Shadows of Madness

by Tracy L. Ward

  Margaret raised an eyebrow in curiosity while trying to push the frame behind her back into her reticule with one hand.

  “Mother had three still births, you know. All girls.” Eloise’s face hardened as the memories returned. “Have you ever held a stillborn baby, Margaret?”

  The very suggestion startled her. “No. How dreadful.”

  “Mother made me hold all three so I could have my picture taken with them,” Eloise said. She turned in place. “They are here somewhere. I feel them watching me sometimes.”

  Suddenly, Margaret felt as if she would be sick and resisted the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth.

  “You’ve gone pale, Margaret,” Eloise said. “Please do sit down.”

  Still holding her reticule behind her with the picture frame sticking out of the opening, Margaret followed her to the nearby chair. She carefully sat down and used the chair to conceal her spoils. Eloise left the room, giving Margaret only a few moments to stuff the rest of the frame into her reticule, before Eloise returned a moment later with a tray for tea.

  “Here,” she said, placing the tray on a nearby table and pouring a cup. “Peppermint settles the stomach.”

  Margaret could smell the peppermint and desperately wanted something to ease her discomfort. She raised the teacup to her mouth but stopped short of actually taking a sip. Jonas’s warnings echoed in her head. The woman was not to be trusted.

  “Drink up,” Eloise said, using two fingers on the bottom of Margaret’s cup to encourage her to drink it.

  A horrible feeling had struck her. Her hand shook as the images of the stillborn babies triggered a deep-seated worry in Margaret’s mind. Something repressed and clawing to come out.

  “Margaret? Is something the matter?”

  Margaret lowered the teacup to the saucer and placed it on the table. “Do accept my apologies,” she said. “I must be going. I suddenly don’t feel so well.”

  Eloise gave a look of dismay, and glanced to the teacup before donning a devilish smile. “Of course. I’ll have John wave down a carriage for you.” She moved to stand but Margaret stopped her.

  “No, that’s quite all right. I can manage.” Margaret stood and walked to the table to retrieve the picture of Jonas and his mother. “Thank you for this,” she said, hugging it to her.

  She did not wait to be excused and simply made her way to the back stairs. She could feel her heartbeat quickening and knew she just had to get out to the street, to safety. She heard Eloise coming down the stairs behind her. Margaret nearly made it to the front door of the shop before Eloise grabbed her arm and pulled her back slightly.

  “Bundle up against that wind, Margaret,” she said sweetly. She raised both of her hands to Margaret’s scarf and adjusted it at her collar. If Eloise saw Margaret’s scar beneath the folds of her scarf she said nothing. “It’s getting chilly out there.” When she pulled away Eloise smiled.

  “Thank you, Miss Locke,” Margaret said, forcing her next words and praying they sounded sincere. “You are too kind.”

  Chapter 22

  Dr. Waters gave Ainsley a severe look from across the rocking carriage. Despite his agreement to speak about the case, any insight he offered came out slowly, which required a great deal of effort from Ainsley to ask pointed and specific questions.

  “We both agree Professor Frobisher was stabbed,” Ainsley said.

  Waters nodded.

  “I counted ten times,” Ainsley said.

  An amused smile touched the edges of Waters’s lips. “Smart man. I can see now why you were recommended for your degree,” he said, his amusement morphing into a scowl.

  Ainsley chose to ignore the professor’s sarcastic remark. “Yet your report mentioned loss of blood at one pint. I thought perhaps this was an oversight. Could you have meant to write seven pints?”

  Waters shook his head. “No, young man. There wasn’t a sufficient amount of blood at the scene to make that claim. I am not in the business of supplying false details.”

  “Ten times, though,” Ainsley said. “Frobisher was stabbed ten times.”

  “Yes.”

  Enough bodies had found their way to Ainsley’s morgue in London for the young surgeon to know how the human body responds to wounds such as Professor Frobisher’s. Ten stab wounds to the abdomen would have resulted in an extreme loss of blood, not only staining his clothing but pooling around any nearby surfaces. Even as a body lay unconscious the blood will still seep from the wounds, as any liquid would once containment has been compromised.

