Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (3 page)

The door to Eddie’s room was slightly ajar, and she found that if she pressed herself close to the wall in the dark hallway several feet back from the door, she could see everyone in the room reflected in the mirror across from Eddie’s bed.

A spot the size of a small melon on Eddie
’s sheet had turned an ugly dark crimson, and Isabel could see that his face was a ghastly shade of white. For a moment she thought she might lose her breakfast because of the horrible sight. His eyes bulged, and his tongue protruded slightly. She had never actually seen what happened to a body after it had been dead for a while. Never realized how truly undignified death was and how improper the human body was in such a state.

But she forced herself to remain where she was. It was important that she know what they would say.

Miss Gladstone appeared intent upon her examination and oblivious to the indecency of death. The constable, with tail feathers spread, stood with his notepad and pen poised, waiting for her to speak, while Nick, fool that he was, stood back with an expression of such admiration on his face, one might have thought he was waiting for the Gladstone woman to raise Eddie from the dead.

Alexandra removed her hands from the cool, pale body of Edward Boswick and wiped them on a towel. She glanced at the constable, who waited expectantly, and when she spoke, her voice was low and confident. “It is my opinion that the earl died of strangulation.”

The constable
’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Strangulation you say?” There was a condescending chuckle. “Certainly, my dear woman, you did not miss the blood or the obvious wound on his chest.”

“And neither did I miss the mark on his throat nor the fact that his eyes bulge and his tongue protrudes. He was strangled, sir, with a ligature of some sort, and he was stabbed later.”

Constable Snow eyed her with a questioning look. “Would you mind explaining, Dr. Gladstone?”

She did her best to keep her voice even and not to allow her impatience to show. “I
’ve formed my opinion about the cause of death based on a few facts. First, there is relatively little blood, which suggests that by the time Lord Dunsford’s chest was stabbed, his heart had stopped pumping and that some of the blood, following the laws of gravity, had begun to pool in the bottom of the body, which indicates that he was already dead when his chest was stabbed. Second, there is a mark at his neck suggesting strangulation, and, as I mentioned, the protrusion of the eyes and tongue. It is logical to assume, then, that death came by strangulation and he was stabbed, perhaps sometime later, as an afterthought. Not in the heart, as Mr. Forsythe assumed, but slightly below the heart.”

The constable frowned. “Are you suggesting, Dr. Gladstone, that the killer came back into the room to stab Lord Dunsford after he was already dead?” Constable Snow had measured his words in such a way as to make it sound as if he thought that idea was preposterous.

“It is possible,” Alexandra said. “Or it is possible that someone else came in and stabbed him after the first intruder had strangled him.”

“Hmmm,” Forsythe said.

The constable frowned and shook his head as if to dismiss her hypothesis all together. “I see no reason anyone would commit such an act.”

She scarcely gave the constable time to finish his sentence. “In the first instance, to make it look as if someone else had killed
the earl, or in the second instance, because the second intruder did not know the earl was already dead.”

The constable
’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“Hmmm,” said Forsythe again. “In your first example, someone might have wanted to make it look as if the scullery maid had killed him.”

Alexandra nodded silently, and the constable immediately protested. “My good woman, you can’t be serious.”

Forsythe was still ruminating. “The poor lunatic could be the perfect pawn.”

Constable Snow raised a hand and shook his head as if to ward off any more of Forsythe’s words. “It is my understanding that Elsie O’Riley, a kitchen maid, threatened to kill Lord Dunsford and others with a knife last night at dinner, and that she has now disappeared. That was the message conveyed to me by the servant who was sent to fetch me. If the servant got his information wrong, then I must know immediately.”

“The servant was correct,” Alexandra said, “but—”

“Then we have a suspect,” Snow said.

She shook her head. “I
’m not so sure. It could be that the girl fled simply because she was frightened that she would be accused, which may be precisely what the real killer wanted.”

Constable Snow considered her remarks for a moment with a finger to his pursed lips. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall question each of the guests as well as the servants. No one is to leave the premises until I give permission.”

The constable then pulled the sheet up to cover Lord Dunsford’s body, which was clad in an elaborate red silk night shirt, and gave instructions that Alexandra and Forsythe were to wait for him in the library downstairs and that everyone else, guests and servants, was to be instructed to be there as well.

Alexandra gathered up her medical bag and stepped into the hall, along with Forsythe and Constable Snow, just in time to see Isabel Atewater hurrying away. The constable called out to her.

