Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (18 page)

“There
’s no need to be patronizing, Mr. Forsythe.”

“I am by no means patronizing. I am quite serious.”

“Are you?”

“Certainly! When one has eyewitness accounts from a feather-brained socialite, a hysterical cook, a man in his cups, and an ignorant, frightened serving girl, of course one must be quite serious about investigating.”

Alexandra looked at him, saying nothing for a long, chilling moment. “I see your point, Mr. Forsythe, but you must admit it is a rather odd coincidence that more than one of these people, even though you imply they are incompetent, have seen the same thing.”

There was another second before he spoke and his expression softened. “Of course, you
’re right. Please forgive me, Alexandra, I—”

“Apology accepted,” she said, cutting him off. She walked up the stairs, hoping to find her room. After one of the maids pointed it out to her, she unpacked the small satchel containing her night clothes and a few toiletries
Nancy had packed for her. As she shook out her nightdress, she considered whether or not she should go downstairs to join the other guests for a buffet supper. Would she be able to glean any more information from them? Or would her presence somehow intimidate them and keep them from revealing anything?

Eventually she decided to make her way down to the dining room. Jeremy Atewater and Lord Winningham were the only two in the room.

“Well, of course I have an academic interest in the trial.” Lord Winningham punctuated his speech with occasional grumbling harrumphs. “You see, I read law for a year before I went into the military.”

Atewater was about to reply when he saw Alexandra. He was unable to hide his surprise. “Dr. Gladstone? I say
, what brings you here?”

Alexandra
’s only reply was a nod and the slightest of smiles. She watched as Atewater moved toward her, a quick, liquid movement, like a drop of water running down glass. Lord Winningham, in the meantime, stepped to the buffet, helping himself to a slice of roast beef, which was floating in a rather questionable looking gravy. As he moved closer to her, she caught the scent of whiskey on his breath and heard him mumble, “Good God, even the locals are turning out for the bloody circus.”

Alexandra ignored his last remark and tried to look pleasant as Atewater took her hand to kiss. He was about to speak when Isabel
’s voice, thin as a fingernail on slate board, overrode his. “Hello, Jerry, dear. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Atewater once again appeared off guard. “Isabel! What are you—
?”

“You didn
’t expect me to show my face in public, did you? But I came to stand by my loyal husband while he made sure I was not touched by scandal.” Her voice was like raw silk, a curious mixture of coarse and smooth, and her eyes were gleaming. Perhaps with anger. Perhaps, simply, from too much wine. She came to stand beside Atewater and linked her arm through his in a possessive gesture while her eyes fixed on Alexandra. A smile flickered at her mouth. When she spoke, her eyes did not move from Alexandra. “Hello, Winnie. You’ve come for the bloodletting, I see.”

Lord Winningham, who had
seated himself at the table and was attacking the roast beef, looked up, surprised. “Bloodletting? What bloodletting?” The knife and fork he gripped in each hand stood like sentries on each side of his overflowing plate.

“Why that trial. There are sure to be plenty of wounds.” Isabel slipped her arm from her husband
’s and sat down across from Lord Winningham. “Have you spoken with the judge and the jurors yet? I’m sure Jerry has.”

“Isabel!” Atewater
’s tone was scolding.

“Well, one does have to protect one
’s interest, you know.” Isabel’s voice was sugary with feigned innocence. “Don’t you agree, Winnie?”

“I have no idea what you
’re talking about, Madam.” Lord Winningham’s words rolled in his throat like thunder.

Isabel laughed and reached across the table to pat Lord Winningham
’s bald head. She then leaned over to inspect the buffet and at the same time made a waving gesture toward Atewater and Alexandra. “Don’t let me interrupt you two. Just go on with what you were doing.” She gave the boiled potatoes a suspicious poke with the serving fork.

Atewater
’s face was red with restrained anger, while Lord Winningham appeared tense. He still had not gotten back to the business of eating. Atewater poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it, brooding, while he leaned against the wall.

Alexandra watched all three of them for a few seconds before she moved to the buffet and picked up a plate. She had just placed a slice of bread from the still warm loaf on her plate when Isabel spoke to her.

“You’re an awfully quiet little mouse, Miss Gladstone. Did you come back to spy on all of us?”

“Of course not,” Alexandra said, spreading butter on the bread.

“Then why are you here?”

Alexandra laid the knife aside and locked her eyes on Isabel
’s, not speaking for several seconds. Finally she said evenly, “I have a patient in the household, Madam Atewater. Mrs. Pickwick, the cook, suffers from a nervous condition. She imagines that she sees the corpse of Lord Dunsford walking around.”

Isabel kept her defiant gaze locked on Alexandra for a few seconds longer before her mouth trembled slightly and she looked away. She laid a single potato on her plate and sat down, but she seemed unable to eat.