  “How is that possible?” Ainsley’s words came out in the quiet tone of contemplation. He wasn’t being quarrelsome and it seemed Waters understood this.

  Waters shrugged and glanced to the window as the university came into view. “The body is a mysterious machine,” the professor said unapologetically.

  The carriage came up alongside the kerb and Waters was quick to head for the door. “I’m sorry for the predicament of your friend, Dr. Ainsley,” he said, as he heaved himself from the confines of the carriage. “But those are the facts of the case.”

  Ainsley found himself not so willing to accept that as an answer. “Could Frobisher’s body have been killed elsewhere?” he said quickly before the professor had time to move on.

  Judging by the look of puzzlement on Waters’s face, it was clear the possibility had not occurred to him. Ainsley shuffled along the seat and came to the doorway to look Waters in the eye.

  “If Frobisher was moved from the site of his murder to his office would that explain the lack of blood at the scene?”

  Waters licked his lips, a realization donning on him as they looked each other in the eye. “Follow me, Ainsley,” he said. “You’ve reminded me of something.”

  Dr. Waters led Ainsley to a pair of doors at the rear of the infirmary and then down the cement steps to the morgue. Cecil wasn’t there, thank goodness, but Rebecca was. She sat on a high stool at a table next to the entrance doors, a file open in front of her, a pencil in hand. She straightened her posture when Waters and Ainsley entered.

  “Miss Stewart, fetch me Frobisher’s file.”

  Rebecca’s eyes flashed toward Ainsley before she hopped from her stool and went for an adjoining room.

  Waters removed his hat and slid his arms from his coat and hung them both from a pair of hooks along the wall.

  “It is possible Frobisher was moved,” Waters said at last. He turned to face Ainsley squarely. “What you said just now at the carriage sparked my memory.”

  Before Ainsley could ask for details, Rebecca returned and presented the file to Waters. The old professor grunted and waved for her to return to her other work. Before she left them Ainsley saw her resentment deepen as the professor turned his back to her.

  “He was stabbed ten times, yes …” Waters opened the file and skimmed his notes. “But six of them looked odd to me when I first looked over them. There was less coagulated blood gathered at the site of the wound.” He flipped over the page and pointed to the human body outline sketch where four wounds were indicated on the stomach. “These ones presented the most damage. This is where the most blood was gathered.”

  “The killer hit Frobisher there first,” Ainsley said.

  Waters nodded and then he pointed to the other wounds that were separate from the main cluster of entry points. “These ones appear more haphazard and had far less blood clotting inside the wound and on Frobisher’s clothes.”

  “Is it possible Frobisher died because of these four wounds alone?”

  “Yes.” Waters shook his head and let out a deep breath. “I hate to admit it, Dr. Ainsley, but it is possible my friendship with Frobisher and disgust for what happened to him made me overlook the details.” He pressed his lips together and rolled his knuckles on the tabletop.

  Ainsley noticed Rebecca had shuffled toward them and was looking down at the paper as well. “But if Professor Frobisher died because of those four wounds, why would the killer inflict six more?�
� she asked.

  Ainsley studied the image as he thought. “Because these were to kill Frobisher, these were done to put the blame on Jonas. They were inflicted after Frobisher’s body was moved to his office.”

  “These were done with Dr. Davies’s surgical knife,” Waters said, following Ainsley’s line of thought. “These could have been done with any knife.”

  Ainsley flipped the page back. “In your report you say it was all done with the same knife.”

  “Ah, I said ‘it is probable’ they were inflicted by the same knife. I say nothing with absolute certainty.” Waters laughed nervously. “I could not determine the type of blade used from these wounds. They are too close together and involve too much movement up and down. As you can see, I couldn’t establish proper measurements because of the elasticity of the skin. I was only able to conclude the murder weapon was Davies’s surgical knife because of these two wounds.” He flipped the page over and used two fingers to indicate two wounds on either side of the torso. “This one punctured the liver and I was able to get most of my measurements from that.”

