by Paula Paul
Alexandra left soon after breakfast. When she arrived home, she found Nancy waiting for her in the parlor. A pot of tea, steaming, sat on a table next to her. Before she could say good morning, she was met with an onslaught from Nancy.
“I hardly slept at all last night, but what else could a body expect with you out of the house and a murderer running about.” Her lack of rest was evident in the mud-colored circles under her eyes.
“Well, I’m perfectly safe,” Alexandra said, hanging up her own coat. By this time Zack had rushed to her side, nudging her with his nose while he danced with the joy of seeing her again. She stooped to hug him and to rub his back.
Nancy, meanwhile, was looking at her as if she wasn’t certain she could believe her. She picked up the tea pot to pour two cups. “And how was Mrs. Pickwick?” she asked, her suspicious tone.
“Very well,” she said, in spite of the fact that she had no idea of her present condition. “So kind of you to ask.” Alexandra moved to the tea table, Zack sticking close to her side.
Nancy dropped two lumps of sugar and a drop of cream in Alexandra’s cup and four lumps, along with a generous splash of cream, in her own. “And why wouldn’t she be well?” She stirred her tea with quick, forceful strokes, as if it were the tea she was peeved with and not Alexandra. “She’s strong as an ox, and, I dare say, in no need of a doctor watching over her the whole night long.” She tapped her spoon on the cup with enough force to cause Alexandra to wince.
“Of course, Nancy. You’re right.” Alexandra sat down and reached for her own cup, which she stirred slowly. Zack lay down at her feet.
Nancy glanced up at her with a surprised look on her face. “Did I hear you say I’m right?”
“Certainly. You know as well as I, that was just an excuse. I really only went for a romantic liaison with Mr. Forsythe, who is back at Montmarsh for the trial.”
Another surprised look from Nancy before she set her cup and saucer on the table with a little too much vigor. Then, in spite of her attempts to stay angry, she laughed. “Oh that it would be the reason.”
Alexandra smiled and took a sip of her tea, savoring both its sweetness and its warmth.
“But,” said Nancy, trying hard to regain her scolding demeanor, “enough of your teasing, Miss. It wasn’t a lover you were after, I’m thinking, but a killer. And ’tis not befitting. If your father were alive—”
“But he isn’t alive, Nancy, and I’m now, as you have so often reminded me, a woman of a certain age. Of an age, I should say, in which I am capable of making my own decisions and taking my own risks. And furthermore, I suspect the real reason you’re angry is because you couldn’t go searching for this murderer yourself.”
Nancy stood and, in a huff, gathered up the tea dishes. “I’ve got better sense, I have. And besides, I have no interest in such gory matters.” With that, she walked to the kitchen.
Alexandra sighed and shook her head at Nancy’s haughty manner, but she couldn’t scold her. She could only smile. Nancy knew she’d spoken the truth no matter how much she pretended not to. She couldn’t resist one last jab and called out to Nancy’s back.
“You didn’t ask whether or not I found the murderer.”
Nancy stopped, but did not turn around.
“Unfortunately I didn’t, but I did see the ghost.”
The dishes Nancy had in her hands rattled dangerously as she spun around. “You saw…”
“Yes, I saw the ghost. One of the supposed murder victims. A living corpse, if you will.”
“There you go with your teasing again.” She was doing her best to look stern, but her face had gone white.
“Of course, you’re right,” Alexandra said, standing to take the cups and saucers from her. “It’s not a matter to be flippant about.” She spoke with her back to Nancy as she started for the kitchen.
Nancy hurried after her. “Then you must tell me—”
“The so-called ghost was young George Stirling, who is no corpse at all, but a living body.” Alexandra put the cups and saucers in the basin Nancy kept for washing dishes, then sat down at the large wooden table in the center of the room. Nancy sat down across from her.
“You’re speaking of the young George who was killed by some of his fellow ruffians down at the waterfront?”
