Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (20 page)

“If the poor cowardly bastard
’s too frightened to leave, then we’ll find him.”

“I
’m not so sure,” Alexandra said. “He’s not terribly bright about figuring out what to do, but he could be on his way from here now, under the cover of darkness, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he decides to kill the murderer first.”

Alarm marked Nicholas
’s face. “But isn’t he too cowardly to attempt anything like that?”

“I
’m not sure. Under the right circumstances, I think he would kill to save his own life. I think he’s afraid the murderer will track him down.”

“My god, if that
’s true, then we’ve got to stop him.” He paced back and forth in the small open area of the cellar. “We do know it is someone here in this house he’s after.”

“And it
’s one of the guests, I’d say.”

Nicholas stopped his pacing and looked at her. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m not absolutely sure, of course, but remember, I said he didn’t know the killer was here at first. What was it he said? He didn’t know he was jumping from the kettle to the fire by coming here? Since the servants are here all the time, and he knew that, it must mean it wasn’t one of them who attacked him. He would have been too afraid to come here if he knew that beforehand.”

Nicholas pondered it. “You may be right,” he said, “but we still don
’t know why he was attacked in the first place.”

“Perhaps I know someone who does know why,” Alexandra said.

“Who?” Nicholas asked.

“Quince
’s boys.” Alexandra picked up her bag. “And I must talk to them as soon as possible.”

Nicholas stood, as if to stop her. “Not tonight, Alexandra. It
’s dangerous, and anyway, you don’t know where to look. If those boys think they’re in danger, they won’t go back to their usual place at the docks, knowing the killer would know how to find them there.”

Alexandra sat down, feeling defeated. Nicholas reached to touch her hand.

“You’re tired, Alexandra. You must rest. I suggest you retire to your bedchamber.”

She shook her head. “I should not be able to rest for worrying about that poor girl. And for worrying about George killing someone.”

“I’ll search for him, of course, but you must go back to your room. Our best hope is that he’s too cowardly to follow through and that even if he weren’t, he doesn’t have wits enough to get in by picking a lock. And as for Elsie, we’ll do the best we can for her tomorrow. We’ll just have to do it from the witness stand.”

Alexandra raised her eyes to look at him. She had no doubt that he would do his best, and she had no doubt that his best was exceedingly competent, but she also knew that circumstances weighed heavily against Elsie O
’Riley simply by virtue of the fact that the man she was accused of killing was an aristocrat, and she a mere scullery maid. She saw in Nicholas’s eyes, that he was thinking the same thing. Elsie O’Riley would surely hang.

Chapter
Seventeen

In spite of Nicholas
’s insisting that she not do it, Alexandra joined him in searching the stables, the grounds, and as much of the house as possible for George. Although Nicholas agreed with Alexandra that he still was most likely somewhere on Montmarsh property, he conceded, along with her, that he had eluded them, and they would be better off trying to gain a few hours sleep and continue the search in the morning.

Before Alexandra retired to her assigned bedchamber, she tried to look in on Mrs. Pickwick again. However, she found that she was unable. Mrs. Pickwick had locked her room, just as she had been instructed.

Taking some comfort in that, Alexandra returned to her own room and locked the door, but she slept very little. There was a killer somewhere under the same roof. Would he or she kill again? Would George kill first? Had all the guests and servants locked their doors as they had been warned to do? Would George not have wits enough to find a way past the locked doors, as Nicholas had suggested?

She was up very early the next morning, out of bed, and dressed, even before the servants were about. Once again she looked around for George, but found him nowhere. When she went to search the stables, she saw that
she was not the only one awake. Jamie, the stable boy, was up. In fact, he looked as if he had not been asleep.

“Are you not feeling well, Jamie?” Alexandra asked.

“Today’s the day, ain’t it?” he said. “The day for Elsie’s trial.” He looked as if he might cry. “She’ll hang, won’t she?”

Alexandra reached to touch his arm. “There
’s a very good chance of that, yes.”

“I never meant to grass to that copper about Elsie. I had to tell him I saw her bury that knife, didn
’t I? But I never meant—”

“You told the truth, Jamie. No one can blame you for that.”

A tear escaped. “But now she’s going to hang.”

“If she hangs, Jamie, it
’s not your fault. You must remember that.”

He nodded, sniffed back his tears and ducked his head. Presently, he spoke. “Shall I saddle your mare, Doctor?”

