An Artless Demise

by Anna Lee Huber

  He didn’t refute that, but it was not of the moment. “What about orphan houses? Did you or your son support the building of them?”

  Acklen blinked at him and then shook his head. “Orphan houses? You’re not makin’ any sense.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  His eyes bulged and for a moment I thought he was going to hurl his glass at us. “Why should we care about orphan houses?”

  Gage nodded as if he’d just confirmed something. Perhaps that Lord Acklen was a bloody, rotten bastard himself. “Then can you think of anything else that connects your son with Lord Feckenham and Mr. Newbury? Or that connects you to Lord Redditch and Lord Newbury, for that matter?”

  “We all have dead sons,” he shot back.

  I sighed in aggravation. This was getting us nowhere. “Where is Lady Acklen?” Maybe she would have something worthwhile to tell us, though I doubted it. My impression of her while painting her portrait was of a fragile flower. One that preferred to shelter along the forest floor lest the bright sun burn her or a hard rain trample her. She’d spoken very little, and never of anything of consequence. Given her husband’s blackguard reputation, I could understand her wish to hide from reality.

  “She’s taken to her bed. Inconsolable. Footman had to carry her to her chamber.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I’m not sure you can appreciate how heartbroken she is.”

  If this was supposed to be an insult to my often-stilted emotions, especially when I was younger, then he’d missed the mark. I was not about to take offense when the man was so clearly lacking in empathy himself.

  I could hear Gage grinding his teeth as we returned to our carriage. “Well, that was singularly unhelpful,” he declared as he sank back against the squabs, hurling his hat onto the opposite seat.

  I could have told him Lord Acklen would not be of much assistance, but given his remark to Goddard, I suspected he’d already known that. “Well, I suppose we can rule out politics as the motivation, given the fact Acklen doesn’t even attend.”

  “Yes, but what if the killer targeted his son because of that. Maybe he’s angry Acklen doesn’t care enough to vote.”

  I squinted up at the barren trees in Hanover Square as we drove past. “But how does that relate to Lord Redditch and Lord Newbury? Unless the murderer has a vendetta against all members of the House of Lords who don’t vote as he wishes.” This seemed doubtful. It certainly wasn’t a strong enough motive to send someone on a killing spree.

  “No, you’re right. It doesn’t add up.” Gage pounded his fist on his thigh. “I wish I knew what this man was thinking. First he murders a scoundrel, and then an honorable man, and then another scoundrel. If it had been Feckenham and Acklen, I could better understand. But why Newbury?”

  His words echoed in my head, for I felt like I’d heard them before, and recently. I stiffened as the memory surfaced, and my husband glanced at me in confusion. “Lord Damien. He said almost the same thing at Barbreck’s soiree. That it would make more sense if it was someone like Acklen or Wilmot.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” He pressed a hand to my arm as I worried my hands in my lap. “Acklen is a known rogue. Anyone might have suggested the connection to Feckenham.”

  I swallowed, hoping he was right. For I could not imagine the chivalrous young man I knew stabbing another man, particularly his friend David Newbury. “We still need to speak with him.”

  Gage nodded. “But it can wait until tonight. I suspect he’ll be attending Lady Cowper’s ball.”

  “As will your father and Lord Melbourne.” Melbourne being Lady Cowper’s brother.

  “Undoubtedly.” He grimaced. “I suspect we’ll be called to task again for failing to predict this murder.”

  “Well, don’t let them. We’re doing our best in a difficult situation. If they think they can do better, let them try.” My eyes flashed, knowing full well Lord Gage would balk at such a challenge.

  His mouth quirked. “Shall I pose just such a suggestion to him?”

  “Do. I’d like to hear what his response would be.”

  * * *

  • • •

  In the end, I was not given that opportunity. While I was engaged in conversation with Alana, out of the corner of my eye, I spied Gage at the edge of the glittering ballroom being pulled aside by his father. No doubt being taken to a private parlor where Lord Melbourne waited. I considered hastening after them but then decided against it. Why would I wish to subject myself to more of Lord Gage’s ridicule? Gage could more than handle them both.

  Instead, I swept the room, looking for those who might have information about Acklen. We’d already visited the Earl of Redditch and Lord Newbury, neither of whom had any new inspiration as to what connected the three murder victims, but plenty to say about their displeasure with our progress. I watched the dancers for a moment moving across the floor in a stately pattern, before my eyes landed on Lord Damien standing near the far corner.

  Crossing the room toward him, I noted he looked even worse than he had at Barbreck’s ball. He sipped a glass of ratafia, his eyes gloomily surveying the crowd. I took one look at his rumpled attire and shook my head. He was neither agitated nor triumphant. There was no way he’d killed a man that very morning.

  “I know. I’m a mess.” He frowned into his empty glass before setting it on a nearby ledge. “Not sure why I came.”

  “You heard about Percy Acklen?” It was all anyone could talk about. That and the fact that the woman’s clothing found in the privy and well at Nova Scotia Gardens had been identified as belonging to a woman named Fanny Pigburn, who had gone missing in early October. Which left everyone begging the question—how many more potential victims’ effects would be uncovered?