Alexandra nodded. “The same. Only, he wasn’t killed, although he most certainly was left for dead. And I don’t believe the attempt at murdering him was done by any of his fellow ruffians.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know, except that young George seemed to think it was the same person who killed the earl, and therefore it had to be someone at Montmarsh, either a guest or a servant.”
“Elsie O’Riley?”
“No, not Elsie. George was her lover; she wouldn’t attempt to kill him. And the earl died of strangulation and was stabbed as an afterthought to make it look as if Elsie was guilty. George’s would-be killer also tried to strangle him and botched the attempt. Elsie is not strong enough to have strangled either of them. And probably not strong enough to have driven the knife that deeply into the earl’s chest.”
“But Artie and Rob know who the killer is, and they’re afraid of him,” Nancy said.
“Remember, it could be a woman.”
Nancy gave her a skeptical look. “A woman strong enough to strangle a man?”
“It’s possible. But she would have to be bigger than Elsie.”
A pensive expression replaced Nancy’s skeptical look. “Someone big and strapping and used to hard work, such as, say, Mrs. Pickwick?”
“Or someone trim but fit, such as Madam Atewater.”
Nancy’s eyes widened. “Madam Atewater? The gentleman you were entertaining has a wife?”
“Nancy, how many times must I tell you… Oh, never mind.” She stood, feeling restless. “I’ve got to concentrate on finding the killer before George does and before Elsie O’Riley is hanged for something she didn’t do.”
“How are you going to do that, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“I could start by finding George again, or by finding Artie and Rob. They know who the killer is.”
“But they’ve sense enough to hide from her—or him—and you’re not likely to find them.”
Alexandra sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it’s best to leave it to the constable and the courts, while I attend to my own business of seeing to the infirm. I’d best be off to make my rounds.” She walked away, headed for the surgery to fill her bag with supplies.
Nancy called out to her back. “If you think you’re going to trick me into thinking you’re going to drop the matter, then you take me for more of a fool than I am.”
Alexandra tried to ignore her. Within a few moments, she was out the door, mounted on Lucy, and, with Zack trotting beside her, on her way to her rounds.
It took less time than usual, since almost no one was at home. They had left early for the tavern, which was traditionally set up as a courtroom when the assizes met.
The light schedule gave her time to take Lucy and Zack home before she walked down to the piers in search of Artie and Rob. She had to endure the glaring looks and rude remarks of several unsavory looking men, but she continued to ask of the boys’ whereabouts. No one admitted even to knowing the boys, and she was about to abandon her search when she saw Old Beaty standing in the shadow of a rotting ship’s hull.
She was certain he had seen her as well, but when she walked toward him, he turned and walked away. She called his name, but he pretended not to hear her. His strange behavior piqued her curiosity, and she followed him a short distance until he disappeared around the corner of an abandoned warehouse. She followed again, but as she rounded the corner, he was nowhere to be found. She was about to give up when she heard his voice.
“Aye, Dr. Gladstone, ’tis me, John Beaty.” He stepped out from behind a jumble of fallen bricks and other debris from the abandoned building. It was then she realized he had obviously walked awa
y from her in order to make sure no one else was near. “You’re searching for someone, I takes it.” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Indeed I am, for two boys, Artie and Rob, they’re called. Do you know them, by chance?”
“I knows them not, my lady, but you best call off yer search for ’em, whoever they be.” Old Beaty, still whispering, kept looking around, as if he feared someone was listening.
“You do know something. Otherwise, why would you be warning me to—?”
“Me rheumatism is much worse today, Dr. Gladstone, and I was just on me way to yer surgery for a bit more of yer wonderful tonic. Perhaps ye could help me along.” He hobbled toward her, exaggerating his limp.
“Why, of course, Mr. Beaty.” She took his arm and led him toward her house. For the price of a glass of whisky, she could have the benefit of whatever it was the old fox knew.
