Frodo ran as swiftly as he could to the House of Healing, but his legs were no match for the long strides of the two Men who had sped down through the main street of Minas Tirith and reached their destination well ahead of him. When the hobbit arrived at the Houses and entered the central hall, he found himself in the midst of a chaotic scene: Most of the ladies who were still there were in the doorways of their rooms, or out in the corridor in a flurry of confusion and excitement. A tray of small ceramic cups containing some milky liquid had been spilled in the middle of the corridor. Aragorn was attempting to explain to Faramir, Arwen, and Eowyn, though he knew only what Frodo had told him. Beregond was demanding, "Where is she? Where's the apprentice Methilde?" of an utterly bewildered Master Healer, Pahiril, and a small group of attendant herbalists.
"Is she all right?" Frodo asked between gasps to catch his breath. "Tharya. Were you here in time?"
"I'm here," the young lady stepped forward from the doorway of her room. "And I am well." As she realized that this commotion had something to do with her, she began to look frightened. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
"The captain here tried to take the tray from me, and spilt it all on the floor," one of the herbalists said indignantly.
"I was sure it must be in one of those cups," Beregond defended himself.
"You were probably right." Frodo looked down at the mess of white liquid and shattered ceramic on the floor at his feet. "What was in the cups?"
"A posset of warmed milk and honey," said Pahiril. "It was meant to settle the poor ladies' stomachs after what they'd endured."
"It would taste very sweet," Frodo mused.
"What did you think it might be?" asked the Master Healer, also growing more alarmed as he began to understand. "Was something in the drinks?"
"We believe so, yes," Aragorn answered. "Tell me--" he addressed the healers as a group, "Did you distribute many of them before we came? Has anyone drunk from theirs?" One or two ladies shook their heads, and both the King and Frodo turned to regard Tharya with fearful expectancy.
Tharya quickly shook her head also. "I was given a cup, but I haven't drunk any yet." She gestured back toward the room behind her, where the untouched cup sat on a low table beside the bed.
"Was Methilde here?" asked Frodo. "Has anyone seen her?"
"She was here only a few minutes ago," said Pahiril, "helping to take the possets around." Several of the herbalists confirmed this.
"Did she bring your posset in to you?" Frodo asked Tharya.
"I don't know who you mean. It was one of the healers-" She looked around at the faces of the herbalists in the corridor, but did not see the person who had attended her.
"A young woman?" Frodo prompted. "About the same age as yourself, but shorter. Pale and solemn, with brown hair parted at the middle and dark eyes?"
"Yes, I think so. I didn't really notice--her hood was drawn low over her face. She brought the cup in to me, and said that the milk would be soothing. I was to drink it at once, before it cooled." Tharya's eyes grew wide with fear and comprehension; Frodo thought she might be sick again. "I didn't- I was about to do so, but that was when the captain and my lord Elessar came in shouting. Then I heard a great crash, and came out to see what had happened."
"She must've stolen out in the confusion," said Aragorn, and turned to Beregond. "She must be found immediately, before she can do more harm."
"At once, my lord." The captain went out to assemble his guardsmen for the search.
Most of the crowd in the corridor still only half-understood what was going on, and Frodo explained it to them. He had only once before addressed so large an audience, and never a group so tall. He felt somewhat diffident at having so many Big people gathered around him, hanging on his words as he told them why he was certain that Methilde was the poisoner.
"No one but a healer could have used one of your medicine bottles and seal," he explained. "I'd long suspected that a woman was involved in this, and when I learned that a woman had brought in that bottle the Master hadn't sent, and heard that Methilde had been around our house since then, I realized it must be she. She had opportunities no one else had. She knew I'd be ill on New Year's day. She was with us when I told you." He turned to the Master Healer. "Was she here on New Year's day when you received the message that I needed aid? You didn't send her, did you?"
"She was here," the Master Healer confirmed. "Few were about, since it was a holiday. I recall seeing her when your message arrived, but I was busy with my patient and did not speak to her. I did not send her to you, Frodo, but asked another to go in reply, explaining why I could not come."
"She must have intercepted your reply, and told messenger that she would go in his stead," said Frodo. "We ought to find that person and see if I'm right. If the King hadn't been there to help me, I might've taken the 'medicine' she brought without a second thought."
"It seems a fortuitous coincidence for her that you weren't able to come to Frodo that day, Master," said Faramir.
