by Paula Paul
Wilma was managing to hold back her tears, but she still twisted her apron and looked with nervous anticipation at Alexandra, obviously expecting her to be the spokeswoman.
“We’ve come about Young Beaty,” Alexandra said.
Snow’s response was no more than the slightest of nods.
“On what grounds was he arrested?”
“He confessed to murder. It was my duty to arrest him.”
Alexandra bristled. “You told me it was your duty to keep the peace. How is it you are keeping the peace by arresting an innocent man?”
“You have no way of knowing Young Beaty is innocent,” Snow said. His voice was still calm, his expression unchanged.
“Just as you had no way of knowing Lady Forsythe is innocent.”
Snow took a quick breath that was almost a gasp, and for one brief moment, an expression of alarm punctuated his face. The expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Wilma sat up straighter in her chair and glanced at Alexandra, then at Constable Snow, before moving her gaze back to Alexandra. “Lady Forsythe…?”
“Dr. Gladstone was speaking hypothetically,” Snow said.
“Hypo…What does that mean?”
“Never mind, Wilma,” Alexandra said, reaching a hand to touch hers in a comforting gesture. “Lady Forsythe has not been accused of anything. I am explaining to Constable Snow that Young Beaty is no more likely to commit murder than Lady Forsythe. And we all know she would never do such a thing, don’t we?” she added, with her gaze locked on the constable.
“Oh,” Wilma said, still sounding uncertain.
“Don’t we, sir?” Alexandra said again, still staring at Snow.
The constable cleared his throat. For a moment he looked as if he was about to speak, but he said nothing.
“We all have our duties, don’t we, Constable? And it is my duty, as Young Beaty’s doctor, to explain to you that his confession must be ignored since he is in an extremely agitated state of mind, having been greatly upset by finding the body of Alvina Elwold in all of its gory display.”
Once again the constable cleared his throat as if to speak, but Alexandra interrupted him. “His current state is such that it would be labeled hysteria if he were a woman. I am aware, of course, that conventional wisdom dictates that men do not become hysterical. Disregarding the fallacy of that argument, I will say that whatever the term you choose to use, men can become unduly upset to the point that they are not responsible for what comes out of their mouths.”
“My dear Dr. Gladstone,” Snow began, struggling to regain his confidence, “I cannot, in good conscience, ignore a confession. An arrest must be made.”
“I see,” Alexandra said. “Is it also the case that you would be compelled to make an arrest if you were to be witness to a person disturbing a crime scene?”
Snow’s jaw twitched, and his expression hardened. “Upsetting the apple cart does no one any good.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree that is always the case,” Alexandra said, “but the apple cart, as you say, would most certainly be upset if you arrested a man unfairly who has made a statement for which he is not responsible because a medical disorder caused him to make the statement.”
“Medical disorder, indeed.”
“Yes, Constable.”
“Mental agitation is not a medical disorder.”
“Being a member of the peerage is not a defense.”
“That is your opinion, doctor.”
“Yes,” Alexandra said. “That is my opinion, and I am prepared to share it in a court of law if it comes to that.”
Snow glared at her. “I do not tolerate threats.”
Alexandra shrugged. “One must do her duty.”
Snow kept up his glare for a few more seconds. “Very well,” he said finally. “I will take into account your opinion of the prisoner’s state of mind, and I will release him into the custody of his wife.” He stood and somehow managed to maintain his dignity as he walked out of his office and toward the cells.
Wilma turned to Alexandra with a bewildered look. “He’s going to let ’im out?”
Alexandra assured her that that was the case.
“I don’t know how you did it, Dr. Gladstone. Didn’t understand much of any of it, but I think yer father would be proud of you. And so am I, love. Guess we don’t need the likes of Lord Dunsford, does we?”
Chapter 9
Her Ladyship was sleeping, the butler said, when Alexandra stopped by the country estate two days later. She was about to leave when Nicholas, to her surprise, appeared in the entry hall and insisted that she come in.
