My Bratty Wife
Chapter 36 - Thirty Six

Chapter 36: Chapter Thirty Six

The morning sun cast a pale light through the dusty windows of Viscount Conrad’s study, highlighting the grim scene that remained. Ryan, his face etched with a night’s worth of restless contemplation, stood before the desk where the tobacco box still lay. The air, however, had lost its cloying sweetness, replaced by a sterile smell that did little to alleviate the tension.

"The report, Thorne?" Ryan asked, his voice raspy from lack of sleep.

Thorne, his face equally grim, handed him a rolled-up parchment. "The doctor confirms arsenic poisoning, Your Grace. Traces were found in the Viscount’s system."

Ryan’s jaw clenched. Arsenic – a silent killer, a poison that could leave few outward signs. It fit the scene – an unassuming tea tray, a victim alone in his study.

He turned to the bottle containing the white residue they’d found on the container. Analysis had revealed it to be a potent form of arsenic as well. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but a gap remained, a nagging suspicion that wouldn’t be silenced.

"The tea?" Ryan inquired, his gaze flickering to the now-empty tray on the desk.

Throne shook his head. "Clean. No traces of poison found. The white residue on the cup was just undiluted sugar."

This new information added another layer of complexity to the puzzle. How was the arsenic administered, if not through the tea? And what about the strange, sweet scent that had permeated the room? It seemed designed to mask something, but what?

Thorne broke the silence. "Intriguing, Your Grace. If the Viscount wasn’t poisoned through the tea, then how...?"

A sudden thought struck Ryan, a spark of possibility igniting in his mind. "The scent, Thorne," he declared, his voice sharp. "The cloying, floral scent that lingered in the room. What if..."

He reached out, picking up the vial containing the white residue. "What if the scent wasn’t just a coincidence?"

Thorne’s eyes widened in understanding. "A masking agent?" he gasped. "The arsenic was administered in another way, and the scent was used to cover its presence?"

"Exactly," Ryan confirmed, a grim satisfaction settling over him. "The question is, how?"

He paced the room, his gaze flitting across the furniture and the framed portraits on the walls. The scent, faint yet persistent, seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.

But something else still didn’t add up. Why go through such lengths to hide the smell if they were just going to poison the Viscount? The whole scenario reeked of amateurism, a desperate attempt at a clean kill.

"There’s more to this, Thorne," Ryan declared, his voice firm with conviction. "The tea being clean throws a wrench in the whole operation. Someone wanted it to look like a natural death, but they messed up."

Thorne nodded, his keen mind already racing through the possibilities. "Indeed, Your Grace. Perhaps the culprit panicked when the Viscount didn’t succumb quickly enough."

"Or," Ryan added, a new theory forming in his mind, "perhaps the tea wasn’t the target at all."

He turned to Thorne, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Thorne, the tobacco. The white residue we found on his container... could that be the culprit?"

Thorne’s eyes widened in understanding. "Brilliant, Your Grace! If the arsenic wasn’t in the tea, it could have been laced into his tobacco."

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. "Enter," Ryan commanded, his voice sharp.

The door creaked open, revealing Davis, his usual stoic demeanor replaced with a hint of anticipation.

"Your Grace," Davis announced, bowing his head in a respectful greeting. "You requested to see Mr. Roger, the steward."

Ryan nodded curtly. "Yes, Davis. Please bring him in."

Moments later, a portly man with a nervous demeanor shuffled into the room. He cast a wary glance around the study, his eyes lingering on the sealed door that led to the Viscount’s chambers.

"Mr. Roger," Ryan began, his voice laced with authority. "I need information about the Viscount’s tobacco. Where did he acquire it?"

Roger cleared his throat, his face flushed a shade of crimson. "Exotic blends, Your Grace," he stammered. "The Viscount had a particular taste for... unusual tobacco strains. They were always shipped directly from a foreign supplier."

"Shipped?" Ryan echoed, a spark of interest igniting in his eyes. "Who handles the shipments here at the residence?"

Roger hesitated, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "John, Your Grace. John, the stable hand. He’s responsible for receiving and logging all deliveries."

Ryan’s gaze snapped to Thorne. A single word hung heavy in the air – opportunity. If the tobacco was the source of the arsenic, then whoever controlled its arrival could have easily tampered with it. John, the unassuming stable hand, suddenly became a key player in this deadly game.

