The Dead Among Us

by Tracy L. Ward

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Ainsley answered. He turned to the door, eager to be done with his inquisitor.

  “Stay out of trouble,” he heard Simms say from behind him.

  Outside and walking at a quick pace, Ainsley and Simms weaved between carts, carriages, and pedestrians alike.

  “You know that woman?” Simms asked.

  “I cannot claim to know her well,” Ainsley answered honestly. “My mother had taken a special interest in Mrs. Holliwell’s work.”

  Ainsley could remember a time when the late Lady Charlotte Marshall did nothing else but campaign for the plight of the orphanage amongst her friends. Never afraid of the poorer neighbourhoods, Lady Marshall would often visit with the children, reading to them or bringing cast-off clothing from the houses of her elitist friends. She would sometimes lend the household servants to assist its operations during especially hectic times. Ainsley and his sister, Margaret, had visited regularly as well, until their father expressed his disapproval. Shortly after, Margaret and their mother retreated to the family’s country estate on a more permanent basis and Ainsley left for school. In truth, it had been some years since he had seen Mrs. Holliwell, though despite a few more grey hairs, she hardly looked as if she had aged a day.

  “A trusted source then?” Simms asked with marked seriousness.

  “As trusted as anyone, I suppose,” Ainsley conceded. “Her devotion to the charity is rather incredible.”

  “Has she a husband?”

  “Died some years ago, leaving her a widow with a young son, though I never found out what did the husband in, in the end. A barrister, if I remember correctly.”

  “A woman of means then?”

  Ainsley shook his head. “Not from what I recall. He was not all that successful.” Ainsley rubbed his brow.

  Simms must have noticed. “Sad business this,” he said as he looked up to the midmorning sun, squinting.

  “This any worse than the others?” Ainsley asked, knowing the seasoned inspector had responded to many similar cases.

  “Maybe I am getting too old,” Simms said.

  “Too sentimental, you mean,” Ainsley offered.

  “The day I stop feeling pity for the victims I investigate is the day I should put forth my resignation,” Simms answered matter-of-factly. “How motivated would I be if I cared nothing for the people behind the bodies?”

  Ainsley became silent at this. He had spent years trying to turn off the human part of him while in the morgue. He had idealized an unaffected life where his emotions would never get caught up in a case. Such distance eluded him and yet he chided himself for it, wishing he were more detached and unemotional. Simms had reminded him of why he chose medicine in the first place.

  “Get back to your dungeon now,” Simms said, teasingly. “I must go speak with this carpenter.”

  The morgue in the basement of St. Thomas Hospital glowed yellow as the afternoon sun shone into the floor-to-ceiling warehouse windows that lined the farthest wall. No longer as chilly as it was during the coldest winter months, there was even more push to keep the work of the surgeons from piling up. The bodies waiting to be claimed were stored in a neighbouring room, devoid of windows and far more cooler than the examination room. The doctors needed light, however, often as much light as could be garnered from the days’ sun. The handful of gas lamps hanging over the exam table were only used if the sun could not penetrate overcast skies.

  The door swung in easily when Ainsley pushed it forward and was surprised to find Dr. Crawford, his immediate superior, and a young, though imposing man, standing over Jonathon’s body.

  “What do you suppose made those marks?” the young man asked.

  “Well—”

  “Don’t touch him!” Ainsley yelled, throwing his hand out as he rushed toward the examination table.

  Both men looked up, startled by Ainsley’s sudden arrival. “So nice of you to join us,” Dr. Crawford sneered.

  “This is my patient,” Ainsley said, ignoring his supervisor’s remark.

  “How could that be?” the young man asked with a slight chuckle. “He’s only just arrived. Scotland—”

  “Scotland Yard brought him for me,” Ainsley answered quickly. He pulled the white sheet that was covering the boy’s legs up over his face to prevent them from looking further. “I was just at the scene.”

  Ainsley unbuttoned his coat, and tugged at the edges of his sleeves to coax them from his arms. He turned and claimed his usual hook along an opposite wall.

  “But?” the man turned from Ainsley to Crawford, obviously confused.