Alexandra took her plate of bread and butter to the table and sat at the opposite end, thinking she would have done better to have asked the maid to bring her supper up. A heavy atmosphere of tension hung in the room like a dirty fog.

Presently, Nicholas appeared in the arched doorway. He gave her a polite smile, then she saw a flash of wariness in his eyes when he surveyed the other guests. He went to the buffet to make his choices, then sat down across from Alexandra. He glanced at her as he cut his beef and seemed to be asking, “What
’s going on?” with his eyes. She responded with the slightest of shrugs. The only sound in the room was the occasional clink of silver against a plate and the servant’s footsteps as he walked around the table refreshing the guests’ wine. Scowling, Atewater still leaned against the wall. Lord Winningham was making an effort to eat, and Isabel merely pushed the potato around her plate with her fork.

“Oh for heaven
’s sake.” Isabel said finally. She dropped her fork, stood, and threw her napkin on the table. Nicholas stood up in deference to her sex, and Lord Winningham made a half-hearted attempt to do the same. She walked around the table to Nicholas, leaned toward him to whisper something in his ear, and left the room without even glancing at her husband, who still slouched against the wall.

This time it was Alexandra who gave Nicholas a
“What’s going on?” look. His answer, as he seated himself again, was a troubled frown and the slightest rise of an eyebrow, which Alexandra found impossible to decipher. In the meantime, Atewater slammed his wine glass on the sideboard and followed his wife out of the room.

“What is everyone so bloody on edge about?” Lord Winningham
’s language indicated he had either forgotten or did not care that there was a lady present.

Alexandra ignored the language and spoke calmly to Lord Winningham. “I
’m afraid it’s the upcoming trial that has everyone on edge, my lord. And you as well, it seems.”

Lord Winningham rolled some incomprehensible words around in his throat again and gave her a troubled glance. He didn
’t bother to stand when she stood and made her way out of the room. Nicholas followed her into the hallway.

“Cheerful lot, aren
’t they?” he said when he caught up with her.

“Yes.” Alexandra kept walking.

“And you too, I see. Your mood’s about as dark as the others’.”

“I
’m sorry,” she said. “I’m thinking of the ghost.”

“Oh, of course.”

There was something in the tone of his voice that made her turn around. “You still think I’m foolish to believe those people actually saw a ghost.”

“Not at all.”

She could see he was lying. “I should think that a learned man such as yourself, a man who has studied logic and jurisprudence, could see the logic in my thinking.”

“Mmmm,” he said.

“Mind you I did not say that I am convinced a corpse does actually walk the grounds of Montmarsh. I am all too aware of what happens to a body after death, but I am convinced that three women as well as Lord Winningham have seen something, and it is my feeling that it all has something to do with the murder of Lord Dunsford as well as the murders of young George and young Quince.

“Quince?” Nicholas was alarmed.

“Murdered on the beach. It’s gone too far. The first death was going too far.”

“I couldn
’t agree more, but—”

“I bid you good night.” When she was in her room, she dropped to the bed and leaned back on the headboard for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts.

She was still contemplating just how to begin her search for the ghost when her eyes were drawn to the window. The disembodied head of Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford, floated by outside.

Chapter
Sixteen

Alexandra tried to scream, but there was no sound. Fear constricted her throat and her heart flailed
in her chest. Yet, curiosity bade her get out of bed and go to the window. In spite of her resolve, terror roared in her ears as she moved, slowly, cautiously, toward the window. She reached out and touched the sheer curtain, pulling it back gingerly with the tips of her fingers, as if to touch it more firmly would somehow put her in contact with the unholy thing she had seen.

There was nothing outside the window now except the void of night wrapped in a film of fog. Pushing the window open with less timidity, she leaned forward into the darkness and turned her head right and left. And there, to the left, walking along a ledge and illuminated by light from what she knew to be Nicholas
’s window, she saw the form of a man who had undoubtedly supported the disembodied head. She recognized the unruly tuft of hair and the wide-set eyes she had seen only seconds before. He turned away from her with a frightened jerk and tottered on the ledge to regain his balance. It had been some trick of light and shadow coupled with the fog that had made the head seem disembodied as the man peered into her window.

She called to him as he moved with uncertainty along the ledge, his back, clad in the fashionable tweeds of a gentleman, pressed hard against the stone wall of the house.

“Who goes there?”

There was no answer, and he disappeared into the ether of night. Had he jumped? Of course, he had to have. There was no other plausible answer. If he had jumped from such a height, he would undoubtedly have either injured or killed himself. She closed the window and turned back into the room and lit a candle. With haste, she drew on a dressing gown over her nightdress and picked up her bag, along with the candle, and hurried out the door to the great staircase.