“Not yet, thank you.” Alexandra knew she could not leave until she assured herself that everyone in the household was accounted for. She lingered over breakfast in the dining room until Lord Winningham showed up. He seemed distracted and nervous, but at least he had not been murdered in his sleep. Nicholas was next. She could see in his eyes the same concern she felt, and they were both relieved when the Atewaters came down together. Apparently they had been quarreling. Isabel was pouting and distant, while Jeremy, save for a warm greeting to Alexandra, was cool to everyone.

Alexandra left soon after breakfast. When she arrived home, she found
Nancy waiting for her in the parlor. A pot of tea, steaming, sat on a table next to her. Before she could say good morning, she was met with an onslaught from Nancy.

“I hardly slept at all last night, but what else could a body expect with you out of the house and a murderer running about.” Her lack of rest was evident in the mud-colored circles under her eyes.

“Well, I’m perfectly safe,” Alexandra said, hanging up her own coat. By this time Zack had rushed to her side, nudging her with his nose while he danced with the joy of seeing her again. She stooped to hug him and to rub his back.

Nancy
, meanwhile, was looking at her as if she wasn’t certain she could believe her. She picked up the tea pot to pour two cups. “And how was Mrs. Pickwick?” she asked, her suspicious tone.

“Very well,” she said, in spite of the fact that she had no idea of her present condition.
“So kind of you to ask.” Alexandra moved to the tea table, Zack sticking close to her side.

Nancy
dropped two lumps of sugar and a drop of cream in Alexandra’s cup and four lumps, along with a generous splash of cream, in her own. “And why wouldn’t she be well?” She stirred her tea with quick, forceful strokes, as if it were the tea she was peeved with and not Alexandra. “She’s strong as an ox, and, I dare say, in no need of a doctor watching over her the whole night long.” She tapped her spoon on the cup with enough force to cause Alexandra to wince.

“Of course,
Nancy. You’re right.” Alexandra sat down and reached for her own cup, which she stirred slowly. Zack lay down at her feet.

Nancy
glanced up at her with a surprised look on her face. “Did I hear you say I’m right?”

“Certainly. You know as well as I, that was just an excuse. I really only went for a romantic liaison with Mr. Forsythe, who is back at Montmarsh for the trial.”

Another surprised look from Nancy before she set her cup and saucer on the table with a little too much vigor. Then, in spite of her attempts to stay angry, she laughed. “Oh that it
would
be the reason.”

Alexandra smiled and took a sip of her tea, savoring both its sweetness and its warmth.

“But,” said Nancy, trying hard to regain her scolding demeanor, “enough of your teasing, Miss. It wasn’t a lover you were after, I’m thinking, but a killer. And ’tis not befitting. If your father were alive—”

“But he isn
’t alive, Nancy, and I’m now, as you have so often reminded me, a woman of a certain age. Of an age, I should say, in which I am capable of making my own decisions and taking my own risks. And furthermore, I suspect the real reason you’re angry is because you couldn’t go searching for this murderer yourself.”

Nancy
stood and, in a huff, gathered up the tea dishes. “I’ve got better sense, I have. And besides, I have no interest in such gory matters.” With that, she walked to the kitchen.

Alexandra sighed and shook her head at
Nancy’s haughty manner, but she couldn’t scold her. She could only smile. Nancy knew she’d spoken the truth no matter how much she pretended not to. She couldn’t resist one last jab and called out to Nancy’s back.

“You didn
’t ask whether or not I found the murderer.”

Nancy
stopped, but did not turn around.

“Unfortunately I didn
’t, but I did see the ghost.”

The dishes
Nancy had in her hands rattled dangerously as she spun around. “You saw…”

“Yes, I saw the ghost. One of the supposed murder victims. A living corpse, if you will.”

“There you go with your teasing again.” She was doing her best to look stern, but her face had gone white.

“Of course, you
’re right,” Alexandra said, standing to take the cups and saucers from her. “It’s not a matter to be flippant about.” She spoke with her back to Nancy as she started for the kitchen.

Nancy
hurried after her. “Then you must tell me—”

“The so-called ghost was young George Stirling, who is no corpse at all, but a living body.” Alexandra put the cups and saucers in the basin
Nancy kept for washing dishes, then sat down at the large wooden table in the center of the room. Nancy sat down across from her.

“You
’re speaking of the young George who was killed by some of his fellow ruffians down at the waterfront?”

Alexandra nodded. “The same. Only, he wasn
’t killed, although he most certainly was left for dead. And I don’t believe the attempt at murdering him was done by any of his fellow ruffians.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know, except that young George seemed to think it was the same person who killed the earl, and therefore it had to be someone at Montmarsh, either a guest or a servant.”

“Elsie O
’Riley?”

