The Anatomist's Wife (24 page)

I drank to that, wanting the embarrassment to stop. The champagne was sweet and peppery
and burned as it rolled down my throat. I drained my glass and took a deep breath,
feeling a giddy rush to my head.

Gage chuckled. “Shall I top you off?”

I shook my head. “After all the wine at dinner, I think I’ve had more than enough
to drink this evening.” Indeed, I felt lethargic and just a tiny bit tipsy.

He polished off his own glass and settled deeper into the window seat. Our bent legs
were almost touching. Hidden beneath my skirt, my toes curled into the cushion, tingling
with the knowledge that they could stretch out and graze the muscles of his leg. I
leaned forward again to see outside, hoping to distract myself from the sensations
swirling in my gut. Most of the gentlemen had vanished from the stable yard, and I
wondered if they had been run off or had just grown bored.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced up to find him studying me. “What do you mean?”

“I expected to find you relieved, but you seem almost as tense as the evening we made
our trip down to the chapel cellar.”

I watched my hand smooth back and forth over the velvety fabric of one of the pillows.
I couldn’t understand why I was so hesitant to explain what was bothering me. Perhaps
it was because my doubts seemed insubstantial, even to me. I was worried how he would
react, and maybe a bit afraid he would tell me I was being foolish. It had taken considerable
effort to convince him to believe in me. I didn’t want that to all be ruined by a
feeling, a sensation, I couldn’t even explain.

“I’m wondering,” I began uncertainly. “If we are seeing the big picture. If we really
accused the right person.”

Gage tapped his champagne flute against his leg twice and leaned over to pick up the
bottle. “You don’t think Lady Stratford murdered Lady Godwin,” he stated evenly as
he poured himself another glass.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, allowing some hint of my distress to creep into my voice.
“I just have this feeling that we’re missing something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” His calm seemed to only exacerbate the turmoil I felt inside me. “There
are just a few things that are bothering me.”

“Such as?”

“Well, the murder weapon. I still don’t believe that a pair of embroidery scissors
was used to slice Lady Godwin’s neck. The cut was simply too clean, too even.”

He took a sip of champagne, watching me steadily over the rim. “So are you saying
it is
impossible
that the scissors made that cut?”

“No,” I hedged, having already known he would contradict me with such a question.
“Just that it is highly unlikely.”

“But by that admission you are still saying it is possible.”

I frowned at the extreme logic he was using, not liking how silly it made me sound.
“Well, anyone could have taken them from her embroidery basket. Just because they
were hers does not mean she used them in such a capacity.”

“True. But that means they would have also needed to steal her shawl and her maid’s
apron.” The tone of his voice told me just how doubtful he was of such a thing happening.
“That would take quite an organized killer—someone with a real vendetta against Lady
Stratford.”

I dropped my eyes from his gaze, not wanting to see the challenge there. I couldn’t
argue with his assertions. It did all seem very unlikely, but not impossible. Lady
Stratford had as much, if not more, of a capacity to incite enemies as anyone present
at Gairloch. Jealousy, be it of her beauty or her position, could do strange things
to people, not to mention the hatred a snubbing could cause. And Lady Stratford had
snubbed more than her fair share of society.

“Well, what about the amount of strength and stamina it would have taken to dig the
baby’s grave?” I challenged. “You can’t tell me that you believe Lady Stratford and
her maid to be capable of such a thing.”

He leaned over to set his glass on the floor. “A footman.”

I startled, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “What?”

“I suspect a footman moved the rock and dug the grave,” he replied calmly, as if what
he was saying made complete sense.

I glared at him in confusion, irritated by his insouciant demeanor.

“I spoke with the gardener to find out if any shovels have gone missing,” he explained.
“And he told me that a few mornings ago he noticed one of the spades was not placed
in its usual position. As if someone had used it and then returned it.” Gage leaned
forward. “And the gardener specifically remembers seeing a man lurking about the gardening
shed the night before.” He nodded his head in emphasis and sat back against the wall.
His eyes gleamed with satisfaction at uncovering this last bit of information.

“A man?” I restated.

“Yes.”

“Did the gardener get a good look at this . . .
man
 . . . or are you just assuming it was a footman?” I snapped in exasperation.