Her bedchamber and the window from which she had seen the figure were at the back of the house, and she didn’t know whether to leave by the front entrance and skirt around the house and all its various wings and gardens, which would certainly be a considerable distance, or to try to find her way to a back exit.

Ultimately she decided on the latter, hoping to bump into a servant who could give her directions, but there were no servants to be found. Eventually she found the kitchens and at last the back stairs. As she hurried down them, she spied a shadowy figure moving along, close to the massive walls of the house. Not wanting to alarm him, she didn
’t call out, but hurried across the garden, padding along soundlessly with her feet encased in soft slippers. The figure turned around just as she approached him and caught her quite by surprise. She raised the candle even with his face.

“Nicholas!”

He clasped her forearm for a moment and spoke in an excited whisper. “There’s someone out here. I saw him walking along the ledge, and by God, it looked for all the world like Eddie. He was wearing those old tweeds that were his favorites.”

The architecture of the house caught Alexandra
’s eye, and it took a moment for her to respond to Nicholas. She could just make out in the shadows that, from where the man appeared to have jumped, with sufficient agility, he could have landed on a wing of the house, protruding at a right angle from the main house and at a lower elevation. And from there, she surmised, it was possible that he could have found his way to the ground without too much risk.

“I saw the figure too,” she said finally, “but I think he—”

Before Alexandra could finish her thought, they both heard a cough and saw the tweedy figure again, limping toward the stables. Both took pursuit. Alexandra, nursing the candle flame, moved cautiously and fell behind while Nicholas, who was more familiar with the landscape, raced ahead of her. She heard a thud, a groan, and then sounds of a struggle, more coughing, and, finally, Nicholas’s voice.

“Who are you? Damn you, tell me who you are and why you
’re wearing the earl’s clothes.”

There was another thud, more struggling and groaning, and then a frightened voice. “Ach! What is it yer wantin
’ with me? I done nothin’. I swears it.” It was not the voice of the earl, and certainly not the voice of a ghost.

As Alexandra
’s eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, she could distinguish the two forms. Nicholas seemed to be the larger of the two, and he was pulling the intruder to his feet.

“Now, you scoundrel, let
’s have a look at your face.” Nicholas had one of the man’s arms twisted behind his back, and he forced his head back by grabbing the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck. Alexandra raised the candle and looked into the frightened eyes of someone who was scarcely old enough to be called a man and whose face had sprouted only the beginnings of a beard. The beard vied for space on his visage with the spots and pustules of adolescence. But his bone structure, high forehead, and wide eyes resembled the Lord Dunsford. Seen from a distance, he could easily be mistaken for the earl.

He coughed again.

“Who are you?” Nicholas said, giving him a shake. “Tell me or I’ll have you thrown in prison, but not before I break your arm first.” He gave the young man’s arm another twist.

Alexandra had never seen that brutal side of Nicholas, but the young man apparently took him seriously. “Enough! Enough!” he said between groans.
“My name is George. George Stirling, it is.”

“George Stirling?” There was both surprise and suspicion in Alexandra
’s voice.

“You
’re lying.” Nicholas said at the same time, twisting his arm to what Alexandra feared would be the breaking point, but she heard no crack. His bones were young and strong.

Nevertheless, the young man groaned pitifully in pain. “No, I ain
’t lyin’. I swears. I’m George Stirling, and I ain’t dead like you thought.”

Nicholas relaxed his grip somewhat. “Why were you playing dead? And why were you sneaking around on that ledge like a thief? Because that
’s what you are, I wager.”

George shook his shaggy head. “I ain
’t a thief no more. And I was looking in windows to see who was ’ere. I got business with one of ’em, I does. And as for playing at being a dead man, it was so as not to be one. There’s them what want’s me dead, there is.”

Alexandra leaned closer. “Who wants you dead?”

“With all due respect, Miss, I ain’t fer tellin’ ye. How do I know ye ain’t one of ’em.”

Nicholas gave him another shove. “Neither of us has any reason to see you dead, and if you are who you say you are, you
’d better tell us everything you know if you want to save Elsie.”

With that warning, George became agitated. “Elsie
’s all right, ain’t she? Ye ain’t harmed her have ye?”

“She
’s all right now,” Nicholas said, “but she’ll hang soon unless we can help her.

S
tart by telling us everything you know about Lord Dunsford’s death.”

“And why would I be tellin
’ you anything? I knows not who you are. The lady, I’ve seen around the village. They say she’s a doctor like her daddy before her. But you, you’re one o’ them London dandies what befriends the likes of the earl, may his soul burn in hell. I don’t trust the likes o’ you.” George spat the words out furiously.

“George,” Alexandra said before Nicholas could issue any more of his threats. “Mr. Forsythe is a barrister who is trying to help Elsie, just as I am. And he speaks the truth when he says we need your help.”

