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Rating: PG-13
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Chapter 2
"Fancy a Foxglove?"
Written by Jen
Giles didn't notice the car slowing as it approached Evelyndale Manor. As always, the stone fence was imposing, and the wrought iron gates were covered in trailing vines Giles had never liked, but it kept prying eyes away from road leading to the main building. An outstanding example of Victorian Gothic Revival, the original house stood and loomed over anyone who dared to enter. It wasn't haunted, nevertheless, Rupert Giles felt as if the house could press him into the soil on which it stood. Built in 1864, it stood unchallenged, imposing its' will across the grounds while challenging visitors not to run screaming. It was surrounded by parks, landscaped and wild, and gardens in abundance. Even the kitchen has its' own garden where the cook undoubtedly went to gather vegetables and herbs. God forbid Quentin Travers endorse anything so modern as a supermarket, but even Giles had to admit there were advantages to stationing The Council of Watchers in a place that was almost entirely self-sufficient.
The main house was damned pregnant with turrets and towers-they were everywhere. As a child, Giles would've sworn the things bred in the night. At least the place wasn't mad with gargoyles too. That would've been too much. And the chapel? It was positively luxurious, most of it's original decor intact, the place looked more like a small cathedral, and there gargoyles seemed to caper and frolic under the unholy direction of whatever God would have them. Despite the warmth, Giles shuddered and felt chilled. He really hated this place. A tribute to English country living-even if that living was dead decades ago. Walk into any place that didn't cater to tourists, ask for tea and cream cakes, and you'd most likely walk out with a punch to the head. Giles sighed and looked dismal at the prospect of walking up the stone stairway.
The front door opened before he even reached the threshold, the watchers were nothing if not efficient, and he stepped in the darkened hallway to hear a tinny voice, "Rupert Giles, right? I thought y'all'd never get here!"
A slight woman with an American southern accent greeted him. She was in her mid fifties, iron gray hair, and probably just sat at the front desk waiting for the chance to greet newcomers and visitors, "Yes, I'm Rupert Giles."
"Thought so, you're the only one staying here at the manor-except a few juniors that old Quents is slave driving these days. Well, you're on the third floor, you know the way. Travers said you spent most of your childhood in this place. Must've been pretty scary," the woman shivered, "your bags aren't here yet, but I can get you something to wear from storage."
"That would be fine. Just, make it something casual, please?" requested Giles.
"Sure thing, honey, these boys have been forced to make allowances for the non-tweed set these days. If you need anything else, just ask for Cheryl. OH! Almost forgot, here are your phone messages."
Giles looked at the small papers and realized each of the five messages was basically the same, though the time varied, "Buffy Summers, Slayer, requests return call," or, "Buffy says it's urgent, call home ASAP," and Giles personal favorite, "What's with this chick on the phone? Oh, sorry, tell Giles to call me." Apparently Buffy didn't realize Cheryl recorded everything she heard. He smiled, feeling a twinge of homesickness, and headed up the massive staircase. Crimson carpeting covered the marble, and Giles was certain that carpet had been there since the house was constructed.
He reached his room, unlocked the door, and settled into what appeared to be a very comfortable suite. Quentin had assigned him to one of the modern rooms. While the furniture and decor matched the house entirely, the armoire was a deceptive piece that hid a television, Bose radio, and there was even a computer with desk. My, oh my, how times were changing. Before napping, Giles decided to try reaching Buffy. He settled into an overstuffed leather armchair and proceeded to call home. For a moment, he entertained the idea of using the phone in his room, but he knew that eavesdroppers were to anyone working here what produce was to rabbits. Necessary. That meant the cell phone, and he'd just have to hope the conversation wouldn't bleed over a third party line.
Dawn picked up on the first ring, "Hello?"
The din in Giles head was like an ice pick thrusting itself through his eyes, "Dawn? Is that you?"
A girlish squeal screeched through Giles' brain, "GILES? Oh my God, this is so cool! Buffy is going to kill you-she's not here. Patrol," Dawn's voice screamed over the horrible cacophony.
"Dawn -- What is that unholy noise?" He knew she'd say it was some band or other, but he'd never heard Dawn listening to anything quite like this before.
"Um… Limp Bizkit," she shouted back, "Spike's friend let me borrow it. They're here too!"