Gage arched an eyebrow at my display of temper. “I didn’t
assume
anything. It just so happens that, as of this afternoon, one of Cromarty’s footmen
has suspiciously gone missing.”

I had no reply to that. A footman’s disappearance just hours after Lady Stratford’s
detainment did seem exceedingly suspicious.

“I suspect Lady Stratford convinced this footman to assist her with, if nothing else,
at least burying the child.”

“How? A bribe?” I had a difficult time imagining one of Philip’s loyal staff being
coerced into doing something so horrible.

“Money can be a powerful motivator,” Gage replied, correctly reading my thoughts.
“And perhaps the footman didn’t know exactly what he was being paid to bury. Though,
I can’t imagine he would be naive enough to believe it was harmless. Perhaps he only
realized just how much trouble he could be in after Lady Stratford was detained, and
he panicked.”

I turned to stare at the log crackling in the hearth. Gage’s assumptions seemed logical,
I could not dispute that, but how could he know that they were right? “What if the
man lurking around the gardening shed wasn’t the footman?”

His eyebrows lifted in doubt.

“Well, what if it was someone else?” I persisted. “And what if this footman has disappeared
for another reason? What if he’s in some kind of trouble?”

“That’s a lot of what-ifs,” he murmured dryly.

I glared at him. “And your assumptions aren’t? You’re still jumping to conclusions.
Even about Lady Stratford.”

Gage closed his eyes and sighed. “Lady Darby, my father has been an inquiry agent
for nearly twelve years, and I have been assisting him for a number of those. Rarely,
in an incident with no witnesses, do we uncover evidence that is so cut and dry. Lady
Stratford cannot convincingly explain away the shawl and the scissors, and neither
can I. If I thought I could, I would do everything I could to make certain I had reached
the right conclusion. There is simply no other explanation.”

“But you should have seen her this afternoon,” I pleaded with him to understand. “When
I forced her to admit her barren state, she was heartbroken. Her pain and anguish
were genuine. She is desperate for a child. I just cannot believe she would have cut
into Lady Godwin’s womb. Kill Lady Godwin, yes. But she would never have harmed that
child.”

“The child was not her own. Believe me, my lady, there is a difference. And Lady Stratford
would have seen it as such.”

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it of her. And you wouldn’t either
if you had seen the look on her face.”

“She was acting,” he snapped, as annoyance twisted his features. “You are inexperienced
with such things, Lady Darby, but I am not. Being accused of a crime brings out the
most brilliant acting you have ever seen. I have seen performances to rival any production
on the stage of the Theatre Royal.”

“Then how do you know who is telling the truth?”

“You don’t. That’s why you rely on the evidence. It is the only thing that is certain.
Not instincts or strange feelings, which do come in handy from time to time. However,
you cannot build a solid case around them.”

I understood what he was saying. I even agreed with him—to a certain degree—but I
still couldn’t escape the horrible sensation pressing down on me that, in this instance,
we were very wrong.

“Couldn’t we at least follow up on any other leads?”

“What other leads?” He sighed and raked a hand back through his hair. “There is no
use in pursuing this further. There is nothing else to even consider. I will find
the footman and question him, and then it will be finished.”

“Maybe . . .”

“No, Kiera. It’s over. I understand you feel some compassion for Lady Stratford, but
you cannot change what she has done.” His gaze turned brooding, and he seemed to look
inward. “There are some people who
are
guilty of the crimes they are accused of.”

I turned away, confused by the personal significance he seemed to invest in those
words, and hurt by the betrayal I felt because he would not help me with this.

“Now.” He rose to his feet. “I think you just need a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel
differently in the morning. The dark has a way of making us see shadows where they
are not.” The door closed softly behind him.

I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around my knees.

Was he right? Was I jumping at shadows, at memories of the time I was dragged before
a magistrate and accused of unspeakable acts? I didn’t know. All I knew was how hurt
and frustrated I was that Gage had not tried harder to understand. It wasn’t as if
I
wanted
to doubt Lady Stratford’s guilt. I
wanted
to feel triumphant and confident we had caught the murderer, just like everyone else.
My uncertainties and misgivings certainly weren’t welcome sensations. They gnawed
at me like an open wound.

