With fumbling hands Margaret retrieved a small vial, similar to the ones she and Peter had found in their mother's hat boxes, and then she stumbled upon the delicately engraved gold pill box. Medicines in hand, Margaret climbed onto the vast bed and placed herself beside her mother who was hiding her face in the pillows.
“How many do you need?” Margaret asked, aware of the weak way in which she spoke. Her feeble attempts at bravery were failing her and all she really wanted to do was ring the servant’s bell and summon more capable help for her mother. Without any answer forthcoming, Margaret attempted to release the pill box clasp with shaky fingers and when it finally gave the pills rolled out on top of the sheets. While Margaret tried to gather them, her mother pulled her face out from the pillows and reached a hand into the pile that Margaret had collected. Unsure how many pills her mother had taken, Margaret tried to stop her before they hit Lady Marshall's mouth.
“Mother, no. That's too much.” Margaret grabbed for her mother's wrist but lost the brief struggle. Lady Marshall poured the handful into her mouth and turned from Margaret, but not before grabbing the vial that lay next to her on the quilt. She stumbled off the bed, walking toward her wash basin, and opened the vial.
“How much does the doctor recommend you take?” Margaret asked feebly. Her mother took one sip, then another before she finally put the bottle down. Margaret realized it was almost empty.
Lady Marshall kept her eyes closed for a few minutes, leaning over the basin, as if she expected to vomit, before finally returning to the bed.
Margaret had never seen her mother in such a way; perfectly coherent one moment and then incapacitated the next. It took a moment before Margaret realized she was shaking, disturbed by her mother's sudden illness and her own inability to assist. If their mother had a reoccurring condition, it could explain why she and Peter found the laudanum and it would also explain the frantic search for her medicine Peter had described from the night before.
Margaret began stroking her mother's disheveled hair, pulling out the pins that had become loose amongst the pillows. And then Margaret heard the distinguishable sounds of sleep escaping with her mother's rhythmic breathing. The medical concoction must have worked and the pain sufficiently subsided enough to allow Lady Marshall some rest.
Slipping from the bed slowly, Margaret covered her mother with a blanket and quietly left.
On the stairs she met Violetta, with a full pitcher of water, no doubt warm from the fires of the kitchen. “Her ladyship is not well,” Margaret said, pausing on the stairs as the lady's maid approached her.
Violetta nodded to Margaret and hastened her pace up the stairs. “She is resting,” Margaret said quickly seeing the look of alarm on Violetta's face.
“Thank you, Miss Margaret,” Violetta answered, avoiding Margaret's definitive gaze. She tried to continue up the stairs but Margaret called her back. “Violetta, what are the pills Mother takes?” she asked, being careful to lower her voice in case any servants lurked below them in the foyer.
“They are what the doctor prescribed, Miss,” Violetta explained. “Her ladyship requires them for headaches and...” her voice trailed off as the maid lost her conviction.
“And what?” Margaret probed.
“Violetta!” The sound of Lady Marshall's painful bellow erupted throughout the house. Violetta's eyes grew wide and she turned. “Excuse me, Miss,” she called down the stairs as she ran to her employer's aid.
Margaret stood on the stairs for a moment, her hand on the handrail, her feet stuck between one step and the next. Of all the siblings, Margaret had spent the most amount of time with their mother and yet Margaret had never seen her in such a state. She hadn’t the faintest clue her mother fought such unspeakable and sudden pain. The laudanum was her mother’s cure and suddenly Margaret felt ashamed for assuming something untoward was happening.
“Margaret.”
Snapped from her reverie, Margaret looked down to the foyer where her father stood sternly.
“A word with you, please.”
Margaret swallowed. It was not a request. Lord Marshall led her into his study where Billis was setting a tray of tea and accompanying paraphernalia on Lord Marshall's mahogany desk. “Thank you, Billis.” Lord Marshall pulled a slim, folded newspaper from under the crook of his arm and slapped it onto the bare wood next to the tray. “That is all,” he said to his servant.