“I thought you were in London,” she said.
“Just got back. Modern train travel is amazing. Imagine, more than fifty miles in one day.”
“Amazing, indeed.”
“It can be tiring, though,” Nicholas added. “I was about to have a Scotch in the library to help me relax, but I’ll ask Lancaster to make it tea instead, if you’ll join me.”
She could think of a number of reasons to turn down his invitation, not the least of which was that Nancy was expecting her, but she was more than a little curious to know what his trip to London was all about and what the cryptic verbal message given to her by Crawford meant. Since she’d already spent several hours seeing patients in the surgery and several more making house calls, all of which could be equally as tiring as train travel, she gave in to her curiosity. “I’d love some tea,” she said. With a motion of her hand, she signaled Zack to wait outside the door. Zack, who usually obeyed well, took a step toward Nicholas with a menacing growl.
“Zack! Quiet!” Alexandra scolded.
The dog stopped his growl but refused to back away or to take his eyes off Nicholas as he escorted Alexandra to the library.
Lancaster was prompt and had the tea service in front of them shortly after Alexandra had settled in her chair. She took a sip and felt the warm liquid coursing through her.
“Now,” she said with a measure of caution, “what was that trip to London all about, and why was I supposed to understand the importance?”
“I see Crawford gave you the message after all,” Nicholas said. “I wasn’t at all sure he would, given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?”
“It seems this bevy of servants MaMa brought with her lead complicated lives.”
Alexandra felt a little let down. “I’m sure many people are more complicated than we might at first believe.” She had hoped he might have something more pertinent to her immediate concerns. Namely, Alvina Elwold.
“That seems especially true for Hannah.”
“Ah, yes, your mother’s maid,” Alexandra said, wondering where this was going.
“Precisely. She was the client I had to see. Well, in a manner of speaking. It was my mother’s idea. It seems Hannah has got herself in a bit of trouble.”
Alexandra put down her teacup and tried to look interested.
“Apparently she was, shall we say, romantically involved with Her Ladyship’s carriage driver. His name is Dunley, I believe. Something of a scoundrel, it seems.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Nicholas’s eyes widened. “Have you, now? Well, it seems our Hannah’s husband got word of her affair with this Dunley fellow and threatened to kill him. When Hannah heard that, she went back to calm the disgruntled husband. They got into a scrape, and she injured the poor bas…the poor bloke, and that’s why I had to try to work up some kind of defense for her. Legally, I mean. For the courts, you see. Because, well, it appears Hannah, along with Dunley, has something of a tendency toward violence.”
Alexandra picked up her teacup again and forgot to look interested.
“There’s more,” Nicholas said, sensing he was losing her.
“I’m sure there is.”
“It appears Hannah had consulted the dead woman. Miss Elwold, I mean. Before she was dead, of course. Ah, I see I have your attention now. You see, it’s like
this. Miss Elwold seems to have told Hannah something about Dunley. Something unfavorable. Who knows what it was or if it’s true. These so-called mediums make up most of what they say, in my opinion. Nevertheless, it upset Hannah and she wants to leave MaMa’s service. To get away from Dunley, I suppose, and of course MaMa doesn’t want her to, and that’s why she ordered me to defend her against her husband’s charges. She’s hoping that show of kindness will convince Hannah to stay. Her Ladyship has made no offer to rid herself of Dunley. She calls him the best driver she’s ever had, and she refuses to hear anything bad about him.”
Alexandra was intensely interested and even more curious about Dunley than she’d been before. “It all sounds as complicated and salacious as one of Nancy’s novels she’s always reading.”
“You’d be surprised how often my chosen career leads me into situations of that sort.”
“Indeed.” Alexandra was silent for several seconds, waiting for Nicholas to say more. When he wasn’t forthcoming, she asked, “Are you going to tell me about the unfavorable situation in which the driver is accused of involving himself?”
