Dead Silent

by Tracy L. Ward

  DEAD SILENT

  By Tracy L. Ward

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Tracy L. Ward

  For my children

  without whom I would have nothing

  Chapter 1

  Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing

  Under my eye;

  December 1867

  Peter Ainsley was anxious to get home which only made the marathon train journey back to London all the more excruciating. He hadn't been able to think clearly since receiving news that his mother was reported missing. The telegraph said very little, which threatened Ainsley's sanity while his mind conjured all manner of possible scenarios.

  Margaret, his sister, was very quiet. She spent the majority of the train ride suppressing tears and licking her lips like she always did when she was nervous. Ainsley ventured to say very little, not wanting to cause her to lose her composure. However, when the telegraph had first arrived he could hardly stop talking. He must have examined the telegraph a hundred times, re-reading each word carefully, trying to pull out any further information hidden within the letters. He used the same scrutiny he employed when performing autopsies, his own stubbornness refusing to accept there was no further clue. With bodies there were always clues but in this regard he was completely helpless.

  Once at King’s Cross Ainsley hailed a hansom carriage which proceeded unhurriedly through the congested streets of London to their family home in Belgravia. Ainsley shifted in his seat, half of his body practically hung out of the carriage as they rolled along.

  “Peter, please. You make me fret even more when you behave so.” Beside him, Margaret gave a look of displeasure though he doubted she was displeased with him. Ainsley slipped into the middle of the bench seat, well enough away from the sides where he would be tempted to crane his neck to see if traffic was moving more swiftly.

  “We have almost arrived,” he said, as reassuringly as he could muster. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, his grip so pronounced his knuckles turned white.

  “Peter!” Margaret reproved him once more, drawing his attention to his tightly wrung hands.

  He quickly loosened his grip and allowed his hands to slip to his sides. He had been fighting the urge to empty the contents of his flask the entire journey. Margaret would most assuredly disapprove. He fidgeted partly out of fear for his mother and partly because of the absence of drink.

  “I'd wager he did it,” Ainsley said all of a sudden, breaking the pattern of their near silent journey.

  “Who?”

  Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “Father.”

  Margaret's shoulders sank. “You don't know that,” she said, her voice lacking conviction.

  Ainsley almost laughed at the suggestion. In his mind his father, the one and only enemy their mother could have had, was the primary suspect. “Is it not odd that mother takes a lover and then suddenly she goes missing?”

  “We cannot think like that, Peter. Father could never do such a thing.”

  Ainsley slipped deeper into the cushioned seat, any energy he would have normally had to argue was depleted thanks to their long journey. “Your faith in him astounds me,” he muttered.

  The house looked like it always did, ramrod straight and daintily kept. The stone steps that led from the street were flanked by a wrought iron fence that was synonymous with their Belgravia neighbourhood. Two large iron urn planters framed the door but the bushes they held were lack luster in appearance thanks to the increasingly absent December sun.

  Despite his eagerness to get inside Ainsley was careful to assist his sister from the carriage, offering a hand as she stepped down, and waiting while she climbed the four steps to their front door. The hansom driver clamoured from his perch and set about to dislodge their trunks and Margaret's valise from the rear of the carriage.

  Billis, the family butler, appeared at the door within moments of their arrival and summoned the footman, Cutter, to assist the driver with the luggage.

  “Oh I have missed you, Billis,” Margaret said as she stepped into the warmth of the house. She unclasped her cloak and turned slightly so he could take it from her shoulders.

  Cloak draped over his arm, Billis gave the siblings a flourished bow. “Your absence has been hard on Lord Marshall.”

  Ainsley and Margaret exchanged knowing glances as they unburdened themselves from the heavy outer clothing required during the long journey from the northern townships. Margaret had been absent without permission and as a matter of fact so had Ainsley, but a young man of independent means was more or less free to explore as he wished. A young lady, however, a young unmarried lady, had no such leeway. She had not given much thought to her transgression, or its repercussions, not when their mother was missing.

