by Paula Paul
“I’m afraid her one indiscretion completely ruined her reputation,” Alexandra said, sawing away at the boiled meat.
“Ah yes, reputation,” Polly said. “Women must mind their reputations more than their morality. Rather like turning attention to the show instead of the substance, isn’t it?”
Alexandra turned her glance suddenly toward Polly. “You sound as if you’ve read Rousseau.”
“‘What is thought of a woman is as important to her as what she really is,’” Nancy, who had also read Rousseau, quoted.
“Important to her because it is important to others,” Polly said. “We should never have heard of Lucretia had she died to preserve her virtue instead of her reputation.”
“We have a bluestocking amongst us.” Alexandra said, both amused and pleased.
“I have not always been a charwoman,” Polly said.
“And so should you not be now.” Nancy sounded agitated.
Polly breathed a resigned sigh. “I assumed Mr. Neill’s apprentice would always be there to carry on at the apothecary and there’d be no need for me to look elsewhere for work.”
“Clyde Wright?” Nancy rolled her eyes. “That ne’er do well? Some nerve he had, leaving in the middle of the night without notice. You’re better off not working for him.”
“I can’t say I’m certain of that,” Polly said. “I only know that decent positions are rare in Newton-Upon-Sea. I have a small savings from my employment at the apothecary, but not enough, I’m afraid, to get me to London to find suitable work. My hope is to save enough at my current job.”
Alexandra didn’t fail to catch the glance, fraught with meaning, Nancy threw at her. She might have been forced to embarrass herself and Polly as well by having to admit she could not afford to offer her enough work to sustain her, had not the bell on the surgery door rung.
It was Lucas Pendennis. He was carrying something bloody and encrusted with dirt. It looked very much like a human heart, and behind him his mother cried uncontrollably.
Chapter Three
Constable Robert Snow preferred to stand when he questioned a prisoner or a suspect, whom he always made sure was seated. Perhaps it was a carryover from the days when he had been the schoolmaster in Newton-Upon-Sea. He had learned then that his substantial height could be even more intimidating if he made the misbehaving student sit while he towered over him. It was not that Constable Snow was fond of intimidation, but he was most certainly fond of order and discipline.
He had never in his career, either as a teacher or an officer of the law, had to deal with a half-wit, however. Lucas Pendennis, the stocky, dark-haired boy, who sat in front of him now, was testimony to the fact that he lacked the skill to question such a person effectively. Dr. Gladstone waited quietly in one of the chairs to his left, and beside her, sobbing uncontrollably, was the boy’s mother, a petite woman with hair the color of corn silk and eyes like deep blue lakes. It was Dr. Gladstone who had brought the boy and his mother to his office, along with some putrid smelling thing that sat in a crockery bowl covered with a linen towel on his desk.
He was very much aware of Dr. Gladstone’s scrutiny of him as he spoke to Lucas. It gave him an odd feeling to know that she was assessing his skills, especially since, in the past, it had been he who was charged with assessing hers. When he was still a schoolmaster, her father and his good friend, the late Dr. Huntington Gladstone, had hired him as a tutor for his daughter, since, quite naturally, being female, she was not allowed to attend school. Gladstone had also allowed his daughter’s young companion and servant, Nancy, to sit in on the lessons.
“Very well, Lucas,” Snow said, doing his best to ignore Dr. Gladstone’s careful attention as well as the other woman’s sobs. “You have told me you found the organ buried in the ground…”
Lucas gave him a blank look.
Snow pointed to the crockery. “That” The one word sounded condescending, rather than full of exaggerated patience, as he had intended.
Lucas nodded his head enthusiastically. “Oh yes. I found it where the truffles is.” He sat very straight in his chair, unlike Snow’s usual suspects or former students, who usually cowered in fear.
“Yes, among the truffles. Now tell me, please, what led you to excavate that specific area?”
Lucas gave Snow a slack-jawed stare for several seconds before he turned his gaze to his mother, this time with a puzzled expression.
