Up the stairs to the main floor Ainsley went, hunting for his coat in a cloak closet in the foyer.
“Peter, what's the matter?” Margaret called from the top of stairs.
Ainsley turned, pressing an erect finger over his lips, telling her to hush. At the front door he opened it a crack and peered out into the wintery street. Billis' footprints were unmistakable in the fresh snow and Ainsley could see his silhouette making its way down the street.
Without thought Ainsley pursued him. He hovered near doorways, ready to take cover should Billis turn to look behind him. The butler never did. Ainsley stalked him for half an hour, feeling the wet snow seeping into his shoes as he walked. He could not stop. No matter how chilled his body became, he could not turn back. Billis must know Ainsley had figured it out, or would soon and now he was escaping.
Ainsley's mind was awash with all possible scenarios, motives and opportunity running through each prospect as he shadowed his fresh suspect. Billis had been loyal to the Marshall family since before Ainsley was born, and before his parents were married. His devotion to Lord Marshall was hardly questionable but now Ainsley realized his loyalty stopped there. Billis never spoke kindly of the mistress of the house, Ainsley realized, and servants weren't permitted to speak unfavorably of them either. What had Billis said to Ainsley in his father's study? “Your mother hardly deserves such a fuss...I have seen the pain she has inflicted on him.” Of anyone Billis would know Lord Marshall's pain, a pain which Ainsley had been blind to for many years.
Tired of averting scandal, knowing how his master hurt and perhaps being fearful of what the future held, Billis solidified his loyalty and snuffed the fire that smoldered quietly, threatening everything.
He had been a fool, Ainsley realized, to side with his mother so blindly, to conveniently blot out the realities of her existence. He had not recognized her dependence and he had dismissed her immoral behaviour as rebellion against a tyrant of a husband. She had been a lost soul for many years and her death weighed heavily on him as did his regret for not being able to save her.
The guilt he felt soon turned to thoughts of vengeance as he stalked Billis through the streets of London. The butler, his mother's murderer, walked with purpose and poise, as he always had while serving Ainsley and his family members. He couldn't help but be disgusted at the smugness of this man. He quickened his pace, determined to confront Billis on a street corner if need be.
The night was nearly morning and there were but a handful of people in the streets and no carriages about. The early aura of sunlight began to seep into the dark sky but between the buildings where Ainsley and Billis trudged it remained night. Finally Billis paused and raised his face to the gently falling snow and Ainsley stopped suddenly, his early resolve to bash this man’s skull in gone when he saw Billis' profile. The man was no murderer. There must be an explanation.
It was then that Ainsley realized they stood in front of the North Western Cemetery where his mother had been so recently buried. The iron gate was closed but not locked and Ainsley watched from the shadows as Billis pushed in the gate, the telltale drone of the iron bars moaning into the night as he did so. Ainsley slipped in through the opening that Billis unsuspectingly left and followed him in to the city of the dead. Gingerly Ainsley stepped, taking care to remain unseen. It seemed illogical for Billis to come to this place. He had expected the train station not the gravesite of his newly deceased mother.
Billis stopped at the foot of her plot, the snow covered mound evidence to its recent creation. Ainsley watched from the safety of a wide tree not ten feet from the butler. Once again Billis looked to the heavens, and that is when Ainsley saw the glistening tear slipping from Billis' cheek. He was remorseful, Ainsley realized.
After a length of time Billis pulled his hand from his pocket, Will's missing G & J Deane pistol gleaming in the moonlight as he raised it in the air, turning the mouth of the barrel towards himself.
No.
Ainsley stepped out from his place of hiding and rushed for Billis. “No!” he yelled, his arms outstretched, his feet slipping on the slick wet snow.
The gun fired one shot and Billis fell to the side.
“No, no, no.” Ainsley's words slipped from his lips, a mantra of feeble reassurance. He slid into the snow at Billis' side and pulled to turn his body over. He had shot himself in the neck and the blood poured out like a faucet cascading over Ainsley and the once pristine white snow on his mother's grave.
