A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4) (13 page)

I shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe I just felt guilty.”

“Perhaps. But you’re also far from foolish.” He looked chagrinned. “Sometimes I need to remind myself of that.”

Which was all I’d wanted him to realize when he’d ordered me about in such an overbearing manner the day before.

We could hear the people above moving toward the staircase. Apparently dinner was ready to be served.

Gage laced my arm through his. “We shall do it your way then. But do not forget your pistol.” His brow furrowed. “It may come in handy.”

I nodded, though I didn’t need the reminder. Since escaping near death twice in the last year, I’d taken to carrying my Hewson percussion pistol with me always. One never knew when one would be kidnapped from the theater by criminals or forced to ride out and save one’s fiancé from bandits.

“I believe we’ll be unharmed. This time,” I added in a lowered voice now that the other guests were moving closer. “Bonnie Brock understands we saved his sister. His honor will demand he sees us safely to the Chemist and back.” Or else I wouldn’t have asked.

Gage didn’t sound so confident. “I hope you’re right.”

I pressed a hand to my swirling stomach. I hoped so, too.

S
urgeons’ Hall was located in High School Yards, not far from the old town walls. I had never visited, not having been eager to encounter any of the medical men who had known my late husband so well. Some were his colleagues, while others, like Dr. Renshaw, were former students and protégés. Sir Anthony was still viewed by some to have been a great anatomist, contributing much to his field of study, while others spoke of him with censure. The comprehensive textbook he had slaved away at so feverishly, and forced me to sketch the anatomical drawings for, had ultimately besmirched his reputation once my involvement became known, much like Dr. Robert Knox’s standing had suffered because of his connection to the body snatchers-turned-murderers Burke and Hare.

A new and grander building was being constructed on Nicolson Street for the Royal College of Surgeons, but for now they were housed in the cramped confines of this brick building. The façade was lined with two rows of windows, and the uneven texture of the masonry would have perhaps seemed crude and stark if not for the softening effect of the landscaping surrounding the building. That and the lovely houses on either side gave the small square an elegance that belied the events happening inside its buildings.

My insides quavered as we approached the door. It has been nearly two years since I’d crossed the threshold of Sir Anthony’s private medical theater, and I hoped I would not have need to enter a medical theater here now. But first, we had to gain admittance to the College.

Gage squeezed my hand where it rested on his arm, and I offered him a small smile of gratitude. I knew he understood my trepidation, even if I could not voice the words.

Our presence was met with disapproval, but we were allowed entry. Philip’s letter had proved its worth, silencing the dean who was called to admit us. He ordered a student to lead us to where Dr. Renshaw was finishing a lecture.

My stomach roiled at the pungent odors of lye, ethanol, and decay, and I had to swallow hard to keep what little breakfast I’d eaten from reemerging. I pressed my handkerchief to my nose and inhaled shallowly. Too many painful memories were tied to that smell, and I was forced to battle them back with each step we took deeper into the building.

“Are you well?” Gage leaned down to ask in concern.

“Yes. Let’s . . . let’s just keep moving.”

A group of young men spilled out of a room on the left, carrying stacks of books and papers. They stared at me in avid curiosity, even glancing back at me as they continued down the corridor. We waited for the room to empty before we stepped inside.

Fortunately, it was not an anatomy theater, but a sparse lecture hall, smelling mostly of old wood and ink. Dr. Renshaw stood hunched over a book, his pale sandy hair still a shade too long, curling awkwardly upward at his neck and ears. When he had been Sir Anthony’s apprentice, I had forever been teasing him about his absentmindedness when it came to his appearance. His cravat had been perpetually half-tied, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing in the midst of fastening it, and his jaw often sported a strip of stubble he’d overlooked while he was grooming himself. These minor quirks had only made me fonder of him—a bit of much-needed humor in my dark world.

We were almost upon him when he finally looked up from his text, and his eyes flared wide in recognition. “L-Lady Darby,” he stammered, almost dropping his book.

“Dr. Renshaw. It’s good to see you,” I said, hoping to set him at ease.

“Y-you as well.” He clutched the book under one arm, wiping the palm of the other on his trousers. “I read about the closure of Larkspur Retreat. I hope what I was able to tell Lord Cromarty was helpful.” His eyes darted to Gage and back again.

“Oh, yes. Thank you. It was. But that’s not why we’re here.”

“Oh.” He glanced at Gage again. “It isn’t?”

