by Paula Paul
Alexandra took her last sip of tea and set her cup down carefully. “And if he hadn’t outgrown it…”
“Then I suppose it’s possible, according to what the other gentlemen were implying, that at one time or another, practically all of us could have a motive to do the old boy in.”
Chapter Five
The knock at the door came early while Alexandra was still having her breakfast. Nancy went to see who it was, then left the visitor in the front hall while she stepped into the dining room to tell Alexandra what was needed.
“’Tis Jamie, one of the stable boys from Montmarsh, Miss Alex. He says Cook has need of you. ’Tis her nerves, the boy says.”
Alexandra made a quick gesture of touching her napkin to her mouth and stood. “Tell him I’ll leave as soon as I can get Lucy saddled. I’ll just get my bag and—”
“Oh no, they sent a carriage for you, Miss. He says you’re to come right away.” Nancy’s eyes were large and round with excitement.
Alexandra hesitated only a moment, wondering who would have the authority to send a carriage now that Lord Dunsford was dead. The steward, no doubt. After all, the estate always had run quite efficiently during Lord Dunsford’s long absences in the past.
She hurried to the surgery and picked up her bag, checking to make sure she had a supply of laudanum to provide for the cook. It was only natural that the woman would be distraught and complaining of a case of nerves, considering all that had happened at Montmarsh—a kitchen maid gone berserk, the earl murdered in his bed, and a house full of unhappy guests who were being forced to stay during what could be a protracted investigation.
Zack gave her a sharp bark and an eager anticipatory look as she walked toward the door. Alexandra rubbed his head. “Not this time, Zack.”
He walked away in a sulking pout, and Alexandra stepped outside, allowing Jamie to help her into the carriage. The boy seemed nervous. His hands shook, and he appeared to be on the edge of tears. The events at Montmarsh had taken their toll on everyone.
When they reached the estate, Alexandra entered through the servants’ entrance, which would give her quicker access to her patient. Jamie led her downstairs to the cook’s room, then backed away shyly.
The scent of cooking spices, nutmeg, ginger, and cinnamon, mixed with smells of rancid fat and boiled meat greeted her when she opened the door. It was as if the smells of the kitchen had attached themselves permanently to the cook.
Hester Pickwick, known to the household as Cook, lay on her narrow bed with a damp, folded cloth across her forehead while she cried. Occasional twitches, which looked a bit like convulsions, made the bed shake. They were not convulsions though, of that Alexandra was sure. It was only the tension in her body, which the laudanum, and perhaps a soothing, caring voice, would soon alleviate.
Since the cook didn’t seem to realize Alexandra had entered, she knelt at her bedside and spoke quietly. “Mrs. Pickwick, Dr. Gladstone here.”
Cook opened her eyes, let out a long sigh, and then sobbed harder.
“Mrs. Pickwick, please. I know you’re distraught, as well you might be. Perhaps you could talk to me about it.” Alexandra’s father had taught her long ago that a case of so-called nerves could sometimes be cured by simply allowing the patient to verbalize his or her fears. He had cautioned, however, that the talks could be as addictive as laudanum.
“Talk? What is there to say except the devil will have his way with us, he will. Lord Dunsford murdered in his bed. And me the one to blame.” Mrs. Pickwick sputtered her words amid choking sobs.
“I don’t understand. How are you to blame?” Alexandra kept her voice low and soothing.
“Didn’t I tell the housekeeper to hire the girl? The poor Irish lass what killed him?” Mrs. Pickwick covered her face with her hands and shook her head.
“That doesn’t place the blame on your shoulders.” Alexandra’s voice was more forceful this time.
Mrs. Pickwick sniffled and spread her fingers to peer at Alexandra. “You think not?”
“Certainly not.” Alexandra picked up one of her plump hands and held it. They felt like warm, moist dough. “In the first place, there is no proof that Elsie killed Lord Dunsford, and secondly, even if she did, how could you possibly have known that she would?”
