn’t?
With only the two of them in the house, there’s no one to dispute her version of events. Just that cord and that cane, and the vision of a violently ill man, pulling on the bell until it broke, hurling his cane into the wall in his frustration. A man who died alone, his housekeeper finally investigating only after his room went quiet.
The neighbors will have heard something. That is where her story will fall apart. These town houses are solidly built, but I still hear Gray’s neighbors. Normal talking will go unnoticed. Shouting will not.
I look at Ware’s bald pate, but Gray shakes his head. Like the swollen legs, that’s not a symptom. As I’d recalled, it’s rare for thallium to causehair loss quite so quickly anyway. Also, I presume Mrs. Hamilton or the maid would have commented if this was a new development.
“Otherwise, the symptoms seem quite the same, though more acute in this case,” Gray murmurs under his breath. “We will need Isla to confirm poison.”
Before I can say more, there’s a knock at the door. Mrs. Hamilton goes down and admits two officers, who join us in the bedroom. One is in his thirties, and when he sees Gray, his gaze shutters. The younger man smiles and greets him with an accent that I’m coming to learn means one is from the Highlands.
There are a lot of former Highlanders in Edinburgh, victims of the clearances. Nan used to talk about them—her own family having been pushed from their croft—and I’d always figured it happened eons ago. That’s how it felt, hearing her talk, but this young officer’s family could have been driven off their homestead when he was a child.
Gray explains the situation as succinctly as possible, and then asks if one of the officers could bring Detective Crichton.
“At this hour?” the older man says, in a northern English accent. “Not bloody likely.”
