An Improper Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

“Can’t you do the surgery now, while he sleeps?”
Mildryd Talbot’s voice trembled and tears glistened in her eyes.

Alexandra shook her head. “I’m afraid not. See how fitfully he sleeps? He would feel the knife, and anyway it would be dangerous as long as the infection is present, not to mention unethical if he doesn’t give me permission.”

“Please,” Mildryd said. “Can’t you do something? I just wish your father was still around. He would have known what to do.”

Alexandra had grown accustomed to a certain few of her patients continually comparing her to her father. Still, she bristled. “My father would have recommended surgery earlier, just as I did. It was your husband’s decision not to trust me.” While she spoke, she occupied herself by applying a glass suction cup over the area of his bladder in order to force more blood flow into the spot. The touch of the glass cup awakened him slightly. He thrust his arms about and swore, then groaned loudly as he felt the vacuum pressure of the cup.

“Is he still drinking the diuretic?” Alexandra spoke quietly to Mildryd as she worked.

“The what?”

“The infusion of wild carrot and hair moss I mixed for him. See that he drinks it six times a day. If we can get him to pass enough water to clear the infection out, perhaps he’ll decide to trust me to operate.”

Mildryd
nodded in a distracted way, her eyes still on her husband. She remained distraught and preoccupied throughout the treatment and forgot to see Alexandra to the door.

When Alexandra was outside on the narrow street, she once again mounted her mare, while Zack took his time rousing himself from his nap in the warm sun to follow. Once her morning rounds were completed, she would have, under ordinary circumstances, ridden home to a quick lunch before she opened her surgery to see patients. Today, however, she would not go home immediately, even if it meant opening her surgery late. Today she would stop by the offices of Constable Snow.

Robert Snow had been a schoolmaster before he took the job as constable in Newton-Upon-Sea. Since young females were not allowed to attend the village school, the late Dr. Huntington Gladstone had hired Snow as a private tutor for his daughter. He had allowed Nancy, the daughter of his maid-of-all-work to sit in on the tutoring sessions as well.

Alexandra secured Lucy’s reins outside the constable’s office and prepared to confront her former school master. Zack, having given up on finding another sunny spot, settled himself by the door as Alexandra stepped inside the office.

Seated at his desk, Snow glanced up when he heard the door open and rose from his seat. He spoke to her in his quiet, cultured, emotionless voice. “Good morning, Dr. Gladstone.” The use of her formal title was the only hint she ever had that he respected her accomplishment and position. He had never expressed any pride that his former student had acquired the knowledge necessary to be named and licensed a medical doctor. Nor had he ever acknowledged that, because she was female and could not attend some of the necessary medical classes, her task had been doubly difficult. However, to his credit, he did not seem to resent the fact that she was a woman in what was considered to be a man’s profession, nor did he even once compare her unfavorably to her late father.

Her reply to him as she removed her gloves and slipped the hood of her cloak from her head was equally formal and respectful. “Good morning, Constable Snow.”

He motioned for her to be seated, and when she had been, seated himself. He wove his long, supple fingers together, then tested the warp and weave of it with the sharp point of his chin. He left his chin there, resting, while he looked at her. He didn’t speak, but the electrical alertness of his being invited her to.

“I want to speak with you about Admiral
Orkwright.”

There was a slight tilt of his head while two forefingers unwound themselves to form an inverted V at the end of his chin.

Alexandra tried to force away the old sensations of student and intimidating master. Yet she was tense, and she found she was holding her breath for a moment before she managed to speak. “It is my opinion that an autopsy is necessary, and I’m afraid I don’t understand your insistence that I not perform one.”

Snow’s hands floated apart, and he rested one forearm on his desk as he leaned toward her. “You told me, did you not, that it is your opinion Admiral
Orkwright died of drowning?”

“I did say that I believe it is possible, however—”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t see the need for an autopsy if the cause of death is known.”

Alexandra moved to the edge of her chair, her body even more tense. “The cause of death is not known, in the most technical sense. It is only assumed, since there is no other apparent cause at the moment.”

“I believe you have just made my point, Dr. Gladstone.” Snow spoke without the slightest hint of smugness.

“No, sir.
The point is that while there is no other
apparent
cause, I have not ruled out all
possible
causes of death, and I shall not be able to without an autopsy.”

Snow fixed his eyes on hers in exactly the same manner he had used as a schoolmaster when asking for the step by step explanation of an algebra problem. “What, exactly, would you be looking for?”

Alexandra met his gaze. “I don’t know, sir. But that is precisely the point. I don’t know.”

