The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

nner. He thought that his plan might work, after all. He hadn’t had a proper fainting spell since the walk with Lydia, and that alone seemed to be enough to convict in his mind.

He sat at dinner, waiting for a waitress, and saw walking by a pair of young men who seemed a little bit tipsy; it was only as they came quite close that he recognized Simon and his nephew, who immediately recognized him and walked up to his table.

“Uncle, I haven’t seen you for a few days,” exclaimed Henry Roche, a little bit too loudly.

“Please, don’t be quite so loud; feel free to come and sit down, but just be a little bit quieter,” John Paul whispered angrily.

“Why thank you,” said Simon, who pulled a seat out and sat down in it.

Perhaps, John Paul thought, regarding them, he had underestimated their drunkenness. Simon seemed to have a somewhat sober aspect to him that wasn’t immediately apparent. John Paul looked at him evenly, and he looked back, a dumbly contented look on his face.

“Are you eating here,” said his nephew. “Why not at home? We’ve plenty of food, you know.”

“I wanted a change,” answered the Colonel, though he thought it sounded weak. He certainly couldn’t voice any sort of suspicion, not on so little evidence. Not with his prime suspect sitting across from him, watching his every move.

“Ah, well,” his nephew answered. “If that’s all, I can have Thomas break out the duck. I know he’s been saving it, but it’s certainly different.”

“Hm,” John Paul answered, doing his best to maintain a degree of distance. “Perhaps that would be fine, then.”

“It’s a date, then,” he answered, giggling.

“I suppose so. Tomorrow night, then.”

“Tomorrow night!”

Henry stood up, but Simon stayed in his seat, not moving one bit.

“Are you going to come with me, Mister Wakefield?”

“What?” Said the eldest Wakefield. He looked up suddenly, as if out of a stupor. “Oh. Certainly.”

He pushed his chair back and stood.

“I’ll be seeing you as well, mister Foster. Do have a nice evening.”

“Thank you; I would say the same to the two of you, but you seem to be managing it quite well enough on your own!”

The pair of them laughed softly as they walked away. It was getting dark, and John Paul looked back to the food, half-eaten.

They were gone, now. He could finally get back to his food. He speared a bite of beef on his fork and ate it. Quite delicious, really. It wasn’t better than what Thomas was preparing most days, but he found that even after several months he had not grown used to having so much good food available. Things, it seemed, were continuing to look up.

He had been feeling better for the past few days, and with a few days’ rest he would begin searching for proof of who it might have been. He suspected Simon, he thought again. He’d kept quite a close watch on him, though, and he’d done little more than sit at the table, daring him to look away. His hands in his lap, no doubt hiding something that he could slip in under the nose of drunken Henry.

John Paul was quite sure, though. They hadn’t left his lap. Which made it a little bit surprising when he found himself retching later that night.

John Paul spent another day in town, but he knew instinctively; regardless of how much he tried to redouble his efforts to avoid anyone he knew, there would be no helping it. Either he was well and truly ill, and as he avoided everyone he was only worsening his condition by spending so much of his time in the cold, or the poisoner would find some way to reinsert themselves into his life.

More than once, he saw what he thought was Simon or Henry or Lydia out walking, and before he could confirm their identity he turned and tried to turn another way. He found, though, that more than that his nerves were being heavily frayed by the entire affair. He couldn't stomach much more of it. It was getting to be far too much for him, the hiding, the deceit.

He would need to figure out some other system. Who, he thought not for the first time, could he trust? He could still see no evidence to impeach Lydia. She was as safe as anyone could possibly be. Thomas, he suspected, had no real investment in murdering him.

He couldn't have been related to any of the men in the unit from back in Australia, that was for sure. He was safe, as well, though he might be convinced to turn against his employer with only a little difficulty. There was no reason to suspect that he was any more morally unimpeachable than John Paul himself.

John Paul knew from experience that he was capable of compromising his morals for enough money. He pushed the thought away. He'd spent the last year avoiding thinking about that night when he could, and there was no reason to bring it up now.

He stood up from the table he'd sat himself at. It was getting late; any more hesitation and it would be too late, but for now he could still justify it, if only just. Lydia would still be awake, and it was hardly unusual for a suitor to call on his betrothed past dinner time.

But as August passed the sun was going down earlier and earlier, and it would be black as pitch before he knew it, so it was now or never. He walked to the Wakefield home, and was greeted as usual by a young man in a jacket who informed him that he would only be a moment in fetching Lydia. True to his word, the door reopened only a few minutes later, Lydia following the boy closely.