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 metallic clang of the lock outside reverberated through the tent, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps receding. We were utterly alone, cloaked in the sudden darkness.
“Quarantine?” I whispered, my voice tight with disbelief. “He knows. Julian must have warned him.”
Dr. Finch, however, remained remarkably calm. He pulled a small, oil-lamp from his satchel, flicking it open. The soft light illuminated his face, etched with a grim determination.
“He knows we’re close, Nurse,” he said, his voice steady. “But he doesn’t know what we’ve found. Or what we can still find.”
He turned to the table where General Silas’s empty teacup from earlier lay. “The general’s tea. Do you still have the dregs you collected?”
I reached into my medical satchel, retrieving the small vial I’d taken from the library. “Right here, Doctor.”
He took the vial, emptying its contents into a small porcelain crucible from his portable field testing kit. From a wooden case, he selected two small bottles: one containing nitric acid, the other, iron chloride.
“Aconitine,” he explained, carefully adding a few drops of nitric acid to the crucible, “reacts uniquely to these reagents. The color change is unmistakable. It’s a classic test.”
He swirled the crucible gently. Then, with a practiced hand, he added a few drops of the iron chloride solution.
We watched, silent, as the greyish residue in the crucible slowly began to change. A faint, ethereal violet hue emerged, deepening, swirling, until it settled into a vivid, unmistakable violet-black.
My breath hitched. The color was undeniable. Deadly.
“There,” Dr. Finch stated, his voice devoid of triumph, only a somber certainty. “Proof. Lethal concentrations of aconitine poison.”
He then pulled out his official field ledger, the one with his spidery handwriting. With a fresh dip of his pen, he began to write, his hand moving with methodical precision.
“Based on these findings,” he dictated, his voice resonating in the small tent, “and the advanced state of cardiac distress, I estimate General Silas Montgomery has less than seventy-two hours before his cardiac muscle fails completely.”
Less than three days. My blood ran cold.
“We have to get this information out,” I insisted, my voice urgent. “Colonel Harrison must see this. The General must be moved.”
Dr. Finch closed his ledger. “Agreed, Nurse. But first, we must escape this ‘quarantine.’ Pryce clearly means to silence us.”
He looked around the tent, his gaze falling on the sealed medical records, then on the thick canvas walls. The reality of our situation settled heavily. Trapped, with the truth that could save a man’s life, and expose a murderer, but no way to deliver it.
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