I leaned over again to peer out at the darkened carriage house. My sister was right.
I couldn’t let this go. Not yet. Not until I knew I had done everything I could to
uncover the whole truth, whatever it might be. I would try to get a good night’s sleep
as Gage suggested, and when the doubts did not go away, as I knew they wouldn’t, I
would start the day with a rested mind and a fresh pair of eyes. I had at least one
more day to uncover the truth before the procurator fiscal from Inverness arrived,
or else damn my conscience and Lady Stratford to the consequences.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
he following morning, the weather was damp and dreary. Which was, of course, fitting,
considering the mood I awakened in and the course of action I had chosen to take before
I finally fell asleep after tossing and turning for half the night. I would be drenched
by the time I finished retracing the killer’s steps, but perhaps I would be closer
to the truth. It appeared I must be made to suffer in my endeavor to acquire proof
of Lady Stratford’s guilt or innocence.

I dressed in my warm charcoal-gray walking dress and sturdy boots and pulled up the
hood of my heavy hunter-green cloak before stepping out into the rain. I picked my
way across the muddy carriage yard, careful to avoid the ruts now filled with water.
From the outside, the stables appeared lazy and quiet, but inside I found the stable
hands bustling about, joking with one another while they completed their morning chores.
Old Gaffer, the stable master, pointed me toward the back where Philip leaned over
a stall, his arms draped along the top.

He glanced up as I approached and smiled. His eyes drooped with fatigue, and he was
badly in need of a shave, but he seemed content. The foaling must have gone well.

“How is she?” I asked.

He waved a hand toward the stall. “Take a look.”

I peeked over the wall to see the chestnut-brown foal standing on shaky legs already
nursing from her mother. “Is it a she?”

He nodded.

I grinned at the little filly. “She’s a beauty.”

“Aye.”

“Where are Beowulf and Grendel?” I asked, glancing around the floor near his feet.
Normally, they followed Philip around like two lovesick swains.

He glanced at me curiously and then whistled. The two wolfhounds trotted around the
corner.

I reached out to pet Grendel’s shaggy brindle coat. “I’m going to take them for a
walk.”

Philip’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

I diverted my gaze, concentrating on scratching behind the dog’s ears. “I want to
get out of the castle,” I replied, hoping he would think I was just eager to escape
the guests. Beowulf bumped into my leg, wanting the same attention as his brother.
I laughed.

“Wait your turn, old boy,” Philip scolded with a chuckle. His voice was husky from
lack of sleep, and his brogue had deepened. “Just be sure they dinna run you ragged,”
he warned. “They haven’t been allowed to run free in days, so they’re liable to get
a bit carried away.”

“Don’t worry. I’m well aware of what I’m in for.”

The rain fell in a steady shower, drenching my cloak in a matter of minutes. Any sane
person would have stayed indoors if they could help it, so I expected to have the
grounds completely to myself. I led the two dogs past the carriage house, nodding
to the footman guarding its door, and then across the garden toward the path leading
into the western woods. I had planned to begin at the maze and retrace the killer’s
steps around the eastern circuit of the path to the place where we uncovered the baby.
However, I was conscious of Philip watching me from the stables’ dooryard, and not
wanting to arouse his suspicion, I decided instead to work my way around backward.

The rain striking my hood lessened as I stepped beneath the bower of thick pines,
sycamores, and yew trees at the edge of the forest, and for a moment I thought it
was the loss of this sensation that caused my scalp to tingle and the hairs on the
back of my neck to stand on end. I scanned the woods before me, searching the leafy
shadows, and then turned back toward the castle. My gaze settled on the deserted western
block, carefully studying the windows spanning the facade. The curtain of rain made
it difficult to see at such a distance with much clarity, but I could have sworn someone
was watching me, observing my progress into the forest. An icy chill ran down my neck
like the cold rivulet of a raindrop. I hurried into the shelter of the trees.

The woods were still except for the soft patter of rain against the leaves and the
panting of the dogs as they wove to and fro among the vegetation. I tried to reassure
myself that the wolfhounds would alert me to any danger long before it reached me,
but I could not shake the creeping sensation along my spine. I found myself glancing
over my shoulder and easing cautiously around bends in the path.

