An Improper Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Mysteries Book 2) Page 12

  It took Nancy no time at all to digest the meaning of that. “Relieved, was he? What was he afraid we’d find?”

  Alexandra didn’t have a chance to tell Nancy that she was wondering the same thing before Nicholas approached.

  “There are some advantages to arriving late and sitting in the back,” he said, taking her arm and leading her toward the crowd that had followed the casket to the grave site in the church yard. “One hears all the gossip on the back pew.”

  “Gossip?” Alexandra said.

  “It seems you and the boys at the tavern aren’t the only ones who think the admiral’s death was no accident,” he said. “The back pew people are convinced they know who killed him.”

  “Back pew people, sir?” Nancy tempered her impertinence with that last sir. “You mean the likes of Nell Stillwell and her husband, Tom, don’t you? And of course there’s Lil Sommer, the cobbler’s wife, and Edith Prodder, a gossip if ever I’ve seen one. My own mother always told me not to take stock in gossip from the likes of them, but Miss Alex here says it bears considering.”

  “Indeed?” There was a look of surprise on Nicholas’ face. He seemed to have forgotten, for the moment at least, his earlier assessment of Nancy’s evil nature.

  Nancy nodded, and Alexandra felt her face grow hot. “Nancy, that’s not exactly the way I—”

  “She says whether ’tis true or not, it holds a key that will help one come to the truth.”

  “I say, rather interesting theory. An aficionado of gossip…hmmm.” Nicholas was enjoying himself.

  “More like a student of gossip, sir. So what was the gossip, sir? Something about the old salt, I suppose.” Nancy was trying, but failing, to be on her best behavior.

  Nicholas shook his head. “Oh no, the admiral was a much admired man, it seems.”

  “Yes,” Alexandra said, hoping that if she spoke Nancy would not. “He had a good name in this community.”

  Nicholas glanced at her, and his expression became more serious. “They’re blaming John Killborn. They say he’s ungrateful for all the admiral did for him. They say he’s simply a bad seed.”

  Nancy glanced at Alexandra and spoke the words Alexandra would not allow herself to say. “And I think Constable Snow thinks he did it, as well. So why is he protecting him?”

  Chapter Ten

  Mary Prodder’s condition was worsening rapidly. She had developed an unusually high fever. Edith, her daughter-in-law, was, as usual, oblivious to it. She could talk of nothing else except the admiral’s funeral, the growing rumor that John Killborn had murdered him, and, of course, her own real or imagined ailments.

  Alexandra had stopped by the Prodder cottage on her morning rounds. While she tried to concentrate on making Mary more comfortable and readjusting the splint she wore, Edith stood beside the bed and kept up a constant monologue, going over the old gossip.

  “’Tis a true scandal if you ask me. The whole business. The admiral dying in ladies’ drawers! Why, who would ’ave done such a thing to ’im? Something to bring shame down on ’im, it was. On ’im and his missus. Oh yes, she’s highborn, they say, but is it a wonder that elder son of hers turned out the way ’e did? Ended up in prison, didn’t ’e? And wasn’t I the one who said ’e would? ’Tis a shame the things that goes on in that family. I happen to know myself that the admiral tried to make the best of it. For the children’s sake, I’m sure. But that Killborn boy, who’s not his own, but a stepson, you know, ’e was ungrateful for all the admiral done for ’im. Seen ’im myself speak disrespectful to the admiral. Called ’im a sorry bastard, ’e did…”

  Alexandra unwound the long bandage the held Mary’s splint in place, trying not to move her leg.

  “How is Mrs. Orkwright?” Mary’s voice was weak, and Alexandra was surprised to hear her speak at all.

  “I’m concerned about her,” Alexandra said. “She seems very fragile.”

  “Did my best for her. I know she’s suffered,” Mary said. She winced and flailed her arms as Alexandra turned her body. The fever was making her restless.

  “Yes,” Alexandra said, “grief is suffering of the worst kind, but you mustn’t worry about it, Mary.”