George was silent, weighing what she had said. In the flickering candlelight, Alexandra could see fear mingled with confusion, and she noticed that his cough had subsided. Finally he broke his silence.

He looked at Nicholas. “Yer going to speak for her in court? See that she
’s not hanged?”

“I cannot act as her attorney, since I
’ve been called a witness, but I shall do all I can to see that she doesn’t hang,” Nicholas said.

George eyed him suspiciously. “And how do I know you speak the truth?”

Alexandra spoke quickly. “I will vouch for him. He speaks the truth.”

George
’s suspicious gaze turned to her, but it softened slightly. “Elsie trusted you…” He turned back to Nicholas. “Unhand me, and I’ll tell ye all I knows.”

Nicholas tightened his grip again. “Do you take me for a fool? How do I know I can trust you not to flee as you did before?”

“And how does I know I can trust ye to keep your word to help Elsie? And for that matter, not to try to stick me with the bloody earl’s murder?”

It was Nicholas
’s turn for a moment of silence. “Very well,” he said at length. “I’ll give you my word as a gentleman, and I’ll take yours as fairly given. But mind you, if you try to escape, I’ll have no mercy the next time I have you in hand.” With that he dropped his grip on George. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other with suspicion until Alexandra spoke.

“All right, then. Now that you
’re both acting like civilized people, let’s retire to the kitchen and you can give us your information, George.”

George gave her a frightened look. “No, Miss, I
’ll not walk into that house in plain sight.”

“And why not?” Nicholas sounded as if he was beginning to lose patience.

“For fear I’ll be kilt, that’s why.” George seemed to be trying to shrink into the darkness.

Nicholas took a step toward him. “You gave me your word—”

“Aye, and my word is good, but I’ll not be going into that house unless it be the cellars.”

“The cellars?” Nicholas was sounding perturbed again.

“That’s where I stays now, unless I has business with Quince, or I has to talk some sense into Elsie, or other business to save me own neck.”

“If you
’re afraid of something here, why stay?” Nicholas asked.

The expression on George
’s face seemed to suggest he hadn’t considered that before. “Well… I been safe so far, ain’t I? What with all the dandies gone.” He looked down at his hands. “Anyway, I knows no other place, does I? Or how to get there if I did know. And with Elsie close to help me…”

“Elsie thinks you
’re a ghost, you know.” This from Alexandra.

“Pshaw!” George said. “She knows now I
’m flesh and blood, same as you. She was just trying to protect me, she was, although it’s true she thought me dead at first.”

“Damn! What are you talking about, man?” Nicholas looked as if he might be ready to grab George again.

George took a step forward and gestured for the two of them to follow. “Come along to the cellars, and I’ll tell ye all I can, if ’twill help my Elsie.”

He led them across the back garden to an outside entrance to the cellar, and then down the steps into the dank environs of the underground room. By the time they were all three inside, Alexandra
’s candle had grown short of wick and begun to sputter. She feared they would soon be shrouded in darkness, and the prospect left her edgy. In spite of the fact that she was more willing than Nicholas to give George the benefit of the doubt, she was not so foolish that she didn’t consider that he could have been lying about his innocence as well as what he might do in a darkened dungeon, if he had a mind to.

She needn
’t have worried, at least for the moment, however. As soon as George saw the candle sputter, he reached up to a dusty shelf and retrieved a fresh candle, which he lit with the dying flame from the one Alexandra held. He then gestured toward a rickety chair for Alexandra, then perched himself on top of a barrel of salted pork. Nicholas found his own seat on the lid of a large trunk.

“All right, boy, now tell us what you know of the death of the Earl of Dunsford.” Nicholas was using his intimidating barrister
’s voice.

“I knows not who done it.” He sounded as if he
’d dealt with barristers and the courts before and was reluctant to say too much.

Nicholas stared at him in silence, a stern expression on his face. Alexandra was tempted to speak up and ask George simply to begin at the beginning and tell them how it came to be that everyone thought him dead. She thought better of it, however. After all, this was Nicholas
’s game, just as medicine was hers, and he was not likely to appreciate her interference any more than she would appreciate his trying to tell her how to remove a diseased limb.

Eventually Nicholas cleared his throat and shifted around a bit on the trunk. “Very well, George, perhaps then you can explain to us in more detail the circumstances of your supposed death and why Elsie perpetrated that scene in Lord Dunsford
’s dining room accusing him of killing you, if, as you say, she knew you were alive all along.”

Alexandra smiled ever so slightly. Perhaps Nicholas was better at this than she thought. She turned to George and saw him shaking his head.

“Oh no, ye got it wrong now, sir. At that time Elsie thought I was kilt, and she thought it was the earl what done it.”

Nicholas leaned forward. “But it wasn
’t the earl?”

“Oh no sir.
’Twas somebody else what kilt me.”