The Soldier's Poisoned Heart

"Do you know who it is?"

"I suspect, but I don't know. I can't prove anything, and that's why you need to be very quiet about what I'm about to tell you."

"Of course," Henry answered, his voice falling hush. "My lips to God's ears."

"Are you aware," John Paul asked, "that your new friend Simon Wakefield owes me some eight hundred pounds?"

"Eight hundred—" Henry's eyes widened. "That doesn't sound right."

"Eight hundred and not one penny less. I suspect that is as good a motive as any, don't you?"

Henry sat back, his eyes wide. They seemed almost to roll around freely in his head, as if he were completely disoriented.

"But how? How could he be poisoning you? You only see him, what, every few weeks?"

"I suppose that sounds about right."

"Then how on earth could it be his doing?"

John Paul took a deep breath. It was the moment of truth, then.

"I believe," he said, barely above a whisper, "that he's acting through his sister as an agent. I don't know if she has any knowledge of what she's doing, but I believe my fiancee to be instrumental to this entire affair."

Henry's mouth puckered and then pulled wide into a grimace.

"Then you should call off the wedding," he said. "It's that simple, after all, isn't it?"

"Not at all, Henry. I don't think she has a hand in it. I can't simply break our engagement because of suspicions. I need proof, whether it be of her innocence or of her knowledge. I can't get that sort of evidence, Henry. I trust her too much. She will act coy and I will believe her. I need you to be vigilant for evidence from her." John Paul took a deep breath and sunk into the chair. "Can you do me that favor?"

"Of course," Henry breathed. "Thank you for coming to me with this, uncle. I'll do my best."

"Of course," John Paul said. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He was exhausted, he found. The entire day had been exhausting, and this confession had taken a great deal out of him. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed. He looked at the clock. Six thirty. The sun was already long-since down. He could sleep, then. It wasn't so early. And he was exhausted.

John Paul laid down in the bed and tried to lay very still. He let his mind wander. That seemed to be the only thing, lately, that let him sleep, though it troubled him as well, leading him to often unpleasant thoughts about the people around him and their intentions.

For a moment, it seemed as if it would be a relatively calm night; nothing immediately came to mind. His heart was seized by terror, though, when he realized hat in spite of his best efforts he could not push away the fact that no matter what he did, he seemed to be surrounded by people who couldn't be trusted.

He had placed some trust in Henry, telling him about his secret fears, but there was a real question in his mind of whether or not Lydia could possibly be guilty of the things he feared

she was being accused of—being accused by him, he realized.

There was nothing that she stood to gain by poisoning him. He had heard of "black widows" or some such, women who poisoned their husbands, but it was usually over something the husband had done, or for the inheritance money. They were not married; she stood to gain nothing at all by poisoning him. At the same time, he had never done anything to her.

Perhaps, he thought, she was setting him up; perhaps her brother was setting him up, he corrected, so that he would die just after the wedding. They would be in line to inherit, then, with nobody but Henry to stand in opposition to it. His nephew would be powerless.

He wondered for a moment if Thomas could be involved. If the servants could be involved in the plot, then there would be no escaping it. He tried to think. Had Thomas Wheeler ever shown any indication that he had any sort of grudge against him? No.

Though, if he were related to one of the soldiers that night, then he would have been quiet about it. Played it very close to the chest. John Paul was not an easily-spooked man, but he took no chances when it came to the gold.

Anyone looking to get their vengeance would surely know this, and he would have been left with a terribly long leash. He might have only found out about the feud that killed him on his deathbed, when it was all done. Perhaps he would die not knowing who had done him in. He shuddered and pushed his face into the pillow. He couldn't stand this line of thought. His heart was pounding.

He had been in the service for nearly twenty years by that point. Every assignment that crossed his desk, he was displeased to say, seemed as if it were the same. In the end, the only things that varied from day to day were the names he wrote on the papers. He shouldn't even have been on that patrol, not really. That was the best, and the worst, part. He shouldn't have even been there.

There had been reports coming in for several months, reports of a small force that had been taking out units in the bush. They were suspected to be aboriginals who had stolen some weapons from the armory a few months back, and were laying traps for the men. John Paul remembered the entire thing well.

He had been of two minds—was still of two minds—on the entire issue. The Crown had brought civilization to the bush. Before that, there had been people, certainly, but as he had rode through the streets of Sydney he had thought, nothing like that.

He didn't have to rationalize particularly much to sympathize with them, though. If their roles had been reversed; they the British troops and he the natives, he might have rebelled himself. He had wondered about the notion that a few dozen aboriginals had managed to raid an armory, though.