"He is? Ask him to turn it down, please!" Giles head pounded in agony, and the volume dropped dramatically, "That's better, but, Dawn, I know I'm going to regret this for the rest of my life, why one earth would anyone want to name a band after flaccid pastries?"
Dawn broke into a fit of giggles then began screeching with laughter. Apparently, she'd found Giles so amusing, she dropped the phone.
"What's got the Bit so amused?" Spike asked, and Giles cringed.
"I'm not really sure, Spike, but could you tell Buffy I called? She's called several times today-tell her I'll be out for the afternoon. I've got some papers to retrieve, and then I'm sure I'll be stuck in meetings with Travers for the remainder of the day."
"Sure thing, Rupes, it's late here--Slayer'll probably call you tomorrow anyway."
"That's fine, just tell her not to call too early, and tell Dawn to stop that infernal caterwauling," they said their good-byes, and Giles hung up the phone. It was time to visit London.
Outside the morgue, Giles waited to speak with the coroner who'd agreed to meet him at the hospital offices. He wasn't certain why the paperwork couldn't be mailed, but he assumed Travers wanted the work picked up personally, better to trust someone he knew over the post. The sharp clip of hard-soled shoes moved quickly toward Rupert Giles, and he looked anxiously down the hall hoping he could get his business done quickly.
The coroner, a young man in his early thirties, sandy brown hair, even, clear features, with brown eyes hidden behind the thickest lenses Giles had ever seen said, "You're Mr. Giles, right? I've been expecting you...please come into my office where we can talk," the young man unlocked his office door then extended his hand, "I'm Thomas Bradshaw."
"Did you do the autopsy, Mr. Bradshaw?"
"Thomas, please," the coroner told the older man, "Sure did, and I'm sorry for your loss." The young man shook his head sadly, "You know, Sir Robert was very good to this hospital. I met him once....he was very kind."
"Thank you," Giles replied, "I'm certain his wife will appreciate the condolences."
"Well, down to business," Thomas pulled a file from his briefcase and invited Giles to sit, "It's my understanding that Sir Robert had heart problems?"
"Yes, I believe he was diagnosed over a decade ago....his family tells me…, let me think now, it was in 1991? I'm sure that's right."
The young Mr. Bradshaw smiled, "It's still a shock I'm sure. You know, people always tell us that knowing someone is ill gives you a chance to prepare, but I've never found that to be true with any of the families I've worked with. It's harder still when the person in question might have killed himself."
"Pardon?" Giles couldn't have been more stunned had Thomas Bradshaw suddenly opened a portal to the nearest hell dimension and offered the watcher a milkshake.
"I have to be frank with you, Mr. Giles, we found large amounts of Lanoxin in Sir Robert's blood stream. On the death certificate, you'll note that cause of death reads 'accidental overdose', but Quentin Travers made me aware of the fact that Sir Robert had a full-time nurse dispensing his medication. I suspect your friend was simply tired of fighting this illness, and that's not uncommon amongst those suffering."
"I don't understand," stammered Giles, "Sir Robert was active and loved life; he wouldn't have killed himself!"
"Then it must've been accident," Thomas sighed then joked, "or murder, and I just can't imagine why anyone would want to kill an ailing man in his seventies."
Giles laughed, trying to make light of the statement, but the whisperings of a suspicion filled his mind, "Murder? No, of course not. Though I am curious, what exactly is Lanoxin supposed to do?"
"It's one of the standard heart medications. Basically, a patient taking Lanoxin can expect to have a more regular heart beat, stronger, etc. An overdose, well, it's not an easy way to die, hallucinations, a more pronounced irregular heartbeat, vomiting, confusion, and death are the results if not treated. One of the drugs main components includes digitalis."
Giles had never been an expert in pharmaceuticals, but digitalis was commonly used in medicine, and again he found himself suspicious. He'd have to get to back to the Council and check the security tapes. Putting the thought aside for a moment, he asked, "Is there anything else I should know?"
"No, I just need you to sign these forms, and you can take the papers with you. Once again, I am sorry for your loss," Thomas Bradshaw smiled sympathetically and handed the file to Giles.
As Rupert Giles left the office, he had the idea that his stay in England wasn't ending anytime soon, and he was certain Bradshaw had come closer to the truth than he realized. Rupert Giles simply knew that Sir Robert was murdered.