Billis turned to Margaret who hovered at the door and bowed slightly at the waist.
“Come in, Margaret,” her father said gruffly. He indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk to his and let out a great exhale of breath as she slipped into it. For a moment he stood, fists on hips and eyes fixated on the steam slipping from the spout of the tea pot. Margaret readied herself for reprove, and began mentally sifting through all of the possible events he could be cross about.
“I apologize for not speaking to you about this until now,” he said in a surprisingly soft tone. He gave a forced smile, “I have had other things to consider.”
Margaret nodded, cringing on the inside and preparing for his reprimand. She watched as he twisted his mouth, most likely contemplating his words carefully.
“Given recent events I have decided to hire you a lady's maid of your own. Someone who can act as your companion and—”
Margaret’s face fell, “But Father—”
“This is not a punishment,” he said, “It's for your own safety. I have been too lenient. I can not have you going about town without someone whom I trust at your side.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke. “She will help you dress, direct the other staff in the keeping of your rooms and ensure that you are well looked after. And, when the time comes, she can follow you to your husband's house where she can be some comfort during the transition.”
“My husband's house?”
“Yes.” He put out a hand in a placating gesture as he moved for his cushioned leather chair behind the desk. “I have no plans to marry you off anytime soon, however, let's face facts, I have had some enquiries and before long we will be faced with the very real possibility—”
“Father, is this about my trip to help Peter? About my friendship with Jonas Davies?”
Her father grew quiet. “Need I be concerned?” he asked after a moment.
Margaret hesitated. There was no understanding between them. Jonas had kissed her, nothing more, a simple act he had most likely perpetrated on other willing girls whose knees were made weak by his presence— as Margaret's had. She was unlikely to see him again, at least not in the same informal circumstances, and there could certainly be no possibility of them ever marrying. Jonas was a doctor, born to a much lower class, certainly not the type of young man her father had in mind for her. In any case, she had no doubt that Jonas had moved on. He had kissed her because she let him, not because any feelings existed on his part.
Margaret shook her head in answer to her father's question. “No, no need to be concerned.”
“Good. I hired a woman named Julia and I sent her down to get to know the kitchen while I spoke with you.”
“You hired someone already?” Margaret asked, suddenly aware of the smothering nature her own lady's maid would have on the freedom she currently enjoyed. She saw a smile spread over her father's lips. “I am nothing, Margaret my dear, if not efficient.”
Margaret was told to wait in her room and Julia would be sent up to meet her. Pacing the length of the room Margaret could feel her throat tighten as if a noose had been thrown over her. She had no desire to meet the woman, who in effect would serve as her jailer. No doubt her father would expect whoever this lady was to report to him on her every move. The freedom to move about on her own accord felt threatened and she didn't like the idea of her entire life being monitored with such close scrutiny. She had always employed the other maids to help her dress or straighten her rooms if need be. Never had she needed a dedicated maid for such chores.
She envied her mother and Violetta's relatio
nship. They shared a trust that no one in the family could penetrate. Margaret doubted such a bond could form between her and a woman working for her father. It was clear to Margaret that her father intended to tether her to a servant in an effort to keep her from running off as she had done with Jonas.
Suddenly the house seemed stifling and she needed an escape, and quickly, before she would be tied to the woman she did not even know. Margaret hailed a hansom and cursed the driver under her breath for not moving at a faster pace. The streets were cluttered with traffic, carriages and pedestrians alike jamming the roadways like rats fleeing a fire.
Finally she arrived at the hospital but her mission to find Jonas was halted when she stumbled into Lady Brant at the doorway.
“Margaret!” she said exuberantly. Smiling broadly, Lady Brant reached out a hand, inviting Margaret to follow her inside. “What brings you here?” she asked. Margaret could feel Lady Brant leaning in closer, whispering as a conspiring gossip might. “Perhaps you and I have come to see the same young man. A Doctor Peter Ainsley perhaps?”
