Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) Page 7

“And beyond that—” Atewater began, but Snow interrupted him, quietly.

  “There is the fact that she was seen burying the weapon in the early hours of the morning after the murder.”

  “Yer lyin’, ye are.” Elsie cried, suddenly coming to life again.

  “It’s your word against Jamie’s.” Snow motioned with his head toward the stable boy. “He says he saw you burying it.”

  Jamie ducked his head and seemed to want to shrink inside himself, as if he wanted to deny what the constable was saying.

  “Jamie…” Alexandra began with first a glance toward Nicholas, who still looked as troubled as Jamie. She remembered how upset Jamie had seemed when he came for her that morning. Obviously he was frightened by what he claimed to have witnessed.

  “I seen her, Dr. Gladstone.” Jamie didn’t look up as he spoke, and his voice was barely audible.

  “And we found the weapon in precisely the spot where young Jamie told us to dig.” Atewater, who now held the knife firmly by the hilt, had a slight nervous quiver to his voice, as well one might expect, Alexandra thought. The whole affair was more than a little upsetting. When she glanced at Nicholas again, he nodded sadly, as if to agree with what Atewater had said.

  “But why?” Alexandra spoke in a whisper as she glanced at Elsie.

  “I never done it.” Elsie cried. “I never killed no bloody earl. Even if I did bury the knife, ’twas only because I knew I’d get the blame. But I never done it. If Georgie was here, ’e would tell ye who done it. ’E knew all about them murderin’ nobs, ’e did.”

  Constable Snow took Elsie’s arm and led her away, a grim expression on his face. He spoke in crisp, curt tones to Nicholas and Atewater, telling them they, and the other guests, would be free to leave as soon a hearing before the justice of the peace could be arranged, at which time they would be called as witnesses. He assured them the hearing would be scheduled as quickly as possible.

  Alexandra was left with a feeling of helplessness and with Old Beaty’s words echoing in her head.

  If you wants to help her, ye’ll find that bloody corpse.

  Chapter Six

  Jeremy Atewater stood slightly behind the woman known as Dr. Gladstone and, along with the others, watched as the wretched kitchen maid was hoisted, wrist irons and all, into the constable’s shabby carriage.

  Atewater was as interested in the doctor as he was the prisoner. He had a vague recollection that Eddie had said the woman’s Christian name was Alexandra. He had thought at the time the Greek derivative must have been an affectation on the part of the woman’s parents—an attempt to show off a middle-class education. The more he saw of the woman, however, the more he thought it was no affectation at all. She had the demeanor of educated aristocracy, in spite of the fact that she had no title.

  Over the years, Atewater had developed a nose for that particular quality. He suspected a person was born with it, in much the same way one is born with blue or brown eyes. It could not successfully be acquired, he believed, because a person’s true colors would always show. He was particularly sensitive to that because he suspected others could see through his own veneer of education and material acquisitions to the true working-class core of his being.

  In fact, that theory had been proven to him more than once in his school days when certain bloody young nobs who already held titles or would someday inherit them, mocked him for his working-class roots. For that very reason, he had felt a certain resentment toward most of the guests, including Alexandra Gladstone. He tried to suppress his resentment. After all, at least in this case, what did it matter now? He would not likely ever see her again, since Constable Snow had said all the guests could leave after the hearing this afternoon.

  He had noticed the little silent exchange between the Gladstone woman and Nick Forsythe when the constable confronted Elsie, and he had wondered what it meant. He was reasonably sure it was more than Nick’s standard flirtatious exchange. He’d sensed it was something about Elsie. Something dangerous, he feared. Could it be that the gossip was true, and the two of them really were convinced the girl wasn’t guilty? He would not allow himself to think of that. He would take comfort in the fact that someone had been arrested for the murder of dear old Eddie and as soon as the trial was over, he would never have to think of it again.

  Isabel, he knew, would be happy to hear the news of the arrest, but he would enjoy keeping it from her just a bit longer. She had not been downstairs when the constable brought the knife to be identified and so didn’t know the case was as good as solved. Let her suffer a bit longer in her room where she had closeted herself to wait for that expensive doctor she’d sent for out of London.