  “That makes sense, though,” Rebecca cut in, pushing her way between the two male doctors. “The murderer staged the scene to make suspicion fall on Dr. Davies. He’d discard the real murder weapon and use Davies’s knife for these ones.” She pointed to the diagram as she spoke.

  Ainsley felt a pain behind his eye as he thought this through and rubbed his forehead. “We can determine that Frobisher was killed somewhere other than his office; that would explain why his state of rigor mortis was so advanced. He wasn’t killed that morning.”

  “Dr. Ainsley, I think it’s highly likely, given this new information”—the professor let out a disparaged breath—“that Professor Frobisher was killed sometime the day before his body was found.” Waters shook his head in disbelief as he looked over the notes. “And his body had most likely been moved.”

  Ainsley lifted his gaze to Waters. “Are you willing to testify in court regarding this?”

  The older surgeon nodded, with a newfound determination. “Yes, I can explain it as best as I can.” He closed his eyes. “I cannot believe I nearly allowed Davies to hang for the sake of my carelessness.”

  “Do not blame yourself. There is a murderer here who is ultimately responsible for all this.”

  Waters nodded. “I’ll make an amendment to my report,” he said, folding up the file and tucking it under his arm. “It’s a good thing that you thought to speak with me, Dr. Ainsley. Inspector Hearst comes later this afternoon to discuss my findings.”

  Ainsley wondered whether such discoveries were enough to free Jonas from guilt. Standing in the centre of the infirmary morgue, his mind played with the circumstances of Frobisher’s death. Would the courts and the public accept the fact that Jonas was innocent without having another place to lay blame?

  “Don’t forget to point out one important thing, Dr. Waters,” Ainsley said just before the doctor left the room.

  “Yes?”

  “The wounds that killed Frobisher were administered from the front. The professor knew his attacker and had no reason to fear him.”

  A sober look blanketed Waters’s features before the old man nodded and turned from them both. “I’ll have this set to rights, Ainsley,” he said, waving the file in the air as he walked away. “Have no fear.”

  Everything Ainsley did of late, however, had been instigated by fear. Fear for Jonas. For Margaret. And for himself. He could not in good conscience allow such a travesty of justice. But was it enough, he wondered, to see Jonas free from suspicion?

  “Good work, Dr. Ainsley,” Rebecca said from beside him. She was slipping on a tattered coat. “You’ve proven persistence pays off in the end.”

  Ainsley shrugged. “I could not live with myself if I did not try. Jonas does not deserve such slander to his good name.”

  Ainsley saw a sober look flash over Rebecca’s face as she buttoned her coat and adjusted her collar.

  “How very true,” she said, turning to pull a leather satchel from the desk where she had been working.

  “It must be difficult working alongside so many men,” Ainsley said as he turned for his own coat. He saw a nervous smile wash over her. She was quick to turn away, lowering her gaze to the floor.

  “I saw the look you gave Dr. Waters earlier,” he explained, taking a step toward her.

  She gestured to her workstation, prominently placed amongst the bodies of the dead. The smells must be ghastly in the summers and the cold of the winter would be nearly unbearable. “This is the only way they will allow me to work in medicine,” she said. She reached over and folded up a portfolio before tucking it inside her desk. “They pretty much ignore me unless there is tea to be fetched.” She turned to face him and then glanced to the office door where Waters had disappeared. “Those were the most words he had ever said to me in a single conversation.”

  “You side with Dr. Davies then, regarding the admittance of women?” Ainsley asked.