“Oh, I see you’re interested after all.”
Nicholas was teasing her, but she responded with nothing more than a slight lifting of her chin.
“It seems Alvina Elwold told our Hannah that Dunley killed someone. Some poor bloke who was robbed first before he was killed somewhere near Bolton Row. I remember the case. Never been solved.”
“How would Miss Elwold know that?”
“Precisely.”
“Does Her Ladyship know about all of this?”
Nicholas nodded. “She’s heard it all, but she refuses to believe it. I’m afraid MaMa simply turns a deaf ear to things she doesn’t want to be true. I see a wrinkle on that pretty brow,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
“I was wondering if we should tell Constable Snow any of this.”
“What? That Miss Elwold says Dunley killed someone?” Nicholas laughed. “I hardly think so. I get the feeling Snow puts precisely the same stock in people like Elwold that I do.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Alexandra said. “But Her Ladyship should be cautioned about Dunley’s temper, don’t you think?”
“She refuses to believe he’s anything but above reproach. Shall I ring for more tea?”
“Yes, please. It will fortify me for when I return home.”
“Really? Is home so distasteful?” Nicholas asked as he nibbled on a biscuit fresh from the oven that Lancaster had brought with the tea. “Mmmm,” he said, without giving her time to answer. “No one can make these like Pickwick. I’m tempted to take her to London to cook for me.” He glanced at Alexandra. “What were you saying about not wanting to go home?”
Alexandra laughed. “Never mind. I don’t want to distract you from Mrs. Pickwick’s biscuits.”
Nicholas flicked bits of sugar away from his mouth with his napkin. “You can distract me anytime you want, even from Pickwick’s biscuits. Now, tell me, who, besides Dunley and Hannah, has the temerity to upset the most beguiling woman in the kingdom?”
Alexandra rolled her eyes. “I was exaggerating about needing fortification, just as you’re exaggerating.” She took a sip of tea. “I will confess, however, I’m beginning to feel like a pariah.”
“How so?”
“Nancy and Wilma and even Mrs. Pickwick spend a great deal of their time lately in clandestine meetings, and every time I come into their presence, they all stop speaking, and then one or all of them find it necessary to leave.”
“Curious.” Nicholas helped himself to another sugared biscuit. “What do you suppose they’re hiding from you?”
“Oh, no, they’re not hiding anything. It’s more that they think I’ll interfere. You see, they’re planning to solve the mystery of who killed Miss Elwold.”
Nicholas’s eyes widened. “Indeed. And how do they propose to do that?”
“They’re going to ask Alvina, I suspect.”
“Excuse me?” Nicholas said, halting his teacup just before it reached his mouth.
“They’re going to bring her back from the grave.”
Nicholas spilled some of the hot liquid on the front of his shirt.
“I think they’re planning a séance,” Alexandra continued, handing him her napkin from across the table.
Nicholas dabbed at his shirt. “Another séance? Is there an epidemic?”
“It would seem so. I don’t know who let the secret out that there was one at Montmarsh, although I have my suspicions. Nevertheless, the idea seems to have caught on. At least with those three.”
“Are we invited? It might be interesting to watch.”
“Nicholas, for heaven’s sake…”
“Admit it. You’re just as curious as I am.”
“Well…”
“Give in to temptation just this once, Alexandra.”
“I’m afraid our presence would spoil it for them,” she said.
“Spoil their fun, you mean?”
“I don’t believe they’re doing this only for fun. They’re quite serious and, in Wilma’s case, desperate. Can you imagine how distressed she must be, having her husband confess to a murder he couldn’t possibly have committed? Besides that, I think they’re afraid they’re opening themselves up to ridicule if someone such as you or I finds out about it.”
“I can’t imagine you ridiculing anyone,” Nicholas said. “You’re always the patient and understanding doctor.”