It was Dr. Gladstone who spoke to him, however, since his mother’s quiet sobs made it impossible for her to speak. “Why were you digging there, Lucas?” Dr. Gladstone kept her voice low and her tone gentle.
“’Cause,” Lucas said, speaking to Dr. Gladstone.
“Because of what?” she said, coaxing him, still with gentleness.
Lucas shrugged and looked at the ceiling.
Snow felt a stab of impatience mingled with despair, but he pushed his emotions aside, determined to accomplish his goal. “Did you know it was there, Lucas?”
“What?” Lucas said, still looking at the ceiling.
Snow’s spine grew involuntarily tense, but he forced himself to relax. “The organ you excava—the organ you dug out of the ground. That one.” Snow pointed again to the bowl on his desk. “The one you brought to Dr. Gladstone.”
“That?” Lucas asked, also pointing to the bowl.
“Yes, Lucas.”
“That’s a heart. It ain’t no organ, ’tis a heart.”
“Of course.” The long, well tapered fingers of Snow’s hands met under his chin as he looked down at Lucas’s face.
“’Tis a heart, and I’m going to keep it.” Lucas spoke emphatically, but his gaze drifted about the room.
His mother stopped her sobbing and stared at him, her eyes wide with horror.
“Lucas, look at me, please.” Snow’s voice shook slightly from the strain of forced patience. When Lucas turned his eyes toward him, he continued. “Whose heart is it?” Lucas ignored his question and stood up suddenly, going toward the table, his hands extended toward the crockery. Snow grabbed his arm, restraining him. Dr. Gladstone and the boy’s mother, both alarmed, stood as well.
“Let me go.” Lucas said, struggling. “It’s mine. I found it, so it’s mine.”
“How did you know it was there?” Snow asked.
“Lucas!” Miss Pendennis cried before he could answer. She reached for her son, but Dr. Gladstone held her back.
At the same time Lucas spoke. “I put it there. That’s how I knowed. It’s mine, and I can do what I want with it.”
There was an anguished cry from Miss Pendennis, and Snow’s breath came in short gasps, which he had to control in order to speak. “You put it there?” His mind was reeling. Was it going to be that easy to solve the case? Would a half-wit’s confession hold up under the law?
“The boy doesn’t understand, Constable Snow,” Dr. Gladstone said, still holding on to Miss Pendennis, who once again was wailing.
“Please sit down, ladies,” Snow had to shout to be heard above the noise. When he saw that both women had obeyed him and that Dr. Gladstone had managed to quiet the hysterical woman once more, he turned back to Lucas. “Listen to me carefully, Lucas. I want you to tell me how you got the org…the heart in the first place.”
Lucas stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Where did you get the heart?” Snow said again, enunciating each word.
“Out of here,” Lucas said, pointing to his chest.
“Out of your own chest?”
Lucas laughed and looked down at his intact chest.
“Lucas!” Snow spoke sharply to get the boy’s attention and to distract him from his laughter. It worked. The boy’s eyes locked onto his own. “You would have to cut that heart out of a person. Is that how you got it? Did you cut it out?”
Lucas’ eyes became unfocused for a moment as if he had moved his soul to another location, but he slowly rejoined himself and brought his attention back to Snow. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “I t
hink so.”
“Did you cut it from the body of Ben Milligan?” Snow’s words went unheard as Miss Pendennis’ keening filled the room and frightened Lucas so much that he ran to her and encircled her with his arms.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I won’t do it again,” he said.
“Surely you know this boy hasn’t the skill for such an expert surgery,” Dr. Gladstone said in the same instant.
Snow ignored her and watched the boy and his mother, overwhelmed for a moment by the need to walk away. A mother’s grief was never easy for him to witness, and the very sordid nature of this entire case was repulsive to him. This was not the sort of thing he had expected when he traded his life as a schoolmaster for that of a constable. And this was not the first time he had wondered if he had made the right decision, until he reminded himself of the reason he had taken the position. The higher salary was attractive, especially given his constant and increasing need for more money.