  He nodded and shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t care much for him one way or the other. But I can’t understand why the killer chose to lump David in with him and Feckenham.” He scowled over my shoulder. “I’ve heard people saying that maybe David wasn’t as honorable as they thought. Why else would he have been murdered?” His eyes riveted on me. “Is that what you think?”

  I shook my head. “People are scared. Whenever something like this happens, people want to distance themselves from it as far as they possibly can. Or else they might start to believe it could happen to them.”

  “Yes, well, they don’t need to disparage David in the process.”

  “It will pass,” I assured him.

  “It hasn’t passed for you.”

  I stiffened, even though his face registered remorse the second the words were out of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. That was completely uncalled for.”

  “But it doesn’t mean it’s not true,” I answered softly.

  His gaze was anguished, but he couldn’t refute the point. “Everyone who truly knows you realizes how unfairly you’ve been treated,” he finally managed to say. “And the others will realize it with time.”

  I allowed my eyes to slide to the side, where two ladies with their heads bent together periodically sent me scornful glances. “Will they?”

  “Of course,” he replied with too much vehemence.

  I allowed him to clasp my hand, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’re right. Now go ask one of those lovely debutantes to dance.” I dipped my head toward the young ladies standing against the wall. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to cheer you.”

  His eyes searched mine anxiously, but he complied.

  I wandered through the assemblage, contemplating what Damien had said. Why had Newbury been targeted like the others? Was he the key to it all? After all, few mourned the two feckless scoundrels. But David Newbury was a different matter entirely.

  Maybe it was mere wishful thinking, but I couldn’t help but think Newbury’s death was more important than the others. If only I understood exa
ctly why, perhaps we would have all our answers, and unmask the murderer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After the events of the last three weeks, Gage declared Sunday to be a day of rest. I suspected some of his motivation for doing so was in defiance of whatever his father had said to him the night before, but I wasn’t about to argue. We had all been exhausted by the multiple investigations and threats. A day of reflection would not hinder our efforts. And, in fact, it might provide some much needed clarity.

  After morning services at the Chapel, I did nothing more physically strenuous than lift a paintbrush. However, that did not stop my mind from ruminating over past events, as well as current ones. A number of people had been reported missing in recent newspapers, including a street sweeper from the Stamford Street junction with Waterloo that morning in the Sunday Times. The incarceration of the accused burkers in Newgate only seemed to have intensified the anxiety gripping London, and Mayfair was no exception.

  We invited Lorna, Alfred, Charlotte, and my cousin Rye to dine with us that evening and kept the conversation deliberately light. My friends eyed me from time to time with concern, making me suspect I had not hidden my worries as well as I would have liked. In the end, they respected my wish not to discuss them. However, I knew to expect visits from each of them in the coming days.

  It was a lovely evening, and one I enjoyed immensely, as it comprised only a small group of close friends. I went to bed feeling more content than I had in weeks.

  Then I was awakened on Monday before dawn by the sound of Gage scrambling into his dressing gown.

  “Sebastian,” I murmured sleepily. “What is it?”

  “Oh, did I wake you?” He leaned over to press a kiss to my cheek. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  He tried to sound unruffled, but I heard the tension underlying his voice. I sat upright, genuine alarm tightening my muscles as he exited through the connecting door. I could hear him bustling about inside, donning trousers and a shirt, no doubt, and then he went out into the hall.

  Knowing there was no way I was going to be able to go back to sleep without discovering what was happening, I crawled out of bed and pulled on my warmest wrapper. I pattered out to the landing in my bare feet to hear Gage and Jeffers conferring in hushed voices below. Peering over the railing, I noted even our fastidious butler wasn’t fully dressed, wearing a dressing gown over his trousers. There was no greater indicator of urgency than that.

  “How could he have not seen the culprit?” Gage demanded to know. “Did he fall asleep?”

  “He says he slipped downstairs to use the necessary, sir, but swears he was only gone a matter of minutes.”

  “And they chose those few minutes to strike.” He raked a hand back through his hair. “They must have been able to see him through the window.” He glanced toward the front door, where I could hear someone moving about. “Well, thank goodness he decided to step out and check the blind corners. Otherwise . . .”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeffers agreed solemnly.

  “Otherwise what?” I asked, deciding to make myself known. Both men glanced up at me with a start as I began to descend the stairs.

  “Kiera, I told you to remain in bed,” Gage snapped, moving toward the stairs to intercept me.

  His tone of voice momentarily took me aback, for he rarely, if ever, spoke to me in such a manner. I paused in my descent, staring down at him as he climbed toward me. “Gage, what is going on?”

  I heard the sound of splashing water, and I was low enough on the staircase then to see through the entry out into the fog-shrouded street beyond. One of the footmen bent low to throw a second bucket of water toward a spot to the right of the door. A sickening suspicion took up residence in my gut, and I stared wide-eyed at my husband as he came to a stop two steps below mine.

  His mouth flattened into a thin line, as if he thought that by not saying the words I wouldn’t know the truth that had already dawned on me. Then his shoulders sagged. “Your blackmailers carried through on one of their threats.”

