My Bratty Wife
Chapter 35 - Thirty Five

Chapter 35: Chapter Thirty Five

The air in the study hung heavy with an unsettling silence. Davis, his face etched with concern, stood before Ryan, the weight of the news hanging heavy in the room.

"Dead?" Ryan echoed, the single word laced with disbelief. "But how?"

Davis shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "We don’t know yet, Your Grace. A messenger arrived just moments ago, bearing the grim news."

Ryan’s hand tightened around the ledger he’d been examining moments ago. The carefully arranged notes Suzy had compiled, the discrepancies she had unearthed, all felt meaningless now. Their prime suspect is dead. This is a dead end. Frustration gnawed at him, a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Did you at least deliver the message I sent?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Yes, Your Grace," Davis replied, his voice barely a whisper. "A formal request was sent to the Viscount’s residence, requesting his immediate presence here. This... unfortunate news... arrived shortly thereafter."

Ryan ran a hand through his hair, the carefully styled strands falling into disarray. Conrad’s sudden demise threw a wrench into his carefully planned investigation. He had hoped to confront the Viscount, to pry out the secrets he so desperately guarded. Now, those secrets lay buried with him, taking a crucial piece of the puzzle to the grave.

Ryan slammed his fist on the desk, the heavy ledger bouncing precariously. The frustration was palpable. "Did they elaborate on the cause of his... death?"

Davis shuffled his feet nervously. "No, Your Grace. The messenger was... vague. He mentioned an investigation being conducted at the Viscount’s residence, but offered no further details."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration gnawing at his insides. "Where’s Thorne?" he snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"He and the scouts are on their way there, Your Grace, as we speak," Davis reassured him.

Ryan rubbed his temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his eyes. "Prepare a carriage," he instructed, his voice firm despite the growing turmoil within. "We’re going to the Viscount’s residence."

Davis’s eyes widened in surprise. "But Your Grace," he stammered, "it’s late. Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning..."

Ryan cut him off with a sharp gesture. "No," he insisted, his voice brooking no argument. "Time is of the essence, Davis. We need to understand what happened, and fast. Every minute that passes gives whoever did this a head start."

Davis bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Very well, Your Grace," he conceded. "I will see to it immediately."

————————-

The carriage clattered to a halt outside Viscount Conrad’s imposing residence. A sense of grim anticipation hung heavy in the air as Ryan and Davis stepped out into the cool night. Yellow ribbons, a sign of mourning, fluttered from the balcony.

A cordon had been established around the entrance, uniformed guards diligently keeping curious onlookers at bay. Spotting Ryan, the head guard approached, his face etched with a mixture of respect and apprehension.

"Your Grace," he stammered, bowing his head in a hasty salute. "We were expecting you."

Ryan nodded curtly, his eyes already scanning the scene. He spotted Thorne crouched near the doorway, meticulously examining the ground.

"Thorne," Ryan called out, his voice crisp. "What have you found so far?"

Thorne straightened up, his face grim. "Not much, My Lord," he admitted, his voice low. "The constable has already secured the scene, but there are no signs of forced entry."

"And the cause of death?" Ryan pressed, his gaze lingering on the fluttering yellow ribbons.

Thorne shook his head. "The doctor has taken the body for further examination. We expect a clearer picture by morning."

A flicker of frustration crossed Ryan’s face. He hated waiting, especially when the stakes were this high. His eyes darted around the study, taking in the furnishings and the air of controlled chaos that now permeated the study.

"Anything unusual?" he asked, his gaze settling on Thorne, who was holding a small container.

"Indeed, Your Grace," Thorne replied, his voice grave. "We found a white residue on a container close to the Viscount’s cigar box."

Ryan’s interest piqued. A white residue? What could it be? But then, the lack of struggle, the absence of forced entry... it didn’t fit the profile of a violent murder.

He glanced around the room again, his eyes catching a glint of light reflecting off a crystal ashtray on the desk. He strode towards it, picking it up and examining it closely. A faint trace of the same white residue clung to the rim.

"Interesting," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned back to Thorne, who had been observing the exchange with a keen eye.

"Have you analyzed the substance yet?" he inquired, his voice laced with urgency.

Thorne shook his head. "Not yet, Your Grace. It seems like ash from the cigar but we’ll send it to the apothecary first thing in the morning."

