Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (11 page)

Nancy was obviously about to probe her again when they both heard the bell on the surgery entrance ring, announcing that someone had entered, and Nancy was obliged to hurry away to greet them. Alexandra finished her lunch quickly and was on her way to the surgery herself when she met
Nancy in the hallway.

“
’Tis the Higgins boy with his mum. He looks as if he might have gotten a bit of poison ivy. I’ll prepare the borax solution.”

Nancy
disappeared into the kitchen again, and Alexandra went to see her patient. She was busy the rest of the day with her routine duties, but when there was a lull, her mind kept coming back to the strange note and to Nicholas’s leaving without a word. She read the note over and over again, trying to understand why she had received it and who would have known about what Elsie had told her.

No answers came to her, however, and by the time she had finished the light supper
Nancy prepared for her, she had resolved that there was nothing to do but to go to the pier at the appointed time of ten o’clock to see what she could learn. It was out of the question to mention her plan to Nancy, however, since she would, without a doubt, protest. It was not unfeasible that Nancy would even keep an all night vigil to see that she did not leave the house.

She could not ask young Freddie, who had actually shown up, to saddle Lucy without raising suspicion. Furthermore, if she attempted to saddle her herself after
Nancy had gone to bed, Nancy would surely hear her, since her room was on the stable side of the house. It was a walk of approximately a mile to the pier, and she did not relish the idea of making the walk alone in the dark. She would take Zack with her.

Nancy
didn’t make it easy for her, however. It had long been Alexandra’s habit to invite Nancy into the parlor with her after supper for a chat, or at times to read to one another, either from the classics, which her father had taught Alexandra to love and Nancy to appreciate, or from Alexandra’s favorite modern authors, Henry James or the Russian, Dostoevsky, and even occasionally from one of Nancy’s lurid romances. Recently, they had been reading an English translation of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and on this particular evening, Nancy had become so engrossed in the complicated interlocking love triangles of the characters, she read until it was quite late, and then she had to argue that Dostoevsky’s story was every bit as lurid as any of the romance novels she’d chosen. After that she insisted that there was work she’d left undone in the kitchen which couldn’t possibly wait for morning. It was almost ten by the time she finally went to bed, and Alexandra still had the difficult task of getting a hundred-fifty pound dog out of the house without making a noise.

Zack, with his habit of wanting to talk to her with his soft growls and almost human sounds, seemed to be asking, “Where are we going and what are you getting me into?”

It was enough to make Nancy poke her head out of her room and ask, “Is everything all right down there?”

“Of course. I
’m just putting Zack out one last time.” Alexandra hoped Nancy wouldn’t notice that her voice was a bit unsteady. She hadn’t sneaked out of the house since she was twelve. As it happened, Nancy was with her that time, and they’d both been nervous, and they’d both gotten caught.

When
Nancy hadn’t bothered to show any more concern after several minutes, Alexandra and Zack stepped out of the house into a moonless, star-stenciled night. The ground was familiar at first, lit here and there by a lamp shining through a cottage window, but as they neared the piers, the darkness became thick and oppressive as a heavy purple robe of fog billowed from the sea toward the land.

They both slowed their pace, and Alexandra instinctively caught Zack
’s leash up closer, wanting to feel the protection of his hulking body. She could hear the sea to her right, lashing at the shore and the wood pilings of the piers. Something, a large undeniable heaviness, loomed there as well, and Alexandra supposed it to be a fishing vessel.

She and Zack walked slowly, choosing their steps
with care. The note had said to come to the
old
pier. Alexandra was not intimately familiar with the docks, but she supposed the old pier to be the one that had fallen into disrepair. She had never clearly understood why it was in disuse and deteriorating, except that it had something to do with a superstition that had grown up in the area that ill fortune befell those who used the pier. A fitting place, she mused, to meet the ghosts of George Stirling and Lord Dunsford.

It seemed as if the whole parish was hallucinating, seeing ghosts and spirits at every turn. A ridiculous notion. Except now in this eerie darkness punctuated with the mournful sound of the sea, it seemed possible.

She felt Zack’s body tense. He stopped, then moved slightly in front of her as if to protect her. She heard a low growl, deep in his throat. Her grip tightened on the leash, and she strained to hear or see whatever it was that had alerted Zack.

Zack growled again, low and menacing, and she felt him backing against her, pushing her back. Then suddenly she felt the leash ripped from her hand and sensed Zack bounding away from her, snarling and barking into the darkness. She started to call to him, but something stopped her—a presence, a heaviness surrounding her. Zack continued his wolfish bark, and then suddenly he screamed.

Chapter Ten

Darkness stalked Nicholas
’s coach as he and his driver made their way to London. The road from Newton to London was long, and even in the best of circumstances it was tedious. Travelers very quickly lost sight of the sea, and the scenery became pastoral, pleasant but unremarkable. As the darkness moved in, however, the route became menacing.