When they reached the house, Nancy did not greet them at the door. When Alexandra called to her, there was no answer, and a quick glance into the garden told her she was not there. She had, no doubt, walked the short distance to the market district to purchase something.
Alexandra led Old Beaty into her surgery and helped him sit in one of the chairs, then she reached for the medicinal whisky she kept on the top shelf of her cabinet and poured some in a glass for him.
“Now,” she said, handing it to him. “Tell me what you know of Artie and Rob?”
Old Beaty took a swallow of the whisky, let out a long sigh, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I told ye the truth. I knows them not.” He took another long swallow of the amber liquid, draining the glass, and extending it to her. “A wee bit more, perhaps.”
“Mr. Beaty, I’m afraid I—”
“I knows them not, but I knows they are among the young band of thieves headed by that boy, Quince, may God rest his soul.” He raised an eyebrow as if to ask if that tidbit and the promise of more was not worth another glass of whisky.
Alexandra reached for the bottle again. Old Beaty extended his hand for the glass to be filled, but Alexandra held back. He glanced at her.
“Perhaps there is more you can tell me,” she said.
He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Aye, yer a cruel woman, ye are.” He sighed again. “All right, I tell ye the truth. I knows not the boys, and I knows not any of their names, but they is more than petty thieves, I’ll tell ye that. Word is among me old mates there at the docks they works for one of the nobs that has connections here through the late earl, may God rest his soul. The nob sets it up for ’em by telling ’em who has the jewels and such and where it is, or sometimes when one of the rich dandies or his lady will be on the coach to or from London. The boys does the stealin’ and gives the nob a cut of the profit.” Old Beaty looked longingly at the whisky.
“Who is this so-called nob you’re talking about?”
Old Beaty kept his eyes on the whisky, but Alexandra still didn’t offer it to him. Finally he glanced at Alexandra and shook his head. “I knows not, but the talk is, the earl was in on it, too, and something went bad that got him killed.”
Alexandra handed him the glass. He grabbed it eagerly and drank deeply. Old Beaty seemed certain the killer was one of the guests, nobs, as he called them, which was what George had led her to believe. But did that mean she could trust that Old Beaty really was telling the truth and telling her everything he knew? She wasn’t sure.
She glanced at him as he took another swallow of the whisky. “What did you mean when you told me once that if I found the corpse I’d find the killer?”
Old Beaty held the empty whisky glass in both his hands and rolled it between his palms, looking down at his knees. “I’d heered all that talk about the jewel thief ring, and I’d heered one o’ the boys was kilt, but I never believed it. I thought ’e was maybe injured and fearful, so ’e was hiding.”
“Why didn’t you believe he was dead?”
Old Beaty raised his head to look at her. “Why, if ’e’d been dead, Quince would have buried ’im. Quince may have been a thief, but ’e was a good Christian boy, he was. ’E’d see his boys got buried proper. No, Quince sends ’im off to hide, if you ask me. Wanted ’im to leave the town, I’d wager, but the way it looks, the poor bloke was love sick for yer Elsie, so ’e stayed around to be with ’er.”
Alexandra was silent a moment, trying to sort it out in her mind. When she spoke, it was in a careful, thoughtful tone of voice. “So both Quince and George knew something they weren’t supposed to know, and whatever it was got Quince killed and almost the same for George.”
Old Beaty nodded. “’Tis the way I sees it.”
There was no more from Old Beaty. He only continued to shake his head and roll the glass between his palms.
Alexandra stood and placed the whisky back on the top shelf in the cupboard. She was feeling a bit guilty about using it to ply answers from Old Beaty. It appeared he was becoming addicted to it, and if she fostered the addiction she was breaking her oath to do no harm. She would have to deal with her guilt another time, though. For now, she had a murderer to find.
She turned to her guest. “Thank you, Mr. Beaty. You’ve been most helpful.”
