Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/422

 414 “What will kill some of us, Mrs. Gould? Our nerves?”

“Where’s Mr. Stephen, sir? Oh, sir, she’s dead! And it is that draught which Mr. Stephen sent down to-night that has killed her.”

“Who is dead?” returned Mr. Grey in wonderment “What draught? What are you talking of?”

“The lady Mr. Stephen is attending at my house, sir. He sent her a sleeping draught tonight, and there must have been poison in it, for she died the minute she had swallowed it. I mean the young lady, Mrs. Crane, sir,” she added, perceiving that Mr. Grey appeared not to understand her.

“Dead?” he uttered.

“Stone dead, sir. Mr. Carlton said I had better come up for Mr. Stephen Grey. He’s there with Mr. Lycett.”

Mr. Grey closed his own door and entered his brother’s house. Frederick Grey was coming across the hall.

“Is your father in, Frederick?”.

“No. I don’t suppose he’ll be long. I don’t know where he’s gone, though. Uncle John, we had a letter from mamma this evening.”

“Did he make up a draught to-night for Mrs. Crane, do you know?” continued Mr. Grey, passing unnoticed his nephew’s gratuitous information.

“Yes, I know he did, for I was in the surgery at the time. A composing draught. Why? It was sent.”

“Why, it have just killed her, Master Frederick,” put in Mrs. Gould. “It were prussic acid, they say, and no composing draught at all.”

“What thundering nonsense!” echoed the boy, who appeared to have caught only the latter words.

“Nonsense, is it, sir?” sobbed the Widow. “She’s dead.”

Frederick Grey glanced quickly at his uncle, as if for confirmation or the contrary.

“I am going down there, Frederick. Mrs. Gould says she is dead. As soon as your father comes in, ask him to follow me.”

The lad stood looking after them as they went down the street, his brain busy. At that moment he saw their assistant, Mr. Whittaker, approaching from the opposite side of the street. Frederick Grey took his cap from the hall where it was hanging, and went out to meet him.

“Mr. Whittaker, they are saying the new patient, Mrs. Crane, is dead. Do you believe it?”

“Rubbish,” retorted Mr. Whittaker. “Mr. Stephen told me to-night she was as good as well. Who says it?”

“Mother Gould. She has been up here to fetch Uncle John, and he has left word that papa is to follow soon. Tell him, will you?”

He vaulted off ere he had well finished speaking, caught up Mrs. Gould at her own door, and ran up-stairs after his uncle. Mr. Grey had already entered the chamber of Mrs. Crane. He first satisfied himself that she was really dead, and then set to search out the particulars. Mr. Carlton directed his attention to the bottle.

“Mr. Grey,” he began, “you know how chary we medical fraternity are of bringing an accusation or casting blame on one another; but I do fear some most unfortunate error has been committed. The phial has most undoubtedly contained prussic acid in some state, and it appears only too certain that it is prussic acid she has died from.”

“The phial has certainly had prussic acid in it,” returned Mr. Grey; “but it is impossible that it can have been sent by my brother.”

“He may not have made it up himself,” returned. Mr. Carlton. “Is the writing his? ‘Composing draught to be taken the last thing. Mrs. Crane.’”

“That is his, and I believe he made up the draught himself. But as to his having put prussic acid in it, I feel sure he did not.”

“I was here when it came, and I detected the smell at once,” said Mr. Carlton. “At the first moment I thought it was oil of almonds; the next felt sure it was prussic acid. Not that I suspected for an instant there was sufficient to destroy life, the slightest modicum of a drop, perhaps; though why Mr. Stephen Grey should have put it in I did not understand. Now I cannot tell you why it was, but I could not get that smell out of my head. I think it may have been from reading that case of fatal error in the Lancet last week. You know what I mean?”

Mr. Grey nodded.

“And before I left I told Mrs. Crane not to take the draught unless she heard from Mr. Stephen Grey again. As I went home I called at your house; but Mr. Stephen was not at home. I intended just to mention the smell to him. Had he said it was all right, there was an end of apprehension; but mistakes have been so frequent of late as to put medical men on their guard.”

“True,” assented Mr. Grey.

“I have but a word to finish,” continued Mr. Carlton. “When I found I could not see Mr. Stephen Grey, I went home, made up a composing draught, and was coming out with it when an urgent message came for me to see