  I swallowed, forcing the acrid saliva flooding my mouth down my throat. “W-was it an entire body or . . . parts?”

  His hands reached up to cup my elbows. “Parts.”

  I nodded, fighting the nausea swirling in my stomach.

  “The footman on duty didn’t see who left them, but he found the . . . parts in time for us to remove them before any of our neighbors could notice them.”

  I nodded again, unable to form words.

  “They’re gone now. Disposed of to the proper authorities so Goddard can look into the matter.”

  I blinked at him, at his poor choice of words. “Excuse me.” I barely got the words out before I covered my mouth and dashed back up the stairs. I landed on my knees before the chamber pot just before my stomach heaved, casting up my accounts.

  When I was finished, I sat back on my knees, still hovering over the bowl. Gage murmured something behind me before passing me a cool cloth. I mopped my face and hands while he lit a lamp and then helped me rise shakily to my feet. An ewer of cold water sat beside the washstand, and I used it to rinse the acid from my mouth.

  Then I stumbled over to the bed, holding my hand over my belly protectively, and sank down on the edge of it. “I’m sorry. I’m fine now.”

  Gage sat beside me. “No need to apologize. It wasn’t a pleasant discovery.”

  I stared at my hands in my lap, anxiety clawing inside of me. “It’s not just that.” I glanced up into his beloved face, hesitant to say the words. Hesitant to lay them bare before him. But the fear and shame seemed to be eating me from the inside out, and I couldn’t keep it all to myself any longer. “It . . . made me feel something I haven’t felt since Sir Anthony died,” I began slowly. “At least, not to the same degree. Something that terrifies me.” My voice broke.

  Gage reached out to still my hands where I worried them. His eyes were gentle. “Tell me.”

  I nodded as a tear slid down my cheek. “Those men, and women, who ended up on Sir Anthony’s dissection table . . .” I inhaled a quick breath. “They were there because of me.” I rushed on before he could demur, determined to get it all out now that I’d begun. “If Sir Anthony hadn’t needed me to sketch them while he demonstrated the . . . the processes, then there wouldn’t have been so many of them. What if some of them were murdered because of it?” I pleaded. “What if they were . . . burked because Sir Anthony needed a body to teach me?”

  Gage grasped my shoulders. “Kiera, stop. Stop! None of what Sir Anthony did is your fault. He bought those bodies. He forced you to sketch them. You didn’t ask for any of that to happen.”

  “I know, but . . . maybe if I’d been strong enough to tell someone, maybe if I hadn’t been so worried about what would happen to me, I could have stopped it.”

  He shook his head. “That’s nonsense. You know if you’d brought it to the attention of the authorities, they would have done nothing about it. You said so yourself. They would have believed Sir Anthony over you, and they never would have interfered. The purchase of corpses and their dissections would have gone on.” His gaze was bright with terror. “The only thing that would have changed was the amount of abuse you would have suffered for daring to defy him.”

  I shuddered.

  He nodded, his eyes stark. “Yes. So stop blaming yourself. You did nothing wrong.”

  I hiccupped on a sob. “Then why do I feel so guilty?”

  He pulled me into his chest, rubbing his hands soothingly over my back. “Oh, Kiera. You’ve been fretting over this all this time?” He exhaled. “No wonder you can’t let it go.”

  I cried harder, clutching his torso tightly, afraid he would set me away from him at any moment. But all he did was reach up to cradle my jaw, tipping my face upward to look at him.

  “Kiera, you feel guilty because you care. You care that those people were stolen
from their graves or . . . murdered off the street. In contrast, Sir Anthony, and the resurrectionists who supplied him, did not give a brass farthing for them. They were expendable. But you never stopped seeing them as the people they were, even if their souls had long left their bodies. I find that commendable.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean you should feel guilty.” His fingers trailed over my jaw back into my hair. “You can care and still accept that the fault for what happened to them is not yours.”

  I sniffed, trying to see the matter the way he did, but the knot of shame still coiled inside me. It hadn’t eased.

  “Did you ever ask Sir Anthony to dissect a body for you?”

  I started to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. “No!”

  “Did you ever want him to?”

  “No!” This time I was able to pull back a few inches. “How could you even ask such a thing?”

  “Then why should you feel guilty for the fact that he did?” he hastily added, halting my argument. “I bet you lived in dread of him telling you another cadaver had been delivered.”

  I nodded.

  “You see? That’s my point. You never wanted it. Never.”

  I stared at the top of his chest revealed through the open buttons of his white lawn shirt and felt something inside me begin to loosen.

  He cupped my face between his hands. “All you did was draw. And even in that, he gave you no choice in the matter.”

  I nodded, glad he hadn’t put into words the threats he knew Sir Anthony had used to force me to comply with his orders.

  His voice was tender. “Are you done with this nonsense, then?”

  “Yes,” I said softly. It would take some time for me to stop feeling the remorse completely, but just telling him had eased some of the burden. It was no longer a deep, dark secret pressing behind my heart.

  “Good.”