The ledger proved to be a record of transactions, mainly sales the cook had made to various individuals, everything encoded with symbols, initials, abbreviations, and numbers. After reading the journals as well, Alexia surmised that the cook must have been an honorary OBO member. Her interests were focused on those concoctions that one could not purchase easily from apothecary or pharmacist. Such liquids, for example, as Madame Lefoux incorporated into Alexia’s parasol and perhaps other potions even more deadly.
The most recent journal, unfinished and unhelpful, articulated only the increasingly disorientated views of an aging woman who seemed to be succumbing to a brew of her own fabrication, either involuntarily or out of a derangement of the spirit. There was no way to determine whether she was, indeed, the ghost who had come to warn Lady Maccon, but it was as good a lead as any.
However, it was the older journal that drew her attention. One particular entry was dated some twenty years ago. It mused with interest over a new order—for ingredients to be sent by post in separate allotments, for sake of security, to a werewolf pack in Scotland. The connection between time and location caused Alexia to ruminate over her husband’s anguished retelling of a certain betrayal. The same betrayal that would cause him to abandon the Kingair Pack and then take over Woolsey. He had been so very cut up about it. “I caught them mixing the poison,” he had said. “Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.” She realized there was no way to prove a connection, but coincidence in date was good enough for her. This must be an accounting of the order for the poison that long ago was meant to kill Queen Victoria.
“Astonishing,” she said into the empty room, rereading the incriminating passage. Absentmindedly, she picked up her teacup and sipped. The liquid being cold, she placed it back down with a grimace. She quickly ascertained that the remainder under the cozy was equally tepid and pulled the bell rope.
Floote materialized. “Madam?”
“Fresh tea, please, Floote. There’s a dear.”
“Certainly, madam.”
He vanished, reappearing in a miraculously short time with a freshly brewed pot and, much to Lady Maccon’s delight, a small wedge of tempting-looking cake.
“Oh, thank you, Floote. Is that lemon sponge? Marvelous. Tell me, are any of the men awake yet?”
“I believe Mr. Rabiffano and the professor are just rising.”
“Mr. Rabiffano, who is?.?.?.?? Oh, Biffy! Not my husband, then?”
“Difficult to tell, madam, him being in the other house.”
“Ah, yes, of course, how silly of me.” Lady Maccon went back to her perusal of the little journal.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
“The question is, Floote, why order the toxins from London? Why not patronize the baser elements who supply such pernicious needs closer to home?”
“Madam?”
“I mean, Floote, hypothetically, why special-order poison from one destination only to eventually transport it back to do the dastardly deed? Although, I suppose the queen might have been visiting Scotland at the time. But still, why all the way from town?”
“Everyone orders from London, madam,” replied Floote most decidedly, even though he had no idea as to the specifics of her question. “It is the fashion.”
“Yes, but if one were afraid of being caught?”
Floote seemed to feel he might participate in the discussion even without full possession of the necessary facts. “Perhaps one wanted to be caught, madam.”
Lady Maccon frowned. “Oh, no, I hardly think—” She was cut off by the arrival of Professor Lyall, who looked his normal unremarkably dapper self, despite having just arisen.
He stuck his head around the corner of the door in some surprise, evidently unsure of what to make of his mistress’s encampment.
“Lady Maccon, good evening. How are you?”
“Professor Lyall. Oh, Floote, do carry on.”
Floote wafted away, giving Lyall a very significant look, as though to say, She is in one of her moods—tread with caution.
Heeding the unspoken advice, the werewolf let himself in hesitantly. “You are in the back parlor, Lady Maccon?”
“Just as you see. “
“Not the front?”
“I like the wallpaper. I have had a most illuminating day, Professor Lyall.”
“Oh, dear. Have you, indeed?” The gentleman settled down into a chair near his Alpha female. At a nod from Lady Maccon, he helped himself to tea. Floote, being Floote, had thought to provide more than one cup. “I have not yet read the evening papers. Is that going to signify, my lady?”
Lady Maccon frowned. “I doubt it. I don’t think the constabulary were alerted to my activities.”
Professor Lyall forbore to mention that this indicated there might have been a need for such action. “Well?”
In as flattering a manner as possible, Lady Maccon detailed her afternoon’s shenanigans. As she did so, Professor Lyall’s face creased with worry.
“On your own? In your state?”
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“Yes, indeed. You even managed to use your condition to your advantage. But I thought you were meant to take Biffy with you on these jaunts. Himself ordered it.”
“Well, yes, but this couldn’t wait for evening. And such interesting evidence I have uncovered. Now where did I put my pen?” She began patting about her lap—what there was left of it—in annoyance.