If those bees attack my uncle one more time, the old keeper will be dragged away in chains for treason, my cousin whispered as we stood on the portico of Elmwood Manor.
The Alexandria rail depot was a maelstrom of activity, a jarring contrast to the grim stillness of Elmwood Manor. Soldiers in various stages of uniform pushed carts laden with supplies. Wounded men lay on stretchers, awaiting transport. The air hummed with the clang of metal, the shouts of teamsters, and the hiss of steam engines.
I clutched my medical satchel, navigating the crowded platform. I felt utterly out of place, a civilian nurse amidst the chaos of war logistics.
Suddenly, a massive army wagon, pulled by two sweating mules, lurched past me, its wheel clipping my leg. I cried out, losing my balance.
My medical satchel flew from my hand, spilling its contents across the dirty planks of the platform. Bandages, antiseptic bottles, and my precious glass vial with the tea dregs scattered everywhere.
“Watch it, Nurse!” a gruff voice barked.
A tall, wiry man with a neatly trimmed beard and intense, weary eyes knelt beside me. He wore the faded blue uniform of a Union field surgeon.
He didn’t wait for my response, immediately gathering the scattered items. His movements were quick, efficient.
As he picked up the small vial, a peculiar expression crossed his face. He held it up to the light, sniffing its contents.
His eyes, which had seemed so tired a moment ago, sharpened with a sudden intensity. He looked directly at me.
“Aconitine,” he muttered, his voice low and raspy. “From Monkshood, if I’m not mistaken. And quite a strong concentration, judging by the residue.”
My breath hitched. He recognized it. A complete stranger.
“You… you know this?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, a grim line forming on his lips. “I know it well, unfortunately. Seen it before. Smelled it before.”
He stood, holding the vial. “Dr. Alistair Finch, itinerant Union field surgeon and toxicologist. You wouldn’t happen to be from Elmwood Manor, would you, Nurse?”
My surprise must have been evident. “I am. How did you know?”
“That scent clings to those supply crates from the Montgomery estate,” he explained, a cynical edge to his voice. “And to the medical records. You see, Nurse Albright, I’ve investigated three mysterious deaths of wealthy Union officers in this very department in the last four months. All certified as ‘cardiac dropsy.’”
He reached into his own worn leather satchel, pulling out a thick, official-looking field notebook. Its pages were filled with his precise, almost spidery handwriting.
“Every single one of them,” Dr. Finch continued, flipping open the book, “signed over significant land transfers to their extended relatives shortly before they died. And every single one had the faint scent of Monkshood about them, though it was always dismissed as ‘herbal remedies.’”
He pointed to an entry. “Colonel Elias Vance. Signed over his farm outside Fairfax. Died March 12th. Dropsy.”
He flipped another page. “Captain Arthur Thorne. Signed over his mill property in Manassas. Died April 5th. Dropsy.”
A cold certainty settled over me. This wasn’t just about Silas; it was a pattern. Julian wasn’t just a greedy uncle; he was a serial killer, using this insidious method to strip his relatives of their wealth.
“My uncle, General Silas Montgomery, is being poisoned,” I said, my voice urgent. “And my Uncle Julian is behind it. He’s using the same method.”
Dr. Finch looked at me, his weary eyes hardening into a focused gaze. “Then we have work to do, Nurse. And no time to waste.”
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