“Madam! Madam, could I have a moment, please?”

Isabel kept walking, and Alexandra sensed that she was only pretending not to hear. In the next second Forsythe called out to her as well.

“Isabel, my dear.”

Isabel stopped walking and slowly turned around with both hands over her heart as if she were trying to hold in some emotion.

“Isabel,” Forsythe said again as he walked toward her. “I’m afraid the constable has a favor to ask of all of us.”

“I
’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well.” There was a tremble in her voice that Alexandra was certain was not artificial. “I was just going to my room to lie down.”

“You
’re quite pale.” Forsythe’s tone was solicitous.

Alexandra saw that she was, indeed, very pale. “Perhaps I can help.”

Isabel’s eyes darted toward her. “Oh no, it’s nothing. I’m just a little tired. No, what I mean is…I, well, I’m…”

She continued to stammer until the constable stepped forward. “Forgive me, madam, but I must ask you to forego your rest a bit in the interest of police business.”

Isabel’s eyes widened. “Well, I…”

“I can understand how distraught you all must be, especially the more delicate among you,” the constable continued. “And I
’m certain you’d like to see this matter resolved as quickly as possible. I beg your cooperation to facilitate the matter.”

Isabel hesitated a moment, then spoke in a voice that had lost its tremble and had become cooing. “Well, if it won
’t take long. You see, I really am distraught, and I must get back to London as soon as possible. My physician, a man of true skill, is there,” she gave Alexandra an accusing glance, “and I simply wouldn’t trust anyone else to attend me. My condition is really quite delicate.”

“Oh, I
’m certain it is, madam.” The constable offered her his arm and led her toward the grand stairway. “And you can be sure I will keep that in mind, and that I will complete the investigation as soon as possible.”

Alexandra watched as Isabel breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief. She gazed
into Constable Snow’s eyes and gave him a demure, yet flirtatious smile.

Chapter Three

Lord Henry Charles Scargrave, Fourth Earl of Winningham, watched as the guests gathered in the library while he held the hand of his whimpering wife, seated next to him. Around them, the air was golden, gilded with sunlight streaming through the long windows that overlooked the front gardens.

He had an almost uncontrollable longing to be outdoors, to allow that golden light to engulf him and baptize him with its splendor. If he could, he would run among the trees shouting and singing, disturbing their silent green meditation on this fine morning.

But he could not. He must follow the holy ritual of Decorum. He had been with the other guests earlier when they gathered en masse in the drawing room, each of them shocked and bewildered by the horror of what had happened. He had commiserated with each of them, being solicitous to his wife and the other ladies, expressing his own shock in low, murmured tones with the gentlemen, and being equally vocal about the culpability of Miss Gladstone, who, of course, should have had the good sense to sedate the kitchen wench appropriately until she could be properly dealt with this morning. That was, after all, what they all thought she’d done.

He could not admit to anyone, least of all his wife, that he was, in truth, immensely grateful that Elsie O
’Riley’s temperament had displayed itself in the very public and threatening way that it had, and that Miss Gladstone had not sedated her. Because of those events, the matter of Eddie’s death was sure to be put to rest quickly, and that alone made him want to shout like a Nonconformist zealot.

Of course there would be the formality of questioning by the constable, but that would most certainly be over in short order. The constable would not seriously suspect any of the guests.

So here he sat in the library, watching as the other gentlemen led the ladies in, everyone looking appropriately shocked and sorrowful. Young Forsythe entered, deep in conversation with that odd Gladstone woman, to whom he seemed to have taken a liking. Atewater entered alone, grief cutting deep grooves in his paler than usual face. His wife, presumably, was too ill to accompany him, since she had excused herself early from the assembly in the drawing room this morning.

Ah, but he was wrong, here she came now on the arm of the constable, looking anything but grieved. She appeared to have mesmerized the poor bloke. But that didn
’t surprise Winningham. He knew her reputation among the aristocracy. Eddie had not been exactly discreet in his descriptions of their affair, and Winningham had witnessed her shameless flirtations with others many times before. He had even thought he might have a go at her himself one of these days, in spite of the fact that he was a good twenty years her senior. She seemed to be rather indiscriminating so long as the fellow had a few pounds in the bank and possessed a title. It did surprise him, however, that she would flirt with someone of the constable’s class who had neither title nor money. For the moment, though, he had other interests and concerns. He wanted to get this little formality of talking with the constable behind him.

