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“I was also introduced to your aunt at that time,” Dr. Tufts said. “And she struck me as
one of the heartiest women of her age I had ever met, certainly not the sort who would swoon at her
first sight of Bombay. So you needn’t dissemble and pretend you have come on her behalf. You are
one of those Scotland Yard investigators, are you not? Here to badger me about my former patient,
Rose Weaver?”
“Indeed I am, Sir, and should we find a more private place to confer?” Tom asked,
dropping his voice, for the doctor, like many older people who were losing their hearing, tended to
talk in a bellow. The other five or six men scattered around the room were staring pointedly at their
own newspapers, but Tom had no doubt they were eavesdropping.
“And where would you like to sit?” asked the doctor. “The terrace?” This question was
followed by disconcerting bark of laughter, for the rain outside the large arched windows had not
abated in the least.
“Let us step into the dining room,” said Tom. “It is still being held as a crime scene and
is thus private.”
“Crime scene?” the doctor snorted, but he did fold his paper and push to his feet. “The
only crime which took place in that room was ignorant negligence, which you have doubtlessly
already concluded if you have half a brain. And you look as if you do. They told me you are studying
medicine?”
Tom nodded and the two men proceeded past their audience of listeners from the library,
down the hall, and into the dining room. It was even darker there, the low-hanging sky beyond the
single window offering little illumination, and Tom glanced around for a candle.
“Here,” said the doctor. He reached for a heavy-looking candelabra, which he lifted
from a sideboard with surprising ease. He deposited it on the table with one hand, digging in his
jacket pocket for a match with another, while Tom pulled out the chairs.
“Now what have you really come to ask me?” the doctor said, when they were seated,
the candle offering a comfortable glow. After a moment of consideration, Tom stood and pulled off
his damp jacket, draping it over the back of his chair to dry. Tufts did not seem to be a man who
stood on ceremony.
“We have come to understand that Rose Weaver was a habitual user of laudanum,” he
began.
Tufts nodded. “She was, but you need not lay that one at my feet. She was already an
addict when I met her.”
Given Gerry’s description of her voyage on the Weeping Susan, Tom was not surprised,
although he was slightly nonplussed by Tuft’s ready use of the word addict. Most doctors in London
shied away from the term. “So you are suggesting that she first began taking the drug during her visit
to England?”
“Yes, and the problem is hardly uncommon among my patients,” Tufts said. “The middle
or upper classes, especially the ladies, have a certain pattern. They have their first experience with
opiates for legitimate reasons - a toothache, childbirth, some minor injury- and they find they like the
effects. They come to India already a habitual user and in short order realize that the subcontinent
opens up a cornucopia of botanical options. You shall witness the bounty yourself if you have the
chance to leave the city during your visit. Barely twenty minutes from Bombay there are poppies
growing in every field.”
“Did Rose Weaver have any underlying ailment?” he asked.
“Nothing other than the standard aches and pains of her age,” Tufts said. “And the