I carefully dabbed at the wound to wash away some of the tacky blood hiding it, feeling oddly detached from myself. I had never touched a corpse before, and Lady Godwin’s body seemed so fragile beneath my fingers. The water ran in pink streams down her neck to the table below. The depth of the gash and the manner in which the skin peeled back from the wound made me flinch.
“What?” Mr. Gage asked. “What is it?”
I shook my head and swallowed, struggling to regain my composure. “Ah, it’s just an ugly wound. This one slash alone killed her. Any other wounds she may have suffered are just superfluous.”
His eyes slid back up to examine the bruise on her face, and then lifted to meet mine over Lady Godwin’s head.
“I can’t tell whether she was struck before or after her neck was slit,” I told him. “But I imagine there would be some sign of struggle if she had been hit before.”
I reached for her right hand and turned it over to look for any cuts, lacerations, or chipped nails. The left hand was more difficult to manage, for I had to reach across her blood-soaked bodice. The body had already begun to stiffen, and the elbow would not bend easily.
Our eyes met once again across the corpse, and I could see the same confusion I felt reflected in Mr. Gage’s eyes. It did not appear that Lady Godwin fought her murderer, which meant she probably knew the person. And even more disturbing, the attacker may have struck her after killing her. The bruise was too new for the blow to have been delivered earlier than that day. I didn’t recall seeing a contusion there at dinner.
My stomach slowly roiled, and I was forced to step back from the body for a moment. “Did . . . did the body get dropped while it was being transported from the garden?” I asked, hoping maybe one of the men had lost his grip.
Mr. Gage shook his head. His brow was furrowed in concern. “Clearly, someone harbored a great deal of hatred toward the viscountess.”
I felt that was somewhat of an understatement. Why would someone murder Lady Godwin and then strike her, as if killing her was not enough? It was appalling. And I was having a very difficult time dealing with it all.
I looked up at Gage, blinking back the wetness in my eyes that I knew had as much to do with my overloaded emotions as the stink of blood and death.
He had the courtesy, or perhaps the intelligence, not to ask me about it. “I never realized a neck wound could bleed so much,” he stated, waving his hand over her bloody torso.
I took in the state of Lady Godwin’s bodice, my eyes sliding downward to her skirts, and frowned. Neck wounds certainly bled a great deal, but there was no way that this quantity of blood would have trickled down to her abdomen. I thought back to the sight of Lady Godwin laid across the garden bench and the pools of blood collecting in the flounces of her skirt.
“There’s something else.”
He leaned in again as I smoothed my hands down her torso, smearing more blood across the gold fabric. The seam joining her bodice to her skirt had been carefully ripped open and then rearranged and tied back in place with the sash. I remembered the stench of perforated bowel I had smelled upon entering the cellar and quickly reached out to undo the sash.
Knowing what I would find, I didn’t even flinch when I peered through the gap in the gown. Lady Godwin had been sliced open with two incisions forming a T over her lower abdomen.
“My God,” Gage cried, raising his arm to bury his nose in his sleeve.
“I don’t think He had anything to do with this,” I murmured, moving closer to peer at something that had caught my eye.
“You’re certainly right about that. But I don’t understand why the killer made these two cuts?” he puzzled, looking over my shoulder at what I was doing. “As you said, the neck wound alone would have killed her. Was this just another way of taking out his anger? Did he want to disfigure her womanhood in some way?”
I slammed a hand down on the table beside the corpse to steady myself as my churning stomach lurched violently. I could feel Gage’s eyes on my face as my cheeks drained of their last vestiges of color.
“I . . . I think she was with child.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Somehow I managed to spin away from Lady Godwin’s corpse before I emptied the contents of my stomach all over the cellar floor. With my hands held out in front of me still coated in her blood, I retched. I couldn’t stop imagining that poor baby’s fate—her life so viciously ended. The viscountess could not have been more than five months along. The still-small swell of her belly had been easily kept hidden by the flounces of her gown. I now understood her strange deviation from the fashions with fitted waists and belts the other lady guests wore.
Gage knelt down to support me, lacing his arm underneath mine to cup my shoulder. I panted, still shaking from the force of my stomach contractions. A handkerchief came around from behind me, and I allowed him to wipe my mouth and chin. It didn’t even occur to me to feel embarrassed, for I was too overwhelmed by Lady Godwin’s wounds.
“Blow,” he ordered, refolding the cloth and pressing it to my nose.
I did as I was told, leaning back into the warmth his body radiated behind me. I closed my eyes as he removed the handkerchief. Taking deep breaths through my mouth, I remained in Gage’s loose embrace until I felt my muscles steadying. He cupped my elbow to help me rise, and I immediately felt the loss of his comforting hold and heat.
The cellar seemed much cooler than when we arrived, and my knees were quivering from kneeling over. I realized I was not as in control of myself as I thought. There was nothing more I could do here tonight. I needed to clean up and get out while I could still walk on my own two feet.
I swallowed the acid coating my mouth and throat, and stepped back toward Lady Godwin’s corpse. “I think that’s all we’re going to discover tonight,” I told Gage. My voice was rough and gravelly from my illness.
