The Perfect Poison Read online

  It was too late to show him the door, she thought. She had already told him her secret. In any event it was not as if she could replace him. There were a great many people in London who claimed to possess psychical talents. Indeed, the paranormal was all the rage. But as every sensible person within the Arcane Society knew, the vast majority of such practitioners were frauds and charlatans. She desperately needed Caleb Jones’s talents.

  “I do not pretend to be an expert on the healer’s religious beliefs,” she said carefully. “But according to her, secret eye was the term the villagers employed to refer to what you and I would call an individual’s dream state.”

  A great and alarming stillness came over Caleb Jones.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, his voice chillingly soft. “Basil Hulsey.”

  She gave him a disapproving glare. “More ungentlemanly language, Mr. Jones? Really, do you find it so astonishing that there are those outside England who have an understanding of the paranormal? It is not as though we are the only ones who possess a psychical side to our natures.”

  She broke off abruptly because Caleb had come up out of his chair with the force of a volcano erupting. He crossed to the sofa, hauled her to her feet and into his arms.

  “Miss Bromley, you cannot know how helpful you have been. I vow, I could kiss you in gratitude.”

  She was so stunned that she could not even utter a ladylike protest. Something resembling a startled little squeak came from between her lips and the next thing she knew, his mouth was covering hers and hot energy began to flare in the atmosphere.

  FIVE

  SHE UNDERSTOOD INTUITIVELY THAT THE KISS WAS meant to be a fast, meaningless gesture brought on by the wholly inexplicable excitement that appeared to have overcome the obviously well-controlled Mr. Jones. Nevertheless, she knew she ought to have been shocked to her very core by such a breach of etiquette.

  Stolen kisses were the province of cads who took advantage of innocent young ladies and daring lovers who managed to slip away from overheated ballrooms into the shadows of night-darkened gardens. Among the respectably married set, such kisses were the signature of illicit liaisons.

  There was a word for a woman who allowed a gentleman to take such outrageous liberties: loose.

  Ah, but she had been called so much worse, she thought.

  In any event, this was no clandestine moment of passion such as might be enjoyed by two people in love. It was merely a flash of uncharacteristic exuberance from a man who, she suspected, rarely allowed himself to indulge in strong passions.

  The kiss should have ended as suddenly as it had begun, leaving little more than a momentary awkwardness between them. Instead, like lead transmuted into gold in an alchemist’s crucible, the embrace went from startling to searing in a disorienting instant.

  Caleb’s hands tightened abruptly on her arms. He pulled her closer and deepened the kiss. His mouth was now warm and heavy on hers, intoxicating. It was as though he offered her an irresistible elixir laced with dark and dangerous promises.

  A frisson of startling clarity shivered through her. A door opened somewhere, providing a glimpse into a fabulous garden filled with exotic, impossibly vibrant plants, flowers and herbs that, until now, had existed only in her dreams. It was a world of thriving energy and life, a place of mystery and enchantment.

  Her initial astonishment evaporated, replaced by a wave of deliciously disturbing heat. The thrilling warmth sweeping through her was not the only new sensation in the atmosphere. All her senses, the psychical as well as the physical, suddenly blazed across the spectrum. She experienced an electrifying awareness that was focused entirely on Caleb Jones.

  He muttered something she could not understand; words that surely belonged to the night; words that were far too arousing ever to be spoken in daylight. His breathing roughened. Another rush of heady excitement snapped through her when he urged her lips apart with his own. Then his hands were moving, sliding around her so that he could pin her against the length of his hard frame.

  She was trembling now, not with fear but with anticipation. The magical garden beckoned, filled with wild green life that gave off a marvelously seductive energy. She wrapped her arms around Caleb’s neck and allowed herself to sink deeper into the embrace and into the dangerous currents that whirled around them.

  So this is passion, she thought. Oh, my goodness. I had no idea.

  Caleb released her with such jolting force that she reeled back a step.

  “Damnation.” He looked at her in stark disbelief. If he had been in the grip of desire a moment ago, one would never know it now. His iron control closed around him like the bars of a prison cell. “Forgive me, Miss Bromley. I do not know what came over me.”

  It took her a few seconds to find her tongue.

  “Think nothing of it,” she finally managed in what she hoped was an airy, woman-of-the-world manner. “I realize that you intended no insult. You were clearly stricken with professional enthusiasm.”

  There was a short pause. He did not take his eyes off her.

  “Professional enthusiasm?” he repeated in an oddly neutral tone of voice.

  It dawned on her that her eyeglasses were askew. She concentrated hard on adjusting them. “I quite understand, of course.”

  “You do?” He did not sound pleased.

  “Yes, indeed. That sort of thing has happened to me on more than one occasion.”

  “It that so?” He looked fascinated now.

  “It affects the nerves, you know.”

  “What affects the nerves?”

  She cleared her throat. “A sudden onslaught of professional enthusiasm. Why, it can even overcome a man of your obvious powers of self-mastery.” She went behind her desk and more or less collapsed into her chair, still trying to catch her breath and slow her pulse. “Obviously the, er, excess stimulation you experienced a short time ago was inspired by some clue I must have unwittingly provided you. I trust that bodes well for the investigation.”