Snow settled back in his chair. “Your scientific curiosity is admirable, Dr. Gladstone. However, under the circumstances, there is no need for an autopsy. As I have explained to you already, we have no reason to suspect foul play, and, since drowning seems highly probable, and, since Mrs.
Orkwright does not want the body of her beloved husband subjected to the indignity of autopsy, there will be no autopsy.”

“How do you know that, sir? That Mrs.
Orkwright doesn’t want an autopsy, I mean.” Alexandra spoke as Snow rifled through some of the papers on his desk—a gesture that suggested he’d already dismissed her.

The look on his face when he glanced up at her was one of surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“How do you know Mrs. Orkwright does not wish an autopsy?”

“Because she told me, of course,” Snow said.

“She told you? When? Have you seen her again?”

Snow’s icy glance said it all. She knew she had gone beyond propriety, yet she couldn’t stop herself.

“Have you told her what he was wearing? That, alone, makes the case extraordinary, as I’m sure you agree. In fact, it makes it suspicious.”

Snow stood and braced himself with the fingertips of his long hands pressed to the desk. “Dr. Gladstone, I can assure you I am aware of what makes a case suspicious. I am also well aware of my duties as a peace officer to inform the murder victim’s family of anything unusual. Please rest assured that I have attended to all necessary details and Mrs.
Orkwright does not wish to have an autopsy.”

Alexandra was momentarily stunned by his stern, schoolmaster scolding, but she recovered quickly. “Perhaps you should tell her that I have some suspicion as to—”

“Suspicion, Dr. Gladstone?” Snow’s jaw tensed, and his lips whitened.

She knew he was angry, but she tried to ignore it. “Yes. Your explanation for his wearing a woman’s undergarments was nothing more than conjecture and rather lame at that. I believe you should—”

“It is not necessary, Dr. Gladstone, for you to tell me how I should go about doing my job. I would not presume to tell you how to do yours. Perhaps you can afford me the same courtesy. If you will pardon me, Doctor, I have my duties to attend.”

Alexandra started to explain, or perhaps to defend her position further, or perhaps to vent her frustration, but she said nothing. Instead she stood, secured her cloak tighter, and left the office. Outside on the street, she took several deep breaths trying to calm
herself. Why was the constable so dead set against an autopsy? Had he really spoken to Mrs. Orkwright about it, or had he contrived that story for his own purposes? And if so, why? What was he hiding?

Alexandra rode down Griffon Street away from the constable’s office and the jail, away from the local pub known as the Blue Ram, beyond the butcher shop, the cobbler, the blacksmith, and all the other shops until she reached the intersection of
Straytham Lane. She should have turned there until the lane ran into Water Street, which would take her home. She didn’t turn, however, but kept riding through a tangle of streets until she found herself riding up the hill that led to Gull House.

The housemaid she’d seen earlier opened the door to her knock. She appeared surprised. “Dr. Gladstone?”

“Is Mrs. Orkwright in? I would like to see her, please.” Alexandra glanced over the maid’s shoulder, trying to peer into the house.

“She is not well, as I’m sure you know.”

“Of course, I thought I might be of some—”

The maid stiffened, her large frame filling almost
all of the doorway. “I’m afraid she’s not receiving visitors.”

“I’m not simply a visitor. I am a doctor, and I would like—”

Before Alexandra could finish building her case, Jane Orkwright appeared in the hall. “Who is it, Annie?” she called.

“Dr. Gladstone, Madam.” The maid spoke without emotion.

“Please ask her to come in.”

The maid moved aside begrudgingly and allowed Alexandra to enter.

“How kind of you to call again,” Jane Orkwright said as she led Alexandra into the parlor. She sat across from her on one of the two burgundy-colored sofas in the room. She had already donned widow’s weeds. They made her pale skin appear even whiter and accentuated the dark hollows around her remarkably beautiful eyes. The dark shawl she’d worn the day before was once again draped over her shoulders and only accentuated the heavy somberness of her attire. Her voice was flat, and there was a sluggishness to her movements.

“I don’t wish to trouble you, Mrs.
Orkwright, but there is something I feel compelled to discuss with…” Alexandra’s voice trailed off when she saw young William standing in the doorway. She gave him a smile, but he dropped his eyes and wouldn’t look at her. She wasn’t surprised. She had only recently set a dislocated shoulder for him after he’d sustained a particularly nasty fall. No doubt he remembered the pain of that procedure. Very young children such as William often associated her with just such unpleasant memories.

“William,” Mrs.
Orkwright said when she saw her son. “Please come in and tell Dr. Gladstone hello, then you may go with Annie to your room.”