By the time the wolfhounds and I reached the hill where Lady Godwin’s baby had been
buried, I was thoroughly sick of my paranoia. There was nothing nefarious about someone
watching me from the castle windows, even from the empty west wing. Perhaps it had
merely been a bored guest gone exploring or a servant hiding from chores. There was
no proof of ill intentions, only my nerves getting the better of me.

I huffed in irritation and directed my attention to the dogs. So far they had found
nothing more troubling than a sparrow carcass, which I had to drag them away from.
I hoped the eastern loop of the trail, which I had yet to search, would offer up something
more pertinent to the investigation.

We set off across the back boundary of Philip’s property, strolling through the field
of heather that stretched northward, forming a glen between two Highland ridges. The
eastern forest swallowed us beneath its branches, thicker than its western cousin,
and even more steeped in shadow. With the gloom, the crawling sensation returned,
sending my heart tripping in my chest and distracting me from the task at hand. In
fact, if not for Beowulf and Grendel, I might have blundered onward unawares.

Their whines raised gooseflesh all over my skin, and I glanced around me before cautiously
moving forward to see what the dogs were pawing at. The edge of the forest was not
more than fifteen feet away, and I wondered if perhaps this was the spot where Philip
and the wolfhounds had found blood three days ago. He had suggested that the killer
laid the baby there, just inside the woods, and then rejoined the other guests in
the garden, or, in Lady Stratford’s case, returned to her bedchamber. Then the murderer
returned later to bury the child’s body.

I shook my head. Why hadn’t the killer left the child with its mother, even after
taking it from her body? Why bury it? Had the killer hoped to hide the baby’s existence?
Had Lady Stratford thought to hide her husband’s indiscretion? All of it seemed so
extreme, so unnecessary. Returning to the scene to bury the child without being seen,
leaving evidence behind in the child’s grave—all of those steps left a trail and heightened
the risk that they would be caught.

Of course, all of this supposition assumed that the killer had been thinking at all
and not just acting mindlessly, whether in anger or fear. Gage certainly believed
Lady Stratford had been reacting, and therein lay the crux of my doubt, for I somehow
felt that most of this had been carefully thought out, planned for a specific purpose.
That did not mesh with the amount of physical evidence we had discovered against Lady
Stratford.

Beowulf, who had been circling a tree, suddenly whined piteously and stood up on his
hind legs to paw at the bark above his head. I moved closer and patted his head in
reassurance as he dropped down. There was a hole in the trunk of the oak just above
the level of my head. I scowled down at Beowulf. “You’re supposed to be searching
for evidence, not chasing squirrels up trees.”

He ignored my scolding and stood up on his hind legs, trying to reach the hole again.
Grendel joined him, and the two pinned me between them as they whined and batted at
the tree.

I stared up at the hole, unnerved by the dogs’ persistence. What if it wasn’t a squirrel
the wolfhounds were pawing at, but a piece of evidence stashed where no one would
ever find it? My mind whirled with possibilities—the real murder weapon, a bloodied
piece of clothing, an incriminating letter. I lifted my hand to reach in and then
stilled.

What if it wasn’t evidence but truly a family of squirrels hiding from the dogs or,
worse, some kind of insect or spider’s home? I cringed at the thought. I found myself
wishing for Gage’s solid presence by my side. Certainly, he was self-important and
aggravating, but whether it was because of the pistol he carried or the confidence
he exuded, at least I felt safe with him. And could rely upon him to conduct some
of the more horrifying tasks, such as reaching into a hole in a tree trunk that might
be home to an agitated animal. He had been rather a bulwark for me—in the chapel cellar,
at the baby’s grave, even in my art studio—he had been there when I needed him. I
couldn’t imagine how I would have made it through the last four days without him,
and I badly wished he were there with me now.

Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage and shut my eyes. I tentatively probed
inside the hole, grateful that at least I was wearing a sturdy pair of kid-leather
gloves. When nothing immediately bit me, I leaned forward on tiptoe, trying to reach
deeper inside the hollow. My fingers brushed against something soft, and I stilled.
When the object did not move, I snagged it with my fingers and began to pull it carefully
out of the hole.