  Her features alighted at the thought of women attending lectures freely. “There are many men who are intimidated by the presence of a strong female, those who would see us wither away in poverty than allow us to attain meaningful employment so that we may support ourselves and our loved ones. I would like to think those types of men are few but the reality is the opposite. I’ve learned as much while working here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been told countless times that I should try for a nurse,” she said. “Fetching tea and copying reports pays a slightly lower wage than mopping up vomit and bandaging festering wounds. Given the choice, Dr. Ainsley, which would you choose?” She glanced about, taking in the sheet-covered bodies. “In truth, relegating me to a mere nurse has more to do with making the doctors around here more comfortable. They behave differently when they notice a female has entered the room. They accuse me of wanting to live like a man but in actuality it’s them who don’t want to behave like gentlemen.” She let out a breath and turned her face away. “Pardon me, doctor, I forget who I am speaking with sometimes.” She turned to her desk to gather a small stack of books, taking care to keep her head bowed.

  “No, don’t apologize,” Ainsley said, his mind giddily gathering a thought. “You may be able to help me.”

  She regarded him cautiously.

  “You have been witness to things at the infirmary, things others may not know.”

  She waited, unable to maintain eye contact.

  Ainsley glanced to Dr. Waters’s office to ensure they were alone. “I’ve been told Frobisher was unfaithful to his wife. I thought perhaps—”

  Her expression had changed from apathy to angst before Ainsley had even finished his sentence. “Whoever Professor Frobisher was involved with it certainly wasn’t me! How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” She hugged her books to her chest and turned quickly to leave the room.

  “No, wait!”

  Ainsley followed her and was able to stop her before she reached the stairs, pulling back on her arm gently. She shook off his grasp and hit him back with the full force of the books in her hands.

  “What in God’s name are you insinuating?” She stepped toward him, closing the gap as he took a step back. “The only reason a woman would work in a place like this is if she’s having relations with someone? Is that the only thing you men can think of?”

  “No, no. Of course it isn’t.” Ainsley let out a breath and allowed his shoulders to sink. “I only ask because …” He stopped himself. “Because you are the only person in this building who will give me an honest answer.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Men are more likely to protect other men. They will not admit the weaknesses of their sex. Many of them won’t even recognize it as a weakness.”

  Her stance softened a bit at his words.

  “You’ve learned many things while working in the medical field,” Ainsley continued, “and so have I. I’m just trying to save my friend from the gallows. I am not
making any statements either way about women in medicine.”

  Rebecca hugged her books closer to her chest. “I can say with near certainty that Frobisher would never lie with a woman who wasn’t his wife. That’s all I can tell you.” For a moment it looked as if she would leave. “We need more men like Jonas Davies, not less,” she said. “He does not deserve the accusations against him.” Rebecca glanced back to the morgue before meeting Ainsley’s gaze solidly. “Will you tell him I said that?”

  Ainsley hesitated. “I will if you would like me to.”

  She nodded timidly and said nothing more before jogging the rest of the way up the steps.

  Ainsley lingered for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, watching her skirt then boots disappear into the upper levels of the hospital.

  It was entirely within the realm of possibility that Frobisher’s maid had been wrong. Frobisher could have found himself so engrossed by his work and unable to pull himself away at times. Such dedication hardly made the man unfaithful. Many men considered themselves married to their work. Ainsley had pictured his own future in such a way, before he met his love. It would certainly explain why Frobisher was found in his office. If he was such a man that room was the most likely place where Frobisher could be found when not at home. Any perpetrator would know this, and it explained why anyone would return Frobisher’s body there.

  Ainsley emerged out into the light of the afternoon and hunched over against the wind. On the path, he passed a group of three young men rushing to another building and huddling in a similar fashion. Ainsley stopped after they passed. He found himself turning in place, taking in the image set before him: countless men all heading in different directions but all joined together for a common purpose.

  What had Rebecca said? Frobisher would never lie with a woman who wasn’t his wife. He wouldn’t have to lie with a woman … If Frobisher was having an affair, there was a possibility he was having it with another man.

  While the realization should have been empowering, it actually had the opposite effect on Ainsley. Standing in the biting cold, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t exactly narrowed down his pool of suspects. In actuality, he had quadrupled it.