It would certainly be possible, and maybe even likely, that a coach driver could lose his way trying to follow a road that was not always clearly delineated even in daylight. And wasn
’t the Times always full of stories of members of the upper class being accosted by highwaymen along dark roads in the countryside?

It was foolish to travel at night, but Nicholas had gotten a late start, and he
’d paid the driver double to drive all night so he could be in London by morning.

He
’d also paid Freddie, Alexandra’s stable boy—whom he’d met in the village—sixpense to deliver a note to Alexandra, explaining what he’d done and instructing her not to go out alone until he returned, at which time he would remove to the quarters above the stable. Now, in retrospect, he wondered if he’d done the right thing by giving the note to the stable boy. He seemed a bit shiftless and unreliable, but Nicholas had thought at the time it was better to give it to a stable boy who was illiterate, than to one of the other servants and risk having them read it.

He had reasoned that if no one, save Alexandra, knew what he was doing in
London, then there could be no messages forewarning certain parties of his arrival there. One could never be sure about such things, but it was best to be cautious, especially where murder was involved.

Under normal circumstances he would have been inclined to let the police handle the whole sordid affair. The fact that he had become so deeply involved in solving the murder might have, at first, been an excuse to see more of Alexandra. But the more he became involved, the more he began to share Alexandra
’s passion for uncovering the truth, and the more he became convinced that she was right about the kitchen wench. Elsie O’Riley was not Eddie’s murderer. After Nancy had told him this morning that Alexandra was still asleep when he called on her, he’d gone to the village where the talk everywhere was of the upcoming trial of Elsie O’Riley. There was also a great deal of praise for Squire Thomas Trowbridge, the justice of the peace who had convened his magistrate court so quickly and just as quickly had the prisoner bound over for trial. Although Justice Trowbridge had no legal training, Nicholas thought he seemed astute when he’d been compelled to give his testimony before him.

The assizes, made up of judges from the Queen
’s Bench in London, traveled to principal towns in each region to hold trials. They met in each county only once or twice a year. Nicholas hoped that would provide enough time to find a way to prove Elsie’s innocence. His hopes were dashed when Snow told him the assizes would convene in a fortnight. That had been the reason for the haste in holding the hearings before the justice. There might not be enough time. He would have to travel to London immediately to dig out the information he hoped to find.

How he wished he could represent Elsie properly in court. But, as Snow had pointed out, he could not act as her barrister since he was to be a witness. Her hearing before the magistrate was her only opportunity to speak, and then she could only cross examine witnesses, which she had not done, since she had no idea how to go about it.

She was not allowed to speak in her own defense at either the hearing or the trial. There were some rumblings that Parliament might change that law eventually, but unless it happened within a fortnight, which was impossible, it would do Elsie no good. There was a strong chance she would hang for the murder of Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford.

After his brief sojourn in the village, Nicholas had gone back to Montmarsh, troubled by the fact that the English court system was so efficient. Then, feeling restless and with nothing to do, he had wondered about the house, empty now of guests and seeming very large and lonely. He began to feel hungry and decided to ask for a meal. But there were no servants to be found. He could hear their voices, however, and he finally found them in the kitchen.

“’E was mad enough to kill Lord Dunsford right then, I’ll tell ye that. And I’d wager all me buttons old Lord Winnie’d been planning to kill him ever since.” It was the voice of a young man who spoke. Nicholas recognized him as Eddie’s valet. Eddie had brought him from London for his stay in the country. Hearing the voice, Nicholas stepped just outside the door, so he wouldn’t be seen as he listened.

“I don
’t believe ye a’tall.” This was the high-pitched voice of one of the chamber maids. “Lord Winningham’s no murderer. “’E’s a kind man, ’e is. Treated me with such kindness as ye’d never believe each time he came out ’ere to Montmarsh. I was always the one to serve ’im, you know.”

The valet
’s laugh had a superior ring to it. “Kind, ye say? Oh yes, ’e’s kind enough if ’e thinks there’s a chance ’e can get in yer knickers. Likes a bit o’ pussy, ’e does. What man doesn’t, even if ’e’s ancient as old Winnie. But when Lord Duns caught ’im with that bloke from the theatre district, I seen the murder in ’is eyes.”

“But I still say,
’e’s no—”

It was Mrs. Pickwick who interrupted her this time. “Yer just a child, Amelia. Ye don
’t yet know the ways o’ the world. If word got around a man like Winnie likes doin’ it with boys, it would ruin ’is name. It’s easy to see how ’e could calculate murder was the easy way out.” She turned to the valet. “But do ye really think he came here with it on his mind to kill the earl?”

“Sure it was on
’is mind.” The valet was full of blustery self confidence. “Heard ’im say it meself. ‘I’ll kill the bastard, ’e says. ’E was just waiting for the right moment, ’e was. What’s ’e got to lose? I ask you that. ’E knew Lord Duns could ruin ’im.”