As he continued to watch and to pat Lady Winningham
’s well-cushioned hand, the golden light, communing with dark clouds, faded to blue and lurked in the curtains. The new gloomy light made him think again of Eddie. Foolish, cruel Eddie.

Winningham had known him since he was a child, long before the boy
’s father, the Fourth Earl of Dunsford, died and Eddie inherited his title. Their families were, in fact, connected by a common ancestor several generations back. Winningham had made some discreet contacts on behalf of the young Boswick when it appeared he could not pass the entrance exam to Eton. As his association with the future Earl of Dunsford increased and their friendship deepened, Winningham quickly saw that the boy was no dunce. True, he had no intellectual bent, but he possessed a sharp, quick mind and a level of cunning that rendered him both attractive and formidable.

Winningham had fallen prey to both traits. Edward Boswick
’s knack for increasing his already sizable fortune by shrewd investments was indeed attractive. Winningham had invested some money of his own more than once at Eddie’s behest and had benefited handsomely.

He had even seen something of his younger self in the man—his daring, his willingness to experiment, his unabashed eagerness to indulge himself. What Winningham lacked that Eddie had, however, was a level of narcissistic cruelty.

Winningham would never have guessed that his own self-indulgent willingness to experiment would bring him face to face with Edward Boswick’s formidable, cruel opportunism. The astonishing unfairness of what Eddie had done to him had been a bitter surprise. Gentlemen simply did not do to their peers what Eddie had done. It was clear the younger generation had no sense of honor.

Winningham prided himself on the fact that his fifty-two years did not show on either his face or physique. He looked to be, he was told, and so he believed, a good ten years younger. Even the degree of corpulence he had attained had done nothing but improve his bearing, he believed.

Yet, in spite of that, one did have to keep in mind one’s mortality. There could be, perhaps, fewer than ten years left. There was so much of life to live, so many experiences to partake of, and so little time to do it. Winningham thought that what he felt was a certain healthy
joie de vivre
, and that what he had done was nothing more than an attempt to add one more worldly experience to his ever shortening life.

What was damnably unfortunate was that Eddie had caught him and the rather pretty young man in the act, and what was even more unfortunate was that even before Eddie had arrived, Winningham had determined that the experience was not particularly to his liking, and that he would not be likely to repeat it.

How Eddie had known the address of their tryst or how he managed to obtain a key to the room would forever remain hidden from him now. He could only attribute it to Eddie’s cunning. Blackmail he attributed to his cruelty. It had done no good to try to explain to Eddie that it had been only an experiment, that it was not likely to become a habit. It certainly did no good to speculate that it was something Eddie might have tried himself at one time or another.

It was very expensive blackmail, already wiping out all of the investment gains he
’d made as a result of his alliance with Eddie. But he had to pay, didn’t he? He had to pay or lose his seat in the House of Lords, the respect of his peers and his family. He had to pay or lose himself. The only other alternative was to get rid of Boswick.

He had planned it so many different ways, none of them satisfactory. And then Boswick had invited him to his country estate for no other reason than to embarrass him and to goad him further, he was certain. But he couldn
’t refuse the invitation could he? His wife would certainly be unhappy about a refusal and would demand an explanation, and what excuse could he give? He’d felt trapped. At first. And now that it was over he wanted nothing more than to run through the meadows shouting his joy of salvation. Or perhaps to collapse into tears at his relief for having been saved.

But he could do neither now. He must play the role of Lord Winningham with his mask of shock and grief, and he must wait, quietly, patiently.

The constable cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

The man had assumed a Napoleon-like stance, one hand tucked into his coat, the other resting on the table. Winningham was fascinated. He studied the man, his scuffed boots, badly in need of a blackening, the fabric of his uniform, grown shiny with wear and frayed at the cuffs, his full head of hair, slightly too shaggy to be fashionable, and a
large pitted nose that dominated his countenance like a boatswain.

“…the servants
’ accounts of the kitchen maid, Elsie O’Riley, and her threats last night with a large knife…”

The constable—hadn
’t he said his name was Snow?—had a voice that was too nasal, giving it a whining quality as if he’d been caught in a blizzard and come down with a good case of grippe. The voice was irritating, the kind of voice that Winningham found difficult to listen to. His own hot and distracted thoughts melted the substance of the man’s words.