"Bring John to me," Ryan commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And Roger," he added, a chilling edge creeping into his tone, "I expect complete transparency about these... exotic shipments. Every detail, no matter how insignificant."

Roger’s face paled, and he bowed deeply. "Y-yes, Your Grace. At once."

John, the stable hand, shuffled into the study, his boots heavy and hesitant on the polished floor. His face, normally weathered and sun-kissed, was pale and etched with worry. He cast a nervous glance around the room, his eyes finally settling on Ryan, who sat behind the imposing oak desk.

"John," Ryan began, his voice surprisingly gentle considering the circumstances. "We’re investigating some discrepancies regarding a recent delivery. You handle all shipments for the residence, is that correct?"

John nodded dumbly, his throat working dryly. "Y-yes, Your Grace. All deliveries, from groceries to..." His voice trailed off, his eyes flickering towards the sealed door.

"Including tobacco?" Ryan pressed, his gaze unwavering.

John swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Your Grace. The Viscount... he preferred... unusual blends. They came shipped in special crates, very expensive."

"And how do you handle these deliveries?" Ryan continued, his voice laced with a subtle curiosity.

John launched into a detailed explanation, his voice gaining confidence with each word. He described the meticulous process – checking the seals, verifying the shipping manifests, ensuring the contents matched the order and logging it in the register. It seemed like a well-oiled system.

"Excellent," Ryan murmured, a smile playing on his lips. On the surface, John seemed like a reliable and diligent employee. But there was a critical detail missing.

"When was the last tobacco shipment delivered, John?" Ryan inquired, leaning forward on his elbows.

John furrowed his brow, concentrating for a moment. "Three days ago, Your Grace. A large crate, quite heavy actually. Had to use a handcart to get it here."

"And did you follow your usual protocol? Verified the contents?" Ryan pressed, his voice sharpening slightly.

John puffed out his chest, a hint of self-importance tinging his voice. "Absolutely, Your Grace. Everything was in order. Seals intact, no signs of tampering. Though..." his voice faltered, his boldness fading.

"Though?" Ryan prompted, his eyes narrowing.

John shifted his weight uncomfortably. "There were... a lot of deliveries that day. A whole shipment of new furniture arrived as well. It was... overwhelming, Your Grace. I... I might have had some help sorting things out."

Ryan’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold glint in his eyes. "Help?" he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. "Who helped you, John?"

John hesitated, his gaze darting around the room like a trapped animal. "L-Luke, Your Grace. Luke, the new gardener."

"Luke?" Ryan repeated, the name triggering a spark of suspicion. Luke, the newcomer, an outsider with unknown connections. The missing piece of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place.

"Tell me everything about Luke," Ryan commanded, his voice firm and unwavering. "When did he arrive? Who recommended him? And most importantly, where is he now?"

John stammered through his explanation, revealing that Luke had been recommended by a local tavern owner, a man known for supplying good workers. He hadn’t been at the residence for more than a week, and as far as John knew, he hadn’t shown up for work yesterday.

Ryan dismissed John with a curt nod, his mind racing with possibilities. Luke, the seemingly harmless newcomer, had become the prime suspect. His arrival coincided with the poisoned tobacco shipment, and his sudden disappearance reeked of guilt.

Ryan steepled his fingers, his brow furrowed in deep thought. The scenario unfolded with unsettling clarity. Luke, likely recruited for this specific task, would have had the perfect opportunity to tamper with the tobacco during the chaotic influx of deliveries. John, trusting and unsuspecting, wouldn’t have noticed a slight change in the appearance or smell of the exotic blend.

But how? How did Luke manage to add the arsenic to the tobacco without raising any suspicion? The answer, Ryan knew, lay in the details.

Perhaps Luke, with his charming demeanor, had add the arsenic to the ones he had checked. He could have easily masked the arsenic with a strong-smelling additive, something exotic and unfamiliar, much like the cloying sweetness that still lingered in the study.

A shiver ran down Ryan’s spine. The simplicity of the act was chilling. All it took was a misplaced trust and a well-crafted ploy to transform a harmless shipment into a deadly weapon. But who was behind it all? Who would orchestrate such a convoluted plan to eliminate Conrad?

He turned to Thorne, his face a mask of steely determination. "Find Luke," he instructed, his voice cold and laced with urgency. "Bring him in for questioning. And alert the guards to secure the perimeter. We might have a fugitive on our hands."