  For a few unsettling seconds he did not move. He stood there gazing down at her as though she were some heretofore unknown specimen that he had encountered in Mr. Darwin’s study.

  Just when she thought she could not endure the scrutiny any longer, he turned toward the French doors and contemplated the massed greenery on the other side.

  “A very insightful observation, Miss Bromley,” he said. “You did, indeed, provide me with a clue. I have been searching for a connection like this for damn near two months.”

  She clasped her hands again on top of the desk and tried to bring some order to her scattered senses. It seemed to her that she could still feel sensual energy swirling in the room. Clearly the kiss had overstimulated her imagination.

  “This has something to do with a person named Basil Hulsey?” she asked.

  “I am certain of it. But just to be sure, would you describe the man you knew as Knox?”

  “He was smallish. Quite bald. Rather unkempt and disheveled. I remember that his shirt was stained with chemicals. He wore glasses.” She hesitated. “There was something spindly about him.”

  “Spindly?”

  “He reminded me of a very large insect.”

  “That certainly matches the description I was given.” Satisfaction underscored the words.

  “I would appreciate an explanation, Mr. Jones,” she said.

  Caleb turned to face her. Every aspect of his countenance and posture was once again coldly composed and resolute. But she sensed the anticipation of the hunter just beneath the surface.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “I do not have time to go into all the details. Suffice it to say that approximately two months ago an infernally brilliant and psychically gifted scientist named Dr. Basil Hulsey caused the Society a great deal of trouble. Murder was involved. Perhaps you read the reports of the Midnight Monster in the press?”

  “Yes, of course. Everyone in London followed that dreadful case in the papers. It was such a relief when news
came of the Monster’s death.” She paused, searching her memory. “But I do not recall any mention of a Dr. Hulsey.”

  “The situation was decidedly more complicated than either the press or Scotland Yard realized. You must trust me when I tell you that Hulsey was involved. Unfortunately he fled before he could be apprehended. I have been searching for him but the trail had gone cold. Until now.”

  “Surely finding Hulsey is a job for the police.”

  “There is no point turning the case over to the authorities until I find the bastard and some evidence of his crimes,” Caleb said. “But even when I do track him down, it may not be possible to secure the sort of proof that will stand up in a court of law.”

  “In that case, what on earth will you do?” she asked, bewildered.

  Caleb looked at her with no trace of emotion. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  Another shiver went through her. This time the sensation had nothing whatsoever to do with passion. She decided it would be best not to press Caleb on the subject of his plans for dealing with Hulsey. That was Arcane Society business. She had her own problems. Probably best to change the subject.

  “Why would this Dr. Hulsey steal my fern?” she asked.

  “It is just the sort of specimen that would interest him. Hulsey’s expertise is dream research. Some time ago he concocted a potion that induced lethal nightmares. Most of his victims died.”

  She shuddered. “How dreadful.”

  “After Hulsey vanished, I discovered some of his notebooks. It is clear that he has been fascinated with dreams for some time. He is convinced that in the dream state the veil between the normal and the paranormal is very thin, almost transparent. His goal is to learn how to manipulate that state. Dr. Hulsey’s chief problems appear to be of a financial nature, however.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Caleb began to pace the room, his fiercely etched features set in hard lines of intense concentration. “Every indication points to the fact that Hulsey came from a poor background. I don’t think that he has any social connections and certainly no fortune of his own. Setting up a well-equipped laboratory is expensive.”

  “In other words, he requires a patron to finance his research.”

  Caleb glanced back over his shoulder, looking pleased with her conclusion. It is as if I were a bright child or an intelligent pet dog that had just passed some test, she thought. How very annoying.

  “Precisely.” Caleb continued to prowl the room. “His last patrons were not primarily interested in dream research, however. They had a different goal in mind. They employed him to re-create the founder’s formula.”

  He stopped and watched her very intently, obviously awaiting a reaction of some sort. She did not know what he expected so she merely nodded.

  “Go on,” she said politely.

  He frowned. “You do not appear surprised, Miss Bromley.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Most of those within the Society believe that the formula is nothing more than a legend associated with Sylvester the Alchemist.”

  “I recall my parents speculating on the possible composition of such a formula on a few occasions. Is that so odd? The founder’s drug, if it ever existed, would have been botanical in nature and my parents were very talented botanists. It was perfectly natural that they would have had some interest in it.”

  “Damnation.” Caleb’s voice roughened with frustration. “So much for the deepest, darkest secrets of the Society.”

  She waited but there was no apology for the rude language this time. She supposed she had better become accustomed to Caleb’s lack of drawing room manners.

  “If it is any consolation, my parents eventually concluded that any formula that could enhance one’s psychical talents would be extremely dangerous and inherently unpredictable,” she said. “We simply do not know enough about the psychical senses to risk tinkering with that aspect of our natures.”

  “Your parents were very wise,” Caleb said. There was great depth of feeling in every word.