What if Snow proved to be too clever? An in-depth investigation, in which he looked for motives, could prove devastating. But if he too quickly blamed that wretched kitchen maid without a thorough enough investigation, some bloody reformer might claim he swept evidence under the rug, and that could cause a scandal, or worse, open up the case to even more scrutiny.
Winningham’s earlier relief quickly turned to worry.

“I asked Dr. Gladstone to assist me in…”

Several of the ladies had grown quite pale, Winningham noticed, and his wife’s plump hand convulsed against his palm, obviously at something Snow had said. Isabel Atewater, however, remained composed with a look as self-satisfied as the Mona Lisa. The Gladstone woman was equally composed, but there was a hint of a troubled frown on her pretty forehead. Jeremy Atewater frowned as well, but with less of a troubled look than of concentration. Nicholas Forsythe, however, simply listened, his visage revealing nothing except that he undoubtedly possessed a barrister’s objectivity that bordered on the amoral.

“…the obvious conclusion, given the girl
’s threats and her disappearance. However, the investigation…”

Winningham listened but heard nothing as Snow
’s words piled up, covering them all with mind-numbing facts. He began to think he might fall asleep. But he was lulled out of his drowsiness by a sudden outburst from Isabel, and he quickly realized that he was alone in his distraction. The others, he saw, were becoming equally as agitated as she.

“It
’s simply out of the question for me to stay here until you complete the investigation. I have to get back to London. Tell him, Jeremy.” Isabel’s face had grown quite red, and Winningham could see a dewy ring beginning to develop around her hairline.

“The lady is quite right to protest,” one of the gentlemen said over the din of voices. “You can
’t expect that of us, Snow. I, too, have appointments in London.”

“Please, please…
Ladies and gentlemen, I beg of you…” Snow tried in vain to calm the rabble.

“None of this would have happened if Miss Gladstone had done her duty and sedated that kitchen maid.” Winningham was surprised to see that it was his own Lady Winningham standing and shouting to make her protest heard while she made lacy threats with her handkerchief. “We are all innocent, and she has brought on all the trouble
.”

Winningham heard Miss Gladstone
’s name shouted in more than one angry voice, and by this time young Forsythe was standing, trying, along with Snow, to quiet the angry crowd, but one protesting gentleman grew even louder.

“She should be ashamed to call herself doctor. Why the woman shouldn
’t be trusted to administer even to dumb animals. She should have—”

“Please, sir, please,” Nick pleaded. “Let us give the good doctor a chance to explain her—”

“Explain? She can’t explain. All she can do is make excuses for the deranged murderer she failed to protect us from. The girl should have been taken away to an asylum immediately, and any doctor worth his salt would have known—”

“Of course she should have known
.” Isabel interrupted over the gentleman’s tirade and Nick’s continuing efforts to calm the group. “And yes, she is making excuses to cover her mistake, claiming he died of strangulation instead of that stab in the heart that kitchen girl gave him. Indeed! She only wants to make it look as if the girl is innocent. But the girl’s run away, hasn’t she? Innocent people don’t run away.”

“Here! Here!” Lady Winningham once again accentuated her fury with a wave of lace.

“Quiet, please.” This time Nick’s voice had such a loud commanding tone that everyone fell into a stunned silence. Snow took advantage of the calm to speak again.

“The investigation has just begun, and it is my responsibility to look at all possibilities. The good doctor and I will confer further, and all of you, along with the servants, will most likely be interviewed by me individually, but I assure you, I will inconvenience you as little as possible. I know that all of you are anxious to leave the primitive countryside and return to
London, but you must understand that even in the hinterlands, the queen’s laws must be followed to the letter. I will do my best to see to it that you can all leave as quickly as possible. But do keep in mind, some or all of you could be called as witnesses later.”

Winningham did not miss the resentment in Snow
’s attitude, and he could not help but smile. He was not so much amused by Snow’s defensive jibe at his superiors as he was relieved to see that the situation was deteriorating into pandemonium. Confusion could slow the investigation. Confusion could protect him.

“Have the carriage readied for me? Oh no, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Forsythe.” Alexandra was pulling on her riding gloves, preparing to leave Montmarsh. She had already been questioned by the constable. She gave her testimony regarding Elsie, and it had been established that she had left the house while Lord Dunsford was still in the ballroom, and therefore, before the murder took place. She had, however, been instructed not to leave the village.