Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1)

by Paula Paul

  “Were you a guest at the country house of Lord Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford on the night of August sixth?” The prosecutor raised his eyes to look at the ceiling as he spoke.

  “Yes,” Nicholas said.

  “Who were the other guests present?” The prosecutor was still looking at the ceiling with a bored expression on his face.

  A sound, something like a growl, escaped the throat of the judge. “Mr. Crudgington, I think by now the court knows who was at the dinner. You’ve asked the same question of every single witness so far.”

  The prosecutor dropped his eyes and his head to look at the justice. “Excuse me, my lord, I was merely trying to establish that all of the witnesses were indeed present at the dinner.”

  The judge picked up a handkerchief and patted his glistening face with it. “I think you’ve established that, Mr. Crudgington. Just get on with the business at hand.”

  The prosecutor seemed to puff himself up even more to hide his chagrin. “Very well. Mr. Forsythe, describe the events of the evening of Lord Dunsford’s death.”

  The judge mopped the back of his neck under his periwig and leaned toward the witness box. “Did you observe the defendant enter the dining hall, Mr. Forsythe?”

  “I did, my lord.”

  “Then begin with that.”

  Nicholas obliged by describing how Elsie came rushing into the dining hall brandishing a knife and threatening Lord Dunsford for killing her Georgie.

  The prosecutor glanced at the jury, which, Alexandra noticed, was comprised mostly of local merchants. Among them was Dave Stillwell, the butcher, who, Alexandra remembered, was already convinced of Elsie’s guilt long before the trial, by virtue of her being Irish.

  “Do you see the young woman who made those threats in the courtroom?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I do.”

  “Will you point to her, please?”

  Nicholas hesitated a moment, and Alexandra saw his jaw tense before he pointed to Elsie.

  A look of satisfaction spread across the broad expanse of the prosecutor’s face. “When was the last time you saw Lord Dunsford alive?”

  “It was quite late,” Nicholas said. “The two of us lingered in the library after all the other guests had gone to bed. Then, after we’d finished our brandy, we said good night at the top of the stairs, and Lord Dunsford went one way to his bedchamber, and I the other.”

  “And when did you realize he was dead?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Not until the next morning. I left the house rather early for a ride in the morning air, and when I came back, I discovered his body in his room.”

  Nicholas was asked next to describe what he saw.

  “It was a grizzly scene. The earl’s head thrown back and twisted slightly to the side, mouth agape, eyes bulging, a bit of blood making a dark stain on Lord Dunsford’s nightshirt…”

  “A bit of blood?” the judge asked.

  “It was difficult to tell how much at first, my lord, since Lord Dunsford was wearing a red silk night shirt. But there was a slightly darker stain on it, and Dr. Gladstone said—”

  “Dr. Gladstone will have her own opportunity to testify, Mr. Forsythe,” the judge said. “Please, just describe what you saw.

  Nicholas continued to describe the scene just as Alexandra remembered it.

  “I must confess I did not notice the mark on Lord Dunsford’s neck until Dr. Gladstone pointed it out,” Nicholas said.

  “You were not asked to describe things you did not notice.” It was the prosecutor who spoke this time, and who was literally looking down his nose at Nicholas. “And you needn’t speculate on anything Dr. Gladstone saw, as, the judge has instructed you, and as, being a barrister, I’m sure you already knew.”

  Once again the judge leaned toward Nicholas in the witness box. “You were apparently the only one of the guests to see the body before the constable and the doctor arrived.”

  “Yes, my lord, I believe that is what they claim.”

  “Proceed,” the prosecutor said.

  “None of the other guests had emerged from their bedchambers when I returned from my ride,” Nicholas said, “and when I started upstairs to my room to change out of my riding clothes, I saw Eddie’s door ajar, so I stopped and peered inside, hoping to have a word with him.”

  The judge frowned. “Whose bedchamber?”

  “Lord Dunsford’s, my lord. Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford.”

