by Paula Paul
“Mrs. Orkwright, I’m afraid—”
“Please, Alexandra, call me Jane. We were friends once, weren’t we? At least I always meant to be your friend. Perhaps I was not very good at it. Perhaps I let my husband and my children occupy too much of my time. You see, I…” She was nattering uncharacteristically, but she stopped, looked away, and seemed to lose track of what she’d been saying. She was obviously not herself.
Alexandra watched her face, lined now with grief, but somehow, still beautiful. Her eyes stared unfocused. It was true, they had each meant to be friends. Alexandra had recognized in Jane an equal—another woman with whom she could converse on an intellectual level. She knew Jane had recognized the same in her. But their relationship had not gone beyond a handful of chance meetings. Each had been too busy with her own life—Jane with her husband and sons and Alexandra with her medical practice.
“Jane,” Alexandra said, trying again. “There is something you should know about your husband’s death. Something unusual.”
Jane’s eyes refocused on hers, and Alexandra saw something there. Was it fear? Or dread? Or perhaps something all together different? “Unusual?” she said.
“Admiral Orkwright was…was not dressed in a traditional manner.”
There was no response from Jane. Only the slightest rise of her eyebrows.
“He was wearing women’s clothing. I’m afraid…” Alexandra felt as if her breath were trapped in her lungs, and her chest began to hurt. Jane’s quiet, patient wait seemed only to make it harder for her. “I’m afraid he was wearing nothing save a woman’s undergarment,” she blurted.
There was another silence while Jane looked at her with the blank expression Alexandra had become used to. “I don’t understand,” she said finally.
“Nor do I,” Alexandra said. “I hoped perhaps there was some explanation, some light you could shed on—”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. Isn’t it enough that he’s dead?” Her voice rose to a high, agitated timbre. She stood and walked to the window overlooking the sea. She spoke with her back to Alexandra. “Why is this important for me to know these details?” She seemed near tears, and she twisted the handkerchief she held until Alexandra heard a slight ripping sound.
Alexandra felt suddenly dirty, as if she had dragged both of them into some filthy quagmire. “I’m sorry, Jane. I know this must upset you, but—”
Jane whirled around suddenly, her face now livid with anger. “Upset me? You have no idea what you’ve…” Her lips quivered as she tried to go on, but she was unable to speak. She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.
Alexandra went to her and tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but Jane winced and pulled away. She remained with her back to Alexandra for a moment before she turned around. “Forgive me.” Her voice was steady, almost unnaturally so. “I know you’re trying to help me. I suppose the village is full of gossip.” She looked at Alexandra as if to find confirmation in her face, then she turned away again and sat on the edge of one of the sofas. “I appreciate your warning me.”
“Jane, I—”
“I don’t know why.” Jane’s voice was sharp and clipped as she interrupted. Her denial was too quick, Alexandra thought, as if she protested too much. As if she was lying. She had not meant to ask her why. She had meant only to apologize again, then to drop the subject. Yet, Jane persisted. “I shall do all I can to keep this from Will. You understand that, don’t you? You understand that I must protect him.”
“Of course,” Alexandra said. She was silent for another long moment, still standing near the window and looking at Jane, sitting in her rigid posture at the edge of the sofa. Alexandra spoke to her again, apologetically. “I must know if you think your husband’s attire—the female undergarments—had anything to do with his death.”
Jane glanced at her with a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Is it possible he had done this before? Dressed this way, I mean.”
Jane appeared even more puzzled. She shook her head. “I don’t…I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
Alexandra took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unsure about whether or not she should continue. “What I’m asking,” she said, deciding to go ahead, “is if the admiral might have been associated with others—other men, that is—who may have dressed this way, or who enjoyed seeing him dress this way…” She stopped when she saw the look on Jane’s face. She was completely bewildered. It was clear she had no idea of such deviations in human behavior. It seemed cruel to confuse her more; it was best to get to the heart of the matter. “Jane, I just want to know if you believe anyone had any reason to murder your husband.”