Young William’s face clouded, and he seemed near tears. “But, Mama, I want you to—”

“Please, William, do as I ask. I’ll be along in a moment.” Mrs. Orkwright spoke softly, and some of the flat, lifeless quality was gone from her voice. Her son was obviously a source of happiness for her.

William walked to her side and, with his mother’s coaching, gave Alexandra a timid, formal greeting, then left the room reluctantly, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure his mother was still there.

Mrs. Orkwright smiled at her son, and her face softened as she watched him leave. “Please forgive Will’s lack of manners, Dr. Gladstone. I’m afraid he’s not quite himself.”

“Of course,” Alexandra said. “I’m sure he feels keenly the loss of his father.”

For a moment Mrs. Orkwright’s eyes glazed over again. “It…is difficult,” she finally managed to say.

“Of course,” Alexandra said again. She felt awkward, and now she wasn’t at all certain she could broach the subject of the autopsy or the admiral’s unusual attire.

Finally, it was Mrs. Orkwright who spoke. “You have something you wish to say to me, no doubt, regarding the admiral’s death.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but you see…” Alexandra looked down at her hands. Her agony was compounded by Mrs.
Orkwright’s silence. “I know Constable Snow has discussed this with you, and you have voiced your opinion, but I felt I should try to persuade you to change your mind.”

There was another uncomfortable silence before Mrs.
Orkwright spoke again. She wore a bewildered expression. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’ve had no discussions with Constable Snow.”

“Regarding an autopsy,” Alexandra managed to say, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

“Autopsy?” Mrs. Orkwright shook her head. Her face appeared even paler and her eyes even darker and sunken. “I…I’m afraid not. Why would he want to discuss that with me? Is it really necessary?”

Alexandra tried to choose her words carefully. “I thought perhaps, given the circumstances, you would—”

“Circumstances?”

The woman’s troubled expression gave Alexandra pause. It was clear Constable Snow had not discussed the autopsy with her. Why had he lied? Once again she couldn’t help wondering what he had to hide.

Chapter Three

Alexandra didn’t know, at first, what she should say or how far she should push the issue with Jane
Orkwright. However, the gossip about the admiral had spread all over town, and there was no way, ultimately, to protect either Mrs. Orkwright or her young son from it. It was better, she decided, to give her the truth, no matter how unpleasant the details, than to let her hear the distorted rumors.

“Mrs.
Orkwright, I’m afraid—”

“Please, Alexandra, call me Jane. We were friends once, weren’t we? At least I always meant to be your friend. Perhaps I was not very good at it. Perhaps I let my husband and my children occupy too much of my time. You see, I…” She was nattering uncharacteristically, but she stopped, looked away, and seemed to lose track of what she’d been saying. She was obviously not herself.

Alexandra watched her face, lined now with grief, but somehow, still beautiful. Her eyes stared unfocused. It was true, they had each meant to be friends. Alexandra had recognized in Jane an equal—another woman with whom she could converse on an intellectual level. She knew Jane had recognized the same in her. But their relationship had not gone beyond a handful of chance meetings. Each had been too busy with her own life—Jane with her husband and sons and Alexandra with her medical practice.

“Jane,” Alexandra said, trying again. “There is something you should know about your husband’s death.
Something unusual.”

Jane’s eyes refocused on hers, and Alexandra saw something there. Was it fear? Or dread?
Or perhaps something all together different? “Unusual?” she said.

“Admiral
Orkwright was…was not dressed in a traditional manner.”

There was no response from Jane.
Only the slightest rise of her eyebrows.

“He was wearing women’s clothing. I’m afraid…” Alexandra felt as if her
breath were trapped in her lungs, and her chest began to hurt. Jane’s quiet, patient wait seemed only to make it harder for her. “I’m afraid he was wearing nothing save a woman’s undergarment,” she blurted.

There was another silence while Jane looked at her with the blank expression Alexandra had become used to. “I don’t understand,” she said finally.

“Nor do I,” Alexandra said. “I hoped perhaps there was some explanation, some light you could shed on—”

Jane shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. Isn’t it enough that he’s dead?” Her voice rose to a high, agitated timbre. She stood and walked to the window overlooking the sea. She spoke with her back to Alexandra. “Why is this important for me to
know these details?” She seemed near tears, and she twisted the handkerchief she held until Alexandra heard a slight ripping sound.

