The Vital Principle Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Amy Corwin
again and slowly the coughs faded as she seemed to grow calmer.
Knighton shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Then what?” Mr. Stephen Hereford asked.
Knighton glanced at him, almost surprised to hear Lord Crowley’s quiet, unassuming uncle speak. He had been silent most of the evening and rarely made any attempt to join the conversation. While Knighton watched, Hereford strode around the table, coming to stand next to the dowager in an oddly protective manner.
Hereford stared at her with the helpless awkwardness of a male faced with a woman’s grief. Then, gray with confusion and dawning horror, his worn face trembled. Conflicting emotions ranged over his features as he recognized the implications. He backed away a step and turned slightly, head bowed as if unable to bear this fresh burden.
When Knighton didn’t speak, Hereford swallowed. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why did you examine his glass? Is there something wrong with the brandy?”
Knighton handed the snifter to him. “Take a whiff, but don’t taste it.”
The older man frowned and took the glass hesitantly in his shaking hand. He swirled the liquid, held it an inch from his nose, and took a deep breath. “I don’t smell anything except brandy.” He grimaced. “Cheap brandy, at that.”
“What about you, Denham?” Knighton took the glass from Mr. Hereford and handed it to Denham.
George Denham calmly imitated the actions of the others. He used his wrist to set the brandy into motion before sniffing. The gesture gave him a surprisingly competent air, reminding Knighton that despite Denham's ruddy face and countryman exterior, he was a gentleman by birth and well-used to moving in good—if not the highest—social circles.
Denham lowered the glass and sneezed abruptly. “Bitter almonds.”
“Hold it up to the candle,” Knighton suggested.
Denham did as instructed and after studying it, he glanced with raised brows at Knighton. Then he picked up one of the remaining glasses and tested the scent before holding it up to compare with Lord Crowley’s snifter. The liquid in the dead man’s snifter was slightly darker.
“Poison?” Denham asked, his voice rising. “Why would a ghost poison him? It doesn’t make sense. Unless it’s revenge. Or retribution?” He frowned and picked up his own glass of brandy. Staring at it, he dumped the contents into one of the half-full glasses before walking over to the sideboard where a fresh bottle of sherry stood. “No sense taking chances,” he said over his shoulder.
After refilling his glass, he returned to the timid Miss Spencer. He offered the glass to her, but she shook her head and refused, crying hopelessly into her handkerchief. Denham patted her awkwardly on the wrist and murmured encouragement, his expression growing ever more bewildered. Finally, he drained the sherry and held the snifter between his thick fingers as if unsure what to do with either the glass or the sobbing woman.
“Prussic acid—cyanide,” Knighton stated, choosing not to reply to Denham’s remark about vengeful spirits. At least there was no doubt about what killed their host, not after catching that tell-tale scent.
And he was thankful he wasn’t the only one who could confirm it. Not everyone could smell the odd, bitter odor of cyanide. Knighton was unfortunately familiar with it from a previous case, and its presence this evening meant their host had been murdered. Knighton was forced to consider if this—and not a harmless, though fraudulent, entertainment—was really what Lord Crowley feared.
Hand shaking, Denham placed his empty glass on the table near Miss Spencer. He stared at his trembling hands before thrusting his fists into his pockets. “You’re sure Lord Crowley was poisoned, then? By cyanide?”
“It does appear that way.”
When the butler glided into the room, Knighton turned to him, only to find Miss Barnard in the way. She spoke quietly and after a
Knighton shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Then what?” Mr. Stephen Hereford asked.
Knighton glanced at him, almost surprised to hear Lord Crowley’s quiet, unassuming uncle speak. He had been silent most of the evening and rarely made any attempt to join the conversation. While Knighton watched, Hereford strode around the table, coming to stand next to the dowager in an oddly protective manner.
Hereford stared at her with the helpless awkwardness of a male faced with a woman’s grief. Then, gray with confusion and dawning horror, his worn face trembled. Conflicting emotions ranged over his features as he recognized the implications. He backed away a step and turned slightly, head bowed as if unable to bear this fresh burden.
When Knighton didn’t speak, Hereford swallowed. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why did you examine his glass? Is there something wrong with the brandy?”
Knighton handed the snifter to him. “Take a whiff, but don’t taste it.”
The older man frowned and took the glass hesitantly in his shaking hand. He swirled the liquid, held it an inch from his nose, and took a deep breath. “I don’t smell anything except brandy.” He grimaced. “Cheap brandy, at that.”
“What about you, Denham?” Knighton took the glass from Mr. Hereford and handed it to Denham.
George Denham calmly imitated the actions of the others. He used his wrist to set the brandy into motion before sniffing. The gesture gave him a surprisingly competent air, reminding Knighton that despite Denham's ruddy face and countryman exterior, he was a gentleman by birth and well-used to moving in good—if not the highest—social circles.
Denham lowered the glass and sneezed abruptly. “Bitter almonds.”
“Hold it up to the candle,” Knighton suggested.
Denham did as instructed and after studying it, he glanced with raised brows at Knighton. Then he picked up one of the remaining glasses and tested the scent before holding it up to compare with Lord Crowley’s snifter. The liquid in the dead man’s snifter was slightly darker.
“Poison?” Denham asked, his voice rising. “Why would a ghost poison him? It doesn’t make sense. Unless it’s revenge. Or retribution?” He frowned and picked up his own glass of brandy. Staring at it, he dumped the contents into one of the half-full glasses before walking over to the sideboard where a fresh bottle of sherry stood. “No sense taking chances,” he said over his shoulder.
After refilling his glass, he returned to the timid Miss Spencer. He offered the glass to her, but she shook her head and refused, crying hopelessly into her handkerchief. Denham patted her awkwardly on the wrist and murmured encouragement, his expression growing ever more bewildered. Finally, he drained the sherry and held the snifter between his thick fingers as if unsure what to do with either the glass or the sobbing woman.
“Prussic acid—cyanide,” Knighton stated, choosing not to reply to Denham’s remark about vengeful spirits. At least there was no doubt about what killed their host, not after catching that tell-tale scent.
And he was thankful he wasn’t the only one who could confirm it. Not everyone could smell the odd, bitter odor of cyanide. Knighton was unfortunately familiar with it from a previous case, and its presence this evening meant their host had been murdered. Knighton was forced to consider if this—and not a harmless, though fraudulent, entertainment—was really what Lord Crowley feared.
Hand shaking, Denham placed his empty glass on the table near Miss Spencer. He stared at his trembling hands before thrusting his fists into his pockets. “You’re sure Lord Crowley was poisoned, then? By cyanide?”
“It does appear that way.”
When the butler glided into the room, Knighton turned to him, only to find Miss Barnard in the way. She spoke quietly and after a