Jane’s face grew white and she seemed to shudder. “I thought we were done with that,” she said. “I thought that was what all of the questioning from Constable Snow was about.” She glanced away for a moment, and then turned her gaze back to Jane. “Why would anyone want to kill my husband?”
“He had no enemies?”
“Of course he had enemies. He was an admiral in Her Majesty’s Navy. Men do not rise to such a position without making a few enemies along the way. But certainly no one who would have wanted to kill him. Besides, he was retired. All of that was in the past for him.” Her gaze, hot with a passion Alexandra didn’t understand, burned into Alexandra’s eyes. “Why do you think he was murdered?”
“I don’t know, except…”
“Except what?” Jane said after a long pause.
“Except that, as I said, what he was wearing made the circumstances unusual, even suspect.”
Jane grew pale again, and she shook her head as if to deny it all. “His unusual attire? That’s your reason for wanting an autopsy?”
“That’s only part of the reason. You see—”
“Is it not certain that he drowned?”
“It does look likely, but one can never be certain. Drowning can never be proven even with a postmortem examination.”
“Then what would you be looking for?”
“Another means of death. Poisoning, perhaps, or evidence of apoplexy or heart disease.”
Jane turned away again, considering it. She sat, still on the edge of the sofa, perfectly straight, with her hands folded in her lap. “I see,” she said finally. Her voice was low, quiet. She turned back to Alexandra. “Then perhaps it is best that you proceed. But you must do it quickly and quietly. My husband has a brother in Suffolk, his only living relative, who, I am certain, would not consent to what I am sure he considers the indignity of the examination.”
“Of course.”
“And there is William. This must not be discussed in his presence.”
“Certainly not,” Alexandra said. “I shall notify the constable and proceed as quickly as possible. I assure you, nothing need be made public unless there is evidence of foul play.”
“I’m sure you’ll be discreet.” Jane stood as she spoke, a signal, perhaps, that Alexandra should leave. Alexandra didn’t hesitate to comply. Not only was she eager to begin the examination, but she was certain her presence was distressing to her hostess. She left, however, with something less than satisfaction. She had achieved her goal by getting permission for the examination but at great cost to Jane. Beyond that, she sensed that Jane, although she was naïve about certain aspects of deviant human behavior, still had not been truthful concerning what she knew about her husband’s unconventional attire. But if she was hiding something, some shameful truth, was it simply to protect her son?
Nicholas Forsythe brushed at the dust that had accumulated on the cuff of his elegant black coat, then pulled at the velvet lapels. Finally, he used the tip of his cane to adjust his top hat, which was made of the finest, most luxurious beaver skin. He had just arrived by coach from London, along with a personal servant. He had been hired by a solicitor for the family of a young man accused of burglary to act as barrister in the young man’s defense.
Nicholas got wind of the case by accident when he happened to overhear a conversation between colleagues who were discussing the fact that a solicitor for the mother of the accused was looking to hire a barrister for her son. The family, he had learned, lived in Essex at Newton-Upon-Sea. After that, he had maneuvered and manipulated and used the considerable influence of his family name to convince the solicitor, a Mr. Herbert Fitzjames, that he was the man for the job. He had never met the mother, whose name, he had been given to understand, was Mrs. Orkwright.
As it so happened, he would not have had to use any of his family’s influence nor any of his manipulative strategies to acquire the case. No one else wanted it. His enthusiasm puzzled his colleagues, since it was a most remarkably ordinary case. The accused was simply some young ne’er-do-well arrested for burglary. He was the son, stepson to be exact, of a local dignitary in Newton-Upon-Sea. A retired Admiral Orkwright. Also, the mother’s decision to hire a barrister had come rather late in the game, so there was little time to prepare, which made the case even more unattractive to his colleagues.