  Atewater was not inclined to feel kindly toward her. He knew she had been in love with Lord Dunsford, knew, in fact, that he had been cuckolded. His greatest fear had been that others might know about it as well, and he would appear foolish in their eyes. He would throw the bitch out, except that he couldn’t afford the scandal of a divorce. It simply wasn’t good for business.

  As the carriage bearing the unlucky Elsie pulled away from the grounds, Atewater noticed Nick standing next to him. “Is this hearing likely to last long, Nick, old boy?” Atewater asked.

  “I’m afraid not. The hearing is only for the purpose of determining if there’s enough evidence for her to be bound over for trial. It will be little more than a formality. It seems quite obvious the evidence is there.”

  “So we should be able to leave by tomorrow.” Atewater spoke more to himself than to Nicholas.

  “Are you quite sure it’s really over, Nicholas?” Alexandra said.

  Atewater didn’t wait for any further discussion of the matter. He took his leave by murmuring that he’d best go check on his dear wife.

  In reality, he had no intention at all of seeing about Isabel, but as he made his way upstairs to his room, hoping to send a servant for a basin of water with which to refresh himself, and a glass of whisky to help him relax, he passed by Isabel’s room. The door was open, and he saw that instead of keeping to her bed, she was up, fully dressed, and talking with animation to a maid, who appeared to be packing a trunk. He stopped for a moment, staring out of curiosity, and Isabel saw him.

  “Oh, Jerry. Have you heard? There’s wonderful news.” A pair of underdrawers were draped over her arm, and she waved a stocking at him.

  “News?” he said, in spite of himself.

  “They’ve arrested that horrible girl, and we can go home. As soon as a hearing of some sort is over.”

  Atewater stared at her, stunned that the news had reached her so quickly, and at least slightly disappointed that she wasn’t still suffering over the bugger’s death. “How did you know?” he said when he found his voice.

  “Why the servants, of course. They were all shown that awful knife and asked to confirm it was the one that creature used to threaten everyone before the constable went off to find her. The servants said some stable boy knew where she was.” She threw the drawers at the maid and glanced back at Atewater. “And they said you were there to help dig the knife. You’re my hero, Jerry.” She gave him a coquettish smile.

  Atewater pulled a cheroot from his breast pocket and struck a match against the gleaming mahogany chest. Giving all his attention for several seconds to drawing in the flame, he finally exhaled a fetid cloud that made both Isabel and the maid cough. When he spoke, his voice was cold.

  “Well, I must say your mourning for the poor bastard seems to have been short lived. Are you always so cavalier about your lovers?”

  Isabel’s face turned the color of tallow, and she stared at him speechless for a moment before she shooed the maid away with an angry abruptness. “Leave us. Go! Go!”

  As the maid hurried out, Atewater leaned against the wall, smoking and happily polluting the room with the cheroot’s dead rodent odor while he watched, amused. When Isabel turned back to him, anger had brought the blood back to her face, turning it a lurid crimson.

  “How d
are you speak to me in such a way in front of a servant. How dare you speak to me that way at all.” Her words were a hot steam of hisses.

  Atewater gave her an amused, condescending smile, still leaning against the wall, never taking his eyes off of her. “Don’t pretend you’re the wrongly accused, faithful wife, Izzy. Self-righteous anger doesn’t become you. You’re nothing but a fool, my dear, for allowing Eddie to use you. If you had even a drop of sense, you’d have known he’d simply dispose of you when he was finished. He jilted you, didn’t he? You must have despised him for that. Enough to kill him?”

  She stared at him, red-faced and speechless for a moment. He knew she was surprised that he knew about her lover, and the surprise gave him a rush of excitement. He expected another sputtering denial. Instead, he saw something flicker in her eyes, some dangerous cold wisdom. That extra-sensory hint that she might not be the vapid fool he’d come to think she was both alarmed and excited him.