“Of course,” he replied, helping me place the sheet back over the body. “Wash the blood off your hands. The rest can be cleaned up later.”
I didn’t argue. The quicker I was away from Lady Godwin’s corpse, the better. Besides, I doubted the addition of vomit to the other stomach-churning stenches in the room would make much of a difference.
Yanking the ruined gloves off my fingers, I plunged my arms into the bucket of cold water and scrubbed frantically at the red that had seeped through the worn fabric. Gage handed me a towel to dry my hands while he tugged at the ties of my apron. He clearly understood my hurry. Tossing the apron over my implement bag, I picked up my shawl and headed toward the stairs.
The chapel above felt like London in July compared to the icy cold of the cellar. I made it midway through the sanctuary before collapsing onto the solid wood of a pew. Gage joined me a moment later.
We sat quietly, listening to the winds off the bay rattle the windows, the only other sound besides my frantic breaths. I closed my eyes, feeling the rise and fall of my chest slow as I allowed the peace of the chapel to settle into my bones. Scotsmen had come here for centuries—desperate, remorseful, and grieving—in search of solitude, and comfort from their maker. I felt their ghosts filling the benches around me, offering up their silent prayers. It made my fear and distress somehow easier to manage, knowing I was in their company.
That and the pressure of Gage’s sleeve against my own. It appeared I had greatly misjudged him. So far he had been steadier than I, and the fact that he had not lorded it over me or belittled my effort earned my respect and tentative trust. It was tempting to lean into his solid presence, a reaction I couldn’t remember ever happening with a man outside of my family. I had never felt so comfortable with Sir Anthony, not even in the early days of our short courtship and marriage. It was puzzling and slightly unnerving.
I sighed, catching a small whiff of his spicy cologne. It helped to clear the lingering stench of the cel
lar from my nose.
“I should thank you,” Gage said softly. His tone sounded almost reluctant. I glanced up at him, but his gaze remained focused on the altar in front of us.
“I never would have uncovered the fact that Lady Godwin was expecting.” His eyes finally met mine, but it was too dark to truly see into them. The lantern on the floor at his feet gilded his golden hair but shadowed the features of his face.
I turned away, uncertain how to respond.
“Could you tell how far along she was?” he asked, saving me from coming up with a reply.
“No more than five months. The skin of her stomach was not overly stretched. I never noticed she was showing,” I said, recalling the way she had flitted about the parlor only the night before.
Gage nodded, clearly having thought of the same thing. “Are you certain she was with child?” he queried. “Could the killer simply have been . . . disfiguring her?”
I blinked slowly, remembering the coil of the severed umbilical cord. “She was enceinte,” I stated decisively.
He nodded again, accepting my word without further argument. “So there is a missing baby somewhere.” He sighed. “Was there anything else you noticed? Anything that might help us?”
In my mind, I cautiously returned to the scene downstairs and tried to think like Sir Anthony, like one of his students. But I didn’t think like a surgeon. I thought like an artist. I saw everything as it was—the contours, the colors, the rhythm—not how it should be. My mind did not try to correct an image but capture it.
I wrapped my shawl tighter around me and ignored my frustration over what I didn’t have the education for, and instead focused on what I did. “Beyond the inflicted wounds, I noticed no particular signs of deterioration or illness. Her bowel would have been fine except . . .” I paused, realizing something. “The cut at her neck was made precisely and, I would venture to add, with some skill. But the incisions on her abdomen were jagged, awkward. I suppose that could be attributed to a certain amount of struggling from Lady Godwin, but I dare say she died, or at least passed out, before her murderer sliced into her abdomen.” I glanced at Gage, who had begun to run his index finger over his lips as he thought.
“Maybe our murderer has no experience cutting body parts other than the neck.”
“Or they were emotionally distraught,” I added.
“Or . . .” He looked up at me. “We’re dealing with more than one person. Perhaps our murderer had an accomplice.”
I nodded. I had been thinking of one man as well, but we could be dealing with multiple villains. And though I suspected the person who sliced Lady Godwin’s neck was a man, the accomplice could be a man or a woman. “Whoever it was, they likely got blood on themselves. Blood sprays when the jugular vein is cut in the neck. I highly doubt they escaped without becoming soiled by it, as well as the mess they made of her abdomen.”
“I had thought of that. Your brother-in-law’s staff has been instructed to inform me if they discover blood anywhere on the estate, be it clothing, linens, or the floor.” He leaned forward in the pew, propping his elbows on his knees. “Lady Godwin must have been murdered right there in the garden, sometime after dinner.”
I nodded. There had been too much blood on and around the stone bench for it to make any sense otherwise. I needed to examine the scene. Perhaps there was some clue as to the location of the baby or the manner of the initial assault. I also wanted to compare the imprint of Lady Godwin’s body with the wounds I found. I was about to tell Gage so when he made an urgent gesture with his hands.
“The killer must have been aware of Lady Godwin’s delicate condition,” he declared. “Otherwise, why would he have sliced her open?”
I gnawed my lip, agreeing with him.
Gage sat up slowly. “Didn’t Lord Cromarty say that Lord Godwin is in India?”