  “Bastard, ’e said, in the presence of ladies. I wasn’t more than twenty feet away.” Edith had hardly paused to breathe and was completely unmindful of Mary’s pain. “’Twas at Nell’s shop I heard it when I was buyin’ a bit o’ mutton for our supper. They was standin’ in front of the shop to do their arguing, the admiral and ’is good-for-naught stepson. Nell heard ’em as well, so you can ask her if ye like. The admiral never said a word. A pure gentleman, ’e was. Just suffered the boy to go on ravin’ at ’im.” She stopped to take a breath and leaned closer. “They say he killed the admiral, and I tell you it wouldn’t surprise me if ’tis true. Drownded ’im, Nell said. She’s sure of it. And dressed ’im in ladies’ drawers? Why? I’ll tell ye why. ’E’s a bad seed, ’e is. Why they say ’is mother, for all ’er fine bloodlines and ’er gentle ways, would o’ starved, and John Killborn along with ’er, had not the admiral married ’er…”

  Alexandra dampened a cloth in the basin near Mary’s bed and bathed her face with it. Mary coughed twice, and Alexandra didn’t like the sound of it. It suggested an inflammation of the lungs. “How long did you lie out in the cold before the constable found you, Mary?” she asked.

  Mary ignored her. She was still talking about Jane Orkwright. “She’s an angel, she is. I did my best for her.”

  “Of course, Mary. Hush now,” Alexandra said when Mary grew agitated again.

  “Bloodlines won’t put food on the table, now will they?” Edith continued heedlessly. “We all has to fill our bellies in our own way, don’t we? And I guess Mrs. Orkwright found ’er own way, and if ye ask me…”

  Alexandra bent over Mary with her stethoscope, listening to her lungs. There was a slight whooshing sound just as she expected, judging from the cough. When she examined her further she saw an angry red spot on her backside—the beginning of a bedsore. “Have you been turning Mary frequently and changing the bed linens as I asked you to, Edith?”

  “’Tis a pure shame the way… Have I what? Turned ’er? Why, of course. Until it got me down in me back, that is. Can’t even lift a spoon now.” Edith made her voice sound weaker, and she rubbed at her back. “She’s a burden, she is.” Edith sank down on Mary’s bed, causing Mary to wince with pain again as the mattress shifted. “You mustn’t believe her if she tells you I ’aven’t cared for her proper. She’s gone a bit daft.”

  “’Twould help if I could only stand and get out o’ bed.” Mary’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Yes, but you mustn’t,” Alexandra said. “You must let the broken bone heal.”

  “But I grow weaker and weaker with each hour I lie in this bed,” Mary said. “Haply I could walk about some with a bit o’ ’elp?”

  “A bit o’ ’elp?” Edith screeched before Alexandra could reply. “And who do ye think could ’elp ye?” She glanced at Alexandra. “She cares not a whit for anyone but ’erself. She can see, plain as day, I’m not a well woman, and yet she wants me to ’elp ’er turn over and to bring ’er a drink o’ water. She’s nothin’ but—”

  “Mary needs constant care,” Alexandra said, interrupting Edith. “If you are unable to provide it, then we shall have to find another solution.”

  “If it’s hospital yer thinkin’, there’ll be none o’ that.” Edith’s voice had become a screech. “We can’t have people thinkin’ we’re charity cases.”

  In truth, Alexandra had been thinking of the hospital in neighboring Bradfordshire where she herself had gone for part of her medical training. It was a charity hospital, of course. Most hospitals were, since the middle and upper classes were treated at home. The Prodders were of neither middle nor upper class, but Edith’s pride could keep Mary out of hospital where she would at least receive the care she needed.

  “Perhaps you could hire a nurse, then,” Alexandra sai
d.

  Edith gave her a disdainful look. “Hire a nurse you say? It’s not money we’re made of, you know.”

  Alexandra’s patience shattered, and she let the shards fly at Edith. “This woman will be removed from this house and taken to hospital. If she is not, she will die, but not soon enough to suit you, I’m afraid. It could be a lingering death which would, I’m sure, be of some inconvenience to you. You may hire a carriage to take her to hospital or I will contact the hospital myself and have the charity carriage convey her there.”

  Edith gave her a look that was part surprise and part anger. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll have her there by morning, and there’ll be no charity carriage coming to this house.”