As they spoke, Ryan’s sharp nose caught a faint, unfamiliar scent that lingered in the air. It was sweet, cloying, almost floral. He wrinkled his nose, the scent triggering a sense of unease.

"Do you smell that, Thorne?" he asked, gesturing towards the air.

Thorne sniffed cautiously. "A faint floral scent, Your Grace. Perhaps from the Viscount’s... preferences."

Ryan snorted. He knew Conrad’s vices, and flowers weren’t one of them. This scent was different, more... artificial. Could it be a clue? A lingering trace of the murder weapon?

"We have to find the source of that smell, Thorne," he instructed, his voice firm. "It might be more important than you think. And have your men search the entire residence for any containers holding a white, crystalline substance. Look for anything unusual – vials, powders, anything that doesn’t belong."

Thorne nodded, his eyes gleaming with purpose. He scurried off, his keen senses on high alert.

"Davis," Ryan called, his voice firm, " look into the Viscount’s recent visitors. Anyone who looked suspicious."

Ryan’s gaze swept across the study, his mind piecing together the scene. There were no signs of struggle, no broken furniture, nothing to suggest a violent encounter. The death, according to the staffs, was said to be a heart attack. But something about it didn’t sit right with him.

He turned towards the housekeeper, a stern woman with a tightly drawn face. "Who was the last person to enter the Viscount’s study?" he inquired, his voice laced with authority.

The housekeeper pursed her lips, her eyes flickering around the room nervously. "It would be... Maria, Your Grace," she stammered. "The young maid. She went in to serve the Viscount his afternoon tea."

"Bring her here," Ryan commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The housekeeper scurried away, her starched uniform rustling in her wake. A tense silence descended upon the room, broken only by tapping off Ryan’s fingers on the desk and Thorne’s entry.

Moments later, a young woman, barely out of her teens, entered the room. Her eyes were wide with apprehension, her hands twisting nervously in the folds of her simple dress. She curtsied deeply, her voice barely a whisper as she greeted Ryan.

"Your Grace," she stammered.

Ryan gestured for her to stand straight. "Relax, Maria," he said, his voice softening slightly. "I just need to ask you a few questions about the Viscount."

The young maid took a shaky breath, her eyes flitting between Ryan and Throne, who stood silently observing the scene.

"What happened earlier today?" Ryan asked gently. "Did you see the Viscount?"

Maria nodded, her voice barely audible. "Yes, Your Grace. I... I brought him his tea as usual."

"Did anyone else enter his study after you left?" Ryan pressed, his gaze unwavering.

The young maid shook her head fervently. "No, Your Grace. He said he didn’t want to be disturbed. He... he seemed a bit... unwell, all day."

"Unwell?" Ryan echoed, his brow furrowing. "Did he say what was wrong?"

Maria shook her head again. "No, Your Grace. He just... didn’t look well. Pale, and... sweaty."

Ryan furrowed his brows. A heart attack, they had been told. But the symptoms Maria described, the paleness, the sweating – they could also be signs of poisoning.

"Did he... drink all the tea you brought him?" Ryan asked, his voice low and measured.

Maria hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes, Your Grace. I saw him finish it."

Ryan’s mind raced. The tea – could it be connected to the poison? Or was it something else? He needed to explore all possibilities.

"Did the Viscount have any visitors today?" he inquired, his voice sharp.

Maria shook her head again, this time with more certainty. "No, Your Grace. He... he didn’t see anyone. He said he wanted to be alone to... to work on some papers."

Ryan’s frustration mounted. The story seemed too perfect, too convenient. A man alone in his study, a cup of tea, a sudden heart attack. Yet, the strange scent in the room gnawed at him, whispering of a more sinister plot.

"Did you notice anything unusual in the study today, Maria?" he asked, his voice probing.

Maria’s brow furrowed in concentration. "Unusual... No, Your Grace. Everything seemed as it always is."

Disappointment flickered across Ryan’s face. He dismissed the young maid with a curt nod, her relieved sigh echoing in the room as she scurried out.

Thorne gestured towards the tea tray on the desk. "Perhaps we should have the apothecary examine the cup too."

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. "Excellent suggestion, Thorne. See to it personally and lock down this place no one enters and no one leaves until this investigation is over and ..." he trailed off " tell Davis to send Byron a message, he knows what to do after that."