“Miss Perkins, I cannot wake the reverend, and it is all your fault.”
Mary touched her chest. “How could that possibly be my fault?”
The housekeeper pointed her stubby finger at the Stringhamgirls. “Your charges have poisoned my husband.”
Mary had a quick intellect, but this revelation took her a few moments to follow. She organized her thoughts:
1. Reverend Turpin had married his housekeeper. How surprising!
2. One had to presume the marriage was secret because the woman was of a lower class.
3. Said housekeeper was claiming that her charges poisoned the reverend.
4. Was he sick or dead?
5. Helen and Becca had given the chaplain a bottle of tonic that they had bought from the wisewoman, Widow Goodman.
6. What ingredients were in the tonic?
7. And was the elixir for a cough? Or something more sinister to convince the old man to retire to Bath?
Getting to her feet, she took a few reassuring breaths. It always helped calm her nerves when dealing with the girls’ behavior.
“Mrs. Turpin, is your husband still breathing?”
The housekeeper’s face paled at being called by his surname, but she nodded. “Aye, he’s breathing all right, but I cannot wake him.”
“Very good,” Mary said, relief sweeping over her like a gust of wind. She turned to the Stringham sisters. “Helen and Becca, what, pray, was in the elixir that you gave to the reverend?”
Becca’s eyes widened into saucers, but she said not a word.
Helen gave her sister a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Widow Goodman said that she put ginger and slippery elm in it.”
Those were both plants known to help with coughs. Neither of which would have put the elderly chaplain into a sleeping fit.
Frederica got up and pushed past her sisters. “Let me smell the elixir. I will be able to tell you what else is in it.”
Like the Duchess of Hampford, Frederica was a perfumer and had keen olfactory senses. Mary followed behind her and felt Trevor’s reassuring hand on the small of her back. She bowed her head in relief; he was not going to leave her to handle the situation alone. Helen trailed behind them, tugging Becca along with her.
Mrs. Turpin led them through the corridor and into the chaplain’s parlor. Sure enough, he was fully dressed and sleeping like the dead on the sofa. The bottle of elixir Helen and Becca had brought him was on the table beside his prone figure and uncorked as if it had been recently drunk.
The older woman pointed. “I told you it was those awful girls who poisoned him! They’re little better than heathens the way they speak without being spoken to.”
Helen stuck out her pointy chin. “My mother says only ignorantpeople call others heathens, and it is because they are too lazy to learn and appreciate another civilization’s unique culture and history. They are the true heathens.”
Swallowing down a desire to defend her darlings, Mary picked up the bottle only to find it empty. “Thank you, Helen. That is enough. Mrs. Turpin, how is the elixir all gone? The girls only brought this to your husband recently.”
“His throat was sore, so he drank half of it this morning.”
“Greedy fellow,” Frederica said, taking the bottle from Mary’s hand and giving it a sniff. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Mrs. Turpin snapped.
“There’s valerian root in addition to the ginger and slippery elm,” Frederica said with another deep sniff. “Valerian root is used to help people sleep. If Reverend Turpin drank a great deal of the elixir, he will probably be sleeping until tomorrow morning.”
The incensed housekeeper grabbed the empty bottle from Frederica’s hands and loomed over Mary. “I am calling the constable and I will see you all charged and arrested! You allowed your pupils to sabotage my husband on purpose. He has never before missed a Sunday service in nearly five decades.”
Before Mary could answer, Trevor stepped between her and the irate woman. “Now Mrs. Turpin, I am sure you are feeling quite overset by the shocking events of this morning. Why don’t you take a seat? Mary will fetch you some tea, and we can talk about this rationally.”