  “I’m not the only fool standing here.” Her voice had lost all of its heat and was now like cold stone. “What about those business ventures you were in with Eddie? You’re angry because he was more clever than you, aren’t you? Were you angry enough to kill him?”

  Jeremy jerked his cigar from his mouth and grabbed her arm. “What are you talking about, whore? What do you know of business ventures?” He felt his blood roaring in his ears as he envisioned Eddie talking of their joint business dealings in some cozy post-coitus moment.

  “Stop! You’re hurting me.” She tried to wrest her arm free, but he held fast.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing!” She still sounded defiant. “You told me yourself that Eddie was a cheat. You said you’d never do business with him again.”

  He let her go with a shove that sent her crashing against the bureau. “You’re right, the bastard was a cheat. But I got even in spades. No one cheats me and gets away with it.”

  “Is that a confession, Jerry?”

  She was egging him on, which still frightened and aroused him. He had never known her to be this way. Had Eddie’s death somehow changed her?

  “When did you learn to be so clever, Izzy?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Me? Clever?”

  The coldness was still there, in her eyes. He could almost believe she was capable of murder.

  He gave her a disdainful look and left, slamming the door behind him. He made his way down the hall, wondering if he had ever really known his wife, wondering, too, what she actually knew about his business association with Eddie. It was true, he had ranted about Eddie’s underhanded tricks involving an investment, and he had confessed that he’d lost a little money. Did she know, though, that it was more than a little? Did she know that the reason he’d lost was because her lover, the illustrious Edward, Earl of Dunsford, had taken more than his share? It was true, he could not prove it, but he knew Eddie had pocketed a nice profit while claiming the venture lost money. He could almost see Eddie laughing at him while he rolled in bed with his wife.

  Atewater knew Lord Dunsford often enjoyed other people’s misfortunes, especially if he caused them. He’d revel in them, in fact. It could be that he’d told Isabel just for the pleasure of making her uncomfortable—if Isabel was, in fact, capable of feeling discomfort over her husband’s problems.

  Nevertheless, he could imagine Eddie doing just such a thing. He knew for a fact more than one of his guests had reason of one sort or another to hate Eddie, but Eddie had invited them here just to enjoy their discomfort. And the guests had accepted, of course, because they couldn’t afford, either for social or business reasons, to risk being dropped from Eddie’s guest list by shunning one of his gatherings.

  By the time he reached the drawing room downstairs, all the other guests were gathered, and the butler had brought sherry. A celebratory mood bubbled just under the surface. However, everyone was trying to remain discreetly serious and quiet and to appear to be in mourning. Nicholas, who was involved in an animated and serious conversation with Dr. Gladstone, seemed oblivious to the general mood of the room.

  “Smashing job you and the constable did, Atewater, old boy.” One gentleman gave him a slap on the back as he spoke in an appropriately hushed voice. The slap, however, was hearty, almost enough to cause him to drop his cheroot. He stubbed it out quickly in an ashtray, which had appeared fortuitously in a servant’s hand. It wouldn’t do to offend the ladies with his smoke, and thus endanger his social standing.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, looking around for a glass of sherry. “Nasty business. Best to get it over with quickly.”

  “A toast.” Lord Winningham shouted as he held his glass high. Winningham’s mood was uncommonly and inappropriately jovial. “To Atewater and Forsythe. You saved the day, chaps, by helping the constable bring in the murderer.” He looked around, suddenly embarrassed at his outburst, cleared his throat nervously, and added, “In memory of Dunsford, of course.”

  There was a quiet and hesitant chorus of “Here! Here!” Atewater bowed slightly, showing just the proper amount of humility. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Nicholas was looking quite uncomfortably embarrassed.

  “I would remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that the girl has not yet been proven guilty.” Dr. Gladstone’s voice, rising above the others, stunned everyone to silence.

  “Surely you’re not still defending her,” one of the ladies said. “After all, she was found with the knife, she voiced her motive, and she had the opportunity.”

  “Is it possible that she wasn’t the only one with motive and opportunity?” Dr. Gladstone said.

  There was a nervous rumbling in the crowd. “What, exactly, do you mean?” Winningham blurted.