Newton-Upon-Sea was, as his colleagues reminded him, a singularly ordinary town, certainly not one for which most barristers would vie to visit either for pleasure or in the line of business. It was not the town, in fact, that interested Nicholas. It was a woman. A markedly peculiar woman in that she had chosen to educate herself as a doctor of medicine. One Dr. Alexandra Gladstone.
He had met Dr. Gladstone several months ago when he’d been a guest at a dinner party given by a former classmate, the late Lord Dunsford, whose country house was just outside Newton-Upon-Sea. Dr. Gladstone was also a guest at the party, and he had found her fascinating. Odd, yes, but fascinating. So much so that, when the opportunity arose, he had contrived to see her again. Then, as luck would have it, the young man escaped Newgate by some trickery as yet unknown. Nicholas saw it as his duty to travel to the young man’s hometown to gather information. It did seem quite possible that the accused might return here to his family, and didn’t that mean his barrister should investigate? As Nicholas saw it, Fate was working in his interest.
Now that he was in Newton, the first thing was to direct his manservant to attend to the practical matter of lodging. Until Lord Dunsford’s recent unfortunate and scandalous death, he could have lodged at Montmarsh, the late Earl of Dunsford’s grand and gracious dwelling. Now, however, the house remained closed and unoccupied except for a caretaker, since there was still some dispute as to the rightful heir. Who the heir turned out to be, he would undoubtedly not even know of the existence of Nicholas Forsythe. And so, Nicholas thought with regret, he would never again be likely to be a guest in the elegance of Montmarsh. Not that there weren’t plenty of other country homes where he was welcome, including his own childhood home, Lockewood, to the north of London, near Oxford. His older brother was already quite prepared to inherit Lockewood by right of primogeniture.
Nicholas was far from homeless, however. His living quarters were an elegant house in Kensington, quite suitable for comfortable living and lavish entertaining. For the time being, however, he would have to content himself with a room in the inn above the Blue Ram, a true public house which was not only where local townsmen met to drink and socialize, but where the court of assizes met when it was in town, and where other meetings important to the populace were held.
Within a few minutes, Morton, his servant, had secured rooms at the inn above the tavern. When Nicholas entered his rented room, he noted that, although it was sparsely furnished, it was reasonably clean. He left Morton to see to his luggage while he walked the short distance down a street called Griffon to the office of the local constable, a Mr. Snow. It was best to give the man the courtesy of a visit and explain his business in Newton.
The constable was busy at his desk, but he looked up as Nicholas entered. “Good afternoon, sir,” the constable said, laying his pen aside. He drew his long, slender frame to a standing position. “May I help you, please?”
“Forsythe. Nicholas Forsythe.” Nicholas, with his hat under his left arm, offered him his right hand. “Perhaps you’ll remember me as one of the guests at Montmarsh last year when the late Earl Dunsford met his tragic death.”
“Ah, of course,” Snow said, shaking Nicholas’ hand. “Most unpleasant circumstances.”
Unpleasant, indeed, Nicholas thought. The late Dunsford had been murdered in his sleep, and it was that peculiar, clever, and quite attractive Dr. Gladstone who solved the crime. Although, Nicholas could admit to himself with a certain measure of pride, he himself had been quite instrumental in helping her get to the bottom of it.
“You’re a barrister, I believe.” Snow resumed his seat, his long white hands folded on top of his desk.
“Quite so,” Nicholas said. “I’ve been retained as the defender for a young man from Newton-Upon-Sea accused of burglary. John Killborn, his name. Stepson of a distinguished admiral. I believe the admiral’s name is Orkwright.”
Snow had been sitting with his head tilted back slightly so that he seemed to be pointing at Nicholas with the sharp tip of his chin. He dropped his chin and spoke. “Of course. John Killborn. I know of him.”
“So I assumed.” Nicholas shifted his cane from his left to his right hand, still with his hat under his arm. “I regret to say he has escaped Newgate, and I thought to inquire if you had news of his being in this area.”
“I’m afraid not.” Snow’s face was expressionless as he spoke.