I looked up at Gage, noticing for the first time that his expression was not exactly friendly. I recalled then how angry Gage had been when I’d told him about Dr. Renshaw. How he had been the only witness to Sir Anthony forcing me to sketch his dissections. And how he’d essentially taken a bribe from my late husband to remain quiet rather than report what was happening to a magistrate. I’d never held it against Dr. Renshaw, having accepted there was nothing he could have done. Sir Anthony’s word would have been believed over that of a lowly assistant, and so Dr. Renshaw would have sacrificed his career while I suffered my late husband’s wrath. But Gage had not been so forgiving.

I’d worried Philip had taken his revenge on the poor man when he visited him in October to gather information about a surgeon managing a lunatic asylum, and apparently Gage was now intent on at least intimidating him.

I elbowed Gage in the ribs. “No. It isn’t.” I smiled cajolingly. “I need access to the Royal College’s library, and I thought you might be able to help me with that. We need to find information on poisons.”

He snuck another glance at Gage. “For an inquiry?”

“Yes.”

He licked his lips and nodded. “I . . . I will try.”

I smiled brighter. “Thank you.”

His cheeks reddened to a fiery hue and he bowed his head. He
approached slowly, passing us on my side. “Is the poison mineral or organic?”

I met Gage’s eyes as we followed him from the room. “We don’t know. Will that make it more difficult to detect?”

“I couldn’t really say. Though I read a fascinating journal article recently about new methods to chemically analyze mineral compounds found in remains.”

I noticed his voice grew stronger when he was discussing things he was more comfortable with.

“But if the poison was organic, I was going to recommend you speak with the chair of the university’s botany department.”

“Dr. Graham?”

He stopped and turned to me. “Are you acquainted?”

“Yes. He’s dined at Lord Cromarty’s home several times,” I explained.

He bobbed his head as if this made sense, and then turned to resume his stroll down the hall in short, quick steps. We had to hurry to keep up.

The library was like many studies in private homes, all warm wood and heavy furniture. Thick tomes lined the shelves alongside thin, well-worn volumes and rolled parchments. The scents of dust, paper, and leather warred with the aromas of past dissections and the harsh cleaners used to scrub away what they left behind, which issued from the rest of the building. Half a dozen men were scattered about the room, seated at the tables and in chairs, perusing the books. All but one, who appeared engrossed in a tome with yellowing pages, looked up to stare at us.

It was difficult to ignore them as Dr. Renshaw guided us toward the far corner at the end of the room. A man who looked too young to even grow facial hair shifted to the side as we approached.

“I think you’ll find the information you’re looking for here,” Dr. Renshaw said, gesturing toward the lower three shelves. “Unless you have a specific book in mind.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could still see the student staring at me. “Uh, no specific book, but we’re hoping to uncover any poisons whose effects mimic the symptoms of an apoplexy.”

Gage leaned down to examine the titles.

“Did you need my assistance?” Dr. Renshaw asked, rocking back on his heels eagerly.

“Well, if you have the time, we would welcome it,” I replied, absurdly not wanting to disappoint him. In any case, three people could work faster than two, and a surgeon might know better what we were looking for, even if he specialized in the brain and not poisons. “But if not, we understand.”

His eyes lit with pleasure. “For you, I would be delighted.”

I returned his smile, though it was halfhearted at best.

Over the course of several hours, the three of us were able to winnow the list of potential culprits down to six likely candidates. Most of them were organic, so a visit to Dr. Graham would not be remiss. However, that would have to wait for another day. Time had gotten away from us, and I had promised Malcolm and Philipa I would spend some time with them this afternoon before my and Gage’s rendezvous with Bonnie Brock. I suspected they had been feeling neglected of late, with their mother not being able to visit the nursery and their father distracted by business. They were allowed to visit their mother every day for a quarter of an hour, but most of that was spent in careful hugs and cuddles, answering questions their mother posed to them in an overly bright voice. A bit of fun would do them good, and hopefully distract them from their sadness.

In any case, I had enough information to quiz the Chemist intelligently, and to also be certain I hadn’t wasted my favor from Bonnie Brock. I now knew specific substances to ask about, and should the Chemist prove unhelpful, Gage and Sergeant Maclean would also be able to better question the apothecaries throughout Edinburgh.

I thanked Dr. Renshaw, who declared himself ready to assist should
we ever need him, and then we excused ourselves. The library had become suspiciously crowded in the hours since our arrival, but I noticed how carefully they cleared a path for me and Gage as we exited. I clung to his arm, disliking the sensation of being a specimen in a jar.