Alexandra felt suddenly dirty, as if she had dragged both of them into some filthy quagmire. “I’m sorry, Jane. I know this must upset you, but—”

Jane whirled around suddenly, her face now livid with anger. “Upset me? You have no idea what you’ve…” Her lips quivered as she tried to go on, but she was unable to speak. She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Alexandra went to her and tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but Jane winced and pulled away. She remained with her back to Alexandra for a moment before she turned around. “Forgive me.” Her voice was steady, almost unnaturally so. “I know you’re trying to help me. I suppose the village is full of gossip.” She looked at Alexandra as if to find confirmation in her face, then she turned away again and sat on the edge of one of the sofas. “I appreciate your warning me.”

“Jane, I—”

“I don’t know why.” Jane’s voice was sharp and clipped as she interrupted. Her denial was too quick, Alexandra thought, as if she protested too much. As if she was lying. She had not meant to ask her why. She had meant only to apologize again, then to drop the subject. Yet, Jane persisted. “I shall do all I can to keep this from Will. You understand that, don’t you? You understand that I must protect him.”

“Of course,” Alexandra said. She was silent for another long moment, still standing near the window and looking at Jane, sitting in her rigid posture at the edge of the sofa. Alexandra spoke to her again, apologetically. “I must know if you think your husband’s attire—the female undergarments—had anything to do with his death.”

Jane glanced at her with a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand.”

“Is it possible he had done this before? Dressed this way, I mean.”

Jane appeared even more puzzled. She shook her head. “I don’t…I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Alexandra took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unsure about whether or not she should continue. “What I’m asking,” she said, deciding to go ahead, “is if the admiral might have been associated with others—other men, that is—who may have dressed this way, or who enjoyed seeing him dress this way…” She stopped when she saw the look on Jane’s face. She was completely bewildered. It was clear she had no idea of such deviations in human behavior. It seemed cruel to confuse her more; it was best to get to the heart of the matter. “Jane, I just want to know if you believe anyone had any reason to murder your husband.”

Jane’s face grew white and she seemed to shudder. “I thought we were done with that,” she said. “I thought that was what all of the questioning from Constable Snow was about.” She glanced away for a moment, and then turned her gaze back to Jane. “Why would anyone want to kill my husband?”

“He had no enemies?”

“Of course he had enemies. He was an admiral in Her Majesty’s Navy. Men do not rise to such a position without making a few enemies along the way. But certainly no one who would have wanted to kill him. Besides, he was retired. All of that was in the past for him.” Her gaze, hot with a passion Alexandra didn’t understand, burned into Alexandra’s eyes. “Why do you think he was murdered?”

“I don’t know, except…”

“Except what?”
Jane said after a long pause.

“Except that, as I said, what he was wearing made the circumstances unusual, even suspect.”

Jane grew pale again, and she shook her head as if to deny it all. “His unusual attire? That’s your reason for wanting an autopsy?”

“That’s only part of the reason. You see—”

“Is it not certain that he drowned?”

“It does look likely, but one can never be certain. Drowning can never be proven even with a postmortem examination.”

“Then what would you be looking for?”

“Another means of death.
Poisoning, perhaps, or evidence of apoplexy or heart disease.”

Jane turned away again, considering it. She sat, still on the edge of the sofa, perfectly straight, with her hands folded in her lap. “I see,” she said finally. Her voice was low, quiet. She turned back to Alexandra. “Then perhaps it is best that you proceed. But you must do it quickly and quietly. My husband has a brother in Suffolk, his only living relative, who, I am certain, would not consent to what I am sure he considers the indignity of the examination.”

“Of course.”

“And there is William. This must not be discussed in his presence.”

“Certainly not,” Alexandra said. “I shall notify the constable and proceed as quickly as possible. I assure you, nothing need be made public unless there is evidence of foul play.”

“I’m sure you’ll be discreet.” Jane stood as she spoke, a signal, perhaps, that Alexandra should leave. Alexandra didn’t hesitate to comply. Not only was she eager to begin the examination, but she was certain her presence was distressing to her hostess. She left, however, with something less than satisfaction. She had achieved her goal by getting permission for the examination but at great cost to Jane. Beyond that, she sensed that Jane, although she was naïve about certain aspects of deviant human behavior, still had not been truthful concerning what she knew about her husband’s unconventional attire. But if she was hiding something, some shameful truth, was it simply to protect her son?

Nicholas Forsythe brushed at the dust that had accumulated on the cuff of his elegant black coat, then pulled at the velvet lapels. Finally, he used the tip of his cane to adjust his top hat, which was made of the finest, most luxurious beaver skin. He had just arrived by coach from London, along with a personal servant. He had been hired by a solicitor for the family of a young man accused of burglary to act as barrister in the young man’s defense.