  “Is he severely cross?” Margaret ventured to ask.

  Billis accepted Ainsley's jacket and held it by the inside collar. “No, Miss Margaret. He has other worries at present.”

  “Haven't they located her?” Ainsley asked, knowing Billis could be trusted above all others.

  “No, my lord.”

  The last threads of hope slipped from Ainsley and Margaret’s faces.

  “His lordship is in a meeting with an inspector at present. I shall have your belongings laundered,” he said, gesturing to their trunks that flowed like a toy train into the foyer. “Shall I bring you tea in the drawing room?” he asked.

  Ainsley nodded. “Thank you Billis.”

  The pair, Margaret and Ainsley, made their way to the empty drawing room and stationed themselves in front of the fire to warm their tingling toes and fingers.

  “I expect Father will be more cross with me than you,” Ainsley said.

  “How so?”

  “You are one of the favourites.”

  “That's not true. He is very proud of you,” Margaret answered. “I once heard him and Billis talking about all the work you do at the hospital.”

  “Oh truly? Why are such conversations hidden among the servants? He is ashamed of me. He'd rather I wasn't a surgeon. He wishes I were a man of business, or law or, god forbid, the clergy. A proud father would not forbid the hired help from admitting knowledge of my position.” Ainsley could not hide his distaste.

  Lord Marshall had been so disapproving of his second son's career choice that Peter had taken his mother's maiden name, Ainsley, to attend school and in effect assume another life. While working he was Doctor Peter Ainsley, morgue surgeon. While among family and London's elite, he was Peter Marshall second son to one of the wealthiest men in the English Empire, the Earl of Montcliff.

  “Oh that's just politics,” Margaret waved her hand.

  “Is that so—?” Ainsley's words were cut short when the door opposite them opened, and their father, Lord Abraham Marshall, entered from his study escorting a stocky gentleman. Ainsley watched as his normally composed father stopped suddenly, seeing the pair of them warming themselves by the fire. He bore a pained look accented by fatigue and resignation. It was not a side of his father that Ainsley had seen before.

  “Father!” Margaret rose suddenly and greeted him. “Have they found her?”

  Lord Marshall clasped her softly on her upper arms and gave a slight smile. “No,” he said, in a defeated tone. He turned to the detective who stood behind him. “This gentleman has promised to do all he can.”

  Margaret turned to him and gave a slight curtsey in greeting.

  “These are my two younger children, Peter, my second son,” Lord Marshall gestured to Ainsley who turned to look at his father but remained before the fire, his hands deep in his pockets. Before his father turned to introduce Margaret, Ainsley saw a sneer directed at him. He had been right. The old man harboured contempt and had not fully forgiven him for leaving on a
ssignment with the hospital. No doubt he blamed Ainsley for Margaret's sudden and unauthorized departure as well.

  “This is Detective Inspector Simms of Scotland Yard,” Lord Marshall said by way of introduction.

  Ainsley finally stepped forward, offering a hand of greeting.

  “I appreciate your continued cooperation,” Inspector Simms said, throwing a hand out to Ainsley in greeting. Inspector Simms shook Peter's hand firmly while looking him in the eye.

  “Good evening Inspector,” Ainsley said, purposely avoiding his father's gaze. “We are most anxious to help, if we may.” Margaret gave an emphatic nod of agreement when Ainsley looked to her.

  “I have just been relaying your mother's and my last conversation,” Lord Marshall explained.

  Ainsley saw Margaret's eyes drop to the floor. He too remembered hearing of his parents' explosive episode. Inspector Simms saw her reaction as well.

  “Have you travelled to The Briar in Tunbridge Wells?” Ainsley ventured to ask, hoping to save his sister closer scrutiny. Their mother spent the majority of her time at their country home, avoiding contact with her domineering husband and, from what Ainsley and Margaret had recently discovered, entertaining her lover away from the prying eyes of London society.