“Aye, and Earl Duns would do it too,” one of the older kitchen maids said. “He was a cruel one, that one was. Cared not a farthing for anyone but himself. He was bound to pay with his life for that cruelty, I say.”

“He was a cruel one, all right, and it’s the devil in him that makes him walk these halls after ’e’s dead, then.” Mrs. Pickwick’s voice had dropped to a frightened hush.

“Ah go on now.
’E ain’t walkin’ a-tall. Corpses don’t walk,” the valet said, exhibiting his arrogance again.

“What about that strumpet, Mrs. Atewater?” Amelia said. “Didn
’t she say she saw the dead Lord Duns walkin’ ’erself?”

“Ye don
’t believe ’er, do you?” The valet said. “She was raging vexed with old Duns for throwin’ ’er over. Pure waxy, she was.”

“Waxy enough to kill Lord Dunsford?” Amelia clearly was still trying to defend Lord Winningham.

“Ye think a woman could have killed Lord Duns?” The cocky valet was incensed. “Yer crazy, ye are. Lord Duns was no milksop. ’Twould take a man to kill ’im.”

“Aye. More than the likes of Elsie,” Mrs. Pickwick said.

“Pshaw!” The valet poured himself a glass of Lord Dunsford’s best claret. “’Tis only the nobs that wants to blame it on ’er. We all knows that. So they fixes it with the constable to get the girl so none o’ them will ’ave to get too close to the gallows.”

Mrs. Pickwick nodded her head, considering it. “Aye, the constable
’s a strange one. Always thought so even when ’e was the school master. Always slipping off to London for God knows what, and…”

When the gossip turned to the constable, Nicholas left, quietly, for fear that if he stayed longer one of them would catch him eavesdropping. But their gossip about Lord Winningham as well as about Isabel Atewater had given him pause. True, it could be nothing more than gossip, but experience had taught him that too often the gossip of servants was grounded in unvarnished facts. He was convinced that it needed to be investigated. But there was little time to waste. If Elsie was bound over for trial in two weeks, he had to move quickly, and so he was now on a coach bound for
London. His aim was to look into Lord Winningham’s motive for murder.

The coach slowed to the speed of a man
’s gait, and Nicholas grew impatient. “Can’t we move along a little faster?” he called to the driver.

The driver shouted back to Nicholas over his shoulder. “Them horses has chose to move through this blackness with caution, and I ain
’t inclined to dispute that decision.”

Nicholas could see that the lantern the driver had placed at the front of the coach did little more than light up the rumps of the horses. And it was, indeed, a black and moonless night. Nicholas, though, had already thrown caution to the wind by his decision to make this night journey, and the slow pace at which they moved served only to frustrate him.

He was still grumbling to himself about the slow pace when the blast of a pistol ripped into the silence of the night. The horses shied and cried out with nervous snorts, then there was a voice shouting.

“Stop the coach, and you won
’t be hurt.”

The driver immediately pulled the frightened horses to a halt, but they danced nervously as the voice grew closer. “Passengers! All of you
. Out!”

Nicholas, who had stiffened with fear at the first sounds of the commotion, now felt th
at fear dissipate as anger replaced it. How dare the hoodlums be so presumptuous! He’d like to teach them not to steal from innocent folks. Still, he knew there was danger, and he wished for the first time ever that he had taken Eddie’s long ago advice about carrying a pistol. He’d argued that it was barbaric and uncivilized. Eddie had laughed and taunted him, saying he’d find out what uncivilized was one of these days.

Now, it seemed they both had.

“Out, I say.” the voice, that of a young man, said again. With that, he jerked the coach door open and reached in to grab Nicholas’s arm and pull him out. Another form, almost too shadowy to make out in the darkness, had climbed up to the driver’s seat and struck the driver with something. The driver crumpled and hit the ground with a thud. The horses jumped, but the shadowy form reined them in.

Just as the driver fell, the other highwayman pushed Nicholas against the side of the coach, and Nicholas felt the cold steel of a knife against his throat. The highwayman ripped his watch, along with its gold chain, from his vest. “Hand over your purse, and any fancy rings you might be wearin
’.” he said.

Nicholas fished a purse out of his pocket and handed it over. “I
’ve no rings or jewels.” His voice was edged with the anger he still felt, and his mind spun as he tried to devise some way to overcome the young thug without risking his burying the blade in his flesh.

“You
’ll not be lyin’ to me, sir, or I’ll whack your fingers to get at the rings.” The man ran the edge of the blade along the fingers of Nicholas’s right hand, and Nicholas felt a sharp pain and the warm ooze of blood. The man dropped the right hand, apparently satisfied that there were no rings on it. In the gap between seconds as the man dropped one hand and reached for the other, Nicholas lunged for his throat. The man stumbled back, and the knife fell, stabbing the ground a fraction of an inch from Nicholas’s foot.

In the same moment Nicholas heard the report of the gun coming from the direction of the shadowy form on top of the coach, and he felt the slicing, ragge
d heat of a bullet at his head.