  “Let the record show that Eddie and Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford, are one and the same.” The judge gave Nicholas a stern look. “We must keep the record straight.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Proceed,” the judge said with a nod of his head to Nicholas.

  “When I saw the body, and it was clear to me that he had been murdered, I left his room, of course. I secured a key from the housekeeper to lock the room. I also instructed the staff that no one was to enter, and then I sent one of the servants for the constable. By this time, the others were arising, and I told them the awful news. They all appeared shocked, as one might expect.”

  “You say you gave instructions that no one was to enter?” the prosecutor once again had his face lifted upward as if waiting for God to shower blessings on him.

  “Yes, of course. I thought it best to make certain the crime scene was not corrupted,” Nicholas answered.

  “As one would expect of a barrister,” the judge said.

  Prosecutor Crudgington nodded slightly, and then, with his back to Nicholas said, “You may step down.”

  Nicholas made no move to leave the witness box. Instead, he spoke to Crudgington’s back. “Excuse me, sir, but I believe it may be of some interest to you to know that George Stirling is not dead.”

  Crudgington turned around as quickly as a man of his girth could turn. “It is for me to decide what is of interest to me. You may step down, Mr. Forsythe.”

  “George Stirling?” The judge wore a puzzled frown.

  “The person the defendant referred to as Georgie, my lord,” Nicholas said. “And I believe Elsie knew he was alive by the time Earl Dunsford was killed, so she had no motive to kill him.”

  Crudgington’s face turned red with rage. “Mr. Forsythe, you should know that kind of ridiculous speculation is of no value to—”

  The judge interrupted, while at the same time holding up his hand up to silence Crudgington. “Why, Mr. Forsythe, do you believe this man George Stirling to be alive?”

  “Because my lord, I have spoken with him myself.”

  “Mr. Forsythe,” Crudgington said, all but shouting, “whether or not you imagine yourself to have spoken with this person has no bearing on this case.”

  The judge turned a gaze, hot with anger, on the prosecutor. “Mr. Crudgington, sit down. And you will refrain from interrupting me.” While Crudgington moved away, the judge turned back to Nicholas. “I assume your conversation with this George Stirling does have some bearing on the case. Otherwise, you would not have mentioned it. Now, pray tell, what did he say that you think is of importance.”

  “He said, first of all, my lord, that he was severely strangled and then left for dead by the same person who killed Lord Dunsford.”

  There was an excited murmur in the courtroom, and the judge pounded his gavel for silence. “Go on, Mr. Forsythe. Did Mr. Stirling know this person?”

  “He did, indeed, sir.”

  “And he revealed his name to you?”

  “I’m afraid not, but—”

  Crudgington threw up his hands. “Of course not. You are wasting my time and the court’s time, Mr. Forsythe, now if you will kindly step—”

  “But he led me to believe the killer was at Montmarsh,” Nicholas said. “And I believe he plans to kill him for putting the blame on Elsie.”

  An even louder excited murmur issued from the crowd and brought the judge’s gavel down several times. When the room was finally quiet, the judge spoke again. “Mr. Forsythe, you say he led you
to believe. You, of all people, should know that kind of speculation is not admissible. Did he or did he not say the killer is at Montmarsh?”

  Nicholas wore a troubled look. “My Lord, I am only trying to point out that there is reason to doubt the guilt of—”

  “Mr. Forsythe,” the judge interrupted again, “unless you can produce this George Stirling, it will be very difficult for me to give much consideration to what you allege he has told you. Can you find him and bring him here to testify?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Nicholas appeared quite nervous now, a fact which seemed to cheer Mr. Crudgington.

  “And why not?” The judge sounded unquestionably annoyed.

  “He has disappeared,” Nicholas answered. “And all my attempts to find him have been in vain.”

  The judge was silent for a moment, apparently contemplating all that Nicholas had said. Finally he spoke. “Constable Snow, you will make every attempt to locate one George Stirling. Mr. Forsythe, you will cooperate with the constable and tell him everything you know about where and when you last saw Mr. Stirling.” He turned then to the prosecutor. “Mr. Crudgington, who is your next witness?”