I inhaled deeply as we escaped through the front door and crossed the square toward Gage’s waiting carriage.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded. “That place. It just reminded me too much . . .”

“I know,” he said, sparing me from having to finish my statement.

I exhaled, trying to brush aside the memories that had stolen into my brain like creeping vines overwhelming the exterior of a building. I lifted my arm to sniff the sleeve of my dress and shuddered. It was as if the scents of decay still clung to me. I would have to order a bath after I returned to the town house, or else I would never believe I’d washed the stink away. It would follow me into my dreams tonight, and those were nightmares I preferred not to relive. They had been bad enough after I witnessed Lord Drummond’s ill treatment of his wife. Sometimes I felt I would never be free of Sir Anthony. I would wake in the middle of the night and still feel his hands around my throat and hear his foul-smelling laugh in my ear. Or I would struggle to emerge from a dream where I was standing next to his dissection table, unable to close my eyes or turn away as he pulled organ after organ from the chest cavity in an unending autopsy.

“He’s sweet on you, you know.”

I blinked up at Gage, realizing he had not followed me into my darker thoughts and I had lost the train of our conversation. “Who?”

He arched his eyebrows in gentle reproach. “Dr. Renhsaw. He’s besotted with you.”

I frowned. “No, he isn’t.”

“Oh, come now. He was practically tripping over himself to please
you, and the man dissolved into a stammering mess whenever you so much as brushed his arm while we were scouring those books.”

“I’m sure he merely felt guilty for failing to help me four years ago,” I protested. “And . . . I alarm him.”

“Not in the way you mean.” He held his hand out to help me up as we reached the carriage, but before letting me enter, he squeezed my fingers, and added, “You know the difference.”

He was right, of course. I might have been inexperienced in romance and attraction, but I wasn’t completely oblivious to such things. At least when it came to exhibiting signs as obvious as Dr. Renshaw’s. I’d known he nursed a bit of a
tendre
for me all those years ago when he was apprenticed to Sir Anthony. It had been gratifying to my bruised and battered self-esteem.

It had also made it easier to accept his decision to take Sir Anthony’s bribe. I’d rationalized that he must have realized how much worse it would be for me if he filed his allegations, only to see them dismissed by the magistrate when the official almost certainly sided with Sir Anthony over him. I still believed that, regardless of Gage’s and Philip’s opinion that he’d taken the easy way out.

“Well, don’t hold that against him as well,” I told Gage as he settled beside me.

He turned to me with a surprised laugh. “Now, why would I hold that against him? If anything, it speaks well of him.” He leaned toward me to add in a lower voice. “He has excellent taste.”

I dimpled shyly, still unused to being looked at or complimented in such a way.

Fortunately, he delighted in making me blush. He chuckled and captured my lips in a kiss.

It was a very pleasant interlude. And when I climbed out of the carriage at Charlotte Square, I realized how thoroughly he’d helped me banish those disturbing recollections brought on by our visit to the Royal College. I sniffed. Though I was still determined to bathe.

•   •   •

G
age and I arrived on Castlehill just as the leaden sky over Edinburgh faded to deepest charcoal. Ahead of us beyond the Esplanade we could perceive the massive silhouette of Edinburgh Castle. Its craggy stone was but a shadowy blur, felt more than seen, as it dominated the narrow cobblestone street. The buildings on either side leaned inward, seeming to close in on us as if they arched overhead to form a tunnel instead of stretching upward into the darkness.

It was surprisingly quiet. I had expected to hear the normal sounds of the inhabitants packed cheek by jowl in the tenements of Old Town sitting down to dinner or preparing for bed. From time to time we did hear a raised voice or the crying of a baby, but it was mostly the noise of Gage’s horses snuffling or the jangle of the reins that broke the silence.

I had dressed in a slate gray cloak to avoid drawing attention to myself and tucked my pistol into the pocket sewn into my midnight blue woolen skirts. My eyes were the only spot of bright color in my appearance, and those could not be helped. Gage must have had similar thoughts, for he had worn a dark greatcoat and breeches tucked into his riding boots. He had even eschewed his fashionable tall hat for a shorter one with a wider brim.

We stood side by side next to the carriage, not speaking. His expression was thunderous because I had refused to remain in the coach. I had argued that Bonnie Brock might not approach if he did not see me. In actuality, I was more worried he would try something dastardly if he saw I was not standing next to Gage, such as to “mistakenly” shoot him.