“He did.” I realized what he was getting at. “Do you know how long he’s been there?”
“No. But it would be very interesting to find out.”
“Did Lady Godwin have a lover?”
He nodded. “Most recently, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
I remembered the man’s arrival at the scene in the garden maze shortly after mine, and the mud stains on the back of his trousers, but I couldn’t see how that would have any connection to the murder.
“But I do not know how long they have been intimately connected,” Gage admitted. “I have not made it a habit to keep track of Lady Godwin’s peccadilloes.”
No, only Mrs. Cline’s.
“Well, then, I suppose we should find someone who does,” I replied a bit more testily than I intended. “For if Mr. Fitzpatrick was not bedding her five months ago, he’s certainly not the father.”
His eyes seemed to laugh at me. “I see that you understand how the anatomy of that process works.”
My cheeks heated. I may have been forced to watch my late husband dissect bodies, but this was swiftly becoming the most intimate conversation I had ever conducted with a man. And I didn’t like how easily Gage unnerved me. “Yes,” I retorted. “Should I pretend otherwise?”
“No.”
I could definitely hear the grin in his voice now and was not about to stick around to hear what else he had to say. Gage was gentlemanly enough to stand and step into the aisle to allow me to pass. However, he was not gentlemanly enough to keep his mouth shut as I slid by.
“Coward,” he whispered.
I did not dignify that with a response, but instead raised my chin and marched down the aisle toward the door.
Somehow having to stand and wait for him to remove the crossbar stole a bit of the thunder from my actions. Gage winked, obviously finding my indignation amusing. I arched an imperious eyebrow but managed to hold my tongue. Even when he swept open the door and bowed like a ridiculous courtier.
I rolled my eyes and strode through the doorway, only to have my dramatic exit ruined yet again. This time by a hard object crashing down on my head.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fortunately, the blow was not hard enough to knock me unconscious. It was, however, hard enough to knock me to the floor and blur my vision. I pressed my hand to the back of my head and tried to rise to my feet, but the pounding in my skull made it difficult to push myself upright. I could hear Gage skirmishing with the culprit, and I worried he might need my help. Someone yelped and howled. I looked up and tried to focus on the man cowering away from Gage as he dragged him back down the hall toward me and shoved him against the wall.
Gage pulled the pistol from the waistband of his trousers and pointed it at the man. Then he slowly backed toward me, kicking what looked to be a pewter candlestick with his heel. It clattered and rolled across the stone floor. All the while, his eyes remained trained on the perpetrator. “Lady Darby? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I moaned. I pushed against the floor again, trying to sit up.
Gage moved closer and knelt on one knee to assist me. “Perhaps you should lie down,” he suggested.
I started to shake my head and then realized what a terrible idea that would be. “No, I’m fine,” I protested. “I’m not bleeding.” At least, I didn’t think I was. “I just need to sit against this wall for a moment.”
Even through the haze of my injury, I sensed the worry and disapproval vibrating through his frame, but he couldn’t afford to take his attention off the man in the shadows across the hall long enough to express it. Once I was seated upright, blinking as I cradled my spinning head, Gage retrieved the lantern from where he had set it just inside the chapel door. The culprit recoiled from the light but did not try to move.
“Lord Westlock?” I gasped in confusion. The silver-haired gentleman was normally so gentle and congenial; I couldn’t believe he’d just attacked me. His wife was the harridan.
“Would you care to explain your presence here, and why you just assaulted Lady Darby?” Gage asked the baron in a firm voice. He set the lantern on the floor and kept his pistol trained on the gentleman.
Lord Westlock instantly appeared contrite. Whether that was in truth or only a pretense, I could not tell. Not with my head still reeling from the blow, as well as the revelation of my attacker.
“Lady Darby, I’m sorry for that. It’s just that . . . my wife and her friends were so certain you murdered Lady Godwin.” He glanced down at his lap, where he was cradling his arm. “I watched you descend the stairs and turn down the corridor toward the chapel where Lord Cromarty said they laid out her body, and I . . .” He swallowed. “Well, I worried my wife might be right. So I followed the light of your lantern.” He glanced at Gage sheepishly. “I didn’t know Mr. Gage was with you.”
I felt a flush burn my cheeks.
“And what did you expect to find, my lord?” Gage asked. Lord Westlock shifted uncomfortably. “Lady Darby further molesting the body?”
“Well, I thought if I caught her at it . . . I mean, after the inquiries a year ago,” he stammered. He pressed his lips together and leaned toward Mr. Gage with a look of pleading. “She’s not natural,” he whispered.
I’d heard the accusation so many times during the inquiries following Sir Anthony’s death, and again during the past few days of the house party, that perhaps I should have become inured to the insult, but I wasn’t. And I suspected I never would be. It pinched in my chest like a splinter.
“Sir Anthony and I were close acquaintances,” Lord Westlock told Gage, something I did not know. “We were members of the same club, enjoyed the same port,” he explained, as if that was all it took for two men to be considered friends. “I happened upon him there one evening a few weeks before his death. He seemed rather smug about something, and when I asked him about it, he told me how pleased he was by how cold and detached his wife was.” I stiffened. “Bragged about it, he did.”
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