A wry smile crept across Alexandra’s lips. “I’m not sure Nancy would agree that’s always the case.”
“Well, you know her better than I,” Nicholas said, pushing back from the table. “Now, as to the murder, how can you be so certain Mr. Beaty isn’t as guilty as he’s confessed? And don’t tell me I wouldn’t ask that question if I knew the man as well as you. If I’ve learned anything in my profession as a barrister, it’s that one can never really know a person, and one should never be surprised at what any human is capable of doing.”
“A cynical statement if I ever heard one.”
Nicholas gave her a noncommittal shrug.
Alexandra touched her napkin to her lips and placed it beside her saucer. “I don’t think you felt that way about your mother when she was under suspicion for visiting the site of the murder under unusual circumstances. By all rights, she should still be under suspicion, perhaps even in gaol.”
A surprised frown wormed its way between Nicholas’s eyes. “My dear, if you knew my mother as I…” He stopped speaking when he saw the bemused expression on her face. It was the stone that shattered the glass house he’d been trying to build. “All right,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Who did kill that woman?”
“I would like very much to find out myself,” Alexandra said.
Nicholas exhaled his exasperation. “Then maybe we should attend that séance. See what Alvina has to say.”
Alexandra laughed, glancing down at his tea-stained shirt. “It’s highly unlikely that either of us will attend that séance. However, if it should happen that we do, you must promise me you will change your shirt.”
—
Lady Forsythe stood at the top of the enormous staircase that looked out upon the main hall of Montmarsh and watched as Dr. Gladstone left the house. Nicholas walked out with her, and she noted that the two of them were laughing as if they were sharing a private joke. Nicholas, it seemed, was immensely attracted to the woman, who, in spite of her physical beauty and obvious intelligence, was unquestionably middle class. She was the daughter of a village physician, which, in Her Ladyship’s view, was barely a step above the local undertaker.
To top that, the woman was undoubtedly full of radical ideas, witnessed by the fact that she’d become a doctor herself and taken over her late father’s practice in the first place. That sort of resourcefulness and initiative could, perhaps, be admired in women of the lower classes, but that was unquestionably not the sort of woman she had in mind for Nicholas.
She was glad to know that Dr. Gladstone had left the house, since she hadn’t wanted to risk having to talk to her again. Certainly she could admit that the woman was a talented doctor. She could even admit that she was grateful for the relief from the pain and burning that Dr. Gladstone had provided her. That was something even the queen’s physician had not been able to effect. Still, the woman was dangerous, and Lady Forsythe knew she couldn’t take the chance of having her find out the truth about that visit to the graveyard.
What a messy business that turned out to be! How was she to know that some crazy old crone would be murdered at a time that coincided with Her Majesty’s visit? And what a terrible coincidence that Her Majesty was located at the very spot where the grisly crime had occurred. At least she hoped it was a coincidence. She’d also hoped no one would believe that idiot boy’s story of having seen Her Majesty. That nosy Dr. Gladstone and that strange man who was the constable must be made to stop prying into the matter.
What bothered her even more than rumors about the queen was that the constable knew that she, herself, had visited the dreadful grave. She knew now that it was her own vanity that had led her into the appalling situation. If only she hadn’t shown the queen that brooch! If only the queen hadn’t decided to wear it!
Such a lovely brooch! Not to mention a valuable one. Who could blame her, really, for wanting to show it to the queen? It had been in Lady Forsythe’s family since the sixteenth century and was said to have once belonged to Anne Boleyn. The family story was that one of the tower guards of the ill-fated Anne stole it from her shortly before her death. That thief later became the patriarch of Her Ladyship’s family, the Hartwicks of York. Quite resourceful, he was, to have risen to such heights. All of the Hartwicks were rather resourceful. Lady Forsythe didn’t ever divulge the particulars of the story about her brooch, however, except to say that it had once belonged to the ill-fated Anne and had come down to her through family that was somehow connected to her.