Mrs. Pickwick pulled her hand away and straightened herself into a sitting position. “Well, I couldn’t have, could I? She seemed such a sweet thing. Even Mrs. Chapman, the housekeeper, will say that she was. It was that scofflaw George Stirling what led her astray, as I told you the night of Lord Dunsford’s party. Fancied herself in love with him, she did. Well, she’s better off that he’s dead, I say. She could easily find herself a nicer young man.” Mrs. Pickwick shook her head. “She was a sweet girl, all right. A bit high-strung, I’ll grant you that, but wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Am I to take that to mean you don’t believe she actually did it,” Alexandra said. “Killed Lord Dunsford, I mean.”
At that, Mrs. Pickwick broke into sobs again. “Well, they’re saying she did, are they not? And her swinging that knife around. Saw her yourself, you did. So what am I to think? Oh that poor, poor girl.” She sobbed harder still, and amidst her sobs muttered, “I’m hoping she’ll get away, I am.” She stopped crying suddenly. Her face was as colorless as flour. “I didn’t mean that, Dr. Gladstone. You believe that, don’t you? I’m out of my head with grief. Over Lord Dunsford, you see. I didn’t mean a word of it.”
Alexandra reached a hand to pat her on the shoulder. “Of course you didn’t, Mrs. Pickwick,” she said even though she knew Mrs. Pickwick meant every word. Hester Pickwick did not think Elsie was guilty any more than she, herself, did, and her grief was not for Lord Dunsford, but for Elsie.
“There’s something else I’ve got to tell you,” Mrs. Pickwick said, grappling at the bed covers.
Alexandra put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Try to calm yourself, Mrs. Pickwick. You’re not to blame for anything that has happened.”
“It’s not the blame I’m thinking of, Dr. Gladstone.” She wadded the edge of the sheet in her fists. “It’s the master. Lord Dunsford…”
“Lord Dunsford?”
Mrs. Pickwick spoke to her in a hoarse whisper. “Yes, the earl hisself. Had I not seen his body carried out by the constable and the undertaker with my own eyes, I would not believe he was dead.”
“I don’t understand…”
“He’s here, he is.” Her whispering voice was salted with terror. “Walking the halls of Montmarsh, he is. I heard him. More than once. And that cough of his that he gets when he stays too long in that foul London air, I heard that, too.” Mrs. Pickwick’s ample bosom heaved, and a black fear engulfed her like a thick soup.
“Now, now, dear. You mustn’t fret.” Alexandra spoke once again in her soothing voice. “Sometimes when a person is under a great deal of strain—”
“You think I’ve grown daft, but I know what I hear, and I know what I see.” Mrs. Pickwick’s eyes were large and frightened. “And see him I did. Wearing his tweeds. And that brown jacket he always wears in the country. Saw him this morning, I did, when I went up to fire the ovens.”
There’s more than one corpse that walks among the living. Alexandra shivered as she remembered Old Beaty’s words.
“I have gone ’round the bend, haven’t I? I’ll end my days in the asylum.” She was wailing again.
Alexandra once again forced herself to speak with calm. “You haven’t gone around the bend; you’ve simply been under a great deal of strain.”
Mrs. Pickwick only shook her head and cried harder.
“Please, Mrs. Pickwick, calm yourself. Hallucinations under these circumstances are not uncommon. People often think they see the deceased, or hear them speak.”
Mrs. Pickwick stopped crying long enough to look at her. “They do?”
“Of course. You mustn’t let it frighten you. It will pass.” She took the vial of laudanum out of her bag. “I’m going to leave th
is with you. Take a few drops in water now, and another few drops this evening before you go to bed. It will help you rest, but you must be careful. My late father had begun to believe the opium in it is addictive. There’s no proof, mind you, but it’s best not to take chances.”
“I’m not one to take chances, Dr. Gladstone, I’ll tell you that.” Mrs. Pickwick’s voice was strained, but she was trying to calm herself.
Alexandra gave her a smile and a pat on the arm. “Send for me if you need anything more.” She started to take her leave, feeling uneasy. What she had told her patient wasn’t entirely the truth. While it was somewhat common for a person to believe he or she had seen the deceased, it was almost always a loved one they saw. A symptom of grief. And Mrs. Pickwick’s grief was clearly for Elsie, not Lord Dunsford.