“Miss Pendennis,” he said, forcing any sign of emotion from his voice and steeling himself for her response. “I shall have to place your son under arrest.” There, he had said it, and the woman was yawling as Dr. Gladstone did her best to comfort her while she continued to protest that the boy did not have the skills. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, knowing the unpleasantness would pass, knowing, too, that he had done his duty. After all, he as good as had a confession from the boy. The courts would decide whether or not he was capable of the removal. Whether he was or not, it was highly likely his mental state would keep him from the gallows. He would go to an asylum where he would be better off, and his mother would adjust to his absence. Women were resilient in that way. Perhaps the boy’s temporary incarceration in the gaol would be best at the moment anyway, given the frightened mood of the citizenry. Snow was well aware that most of them blamed the insane act on the poor imbecile. He knew, too, that a select few even targeted his unfortunate mother.
In Snow’s mind, there was no need to consider her a suspect, since he had one in hand who had made a confession and who had provided circumstantial evidence as well. He would not consider the mother even in the light of her alleged madness. The common malady of so-called uterine insanity, with which she was said to be cursed, was something he knew little of, and, further, preferred not to know.
He was happy to see that Dr. Gladstone was administering to the woman, offering her comforting words as well as the contents of some mysterious vial she had pulled from her bag. He was dismayed, however, when, just as he was leading a confused but docile Lucas away, Dr. Gladstone called out to him.
“Yes, Doctor,” he said, turning to face her.
“Surely you know, sir, that Lucas’ confession means nothing. He doesn’t understand what is happening, and I dare say that under the right circumstances, he would confess to murdering the queen.”
“I am well aware of the prisoner’s mental state, Dr. Gladstone.,” Snow said, keeping his tone of voice well controlled. “There is certainly reason to expect that the amount of responsibility that is exacted from him under the law will not be comparable to that of a sane person.”
“You are judging him guilty without benefit of due process.”
He remembered now how, as a student, she could sometimes be rather trying with her constant challenging. “I am neither judge nor jury, Miss Alexandra. My judgment extends only to the point of reasonable suspicion. My judgment also requires me to consider the safety of the suspect.” He was aware that he had used the form of address for her he had used when she was his student, rather than her well-earned title of doctor. He did not apologize or attempt to correct himself, however, in spite of the fact that he could see in her eyes that she expected it.
He saw her hesitate for a moment before she spoke. “If you are considering Lucas’s well-being, then surely you know incarceration is seldom conducive to health.” It was a brave attempt, but her voice sounded considerably less self-assured. She was obviously aware of the need for Lucas’ safety as well as he. That brief betrayal of weakness gave him the opportunity for the last word.
“And surely your profession has taught you that what is or is not conducive to one’s health or well-being is sometimes a matter of degree.” He grasped Lucas’ arm and led him through the doorway to the gaol.
Alexandra saw Gweneth Pendennis to her home and gave her laudanum as a sedative, then stayed with her until she was asleep. It would take more than laudanum to ease her distress permanently, however. She would need reassurance that Lucas would not be harmed and could be returned safely to her. Alexandra left, planning to return early the next morning. She was not at all certain how she would manage to reassure her in light of the undeniably grim prospects for the boy.
It was very late when she returned to her house, yet she was not at all surprised to see a light burning in the parlor—a sign that Nancy was still awake and waiting for her. She would want to know everything that had happened. It was just as well, Alexandra thought, since sleep would not come easily for her now.
Neither Nancy nor Zack greeted her as she opened the front door, a fact which surprised her. She knew the reason as soon as she stepped into the parlor. Polly Cobbe was still there, seated on one of the damask settees while Zack rested his head in her lap and Nancy sat across from her. It might have been an altogether pleasant and cozy scene had it not been for Polly’s pale face and the frightened look in her eyes.
“What a pleasant surprise to find you still here,” Alexandra said.
