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many memories to contend with, so many ghosts hovering in every corner.
Weaver attempted to clear his throat, with very little apparent success. He has been
talking for some time, Rayley thought, and vocalizing things which have, for half a lifetime, gone
unspoken. These facts might have made Rayley feel sympathy for anyone else, but it was hard to
muster any compassion for the figure sitting before him now, old and frail though the man was. Old
and frail and – for Tom was likely right – suffering mightily without the medicinal comforts he had
found within his wife’s bottle of reddish-brown powder.
“Are you quite well, Secretary-General?” Rayley asked coolly. “Would a visit from
your family doctor render you better able to withstand the rigors of interrogation?”
Weaver looked at him with watery eyes. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“We know that your wife took daily doses of laudanum. We think it is highly likely that
you did as well.”
To Rayley’s surprise, the man laughed. “Everyone in Bombay takes laudanum.”
“You see no shame in it?”
“Comparatively speaking, no I do not.”
“So may I assume that you did not attempt to hide your usage from your household staff?”
Weaver gave another ugly cough. “There is no point in attempting to hide anything from
one’s household staff. No man is a hero to his valet, as I believe some writer once said and I suppose
that fact would be especially true in my case.” But the change in questioning did spark a certain level
of interest, for Weaver turned to face Rayley more fully and continued. “But yes, everyone within my
household was aware that on certain challenging mornings, I would take a sip or two of Rose’s
draught. What of it?”
“For your sake, that is a good thing.”
“Why? Because it allows you to paint me as even more of a degenerate than you already
believe me to be?”
Rayley shook his head. “Our working theory is that the poison which killed Rose and
Sang was likely administered through her morning medication. If it was also known that you shared
her cup on a regular basis, there is a possibility that the poison was meant for you.” When Weaver
responded to this news with little more than a blank stare. Rayley elaborated. “A clever lawyer
could use this fact to create doubt in the mind of a jury. Enough doubt to have you exonerated.”
“Exonerated? Is that what I am to be?”
“Of this latest crime, yes. Perhaps. No one can ever truly say.”
“And am I ever to be forgiven of my previous failings?”
“I do not know,” Rayley said. “But I rather doubt it, because it would seem that
everyone who might have forgiven you is dead. You might someday find a way to forgive yourself,
but I cannot see how. “
“Nor can I,” said Weaver. He cleared his throat a final time and struggled to straighten
himself within his seat, to become once again the very model of military bearing. “So now I sit here
before you, Detective Abrams. The lone survivor of Cawnpore. The monster of the Raj. A wretched
excuse for an officer, or a friend. But I have cooperated in every way that you have requested, have
answered every question and confessed every sin. When shall I see my Geraldine?”