Just as she reached the door, Mrs. Pickwick called out to her. “Dr. Gladstone, there is one thing you must do for me.” Alexandra turned around to face her. “You’ve got to find Elsie before it’s too late.”
“Mrs. Pickwick—”
“No! Hear me out.” There was desperation in her voice. “You’ve got to find her before they hang her for something I know in my heart she could never do. You must help her, Dr. Gladstone. Please! Please!” She was on the verge of hysterics. “You must help the poor lass. It’s what your father would have done.”
“Please try to rest.” Alexandra spoke quietly, then left the room and climbed the stairs, feeling drained of all her energy. She did not know Hester Pickwick terribly well, but she had treated her once or twice for small things—a superficial burn she’d gotten during the course of her cooking or, occasionally a case of grippe. It was enough for Alexandra to form an opinion that she was a woman possessed of a great deal of common sense and practical knowledge, not one given to hallucinations or hysteria. Yet, her fervor about wanting Alexandra to find Elsie had certainly bordered on the hysterical, which possibly, but not likely, could give rise to the hallucinations. Whatever was going on, the woman was truly worried about Elsie and was convinced she had not killed Lord Dunsford.
On the other hand, Nell Stillwell and much of the rest of the town, as well as the guests at Montmarsh, seemed convinced that Elsie was guilty.
When Alexandra reached the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath, deciding she needed a few minutes alone to clear her head and collect her thoughts before she began her rounds and opened the surgery. She stepped outside, using the servants’ entrance and was about to ask for the carriage to take her home again. She stopped, however, long before she reached the stables.
Constable Snow was standing just outside the paddock gate speaking with Jamie. She turned away, not wanting to talk to the constable, or to anyone else, at the moment. But neither did she want to re-enter Montmarch Hall. It seemed to want to suffocate her with its atmosphere of gloom and fear.
Perhaps a short walk in the fresh air would do her good. She’d spied a copse of trees and brush just outside the formal gardens, well away from the stable. The constable’s back was turned to her as she walked, and, with enough good fortune, she would be well into the thicket before he turned around.
The day had begun to warm already, in spite of the fact that it was not yet noon, so she slipped her shawl from her shoulders and loosened the top button of her frock. By the time she reached the stand of trees, she had begun to relax a little, and her head seemed to clear.
As she drew closer and allowed herself to be swallowed by the thicket, she became entranced by the landscape. So much of the timber had been cut away from the English countryside that she had come not to expect much more than a smattering of trees. She had never been this deep into the grounds of Montmarsh, however, and had never realized the wooded area was there, redolent with the scent of moss, damp earth, and the scaly-fingered leaves of trees.
She began to enjoy the novelty of it and to drink in the scent of the oak and beech and to listen to the pipits singing to each other as they flitted from tree to tree. The copse, however, did prove to be quite narrow after all, and in a short time she could see the edge of the thicket. Near the edge, but still hidden in the trees, were the ruins of a stone cottage. Dry branches lay across the top, a dead sacrifice to the long-gone thatched roof. A malignancy of lichen spread over the walls. Yet they still stood in a slowly dissolving rectangle. It had most likely been a workers cottage several hundred years ago, perhaps the lodging of Montmarsh’s woodcutter or swineherd or some other laborer.
While Alexandra watched, a dark form passed one of the open square slots that had once been a window. She was startled at first, because the form looked human. But she told herself she must have been mistaken. The light was not good because of the tree shadows, and it would be far more likely to be an animal of some sort that she had seen—a good-sized animal to be sure, perhaps a sheep or a calf, or even a deer.
She walked closer to the building to have a look, and that’s when she saw the very human eyes staring back at her. The eyes were at once frightened and menacing, and the mouth gaped open with teeth bared as if emitting a silent scream.
Alexandra wanted to flee back into the woods, or at the very least to turn her eyes away from the creature in the dirty, blood-soaked dress. She did neither. Instead, heart pounding, she took a cautious step forward and managed to speak in a quiet, but trembling voice.