Margaret dare not correct her. It would be improper to admit to seeking out an unmarried man, unchaperoned as well. It did not matter why she sought him out, only that it would appear unseemly. Before their travels together Margaret had viewed Jonas as if a brother and so appearances had not mattered, but now she realized she should take more care than allow herself to be seen with a bachelor unsupervised. She knew all too well what fallout a damaged reputation could bring.
“You must miss him, dear,” Lady Brant continued without missing a beat. “You two were almost inseparable in your youth.”
“I am accustomed now,” Margaret admitted. “Peter has been away from home for some time now, though I must admit, seeing him in the evenings is better than haphazard letters from Germany. There is so much more to look forward to when he is around.”
Lady Brant smiled pityingly, no doubt amused by Margaret's quaint little life. Always the academic, the female trail blazer, Lady Brant often spoke with contempt of lazy socialite wives and grown unwed daughters, wondering what could possibly prevail them to get out of bed in the morning. Such domesticity was the furthest thing from Lady Brant's mind and Margaret knew it. She had heard her mother's friend speak often of the dreariness she felt her life would be had her husband survived longer than the first year of marriage. Margaret had not realized she said something trite and inconsequential until she saw that disparaging look on Lady Brant's face.
Not knowing what to say, Margaret remained quiet. Everything she could think to comment on sounded like the sort of thing Lady Brant would despise. Thankfully she did not have to say anything because she saw Jonas exit a door down the hallway to their left and began walking toward them in the lobby. He smiled broadly when he saw her but was careful not to behave too familiar.
“Margaret, I do believe this young man knows you,” Lady Brant remarked as Jonas walked toward them.
Margaret could not alter the rapid beating of her heart and sudden shortness of her breath. His approach sent warmth up the core of her and without warning she became flustered and unsure. She had driven all this way to see him but Lady Brant’s presence caused her to lose her nerve and she fell silent.
Jonas stopped and Lady Brant spoke first saving Margaret from the embarrassment of stammering.
“Good day, young man. Lady Brant. I serve on the Board of Directors here.” She spoke with authority and offered her hand for him to shake. “This is my niece in all ways but blood, Margaret Marshall.”
Jonas's lips rose into a smile but his gaze avoided hers. “I am Doctor Jonas Davies, ma'am. But I am afraid Miss Marshall and I are already well acquainted.”
A single eyebrow popped up on Lady Brant's forehead. “Are you now?” she said knowingly. Margaret knew what she was insinuating and despite it being close to the truth she was still annoyed at Lady Brant's forwardness in teasing her so openly.
“Peter,” Margaret said, halting Lady Brant's forthcoming needling, “he is a friend of Peter's.”
“Oh,” Lady Brant's smile changed, as if disappointed that her fun had been spoiled. “You must be a surgeon then. How come I have never met you until now?”
“I just began as assistant to Dr. Lehmann.”
Margaret smiled openly then. “Dr. Davies had been working at the university for some time before taking his position here,” Margaret offered. “Peter is very proud of him.” Even though Margaret looked to Jonas she could not look directly at him and always turned back to Lady Brant before their eyes could meet. It was the only way, she reasoned, that she would be able to keep herself from behaving foolishly. He had this jarring effect on her, a way that made her feel self-conscious and unsure.
“I am glad my good fortune pleases you,” Jonas said, his tone denoting a hint of anger.
Suddenly Margaret felt ashamed. “Jonas, I didn't mean—”
“There's Doctor Crawford. Would you excuse me Miss Marshall? I must speak with him before he leaves for the day. A pleasure to meet you Lady Brant.” Jonas was gone and down the hall before Margaret could protest.
She watched him walk away, swallowing hard as she recalled the words she had said, and worse, the way she had behaved.
“Margaret, do you think it was appropriate to address the doctor by his first name?” Lady Brant asked, stepping further along the hallway. She turned slightly, inviting Margaret to keep pace with her.
