He pulled open the door to the servants’ quarters, frightening a maid, who stood on the other side clutching a stack of clean linens. He reached out a hand to help her steady the toppling pile and murmured an apology before asking for directions to the men’s lodgings. Making only one wrong turn through the dimly lit corridors, we eventually located Donovan’s room among the bedchambers for the male staff.
There was no answer at the door when Gage knocked. I could tell from his lowered brow and the way he had compressed his mouth into a tight line that he wasn’t happy about this. Without waiting for Michael’s permission, he pushed the door open and strode in. I smiled awkwardly at the footman who was watching us with some curiosity from his room across the hall and followed Gage inside.
The room was small, as most servants’ quarters were, with bare walls and a single window high up near the ceiling. The window was too small for even a petite adult to squeeze through, and it let in so little sunlight that Gage was forced to light the candle we saw sitting on the dresser. The only other piece of furniture was a bed, neatly made, but so short and narrow that I had difficulty imagining brawny Donovan fitting in it.
I stood near the door and observed while Gage rifled through Donovan’s belongings. “Aren’t you worried he’ll be upset if he discovers you searching his things?”
“I don’t particularly care,” Gage replied, kneeling to dig through the bottom drawers of a dresser.
I watched him another moment before venturing to inquire, “You do realize Miss Remmington has spoiled his plan by alerting Constable Paxton?”
He slammed the drawer shut. “Yes.” Then his voice was muffled as he bent over to search under the bed. “And I’m worried Donovan will now flee, taking whatever evidence there is with him. Now,” he murmured, reaching his hand up under the frame, “what have we here?”
He sat back holding a tin of some kind and I leaned closer to see what it was. But before he could open it, the shuffle of footsteps distracted us.
Michael paused just inside the door, glancing around in confusion. “He’s not here?”
“No,” Gage said. “And I take it he wasn’t in your brother’s chambers either?”
He shook his head.
“Dash it!” His expression turned grim. “Well, let’s hope Keswick finds that boat.” The implication being that otherwise Donovan might have already fled.
I frowned, wondering if he had been listening in the stairwell when Gage and I confronted Miss Remmington. If so, he’d had a good hour and a half to make his escape without our knowing it. I cursed myself, wishing I’d taken the time to check on the noise I’d heard. If Donovan got away, we might lose our only chance to find the answers we sought and to clear Will of suspicion for good.
I admitted I still had doubts. Could Dr. Sloane really have manipulated events so skillfully? It seemed improbable, if not impossible. But after what he’d done to Will in that asylum, I knew it wasn’t inconceivable.
However, if he had been influencing us, I could say with certainty that no matter what Dr. Sloane had made us believe about Will, we would never have recommended that Michael return his brother to that cesspit called Larkspur Retreat. But maybe Dr. Sloane had already known that was unlikely. Maybe his real intention had been to discredit Will and cast doubt on his sanity. After all, if no one believed what Will said, then Dr. Sloane’s secrets were safe.
That thought made me uneasy, for I certainly had my doubts now about Will and just what he was or was not capable of. It troubled me to think that at least some of my misgivings might be at the behest of a devious man.
I moved closer to peer over Gage’s shoulder as he lifted the lid on the tin he’d found under Donovan’s bed. It scraped against the base and the odor that wafted up from it immediately made me take a step back.
“Ugh!” I pressed a hand over my nose and mouth to block the stench.
He scrunched up his nose and reached inside to sift the sawdust-looking material through his fingers. “It’s dried valerian root.”
“I thought I recognized it. Lucy brought me a cup of valerian root tea last night,” I told them, speaking through my hand. “Vile brew. She said your cook had told her it would help me sleep.”
“Yes,” Michael replied. “It’s one of her better remedies. We tried to give some to Will when he first came home from the asylum, but he reacted so strongly to it we never tried again.”
The back of my neck began to tingle. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he kicked up a right fuss and then threw the cup against the wall. Shattered it. The stain never did come out of the wallpaper. It was there until we removed it to get rid of the first round of his drawings.”