“Elsie…”
“Go away. I warn ye, don’t come near.” The girl had found her voice at last, and she backed away as she spoke. Alexandra could see her dirt-streaked hands quivering like something dying.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Elsie. Please, let me help.” Alexandra tried to keep her voice low so as not to frighten the girl.
“I don’t need none of yer help, and I warned ye once…” Her voice trailed off, and she was shaking with sobs.
Alexandra took another step forward, and Elsie backed away even more until she was in a cowering squat in a corner, still crying. Alexandra moved to what was left of the doorway. She had to duck her head to step inside onto the earthen floor, and she advanced toward Elsie slowly.
“Elsie, I know you’re in trouble, but I want to help you. Do you remember me? I took you to your room that night at Montmarsh. I helped you then, and now I want to—”
“Ye’ll bring the others here. I know ye will. Them what wants to hang me.” She croaked the words amid sobs, and Alexandra bent down and reached out to touch her frail shoulder. To her surprise, the girl didn’t flinch. Alexandra put her arms around the slender shape, and the girl collapsed against her.
“Tell me what happened,” Alexandra said, bringing her to her feet. “Tell me what you know, so I can help you.”
Elsie’s surrender was short-lived. “I know nothin’, and ye’ll not make me say I do.” Her voice had become a hoarse, frightened whisper as she pulled away from Alexandra’s embrace and turned her back to her. “And ye’ll never find the bloody knife either.”
“The knife? The one used against Lord Dunsford? You know where it is?”
Elsie’s answer was a scream that drove hot needles into Alexandra’s spine. At the same moment she saw what had frightened Elsie. Constable Snow was only a few feet away from the ruined cottage. With him were Jamie, Nicholas, and Jeremy Atewater. The constable carried in his hand the kitchen knife Elsie had brandished the night of the dinner at Montmarsh. It was now coated with darkened and dried blood and gore mixed with damp earth.
Elsie suddenly flailed Alexandra with her fists. “Ye led them to me, ye bloody bitch. Betrayed me, ye did. Yer no better than the rest of the bloody nobs.”
“Elsie, please…” Alexandra grabbed the girl’s wrists and did her best to calm her, but she was interrupted as Constable Snow ducked his head to step into the doorway.
“Step back, please, Dr. Gladstone. I’ll handle this.” The constable handed the knife to Atewater, and he quickly reached for the heavy wrist irons the stable boy carried. With remarkable swiftness, he fastened them on Elsie’s thin wrists. A keening sound came
from her, a long thin streak of something sharp and painful.
The constable spoke as he fastened the wrist irons. “Elsie O’Riley, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lord Edward Boswick, Earl of Dunsford.”
Elsie collapsed. Constable Snow caught her just before she reached the dirt floor and jerked her against his side.
“On what grounds are you accusing this girl of murder?” Alexandra struggled to keep her voice calm.
Constable Snow glanced quickly at Alexandra. A dark frown furrowed his brow, and a muscle worked in his jaw. Alexandra read his anger in that expression, and she thought for a moment that he would refuse to answer her.
“On the grounds that the murder weapon was known to be in her possession in the early morning hours after Lord Dunsford’s murder, and, further, that she was seen trying to hide it,” he said finally.
“Murder weapon?” Alexandra’s voice was tight. She glanced at Nicholas. His face was grim, and he shook his head slightly as if to warn her not to push the matter further.
In the same instant, Jeremy Atewater thrust the gory knife toward her. “This!” He held the hilt of the knife by his finger tips, as if he was loath to touch it. “The knife that was thrust into Lord Dunsford’s body.”
“But how can you be sure?” Alexandra knew her question to be futile. She recognized the knife Jeremy Atewater held as the same knife Elsie had brandished in the dining room of Montmarsh Hall.
“All of the guests have identified the weapon as the same one Elsie O’Riley threatened Lord Dunsford with.” Snow’s voice was tight and strained. For a moment, Alexandra thought it was because he resented having to explain anything to her, but it occurred to her that he could possibly be as uncomfortable with the situation as she was.