  “They were also convinced that it was highly unlikely that Sylvester ever achieved his goal of creating such an elixir. After all, he lived in the late sixteen hundreds. People still believed in alchemy in those days. He would not have had the advantages of modern science.”

  “Unfortunately, your parents were wrong,” Caleb said grimly. “Sylvester did, indeed, concoct a recipe for such a formula. The damn stuff works but there are, as Mr. and Mrs. Bromley suspected, some vicious side effects.”

  Astonished, she could only stare at him for a moment. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are these side effects you mentioned?” she asked, suddenly intrigued, in spite of herself. She was a botanist, after all.

  He stopped at the far end of the room and looked at her.

  “Among other things, the drug is highly addictive,” he said. “What little we know of its effects comes from Sylvester’s old journals and the notes of those who have tried to re-create it.”

  “Hulsey is not the first to attempt to concoct the drug?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Some time ago a man named John Stilwell also conducted experiments on the formula. He died in the process. His journals and papers were confiscated by the new Master of the Society.”

  “Gabriel Jones, your cousin.”

  He inclined his head to acknowledge that fact and continued. “Those records are now secure in the Great Vault at Arcane House. I’ve studied them. A couple of things were readily apparent. According to Stilwell, once a person starts taking the drug, he cannot stop. If he does, he will likely go insane.”

  “A most dangerous poison, indeed.” She pondered the information. “But you say it works?”

  He hesitated, looking very much as if he wanted to deny the truth.

  “Evidently,” he said finally. “Although to what extent and for what period of time are open questions. No one who has taken the drug has ever lived long enough to supply us with much in the way of helpful information.”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “No one you know personally, you mean.”

  He shot her a sharp, searching look. “No offense, Miss Bromley, but under the circumstances, I find that a rather odd statement.”

  “What of the founder himself, Sylvester Jones?”

  Caleb appeared first startled and then, to her astonishment, he actually smiled a little. It was, she decided, a very charming smile. What a pity he did not indulge in the expression more often. Then again, they were discussing murder and other assorted subjects that did not generally elicit amusement.

  Caleb walked across the room and came to a halt directly in front of her desk. “I will tell you a Jones family secret, Miss Bromley. We are all convinced that it was probably the drug that killed our ancestor. But as he was already an old man at the time, there is no way to prove that he died of anything but natural causes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “We do know that the old alchemist was drinking the formula at the time of his death and that he expected it to add several decades to his life span. It is safe to say that the stuff did not achieve that objective but whether or not it actually killed him has never been determined.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Your interest in the subject is starting to concern me,” Caleb said dryly. “Perhaps I should remind you that we are discussing a matter that is considered by the Master and the Council to be the Society’s most closely guarded secret.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Jones? If so, you will have to take your turn. At the moment I am far more concerned with the possibility of going to prison than I am with the consequences of offending the Master and the Council.”

  His mouth kicked up again at the corners and amusement glinted in his eyes. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “About Hulsey,” she prompted.

  “Right. Hulsey. As I said, he is obsessed with his research. We destroyed his old laboratory, and, as
it happens, those who funded his experiments are no longer in a position to continue financing him. But I suspected that he would not remain inactive for long. It is not his nature.”

  She wondered what, exactly, had happened to Hulsey’s former financial backers but decided it would not be prudent to inquire.

  “Do you think that he has found another patron?” she asked instead.

  “Or someone involved in trying to concoct the drug has found him.”

  She understood. “Hulsey will not have hesitated to make a Faustian bargain with his new backer.”

  “Hulsey may be a modern man of science but after reading his notebooks, I can assure you that at his core he thinks like an alchemist. Some men would bargain with the devil in order to gain gold. Hulsey would sell his soul in exchange for a fully equipped laboratory.”

  “You said you were tracking Hulsey but you lost the trail?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that underlined his frustration. “Hulsey’s notebooks listed many of the rare drugs, spices and herbs that he uses in his experiments. I have tried to keep watch on London’s apothecaries and herbalists, thinking that sooner or later he would start acquiring the items he requires. But the task has proved far beyond the scope of my small agency. Do you have any notion of how many establishments there are in this town that sell medicinal potions, herbs and spices? There are literally hundreds, if not thousands.”

  She smiled ruefully. “I recently had a similar discussion with Inspector Spellar. The number is in the thousands, sir. And you must not forget the patent medicine dealers. Some of them sell some very rare and exotic tinctures and elixirs. To say nothing of the herbalists.”

  His jaw hardened. “As you no doubt suspect, thus far I have had no luck spotting a pattern of purchases that would point to Hulsey.”

  “Why are you so sure that this Dr. Hulsey is the one who stole my fern?”

  “It is possible that I am grasping at straws. But there is a very satisfactory logic about this entire affair. Whoever stole your fern had to be aware of its unusual psychical properties. He also must possess a great deal of scientific knowledge. In terms of probabilities, there cannot be a great many men of that description running around London at the moment. And the timing is right. It has been a little more than eight weeks since Hulsey disappeared. He has had ample opportunity to sell his services to another patron.”