Ainsley surveyed the gaping wound and began to cry out, knowing this victim he could not save. “Help!” he called with all the strength he could muster. “Somebody, help!” His voice cracked under the intensity with which he screamed. He began to rock Billis in his arms, as if a child.
Billis' hand left his side and reached for Ainsley's face. Blood slipped from the edge of his mouth and eventually over took it. Gradually the flow of blood from his wound slowed as did the loyal butler's heart. Ainsley held tight, gritting his teeth against the scream of panic that threatened to take over him. A man was dying in his arms and there was nothing Ainsley could do about it.
No, no, no.....god no.
Chapter 32
For all things must die.
Eventually the truth of Billis' guilt came out and the family learned what Ainsley already knew. Each person took the news in their own way. Daniel chose to deny the man's existence and focused his attentions on Evelyn's recovery. Margaret wept, not only because of the tragedy behind her mother's death but also the loss of a dear family friend. Lord Marshall, like Ainsley, retreated to his own world, a bottle of alcohol his closest ally.
In time, Evelyn recovered, having missed much of the scandal while sleeping off the pain thanks to Dr. Lehmann’s concoction, and woke to a somber house, the sorrow even more pronounced than prior to her surgery. Ainsley made a point to check on her numerous times a day, and was impressed by his brother's bedside devotion. Daniel had become doting, almost bothersome, in his concern for Evelyn. Perhaps her dance with death was what he needed to show that he cared, though perhaps it was his private escape from grief. Amongst all the heartache in the house, Evelyn's returning health was reason for joy.
“Doesn't she look less pale?” Daniel asked.
Ainsley pretended not to hear. He knelt at Evelyn's bedside, examining the wound and soiled bandages for signs of infection. Her temperature remained normal but her listlessness worried him.
“Daniel please, your brother is concentrating,” Evelyn answered, straining against some obvious pain.
“What do you see Peter?” Daniel asked, ignoring Evelyn's warning.
Ainsley sighed as he looked over his hastily administered stitches. He must have shook too much, or perhaps he had pulled the threads too tight; whatever the cause her wound looked less pleasing than if Dr. Lehmann had operated on her, or even Jonas for that matter. Ainsley could hardly call himself a surgeon with such handy work attached to his name.
Evelyn must have seen the pensive look on his face. “What's the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he answered with a slight shake of his head. His melancholy could not be explained; at least not to the woman he had managed to save. His mother was not so lucky. And despite being present for Billis' death there was nothing he could do. But that did not stop Ainsley from replaying that night over and over again in his mind. He played out scenarios where he confronted Billis before he reached the cemetery, or chased Will himself to retrieve the pistol before Billis could. Such a choice would have come at a steep price though; Evelyn's life, and that Ainsley could not wish away. There was no other outcome to be had and yet that did not alter Ainsley's self-loathing.
After all, he was a good surgeon just far too slow.
“My brother,” Evelyn began, referring to Will for the first time since that night in the foyer, “he must have followed me, you see. Father says he was trying to protect me from scandal. I would never have gone…” Evelyn looked up to Daniel apologetically, “�
�had I known.”
Ainsley placed a hand on hers as it rested on the top of her quilt. “Do not blame yourself,” he said. “You will find no reasoning in the trespasses of a desperate man.”
Evelyn smiled slightly but Ainsley’s heart sank. He did not find comfort in his own words. The opposite was more true. It took all his remaining strength to reassure her troubled heart and yet there would be no relief for his own.
“He's not himself,” Ainsley heard his sister say as he walked down the stairs. The door to the parlour was open and he could see Margaret's silhouette in the doorway. “I don't think—”
Ainsley walked in and Margaret stopped abruptly. She had been speaking with Jonas who was standing opposite her.
“Jonas came to see you,” Margaret said quickly, acting as if they had been caught in a compromised position. “I was just about to send Violetta to fetch you.”
Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “Well now there is no need.” He turned to Jonas, “If you have come on the behest of Dr. Crawford you came all this way for nothing.” Ainsley walked past them both to the mantle. He pulled a cigar from his brother's box on the shelf and lit a long wood skewer in the fire. “I have no plans to return.” He slid into one of the chairs and held his cigar up with an elbow on the arm of the chair and studied it.
“Peter, you don’t smoke,” Margaret said.
“I suppose it’s better late than never,” he answered sarcastically. He gave both Margaret and Jonas a sour look while lighting the end.
“Dr. Crawford did not bid me to come,” Jonas said stepping forward. “Margaret did.”
“It's been weeks,” Margaret interjected, her voice more panicked. “You mustn't throw away everything because of...” Her voice trailed off as if unsure what to call it. How did one put into words the tragedies that had plagued them?
“I no longer wish to be a surgeon, Margaret,” Ainsley said, avoiding her gaze. “I wish to be left alone.”
“So you can drink yourself to death?” she asked, her voice cracking.
Ainsley met her eyes and did not bother to hide his amused smile. “If I so desire.” He turned his gaze from them. “I shall be a man of leisure, pissing away my family's fortune, pairing up with innumerable women and all without the faintest care for anyone else but myself.” He spoke quietly, suddenly ashamed of his pronounced bitterness.
“Your problem, Peter, is that you still believe you can save them all,” Jonas said, “You never learned the necessary art of letting go.”
“Why should I?” Ainsley muttered. Putting the cigar to his mouth he glared up at his school chum. “Is that not what makes us human? Our attachment?”
“Human or not, learning to let go helps us keep hold of our sanity.”
The room grew quiet as Ainsley pondered this. He could not expect Jonas to understand the root of his malaise or diagnose his depression. Murderer or not, the real Billis, who had always been a part of their family, deserved a better end. Had he been a better surgeon, Ainsley reasoned, he might have done something instead of just watching him bleed out.
“And what if I no longer want to be a surgeon? What care should I have for my sanity then?” Ainsley asked.
Jonas raised an eyebrow, no doubt surprised at Ainsley's unwillingness to forge on as he had. Margaret's face hardened with anger but Jonas pulled at her arm taking her from the room.
“He needs time,” Ainsley heard Jonas say in the hallway.
“He will regret this,” Margaret sobbed.
Their conversation continued and eventually Ainsley was able to drown out their voices, concentrating instead on the crackling of the fire and the gentle droning it made as it consumed the wood logs. He heard the doorbell but cared not. The house had been inundated with visitors for many nights with callers seeking the latest gossip disguised as condolences.
“Where's Dr. Ainsley?”
Ainsley closed his eyes against the sound of the familiar voice, his entire being wishing it were someone else come to call. He thought to leave, dispatching through his father's study and to the back stairs of the house but as he summoned the energy to lift himself from the chair Inspector Simms walked through the door.
“Simms,” Ainsley breathed, cursing his sluggishness. He had only needed a few seconds more.
With his hat in his hands, Simms looked even more wearisome than Ainsley. Jonas and Margaret slipped in to the room behind him but said nothing.
“My apologies for calling at your home,” Simms began, his voice raspy. “I sent someone to the hospital to fetch you and I was told you hadn't been back since...”
Would he ever have a conversation without a reminder?
“What is it?” Ainsley asked rather shortly.
“We have a body I would like you to look at, well, a number of bodies actually.” Simms glanced to Margaret behind him. “Pardon my frankness, Lady Margaret, I need your brother here to help me with this puzzle.”
Ainsley began to shake his head but Simms continued.
“At first we thought it was just a brutal murder, but we found a second victim not far from where the first was found.”
“How many days between the first murder and the second?” Jonas asked.
“A week, sir.” Simms looked back to Ainsley. “We found another an hour ago. I'd like you to come quickly to help me read the scene.”
Ainsley turned and ran his free hand through his hair, rubbing his face in frustration. Was he never going to be allowed peace?
“Dr. Ainsley, I have never seen the likes of this.” Simms swallowed. “He's killing children.”
All Things Will Die
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d–we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro’ eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
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Dead Silent Page 25