He looked a bit crestfallen when he saw there was to be no more whisky, but he managed a gracious response. “Glad to be of ’elp, Doctor.” He hobbled toward the door. “Ye’ll be coming ’round with more of ye wonderful tonic, won’t ye?”
Alexandra gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Of course I will, but I’m thinking of a small change in the prescription.”
He gave her a worried look and bade her good bye. When he was gone, Alexandra paced the floor for a time, still trying to sort all the facts in her mind. She tried to relive the events of the night Lord Dunsford was killed and of the next morning when she examined the body. While there was reason to suspect several of the guests, nothing came to her except the fact that she had to try once again to find George.
She had to saddle Lucy herself for the four-mile ride to Montmarsh, since Freddie, as usual, had wandered off. When she reached the estate, no one answered her knock. Obviously all the guests and several of the servants had been called as witnesses, and the rest, with no master around to stop them, were attending the trial. The front door was locked, but she did manage to find a door at the back that had been carelessly left open.
The door gave access to the servants’ quarters, which, like the rest of the house, appeared empty. She searched each of the rooms, though, and then let herself into the kitchen, which was as silent as a tomb. If the guests expected to be served a luncheon on this day, they would be disappointed. If the heir to Montmarsh didn’t show up soon, the house would be in chaos.
She searched the attic and down in the cellar, but all in vain. She went back into the house to search more rooms, calling out George’s name, but her voice echoed eerily down empty halls.
The house was enormous, and she knew she could never search every room in the short time she had before her duty as a witness bade her leave. And even if every room was searched, George could easily be in one wing of the house while she was in another.
At least, she had to try the rooms on the wing where the guests had stayed the night of the murder. The door to the first room was left slightly ajar, and when she slowly pushed it open, the hinges squealed, sending shivers through her body. Cautiously, she stepped inside. The room had obviously been Lord Winningham’s. She recognized the coat that was now flung carelessly on a chair as the one he had worn the night before.
“George,” she called softly. “George. Are you here?”
She was answered only with silence. She made a quick search of the room and then left, leaving the door partially opened, as she had found it. She searched all the other rooms on the wing except the one in which the earl died, finding nothing. When she entered that chamber, she saw that it, like the others, was uninhabited, and the bed had been cleaned and neatly made. It now looked as benign as any other room. In spite of t
hat, she could not help but see, in her mind’s eye, the gory sight of his sheets and his natty silk nightshirt turned dark in one spot with his blood.
She turned away to leave, but turned back again with the unexplainable feeling that she was missing something. But what? She had no time to ponder it, because she had to get to the trial in time to testify.
She rode Lucy to the Blue Ram, now set up as a courtroom. In spite of the fact that the windows were open, the room was hot, and, as she had suspected, it was packed with observers, whose perspiring bodies contributed to both the rank odor and the sensation that the air was liquid. Among the observers sitting on one of the benches was Nancy, damp curls plastered against her glowing face where they had escaped her bonnet. She also saw the Atewaters and Lord and Lady Winningham along with Mrs. Pickwick and Nicholas, all of whom would testify, if they hadn’t already.
Elsie sat alone at a table near the front looking pale and frightened and very young. Alexandra took a seat on one of the tavern chairs next to Nancy.
Nancy leaned close and whispered, “I’m surprised it took you so long since all your patients are here at the trial.”
Alexandra responded with a benign smile and then whispered, “I thought you told me you have no interest in such gory matters.”
Nancy stiffened and refused to look at her. She kept her eyes on the prosecuting attorney, who had just sworn in Nicholas.
The prosecutor’s robe billowed over his portly frame, giving him the look of an enormous bewigged ball rolling toward the witness box. When he spoke—“State your name please”—his voice had a deep, hollow sound, like thunder through a tunnel.
“Nicholas Andrew William Forsythe.” Alexandra could see the worried expression on Nicholas’s face even from so far away. That must mean things were not going well for Elsie.