  “That the evidence against Elsie is…” She turned to Nicholas as if to seek confirmation. “I believe the term is circumstantial,” she said.

  Nicholas seemed unable to speak for a moment, as if he was as stunned as the others. He quickly collected himself, however, and nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. Circumstantial,” he said in an odd voice.

  Winningham, red-faced and flustered, spoke up. “It sounded, Miss Gladstone, as if you were implying that one of us could have committed the crime. I think I speak for all of us when I say that I find it insulting that you would suggest—”

  “No insult was intended, sir, and I implied nothing of the kind. I, too, find it difficult to believe that any of us here could have murdered Lord Dunsford, but I find it equally as difficult to believe that Elsie O’Riley committed the crime.” Dr. Gladstone spoke with an air of authority and self-confidence that Atewater found shocking in a woman, yet it was somehow appealing.

  “How so?” Lord Winningham persisted. “We’ve just pointed out that the girl made threats and—”

  “I am aware that she made threats and that she was seen burying the knife, but it was not a knife that killed Lord Dunsford. He was strangled, and I might point out a girl the size of Elsie would not have had the strength to do that, since, of course, Lord Dunsford would have resisted.”

  An excited murmur rippled through the crowd, and Atewater leaned closer to hear what else this woman had to say.

  “If he was strangled in his sleep, he couldn’t resist,” Winningham said.

  “It would have awakened him, and he would have struggled,” Dr. Gladstone countered.

  “If it wasn’t a knife, then how do you explain the stab wound?” a man’s voice asked. Atewater, who kept his eyes on Dr. Gladstone, could not tell who it was.

  “He was stabbed after he died.” Dr. Gladstone remained calm and unflappable, which Atewater found fascinating. He had never seen a woman quite like this one, and she might have gone on longer, giving him more opportunity to observe her if Isabel hadn’t burst into the room suddenly and collapsed on the floor in a swoon.

  Dr. Gladstone rushed to her as a crowd gathered around her prone body. “Give her some air,” the doctor pleaded and knelt beside her. Atewater watched as she took Isabel’s wrist to check fo
r a pulse and loosened the top button of her dress, then passed some smelling salts under her nose. Isabel’s eyes fluttered and opened, and as soon as she saw Dr. Gladstone, she pushed her away as if she were some offensive animal.

  “Jeremy! Where is Jeremy?” Isabel screeched.

  Jeremy pushed his way through the crowd to stand beside her, because it seemed the only thing he could do under the circumstances, although her dramatics were proving embarrassing.

  By this time Isabel had brought herself up to a sitting position and was allowing some of the gentlemen to help her to her feet. As soon as she saw Jeremy, she began to cry. “Oh, Jeremy, you’ve got to get me out of here. I’ve seen him. Seen him with my own eyes.”

  “Hush, my dear. You’re not feeling well; you must be quiet.” Atewater hoped his words would calm her and minimize the embarrassment, but she went on ranting.

  “It was Eddie. Walking in the shadows outside the house. But he’s dead. I saw him myself, being carried out by the coroner. How can a corpse be walking? I saw him. Saw him with my own eyes, and then he disappeared like a vapor.”

  Atewater had to clench his fists to keep from slapping her. She was making a complete fool of herself, and, by association, of him as well. He tried to think of something to say to diffuse the moment, but he feared that to speak would only make it worse.

  He needn’t have worried. It was that fool Winningham who saved the day. By now Atewater had become convinced the old fool was more than a little tipsy, and what he said only confirmed it.

  “My god. I saw him, too. Thought I was losing my mind, but if the lady saw him as well…”

  Another excited murmur went up from the crowd, and Atewater saw his opportunity. “Please! Please, everyone. Calm yourselves, please.” The crowd obeyed as if they were sheep, and Atewater continued. “We’re all quite understandably upset by the events of the past few days, but we must keep our heads about us and remain strong.”

  “Of course, Atewater’s right,” the gentleman who had complimented him earlier said. “You’ve got a head on your shoulders, old boy.” He slapped him on the back again.