“He's always been Jonas to me. He's like a brother.”
“A brother does not cause a lady to blush as you did,” Lady Brant answered slyly. “Come Margaret,” she coaxed, “Confess.”
Margaret shook her head slightly, embarrassed by Lady Brant's willingness to speak of such things. “I have nothing to confess.”
Lady Brant waved her hand in the air, dismissing Margaret's reluctance to confide in her. “Suit yourself,” she said. “Let us go see what your brother is up to today. Something riveting no doubt.”
Chapter 11
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
Ainsley ignored his mounting work, preferring to remain perched on a stool next to his empty examination table. The sheet covered bodies around him could wait, he told himself. Truth be told, his mind was awash with thoughts of his mother and the questions she allowed to go unanswered. He found it hard to concentrate and he knew he needed a deeper challenge if he was going to forget the tribulations of his family.
Laid out on the wooden surface of his examination table were the shards of mirror he had found at the boarding house and he had spent the better part of an hour piecing the triangular slivers together like a complicated puzzle, a puzzle that he was not even sure he possessed all the pieces for. He had determined the shape to be a rectangle, though a large chunk of the mirror was missing. He only had a few pieces left to place and a large part of the mirror remained empty.
The break in the glass fanned out like a spider web beginning at a point that was off-centre from the middle of the rectangle and as Ainsley placed the last few pieces he realized there were no clues to tell him what the broken pieces had come from or whether one of them had been used as the murder weapon.
“Dammit!” Ainsley pounded his fist on the table, causing the pieces to jump. He grabbed one of the shards and, balancing it on its point, he turned it in place. Absentmindedly he watched the mirror reflect back the light on the table as he turned it and became entranced by the shadow and light playing on the wooden surface. Without a speck of blood on the surface of the mirror there was no way to know whether a piece of it was used to kill the woman.
As he turned the shard, careful not to cut his fingers on the sharp edges, he began to bore a hole into the wood of the table. He watched small particles of wood dust accumulate around the hole for a few turns before he realized what he was seeing. And then he had an idea.
He stood suddenly from his stool, letting the glass in his fingers drop to the table. Grabbing a pair of leather gloves, he took one
of the largest pieces of the mirror and headed for the very back of the morgue. Along the wall, in the darkest reaches of the morgue, the bodies of the criminals were stored. No dissections would ever be done on these bodies. They died in their cells awaiting the end, often not eating or defecating as they should. Ainsley had seen it often enough, the way the minds of the condemned slipped away, their bodies following suit, but slowly, clinging to life long after the mind no longer proved effective. In those cases Ainsley wondered if hanging wouldn’t be a more humane end than the slow starvation the bodies endured physically and mentally.
The bodies of criminals were brought to St. Thomas Hospital as a formality, and when there was time one of the morgue doctors would issue a death certificate. Sometimes it would be more than a week before the bodies could be released, but the one that Ainsley stood before was fresh, only a day old or so.
The shard of mirror in his gloved hand, Ainsley pulled back the sheet and positioned it above the slightly sunken stomach. With one swift motion he drove the pointed tip into the obliging flesh then quickly pulled it out. The result was an inch wide gash. Ainsley placed the shard down and ran to retrieve a lantern and ruler from his cache of equipment. For the next half an hour Ainsley made notes on the depth and shape of each puncture with the intent to compare them to the wound on the brunette brought to him two days before.
That was how Margaret and Lady Brant found him, hunched over the corpse of the unnamed criminal measuring each gash with precision.
“Peter, dear.” Lady Brant stood a few feet away, Margaret beside her. “Is this hospital sanctioned?”
Ainsley straightened his stance, and looked over the body in front of him. There were at least twenty cuts in the flesh of the abdomen but Ainsley had been concentrating so hard, so keen on extracting as much information as he could that he had not realized the damage he was doing. He pulled off his leather gloves and threw them down near his notes and returned to cover the body with the sheet again.
Dead Silent Page 10