  “I will go once I have exhausted all leads here,” Inspector Simms explained.

  “But she had been there this past week,” Margaret said in protest. “She left the city the day before I left. If she has gone missing, the trail certainly starts there.”

  Lord Marshall gave a long exhale of breath. “No my dear, the trail does not start there. Your mother was here for three days before leaving yesterday for Tunbridge Wells. She never arrived.”

  “She was here?” Margaret's voice cracked slightly as she spoke.

  “Yes and yesterday we quarreled.” Lord Marshall sounded abashed while Ainsley felt somewhat vindicated. Their family secret was finally out. “She left and I have not heard from her.”

  Ainsley and Margaret exchanged knowing glances. Inspector Simms raised an eyebrow at the exchange and jotted something down, an act that made Ainsley regret his unguarded reaction.

  Lord Marshall must have seen it as well because suddenly he clasped his hands together loudly. “Well Inspector, unless you have any more questions, my children have been away for some time and I'd like to spend some time with them before my meeting this evening.”

  “Actually sir, I'd like to interview Margaret, if I may, seeing as she was one of the last family members to see Lady Marshall,” Inspector Simms answered, indicating Margaret with a point of his pencil.

  Ainsley saw Margaret's jaw clench. Lord Marshall pulled back his shoulders and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Is that necessary? She has just returned from a long journey.” Lord Marshall looked to his daughter sympathetically.

  “Yes, sir. The sooner the better, else our trail goes cold.”

  Lord Marshall nodded reluctantly. “Margaret, my dear,” he gestured to the door he had just brought them through. “You may use my study for your interview.” He forced a smile. “Peter and I will remain here, if you need us.”

  Margaret nodded, straightened her stance and led the way into her father's private room. The detective followed her as Lord Marshall and Ainsley looked on. They watched as Inspector Simms pulled the double doors closed.

  “So mother was here after I left?” Ainsley asked almost as soon as the door had closed. He stared at his father, giving no means of escape from his line of questioning.

  “Yes,” Lord Marshall breathed. “Her sudden arrival put our staff in a right tizzy as well. We had no idea we should expect her.”

  “Does she not send word ahead of her?” Ainsley asked, unsure of the protocol that ruled his parents' marriage.

  “No, but I could always count on Violetta to send a note announcing their departure from The Briar,” he explained. “This instance her note never arrived.”

  Next to Billis, Violetta was the only other servant the Marshall family employed since before Ainsley was born. Her loyalty, though strong, extended to Lady Charlotte Marshall alone, only being given to the children as needed and rarely ever to Lord Marshall himself. If she was known to send word it would be for the betterment of Lady Marshall, not the Belgravia staff.

  Lord Marshall turned to a chair set before the fire and took a seat, exhaling loudly as if finally able to relax after a long day.

  “Violetta is with her then?” Ainsley asked, seeing a glimmer of hope.

  Lord Marshall shrugged. “Knowing your mother's character, anything is possible.”

  “But if Violetta is with her she may contact us, assure us of their safety.”

  Lord Marshall nodded. “That is my hope as well.”

  Ainsley took a seat across from his father, and was grateful for the aura of heat radiating from the fire in the fireplace. “Tell me about your last conversation,” he pressed while sitting on the edge of his seat.

  “Why must—?”

  “Because it's important Father!” Ainsley bellowed. As soon as he spoke he looked to the closed door where Margaret was with Inspector Simms. He turned back to his father with an internal note to keep his voice low. “I need to know what you argued about,” he whispered. “There may be clues.”

  Lord Marshall shook his head and turned his gaze from his son. “I will not be scrutinized by my child on the particulars of my marriage,” he said firmly.

  “I will find the truth Father, I always do.”