“No, not Elsie. George was her lover; she wouldn
’t attempt to kill him. And the earl died of strangulation and was stabbed as an afterthought to make it look as if Elsie was guilty. George’s would-be killer also tried to strangle him and botched the attempt. Elsie is not strong enough to have strangled either of them. And probably not strong enough to have driven the knife that deeply into the earl’s chest.”

“But Artie and Rob know who the killer is, and they
’re afraid of him,” Nancy said.

“Remember, it could be a woman.”

Nancy gave her a skeptical look. “A woman strong enough to strangle a man?”

“It
’s possible. But she would have to be bigger than Elsie.”

A pensive expression replaced
Nancy’s skeptical look. “Someone big and strapping and used to hard work, such as, say, Mrs. Pickwick?”

“Or someone trim but fit, such as Madam Atewater.”

Nancy’s eyes widened. “Madam Atewater? The gentleman you were entertaining has a wife?”

“
Nancy, how many times must I tell you… Oh, never mind.” She stood, feeling restless. “I’ve got to concentrate on finding the killer before George does and before Elsie O’Riley is hanged for something she didn’t do.”

“How are you going to do that, if
I may be so bold to ask?”

“I could start by finding George again, or by finding Artie and Rob. They know who the killer is.”

“But they’ve sense enough to hide from her—or him—and you’re not likely to find them.”

Alexandra sighed. “Perhaps you
’re right. Perhaps it’s best to leave it to the constable and the courts, while I attend to my own business of seeing to the infirm. I’d best be off to make my rounds.” She walked away, headed for the surgery to fill her bag with supplies.

Nancy
called out to her back. “If you think you’re going to trick me into thinking you’re going to drop the matter, then you take me for more of a fool than I am.”

Alexandra tried to ignore her. Within a few moments, she was out the door, mounted on Lucy, and
, with Zack trotting beside her, on her way to her rounds.

It took less time than usual, since almost no one was at home. They had left early for the tavern, which was traditionally set up as a courtroom when the assizes met.

The light schedule gave her time to take Lucy and Zack home before she walked down to the piers in search of Artie and Rob. She had to endure the glaring looks and rude remarks of several unsavory looking men, but she continued to ask of the boys’ whereabouts. No one admitted even to knowing the boys, and she was about to abandon her search when she saw Old Beaty standing in the shadow of a rotting ship’s hull.

She was certain he had seen her as well, but when she walked toward him, he turned and walked away. She called his name, but he pretended not to hear her. His strange behavior piqued her curiosity, and she followed him a short distance until he disappeared around the corner of an abandoned warehouse. She followed again, but as she rounded the corner, he was nowhere to be found. She was about to give up when she heard his voice.

“Aye, Dr. Gladstone, ’tis me, John Beaty.” He stepped out from behind a jumble of fallen bricks and other debris from the abandoned building. It was then she realized he had obviously walked away from her in order to make sure no one else was near. “You’re searching for someone, I takes it.” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Indeed I am, for two boys, Artie and Rob, they
’re called. Do you know them, by chance?”

“I knows them not, my lady, but you best call off yer search for
’em, whoever they be.” Old Beaty, still whispering, kept looking around, as if he feared someone was listening.

“You do know something. Otherwise, why would you be warning me to—
?”

“Me rheumatism is much worse today, Dr. Gladstone, and I was just on me way to yer surgery for a bit more of yer wonderful tonic. Perhaps ye could help me along.” He hobbled toward her, exaggerating his limp.

“Why, of course, Mr. Beaty.” She took his arm and led him toward her house. For the price of a glass of whisky, she could have the benefit of whatever it was the old fox knew.

When they reached the house,
Nancy did not greet them at the door. When Alexandra called to her, there was no answer, and a quick glance into the garden told her she was not there. She had, no doubt, walked the short distance to the market district to purchase something.

Alexandra led Old Beaty into her surgery and helped him sit in one of the chairs, then she reached for the medicinal whisky she kept on the top shelf of her cabinet and poured some in a glass for him.

“Now,” she said, handing it to him. “Tell me what you know of Artie and Rob?”

Old Beaty took a swallow of the whisky, let out a long sigh, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I told ye the truth. I knows them not.” He took another long swallow of the amber liquid, draining the glass, and extending it to her. “A wee bit more, perhaps.”

“Mr. Beaty, I’m afraid I—”

“I knows them not, but I knows they are among the young band of thieves headed by that boy, Quince, may God rest his soul.” He raised an eyebrow as if to ask if that tidbit and the promise of more was not worth another glass of whisky.

Alexandra reached for the bottle again. Old Beaty extended his hand for the glass to be filled, but Alexandra held back. He glanced at her.

“Perhaps there is more you can tell me,” she said.