“And the third?” said her mother.
They looked. The third leaf was darker than the other two, slightly waxy, with a shape that was not quite familiar. Mrs Brindle held it to the window. “Nightshade family,” she said.
“Certainly nightshade,” Mrs Bickle agreed.
“Woody nightshade,” Mrs Acklam said in a small voice. “Perfectly legal, mildly sedative. I use it in small doses for skin complaints and women’s troubles.”
“Possibly.” Mrs Bickle set the twist on the low table.
“Possibly?” said Violet.
“The leaf is the right shape for woody nightshade,” Mrs Bickle explained. “The colour after steeping is consistent. The size is consistent.”
Mrs Finney’s hand went to her mouth. “But it can closely resemble belladonna. Dried and steeped and left in a drawer, it would look very nearly the same.”
Mrs Colston nodded. “The downy texture on the leaf surface would tell us, but these have been through hot water. Whatever was there is gone.”
Mrs Brindle leaned forward to study the leaves again. “Where did you get these?”
“From my own morning draught,” Violet said.
The room recalibrated.
“How long have you been taking it?” Mrs Bickle asked.
“Approximately two weeks, but only tiny sips, unless my lady’s maid sat with me.”
“Do you believe she has something to do with the deaths?” Mrs Colston asked.
“I have no reason to suspect her, but I have no reason not to. I am suspecting everybody in the household. I thought I ought to be prudent.”
“Wise,” her mother said. “Have you learned more about the circumstances of the wives’ deaths?”
“Yes.” Violet looked around the circle. “This must not leave this room.”
“Of course.”
Five heads nodded, with varying degrees of solemnity. Only Mrs Finney barely concealed delight at the interesting task at hand.
Violet told them what Henry had said about Elizabeth. She explained the circumstances of Catherine and Margaret’s deaths. When she finished, the room erupted.
“Hysteria,” said Mrs Finney immediately. “The mind does extraordinary things under that strain. I have seen women convince themselves of things equally—”
“Hysteria does not produce a single fixed delusion,” said Mrs Colston. “It produces many. It wanders. What the duchess has described is specific and consistent. That is not hysteria. That is—”
“A hallucination.”
“It is not a hallucination if she believed it. A hallucination is when you see something—”
“That is exactly the definition of hallucination.”
“Belladonna in low doses does not hallucinate. It convinces, which—”
“Ladies,” said her mother.
They ignored her.
“Ladies.” Violet did not raise her voice, but the women stopped. “My mother has something to say.”