My first glimpse of the white fabric made my heart leap into my throat. It was a handkerchief,
a rather plain one, covered in streaks of dried crimson blood. The dogs sniffed at
it, forcing me to lift it high to keep it out of their reach. The square had clearly
belonged to man or a servant, for I had never seen a lady carry such a simple cloth.
Customarily, a gentlewoman’s handkerchiefs were embroidered and trimmed in lace, and
I highly doubted Lady Stratford’s were any different. However, the square could be
her maid’s. Or it could indicate there was a man involved—one we had yet to discover.

I moved toward the edge of the forest, leaning my hip against a sycamore along the
path. The air was fresh with rain and summer green and musky from the mud churned
up under my feet, but I still fancied I smelled the cloying, metallic scent of blood
wafting from the handkerchief. I carefully tucked it inside the pocket of my skirt,
shielding it from the rain, and any prying eyes that might still be watching me from
the house.

Staring across the expanse of the lawn toward the castle, I searched the facade. It
was impossible to tell from such a distance, especially through the rain, but I studied
the windows, looking for a twitch of a curtain or a shifting of light to indicate
that there was someone there. That someone was spying on me. I couldn’t see them,
but I felt them there, regardless. Just as I had the morning Gage and I returned from
the maze. A trickle of fear caught in my throat.

I was reluctant to leave the shelter of the trees and step out into the wide-open
expanse of the lawn. It seemed like such a vulnerable position, even with the dogs
in tow. However, there was no alternative route to the stables, unless I planned to
slash my way through the thick growth of over a hundred yards of forest to find the
little-used path winding through the forest behind the maze, carriage house, and stables.
Such an act would be ridiculous.

Scolding myself for my foolishness, I swallowed my nerves and struck out across the
lawn. Almost immediately, I felt the unseen pair of eyes tracking my progress, this
time from a window in the eastern block. I forced myself to walk, to measure my strides,
even though my shoulders inched up around my ears and my heart leapt forward in my
chest with each step. Beowulf and Grendel trotted alongside me like two dutiful guards.
I suspected their presence was all that kept me from breaking into a run.

Once again, I wished for Gage. This investigation had been much easier to conduct
with him by my side. Perhaps I should try talking to him again. He’d said I might
view things differently in the light of day, and so might he. Gage was not unreasonable—when
he put aside his rather masculine impulse to discount my intuition. With this new
piece of evidence, surely he would be forced to take me seriously. I simply had to
appeal to his reason.

With bolstered spirits, I hurried across the carriage yard. Philip stood speaking
with Old Gaffer just inside the stable door when I shooed Beowulf and Grendel inside.
Though he still sported dark circles under his eyes, it appeared Philip had at least
found time to bathe, shave, and change clothes at some point during the morning. “Are
you just returning?” he asked in surprise. “That was quite a long walk.”

I shrugged and quickly changed the subject. “Do you know where I might find Mr. Gage?”

“He rode out with Mr. Fulmer an hour or so ago. They were headed to Drumchork to see
if they could locate our errant footman.”

I smothered the rather childish impulse to stamp my foot. So that was Gage’s chosen
course of action—to avoid me. I thought he would at least seek me out this morning,
if for no other reason than to make certain I wasn’t going to do something foolish,
like pursue this investigation further myself. The man could be quite territorial
about such things. Instead he’d run off in pursuit of the footman without so much
as a by-your-leave, and taken the gardener, whom I desperately wanted to question,
with him. Who knew how long it would be before they returned?

“Did you need him for something?” Philip asked me with some concern.

I considered telling him about the handkerchief, about my doubts and suspicions, but
he looked so tired—not only from the mare’s foaling in the middle of the night but
also Alana’s continued resistance in leaving the nursery. Telling him about my misgivings
would only add to his worries. Besides, he would insist we consult Gage before taking
any further steps to remedy the situation, and I had no intention of sitting on my
hands waiting for the prodigal son to return while Lady Stratford remained locked
in the carriage house and a potential killer ran free. I had a few more ideas how
I might uncover information, and Philip would only prevent me from pursuing them.

So I lied. “It’s not important.” I flashed a reassuring smile. “I’ll just speak to
him when he returns.”