That sounded ominous. She steadied herself and began to read:
Dear Son,
If you are reading this, my plan worked, and I am out of this world and into the next, or very soon will be.
I am hoping to avoid an inquest by making my death appear accidental, so the doctor sees no purpose in calling the coroner to convene an inquest.
If, however, thereis an inquest, say nothing of this letter unless they accuse anyone of murdering me. Let them draw their own conclusions about the manner of my death. With any luck, they will deem my death accidental.
Her heart faltered as she realized what she was reading. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected. An overdose? Yes. A case of habitual use gone awry? Possibly. But this . . . oh, poor Geoffrey. Poor Mrs. Brookhouse and Rosy!
She glanced over at him. “This is . . . a suicide note?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Geoffrey swallowed convulsively. “By the time Father gave it to me, with instructions not to read it until later, he’d already ingested a bottle or more of laudanum. He wanted to make sure he was past the point where anyone, including me, could save his life by giving him an emetic to empty his stomach.”
Geoffrey wouldn’t meet her gaze. “He’d also already sent for the doctor. That enabled him to speak to me in secrecy and finish his plan, which only involved me because he wanted to put the letter in my hands himself. First, so it wasn’t missed in the confusion following his death. And so the coroner couldn’t use it to declare him a suicide. And lastly, so no one could use it to blackmail me.”
“That’s ironic, considering.”
“Yes,” he said with a faint smile. “Obviously, he didn’t count on his relations being the vile vultures that they are. Anyway, read on.”
So she did.
If there is an inquest, lie to the coroner about my increasing use of laudanum for pain. Say that your mother did not know about the laudanum, which is true. I had to tell the apothecary I needed it for my stomach ailment. It was the only way I could ensure I got enough for my purpose. Our apothecary should have a record of multiple visits to purchase the drug, and he can confirm that I asked him not to tell your mother of it.
Speaking of your mother and sister, do not tell them of this letter either. Let them go on to mourn me, assuming it was my stomach ailment that took my life. I will tell the doctor myself of the accident, and ask him not to reveal my use of laudanum unless absolutely necessary. Your mother takes too much blame upon herself as it is—I wouldn’t wish to add any.
Now we come to the question that must be uppermost in your own mind. Why am I doing this? Because Iam in pain, though not the sort laudanum could alleviate. I’m of no use to anyone and am only biding my time until death takes me. I’ve felt this way most of my life, but lately such thoughts prey on me constantly. The only time they leave me is when I see my children carrying on so beautifully, and when I gaze upon your mother’s face. We quarrel, it’s true, but those quarrels are as nothing when I hold her in my arms. She will be better off by far without me.
So it makes sense to leave this earth in a blissful sleep, something I rarely had in life. I hope you can understand, and that if you don’t, you at least won’t blame me too much.
You have been a good son to me, and I hope you will continue to be so by following my wishes. But don’t risk your own life to prevent anyone knowing I took mine. I know you will make the right decision regardless. I leave your mother and sister in your capable hands.
With much affection,
Your father
Only when her cheeks got wet did she realize she was crying. When he offered her a handkerchief, she carefully folded up the letter and handed it back to him before using his handkerchief to wipe her eyes and nose. “Your poor, poor father. How melancholy he must have been to see this as his only escape.”
“Now do you understand why I kept the truth about Father’s death a secret for so long?”
“I think so.” She had trouble speaking for the lump in her throat. “If it ever got out that your father killed himself, you’re worried he would be judged guilty of felo-de-se.”
“Yes. You may not be aware, but it means ‘self-murder.’ And you know what happens to those who commit suicide and are so judged in a court of law?”
She stared at him. “Not really. I mean, I know it’s a terrible scandal, and anyone so judged is buried with a stake through the heart at a crossroads and some other superstitious nonsense, but—”
“It’s far more than that, I’m afraid.” He restored the letter to its drawer and locked it again. “If Father were judged as committing a felony—which a felo-de-se is, in legal terms—his property would be forfeit to the crown. That means the house my mother and sister live in, my grandfather’s company, Stockdon and Sons, which was left to Father, and quite possibly the property I inherited with the dukedom. I’m not certain about that last because I’m reluctant to consult an attorney about it and raise questions. But it could be disastrous for my family, not only now but for decades to come.”
“Good Lord, that’s a stupid law.”
“It is,” he said dryly. “But it is still prosecuted. And if the only way I could keep from facing a charge of murder was to present this letter, it would save me while possibly damning my family. No good would come of it either way.”
No wonder he held that letter so close. Diana didn’t know whether to feel gratified that he’d finally chosen to reveal this to her . . . or angry it had taken him so long.
That also explained why he had so much contempt for rumormongers. Because such people quite literally could destroy his life and the lives of his mother and sister.
Then a bit of information she’d read somewhere wiggled its way into the front of her brain. “I thought there was another determination a jury could make, which would be less awful. They could deem your father non . . . non . . .”