Nicholas got wind of the case by accident when he happened to overhear a conversation between colleagues who were discussing the fact that a solicitor for the mother of the accused was looking to hire a barrister for her son. The family, he had learned, lived in Essex at Newton-Upon-Sea. After that, he had maneuvered and manipulated and used the considerable influence of his family name to convince the solicitor, a Mr. Herbert Fitzjames, that he was the man for the job. He had never met the mother, whose name, he had been given to understand, was Mrs. Orkwright.

As it so happened, he would not have had to use any of his family’s influence nor any of his manipulative strategies to acquire the case. No one else wanted it. His enthusiasm puzzled his
colleagues, since it was a most remarkably ordinary case. The accused was simply some young ne’er-do-well arrested for burglary. He was the son, stepson to be exact, of a local dignitary in Newton-Upon-Sea. A retired Admiral Orkwright. Also, the mother’s decision to hire a barrister had come rather late in the game, so there was little time to prepare, which made the case even more unattractive to his colleagues.

Newton-Upon-Sea was, as his colleagues reminded him, a singularly ordinary town, certainly not one for which most barristers would vie to visit either for pleasure or in the line of business. It was not the town, in fact, that interested Nicholas. It was a woman. A markedly peculiar woman in that she had chosen to educate herself as a doctor of medicine.
One Dr. Alexandra Gladstone.

He had met Dr. Gladstone several months ago when he’d been a guest at a dinner party given by a former classmate, the late Lord
Dunsford, whose country house was just outside Newton-Upon-Sea. Dr. Gladstone was also a guest at the party, and he had found her fascinating. Odd, yes, but fascinating. So much so that, when the opportunity arose, he had contrived to see her again. Then, as luck would have it, the young man escaped Newgate by some trickery as yet unknown. Nicholas saw it as his duty to travel to the young man’s hometown to gather information. It did seem quite possible that the accused might return here to his family, and didn’t that mean his barrister should investigate? As Nicholas saw it, Fate was working in his interest.

Now that he was in Newton, the first thing was to direct his manservant to attend to the practical matter of lodging. Until Lord
Dunsford’s recent unfortunate and scandalous death, he could have lodged at Montmarsh, the late Earl of Dunsford’s grand and gracious dwelling. Now, however, the house remained closed and unoccupied except for a caretaker, since there was still some dispute as to the rightful heir. Who the heir turned out to be, he would undoubtedly not even know of the existence of Nicholas Forsythe. And so, Nicholas thought with regret, he would never again be likely to be a guest in the elegance of Montmarsh. Not that there weren’t plenty of other country homes where he was welcome, including his own childhood home, Lockewood, to the north of London, near Oxford. His older brother was already quite prepared to inherit Lockewood by right of primogeniture.

Nicholas was far from homeless, however. His living quarters were an elegant house in Kensington, quite suitable for comfortable living and lavish entertaining. For the time being, however, he would have to content himself with a room in the inn above the Blue Ram, a true public house which was not only where local townsmen met to drink and socialize, but where the court of assizes met when it was in town, and where other meetings important to the populace were held.

Within a few minutes, Morton, his servant, had secured rooms at the inn above the tavern. When Nicholas entered his rented room, he noted that, although it was sparsely furnished, it was reasonably clean. He left Morton to see to his luggage while he walked the short distance down a street called Griffon to the office of the local constable, a Mr. Snow. It was best to give the man the courtesy of a visit and explain his business in Newton.

The constable was busy at his desk, but he looked up as Nicholas entered. “Good afternoon, sir,” the constable said, laying his pen aside. He drew his long, slender frame to a standing position. “May I help you, please?”

“Forsythe. Nicholas Forsythe.” Nicholas, with his hat under his left arm, offered him his right hand. “Perhaps you’ll remember me as one of the guests at Montmarsh last year when the late Earl Dunsford met his tragic death.”

“Ah, of course,” Snow said, shaking Nicholas’ hand.
“Most unpleasant circumstances.”

Unpleasant, indeed, Nicholas thought. The late
Dunsford had been murdered in his sleep, and it was that peculiar, clever, and quite attractive Dr. Gladstone who solved the crime. Although, Nicholas could admit to himself with a certain measure of pride, he himself had been quite instrumental in helping her get to the bottom of it.

“You’re a barrister, I believe.” Snow resumed his seat, his long white hands folded on top of his desk.

“Quite so,” Nicholas said. “I’ve been retained as the defender for a young man from Newton-Upon-Sea accused of burglary. John Killborn, his name. Stepson of a distinguished admiral. I believe the admiral’s name is Orkwright.”