  Alexandra took the time to readjust Mary’s pillows and to give her a bit of laudanum before she left. Edith had left the room in a sullen pout, but she reappeared and volleyed a parting shot just as Alexandra was leaving.

  “’Tis a sad world we live in when a practitioner tries to disgrace a respectable woman such as meself. Yer father would never done it, I can tell you that.”

  Alexandra, who by now was outside the door, turned around to face her, prepared to refute the unfavorable comparison to her father, but Edith kept talking.

  “A sad world, I tells ye. A practitioner what can’t cure a mere broken bone, and a constable what’s afraid to do ’is duty and arrest a cold blooded killer. We’ll all die in Newton, we will, from the neglect of one or both of ye.”

  Alexandra was caught by surprise at her statement about the constable. “Constable Snow’s afraid?” Alexandra said, in spite of her better judgment.

  “You don’t believe it?” Edith spat the words at her. “’Course ’e’s afraid. Doesn’t want to hurt ’is darling Jane.”

  Alexandra was too shocked to speak for a moment, but she finally managed to say, “Surely you’re not implying—” She was unable to say more before Edith slammed the door.

  The remaining house calls went quickly, one a child near the end of her recovery from pneumonia, and Hannibal Talbot, who, though the pain from his bladder stones persisted, refused to allow her in the house. She was home before noon. Nancy’s beef and vegetables were still simmering, and she was just dumping the pudding from the boiling cloth when Alexandra arrived. She went straight to her surgery and sat down at her desk. Picking up a pen, she dipped it in the inkwell and tried to catch up on her patient records, but she found it difficult to concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to Jane and Constable Snow, as they had ever since Edith Prodder made the ugly innuendo.

  She didn’t know how long Nancy had been standing in the doorway to the surgery when she finally noticed her.

  “Nancy! You startled me.”

  “There’s something wrong,” Nancy said. “I can always tell when you sit there staring at nothing. What is it? Which one of your patients has worsened?”

  “Mary Prodder. I’m having her sent to hospital.” Alexandra answered without looking at her.

  Nancy said nothing for several seconds, and then said, “Mary Prodder, is it?” before she turned away. Within a few minutes she returned to announce that lunch was ready, and Alexandra followed her to the kitchen for their informal dining. In spite of the fact that most members of the upper middle class took their heavier meal in the evening, Alexandra’s father had always insisted it was better for the digestive system to eat as the working class did, with the heavier meal at noon and a light, early supper. She and Nancy still lived by that rule.

  Instead of their usual chatter, they each ate their boiled beef in virtual silence. Nancy’s only comment was, “Needs a bit o’ salt, does it not?” To which, Alexandra replied, “What? Oh no, it’s quite all right.”

  Finally, after another long silence, Nancy spoke. “’Tisn’t Mary Prodder, is it? Come now, don’t look at me that way. I know ’tisn’t Mary. If ’twas a patient troubling you, you’d be talking about the problem. Going over it in your mind. Using me as your sounding board. So what is it now? Something about Mr. Forsythe? Ah, of course ’tis not. Not like you at all to be museful about a gentleman.” There was another moment of silence before she spoke again. “Of course!” She laid her fork and knife aside and leaned toward Alexandra. “’Tis the admiral! Or else his wife! What have you learned? You want to talk about it, I can see.”

  Alexandra, who had hardly taken a bite of her lunch, stopped toying with the strips of beef in her plate and looked at Nancy. “How is it you read me so well?”

  Nancy shrugged. “Your father used to ask the same thing of my mother. They were great friends, the two of them, as you know. Much like the two of us.”

  Alexandra sighed and looked at Nancy. “All right. I suppose I do want to talk about what’s troubling me. It seems Mr. Forsythe may have been correct when he said some are convinced John Killborn murdered his stepfather. And apparently you aren’t the only one who suspects the constable is protecting him.”

  Nancy waited for Alexandra to say more, and when it appeared she would not, she said, “And it troubles you that both Mr. Forsythe and I may be right?”

  “Of course not,” Alexandra said. “It’s just that…well, it’s what Edith Prodder suggested as a motive.”

  “Which was…?”