“I asked her to stay.” Nancy’s voice had a note of defensiveness. “As you can imagine, she’s quite upset as a result of all that’s—”
“Forgive me.” Polly pushed Zack’s head from her lap and stood. “Nancy has been so very kind, and she’s right, of course, I am upset, but I know I must be going. I have my work tomorrow. But first,” she added, “please do tell me what happened with young Lucas.”
Alexandra slumped into a chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I’m afraid young Lucas is in gaol.”
Nancy sprang to her feet. “I was afraid of that. Some people can be so terribly narrow minded.”
Polly shook her head in disbelief. “That can’t be. Surely no one can believe he would—”
“Unfortunately, he as much as confessed.” Alexandra’s voice sounded weary even to her own ears.
“Confessed?” Polly looked troubled. “No, not Lucas. He’s an imbecile. No one will believe a confession from him.” She’d grown quite agitated.
Alexandra stood instinctively to comfort her. “You’re right, of course.” She placed an arm around her shoulder. “The poor boy had no idea to what he was confessing. One would hope the courts will take his mental condition into consideration.”
“To what end?” Polly seemed near tears. “To be found guilty, but his life spared only to live out a miserable life in an asylum?”
“Is there no hope that his confession will be discounted?” Nancy asked.
“There is always hope,” Alexandra said without much conviction. She dropped her arm from Polly’s shoulder with a sigh. “But it would take a barrister with uncommon skill to accomplish that, the likes of which I’m afraid—”
“The likes of Nicholas Forsythe of London,” Nancy said.
“We know very little of Mr. Forsythe’s expertise in these matters,” Alexandra said.
“He’s the only barrister we know.” Nancy was emphatic.
“Hardly a recommendation.”
At the same time Polly asked, “Who is Nicholas Forsythe?”
Nancy opened her mouth to explain, but Alexandra interrupted her before she could say a word and reveal more detail about Mr. Forsythe than was necessary.
“A London barrister whose acquaintance I made a year or so ago when he was visiting the late Earl of Dunsford at his country estate here.”
“I know the place,” Polly said. “A rather grand country house about four miles from Newton.”
“Precisely,” Alexandra said.
Polly gave
her a curious frown. “And I gather you doubt the capabilities of this Mr. Forsythe.”
“I don’t doubt him at all,” Alexandra said a little too defensively. “It is simply that I am not privy to his reputation except on a very limited scale.” She was dismayed to find herself blushing. “To contact him seems impractical anyway. As you know, it would take some time to get a letter to London requesting his services, and then, of course, even more time for him to arrange his schedule to travel here.”
“There is always the telegraph,” Nancy said, which made Alexandra glare at her.
Alexandra was not certain why she was working so hard at keeping Mr. Forsythe away, except that his combination of masculinity and boyish charm sometimes made her feel as flustered as a schoolgirl.
“The telegraph. Of course,” Alexandra managed to say, in spite of her chagrin. “Perhaps I should take advantage of that.” She was admittedly slow adapting to modern technology.
“Certainly we must do something to keep the poor boy from accepting the blame.” Polly sounded accusative, as if she thought Alexandra’s reluctance was directed against helping Lucas.
“Of course you’re right,” she said, chastened. “I shall write the message out, and Nancy can see that it’s transmitted first thing in the morning.”
“Oh yes.” Nancy said. Her enthusiasm, for some reason, made Alexandra uneasy.
“Very well,” she said, trying to push her unease aside. “And since we all have work to do tomorrow, I suggest we all go to bed and try to get as much rest as possible.” She turned to Polly. “I also suggest you stay here, Polly. We all three know the killer is still out there, and it’s not advisable for you to be out so late alone.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t…”
“You can have my father’s room for the night,” Alexandra said before the woman could protest more.
Polly seemed in no mood to protest with any earnestness, however. She acquiesced easily, and they were soon all three upstairs in separate rooms. Alexandra found it difficult to sleep at first, and when she did sleep, Zack, who always slept on the floor beside her bed, woke her once with a nervous bark, as if he’d had a bad dream. She was able to quiet him only by allowing him to sprawl his massive form on her bed, covering her feet.