  “Dr. Alexandra Gladstone, sir.”

  The judge hit the desk with his gavel again. “There will be a brief recess before Dr. Gladstone is called.”

  The murmur of voices resumed after the judge left the courtroom, and Nancy turned to Alexandra to speak to her. “You must be careful, Miss. Don’t say anything to get that poor girl hanged.”

  Alexandra hardly heard her. She was still reliving the scene of Lord Dunsford dead on his bed. She was only vaguely aware of Nicholas at the front of the courtroom, surrounded by people, and of his glances at her as if he wished to speak to her.

  Nancy touched her arm. “Miss Alex, are you all right?”

  Alexandra stood up suddenly. “I must leave, Nancy.” She tried to push her way through the crowd, but Nancy caught her hand.

  “But, Miss. You have to testify in five minutes. You must wait.”

  “No!” Alexandra pulled her hand away from Nancy’s. “I know who the murderer is, and I’m afraid George is about to be the next victim.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alexandra found it difficult to get through the crowd. Her role as next witness made her something of a celebrity. Everyone wanted to talk to her.

  “That dirty little scullery maid killed the earl, didn’t she?”

  “What can you say to prove ’er innocent?”

  “Is that Forsythe dandy lying, Miss, or is ’e crazy?”

  “Who killed the poor bloke? Was it Stirling?”

  “I’m sorry,” Alexandra said, pushing her way through. “I’ve been admonished not to talk about the case. Please excuse me. I must get through.” As she tried to make her way past the crowd, she looked for the person she knew to be the murderer, but to no avail. She knew the killer must be looking for George now that Nicholas had testified he’d seen him at Montmarsh. She knew she had to find George first if she was to save his life.

  By the time she finally reached the door, the five minute recess had ended, and she heard the bailiff asking for quiet. Everyone turned away from her, leaving her in the hallway as they returned to their seats.

  The court would be called to order soon, and she would be called to testify, but she could not stop. As soon as she was on the street she saw that it was empty of both pedestrians and carriages. She hoped that meant she had gotten out ahead of the killer and could get to George first.

  She reasoned that because of Nicholas’s testimony, the killer would go to Montmarsh to look for George, and, in spite of the fact that her repeated searches for him had yielded nothing, she still thought George was most likely there. He had said he thought that would be the safest place for him once the killer was out of the way. He was not right, of course, but George’s intelligence was lacking. Also he was obviously afraid of trying it on his own in some unknown place.

  She found Lucy where she had left her outside the tavern and rode as fast as she dared, without tiring her too much, all the way to Montmarsh.

  When she arrived, she saw a carriage waiting in front without a driver. That must mean the killer had left the tavern ahead of her. She rode to the back of the house and slid off of Lucy and left her to graze untied and unfettered. She hurried to the back door, hoping it was still open. She hoped, too, that the patch of wild grass just outside of Montmarsh’s manicured lawns would keep Lucy from straying too far.

  Her heart was pounding and her breathing still coming in gasps as she reached the door. It was, indeed, still open, and she took a cautious step inside and then another and another, trying not to make a sound, not knowing whether to call out to George or to call out the murderer’s name as a way to alert George that he was in danger.

  She stopped suddenly and caught in her breath as someone moved out of the shadows and stood in front of her.

  “Dr. Gladstone?” Isabel laughed. “I never expected it to be you.”

  “Shhh!” Alexandra placed a finger to her lips. “What are you doing here?” She spoke in an urgent whisper.

  “I followed Jerry.” Isabel spoke none too quietly. “I’ve long suspected he had a mistress. But you of all people? I knew if I followed him and caught the two of you, he could no longer threaten to divorce me for my own little indiscretions, and—”

  She was interrupted by a scream, throbbing with terror. It seemed to be coming from beneath them. From the cellar. It was followed by the sound of a struggle and the muffled sound of groaning. Alexandra turned away from Isabel, ran out the door and toward the cellar. She had just reached the bottom step when she saw Jeremy Atewater emerge from the shadows, his left arm covered with blood and blood oozing from between the fingers of his right hand where he held his wounded arm. He stopped when he saw her.