  “She… Oh, Nancy, it’s nothing but spurious gossip.” Alexandra dropped her gaze to her plate, picked up her fork and stared at the beef.

  “Perhaps ’tis no more than gossip,” Nancy said. “But ’tis bothering you. A grain of truth in the gossip, perhaps?”

  Alexandra lifted her gaze to Nancy and after another pause spoke. “She suggested that the constable may be in love with Jane Orkwright.” She shook her said. “I told you. Spurious gossip.”

  Nancy showed no surprise. “If ’tis spurious, then why does it trouble you so?”

  “Well, of course it has to be completely false, doesn’t it? Jane Orkwright couldn’t possibly be…” Alexandra found she couldn’t go on.

  “Couldn’t what?” Nancy leaned forward even more, pressing her. “Couldn’t possibly be having an affair? Is that what’s troubling you?”

  Alexandra kept her eyes down, wanting the conversation to end. “Of course she couldn’t, and of course the suggestion troubles me.” She stabbed at the beef.

  Nancy appeared to have completely forgotten her food, however. “But you said Edith suggested the constable might be in love with Mrs. Orkwright. She didn’t suggest ’twas reciprocal, did she? Perhaps you only read that into it, because you’re afraid ’tis true.”

  Alexandra dropped her fork, and it clattered against her plate. Was Nancy right? Had she somehow suspected a lover all along? But surely not Constable Snow.

  Nancy leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “You must admit, when you think about it, it makes sense.”

  “Nancy…”

  “Well it does, doesn’t it? He’s been unusually protective all along. Not wanting you to do the autopsy. You have to admit that’s a bit odd. If he was afraid you’d find something that would cause trouble for Mrs. Orkwright, something that would point to murder and perhaps to her son, then it begins to make sense, doesn’t it?”

  Alexandra pushed her chair back, having now completely given up on eating. “That’s nothing but speculation based on gossip. It would make just as much sense to say the constable himself killed the admiral. That would certainly give him a motive to squelch evidence, wouldn’t it? You could even speculate that Jane killed the admiral because the constable was her lover, and the constable is protecting her. Can’t you see how convoluted and ridiculous this can become?”

  Nancy had no immediate reply. She wore a thoughtful look and then spoke, as if to herself. “We’re forgetting the maid, Annie. If what young Will said is true, and the admiral was cruel to her, then perhaps she had a motive to kill him. And perhaps Constable Snow is in love with Annie, not Mrs. Orkwright. So it could be Annie he’s protecting.”

  Alexandra shook her head. “It’s becoming even more tangled.”

 
Nancy stood and began clearing the table. “All right, so maybe ’tis only gossip, but remember you said yourself it often holds a key to the truth.”

  Alexandra stood as well, knowing it was time to open the surgery. Patients would be arriving soon. “But where is that key, Nancy? What are we overlooking?”

  The technological revolution that was spreading across the United States and seeping into Britain was a curiosity to Nicholas. Anyone with even a modicum of intellect, he assumed, would be curious and excited about the idea of having a conversation with another person twenty miles or more away. A device was held to the ear and another device to the mouth. It was necessary for both parties to have such an instrument, and it was all done with magnetism and electrical currents and some rather curious vibrations and waves of sound. An American named Bell had, three years ago, patented the instrument. Although Nicholas had seen the device only a few times, there was some talk that they would soon be commonplace in London.

  Another American, Thomas something-or-other, had, only last year, produced an electrical lamp that needed no oil, yet burned for hours.

  Nicholas would have dismissed both the speaking device and the lamp as unlikely to become commonplace had it not been for the fact that modern telegraphy, perfected by another American by the name of Morse, had spread so quickly to England from America.

  Such amazing technological advances were a worry to Nicholas as well as a curiosity. A worry because it was happening so fast, and he did not completely understand how electricity carried sound, or even codes of dots and dashes nor how or why filament and electricity worked together to produce constant light. He worried that the modern world was leaving him behind, and that a man such as he, with no strong technical bent and who preferred reading the law and the classics, would soon be archaic.

  In spite of that fear, he had to live in the current world, so he made occasional use of the bewildering telegraph, and, he supposed, in time, he would use lamps and conversational devices he did not understand.