“It was Killborn’s mother, Mrs. Orkwright, who hired me. You know his family, I assume.”
Snow hesitated only slightly before he answered. “Of course.”
“I shall speak to the mother, certainly, but I wanted to advise you of the details first.”
Snow’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mrs. Orkwright is not well, I’m afraid.”
Nicholas’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “Indeed! She seemed in fine health when she met with me last month.”
“A month can take a toll,” Snow said. “I think it best that I speak with her and determine what she knows of the incident and then relay the information to you. An escape from prison is, after all, law enforcement’s responsibility.”
Nicholas was momentarily stunned. Of course it was law enforcement’s responsibility, but Snow was making an effort to keep him away from the woman who had hired him on behalf of the client. Most unusual, he mused. Most puzzling. His shock had caused him to delay too long. In the next moment, Snow was dismissing him.
“I appreciate the courtesy, Mr. Forsythe. I shall contact you in London as soon as possible.”
Nicholas was even more puzzled. He had to think quickly of a way to stall. “Perhaps Killborn has associates here to whom I could speak, other than his ailing mother, I mean. I was thinking of—”
“None that I know of,” Snow said, interrupting him.
“I was thinking of some of the local criminals, perhaps. Someone you may have imprisoned here.” Nicholas was grasping for ideas, anything that could keep him in Snow’s presence. He wanted to find out what Snow was trying to keep him from knowing.
Snow rose from his seat and took a ring of keys attached to a long metal rod from a hook on the wall and walked toward a door. “This way, please.”
He unlocked the door, and Nicholas, a bit stunned by the constable’s abruptness, followed him down a hall to a single room where a small opening with bars gave the prisoners a view of the hall. Compared to the gaols in the London area with which Nicholas was familiar, this one was small, less than half a dozen occupied the room. Two of the men stood at the windows, and one of them whooped when he saw Nicholas.
“We got us a dandy comin’ this way, boys,” he said. That brought all of the prisoners crowding around the opening.
“You come to play, pretty boy?” the one who had called out said. “Or does we have to satisfy ourselves while we just looks at ye?” The lewd comment brought a chorus of laughter and more raucous shouting. Nicholas had expected no more than a
few drunks to be incarcerated in a town as small as Newton-Upon-Sea. Perhaps it was the busy piers that brought a more hardened element here. Nevertheless, he felt the cold grasp of fear at his throat, but he didn’t slow his pace, and when Snow unlocked the door, he was the first to enter.
“Quiet!” Snow’s snarling command was only half heeded. There was still laughter and lewd gesturing. When Snow stepped in front of him, Nicholas saw that his usually pallid face was flushed with anger. “John Killborn!” he shouted. “Do any of you know John Killborn? If you do, step to the front!” The room grew unnaturally and unnervingly quiet. Snow shouted the name again, and once again there was no response.
He took a step toward the prisoners, and then another step, and another, until he was in their midst. He studied the face of each and occasionally even reached a hand to tilt a man’s head back so he could have a better look at his face. Finally he walked away from the group and turned back toward them with his arms akimbo, his face hardened with what seemed to Nicholas, dangerous anger.
“Who knows John Killborn?”
There was still the long, highly charged silence.
Snow waited, then suddenly struck the wall with the metal rod to which the keys were attached. “Who knows John Killborn?” he shouted.
Some of the men were startled by the noise made by the rod, and there was some uneasy movement and muttering for a few seconds, but there was no answer. Snow waited another long moment before he turned and walked toward the door, his demeanor unnaturally calm. He turned to face the prisoners before he unlocked the door.
“Rations will be restricted to water and a piece of bread for each prisoner per day. Perhaps next time you’ll show more respect to a visitor.” With that, he opened the door, gestured for Nicholas to leave first, then closed and locked the door behind him. He didn’t speak until they had reached his office. “As you can see, I’m afraid you cannot expect any cooperation,” he said as he replaced the keys and rod on the hook. He went to his desk and resumed reading the papers that lay there.