  “So it’s you,” he said, echoing his wife’s words.

  “Where’s George?” She knew the answer almost as soon as she’d said the words. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw him sprawled, lifeless, in a pool of blood on the cellar floor. His own knife was clutched in his hand with the blade lying across his sliced and bleeding neck.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Atewater continued to move toward her as he spoke, and she instinctively backed up the stairs, then turned and ran. She saw Isabel standing at the top of the cellar stairs, wide-eyed and frightened.

  “Jerry! What does this mean? How could you…?” Isabel never finished her sentence, instead she screamed and tried to run away, but she stumbled on the train of her skirt and fell directly in front of Alexandra. There was no time to avoid her, and Alexandra tripped on Isabel’s prone body, falling to the ground.

  Alexandra scrambled to stand, but she felt Atewater’s blood-dampened hand grab her arm and pull her to her feet. In the same instant she glanced down and saw that Isabel was unconscious. She’d hit her head on the short stone wall that lined the path to the stables.

  Atewater twisted her arm behind her, forcing her back against him. She could feel the blood from his wounded left arm soaking into her dress. “I should have killed you myself when that idiot I hired bungled the job that night at your stables.” He tightened his grip. “But I found that I’d rather come to like you, and I kept hoping that maybe you didn’t know the truth after all.” He placed his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Ah what fools you ladies turn us into, just with your winning ways. Now I shall have to do what I should have done long ago.”

  “If you’ve severed an artery in your arm, you’ll die first,” Alexandra said.

  Atewater laughed. “It will do you no good to try to frighten me, Doctor. The wound is superficial. George is no better with a knife than the idiot from the waterfront I hired to kill you.”

  In the next second he had something around her throat, pulling it tight, sending daggers of pain to her head and shoulders as it pressed into the wound she’d sustained a few days before. He let go of the arm he had twisted behind her
back and used both hands to tighten the cord.

  Instinctively, she grasped at the cord, trying to loosen it, realizing as it pulled even tighter, that she should attack him in some way to get him to drop the cord. His eyes, or his injured arm. But she could not think how to do it as the world around her grew darker and darker and her breath, trapped in her throat, could not get to her lungs. Her lungs were on fire, and the old wound at her throat sent a roaring tide of pain throughout her body. When her eyes started to ache, she knew they were beginning to bulge, just as Lord Dunsford’s had.

  A ghastly choking sound. Coming from her own throat.

  Suddenly there was another sound, deep, loud, closer, filling her first with terror and then with relief just as some enormous form sent her and Atewater staggering backward, crashing to the ground.

  “After him, Zack. Don’t let him go.” It was Nancy’s voice calling to the dog. Atewater, in the meantime, was screaming in terror as Zack clamped his enormous jaws onto his wounded arm.

  Alexandra, still dazed, called out to Zack to stop just as two more forms moved past her and, when Zack backed away, pulled Atewater to his feet. It took a moment for her to realize that it was Nicholas and Constable Snow.

  Much later, when she was propped up in her bed with half a dozen pillows and Zack curled into an enormous ball on the floor beside her, she saw Nicholas again. He, along with Lord Winningham, Isabel Atewater, and Constable Snow, were standing at the foot of her bed. Nancy was hovering over her with a steaming cup of tea. She realized she must have blacked out, just as George had when he had been left for dead.

  Remembering George, she sat up suddenly. “Someone has to see to George I think he may be—” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Now, now, Miss, you mustn’t fret. Here, drink this.” Nancy thrust the tea cup toward her.

  “But—”

  “It’s been taken care of, Dr. Gladstone,” Constable Snow said.

  Alexandra was still agitated. “It was Atewater. He killed Lord Dunsford, but I don’t know why he—”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself.” Snow’s voice was low, almost soothing. “We got a full confession from Mr. Atewater.”