  “Then do so without compromising my dignity.” Lord Marshall's tone was quiet and almost pleading. It was not a side of his Father Ainsley was used to seeing. Perhaps he was afraid of what Ainsley would uncover if given free reign to investigate. Ainsley smiled slightly at the thought. His father knew him well enough to know how resourceful and stubborn he was. He would know that Ainsley would not rest until answers were found, especially where his mother was concerned.

  After a few moments of silence had passed between them, Lord Marshall looked to the closed doors of his study and shook his head. “Good god.” He stood and walked to the armoire on the opposite wall to the fireplace.

  Lord Marshall was almost Ainsley's height, tall and slim with a slight muscular bulk to his frame. His hair was nearly all grey, cut short and neat, and his complexion showed many years of ageing thanks to his preference for tobacco and drink. Despite all of the outward signs of age, Lord Marshall possessed a youthful dignity, distinguishing him from many of his peers in the House of Lords.

  “Nervous?” Ainsley charged, watching from his chair as his father opened the glass doors of the armoir and took down his box of cigars.

  “You know how women are,” Lord Marshall said, snipping the end from his cigar. “Storytellers.” Pulling a slender wooden stick from a porcelain vase on the mantle, he held it above the flames of the fire in the hearth and waited for it to light. He used the tiny flame to kindle the tobacco in his cigar before snuffing out the flame and replacing the stick, chard side up, amongst the others.

  Ainsley shook his head as he watched the smoke spill from his father's mouth while he sucked in air through the cigar repeatedly to ensure it was lit. “Margaret is not a storyteller,” Ainsley answered plainly, remembering how hard it had been for him and his brother Daniel to convince her to lie to their governess when they wanted her to believe they were sick. She could never do it. Her conscience was too strong.

  Lord Marshall resumed his seat close to the fire, and propped his elbow on the arm of the chair to hold his cigar. “You have a lot to learn about the opposite sex, my boy.” He pulled air through the cigar and then released the smoke into the room. “They are all storytellers. They will tell you it is raining when you clearly see the sun. They will tell you sad stories to crack open your heart before pouring acid in your veins and running the other way. They are deceptive with their stories. That is the way of the woman.”

  Lord Marshall's bitter words hit Ainsley like a sucker punch to the stoma
ch. Until a few days ago, Ainsley would have dismissed his father's words of warning as the drink induced ramblings of a shrewd businessman, but now Ainsley pondered his Father's words, carefully. Ainsley had believed a woman, Lillian, and her tale of woe, and had been ready to commit himself to erroneous action had he not clued in, eventually, to her devious ways. She had nearly bewitched him, allowing him to abandon all scientific reason in favour of blind belief. She would forever be a reminder of how close he had come to complete undoing.

  “Ah, I can see by the pain in your face that I am right and you agree with me.” Lord Marshall pointed his cigar towards his son.

  Ainsley shrugged, forcing a frown. “I cannot say I disagree with you entirely.”

  Lord Marshall nodded, and allowed a smug smile to touch his lips.

  Ainsley could not think of anything to say. His father had always been the bitter ogre in the family. Hollering when the children played too loudly. Barking orders when the servants neglected a minor detail. Bringing a dark gloom over any room he entered. Lord Marshall was feared by everyone but the family butler, Billis.

  Ainsley crossed one leg over the other and leaned back into his seat, willing the conversation to continue so he could forget Lillian all together. His wish went ignored.

  Both men sat for a long time in silence, watching the flames lick the wood, twisting and turning as it searched for more fuel. The young doctor was not able to subdue the myriad of thoughts that rushed through his mind the way the flames rushed through the air and wood in front of him. A woman he nearly came to love was slowly dying in agony many miles away while his mother was missing, and could be dead as well.

  Lord Marshall must have been thinking along the same lines because their silence was a strained one. After a time Lord Marshall spoke up in an inquisitive yet reprimanding tone. “I do not know how you live with yourself,” he said, not bothering to look at his son. “Placing your hands inside the bodies of the recently dead.”