Frodo agreed. "Your patient," he asked the Master Healer, "may I ask what was wrong with him?"
"He had suffered from a fever for several days. He was showing every sign of a recovery--his fever had abated--but on New Year's day, he had a most violent relapse..." The Master Healer fell silent as a terrible thought occurred to him, the same thought that had already occurred to Frodo, Faramir, and others.
"She knew her herb-craft," said Frodo. "Her aunt must have taught her a great deal."
"A most bright and promising pupil," Pahiril said, and shook his head. "That she should misuse her talents in such a vile manner!"
The herbalists were stunned and scandalized that the poisoner who'd been terrorizing Minas Tirith for months should be one of their own--and one they all knew well and never suspected. At Pahiril's orders, they went to examine the medicines stored in the herbarium pharmacy to be sure that nothing had been tampered with. The mess on the floor was cleaned up, and the cup on Tharya's nightstand taken away to be examined for poison. The sick ladies were allowed to go home; under the circumstances, it was agreed by all that they would rest more comfortably in their own beds than they would in the Houses.
The horn atop the White Tower blew an alarm for the third time as Frodo left the Houses of Healing with the King, Queen, Steward and his lady. Tharya went with them, for she would be safest in their company until Methilde was found.
"But why?" she asked as they walked up the street. "Why did this herbalist, whom I've never seen before, want to kill me? What grudge does she bear me?"
"Yes, you've told us how you discovered the poisoner, Frodo," Eowyn agreed, "but you haven't explained why she did these terrible things. Why poison Lord Carathir and Caradan? How did she know them, or Tharya?"
Arwen was equally perplexed. "There is much of this I still don't understand."
"It was because of Cirandil," Frodo explained, with an apologetic glance at Tharya. "She loved him, you see. He met her while he was wounded and lying abed at the Houses of Healing three years ago. Her great-aunt Bregilde nursed him. Perhaps he courted Methilde then, before he saw you again, Lady Tharya. Cirandil might tell us more about that. I can only guess at her motives, but I think she must have killed his uncle, and then Caradan, to give Cirandil the inheritance that should have gone to his cousin. With their deaths, Cirandil has risen from a citadel Guard to a lordling. Perhaps she hoped to marry him and become his lady. There was no money, but she didn't know about that."
"Did Cir know of this plan?" asked Faramir. Tharya also looked as if she were worried about this same point, but did not dare ask for fear of the answer.
"No, I don't believe so," Frodo assured them. "If he had, she wouldn't have threatened him, or tried to murder him today. She killed for his benefit, and when she learned that he loved someone else... she must have felt she'd been betrayed. He and his love must die too."
"I did indeed choose the right investigator when I summoned you, Frodo," the King praised him. "This woman would have gone unsuspected, and we would be no nearer finding her than we were four months ago, if not for you."
"If I'd been more clever, I would've seen the truth earlier, before it came to this end," Frodo answered. Alaric's death might have been prevented, and he felt his responsibility for it as much as Cirandil did.
The royal party left him at the tunnel to the citadel, except for Faramir, who saw Frodo safely to the door of Gandalf's house. Once the door was unlocked from within and Frodo admitted, he told Gandalf and Merry what had happened at the Houses of Healing. None of them had any appetite for dinner. They all knew that this was not yet over; Methilde might have gone anywhere in the city, might be planning one last strike against her chosen targets before she was captured. They could only make sure that the house was secure, and wait anxiously for news.
At dusk, Beregond came to tell them that the search had ended. "She was found in the rooms where her aunt had lived, above the bakery," he reported. "She's been borne to the Houses of Healing."
"I want to talk to her," Frodo said, and was ready to grab his cloak and go out. He still had so many unanswered questions.
"You can't," Beregond answered bluntly. "It's too late. She had already taken the last of her poison before we discovered her--she was still alive, but beyond recovery. She died within minutes."
The captain brought forth a scrap of cloth and, from it, took out another small vial like the two on Frodo's bedside table, holding the top with his fingertips as Gandalf had done. "I thought you would like to see this, Mithrandir," he said as he gave it to the wizard, "though we've no need for such proof now. I've taken care not to touch the glass and smudge the marks left by her fingers. They are most certainly from Methilde's fingers--I took it from her hand myself."
"You said she was alive when you found her," Frodo said hopefully. "Did she say anything at all before she died?"
"Very little," Beregond answered. "Her only words were, 'I'm sorry about Auntie.'"
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