  “Now wait just a minute,” Crawford bellowed, rounding the examination table and following Ainsley to the trough sink. “Are you not my employee?”

  Hands washed, Ainsley turned to Dr. Crawford, grabbing a towel that was nearby. How he wished he weren’t an employee of the hospital, at least this hospital. He enjoyed his work but Dr. Crawford had been a thorn in his side since his first day. There had been a time recently when Ainsley thought he’d never work in the hospital again. Shortly after his mother died, her murderer reaching the same end, Ainsley doubted he could live a life so focused on the vileness of human nature. His interest in medicine was, for the most part, fuelled by his father’s disapproval of it.

  “Perhaps you should set up an office at The Yard!”

  “I will take that into consideration, Dr. Crawford,” Ainsley answered with an air of nonchalance, “But for now I ask you to leave this boy and the other victims to me.”

  Ainsley let out a quick breath, lowering his shoulders as he did so, and then placed his hands at his waist. He couldn’t tell if his request was reasonable in the eyes of his superior or if he had just called in his last favour.

  “What other victims?” Crawford asked incredulously.

  “They are being delivered this afternoon,” Ainsley said as he placed his hand at his forehead and began to rub his temples. “I believe the papers are calling him The Surgeon.” He lowered his hand, preparing for an outburst. Crawford hated the stigma against surgeons even more than Ainsley did.

  Ainsley saw the young man raise an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, who are you?” Ainsley asked. He looked to Crawford, who pressed his mouth tight.

  “Sidney.” The young man put out his hand. “Lionel Sidney.”

  With hesitation, Ainsley shook his hand in greeting and then looked to Crawford.

  The anger in Dr. Crawford’s face had melted into annoyance. The seasoned surgeon gave a sideways glance to Sidney beside him and then back to Ainsley.

  “I just need some time,” Ainsley offered, as if presenting an apology.

  The threesome stood over the covered body for some time, regarding each other uneasily until finally Dr. Crawford nodded. “Fine,” he answered gruffly. “But after this, you will not be able to claim any of these as yours and yours alone.” Dr. Crawford cocked his head into the centre of the room, indicating the other bodies that awaited dissection.

  Ainsley nodded, not sure if he could ever make that promise. So much of his work of late had been at the behest of Inspector Simms.

  With the room quiet, Ainsley leaned over the corpse of the boy, the yellowed sheet still covering him, and closed his eyes. The children got to him the most. Turning, Ainsley searched inside a drawer beneath his cache of tools and found the Scotch he kept there. He downed a quarter of the bottle before picking up his scalpel.

  Chapter 3

  Our voices feel along the Dread to find you,

  Daniel was exiting Marshall House just as Margaret Marshall was nearing the bottom step. Seeing her approach, he waited at the door as Margaret made her way up to him. She had been out at the shops, though nothing tickled her fancy, and returned home empty-handed and disheartened.

  “Hello, brother,” she said, without trying to hide her disinterested tone. Their strained relationship was no secret. So infrequent were his visits that when he did come around she knew he had no thought to see her. It
was their father he came for. They’d hide away in his study talking money and politics, both subjects emphatically shielded from her. Upon occasion, they tried to bring Peter into their parley but he had no patience for such nonsense, or so he confessed to Margaret.

  “We don’t often see you so early in the day,” she said, hinting at her eldest brother’s and father’s penchant for drink during such meetings.

  “I was summoned,” he said, looking past her as if scanning the street for his next business conquest. He adjusted his cuffs and then slipped his hands into his trouser pockets as he looked down at her. “Father has been called away.”

  “Where is he going?”

  Daniel shrugged. “Barbados. I am to look after some business matters while he’s gone. Accounts and such.”

  Margaret stammered. She opened her mouth to say something and closed it again. Father had said nothing to her of such plans. He had said less than a dozen sentences to her in the previous fortnight. He was taking his wife’s death quite hard.

  “Peter will see to things,” Daniel said, as if trying to reassure her that she would not be left alone. As if anyone could truly be alone with a staff nearing twenty, Margaret thought.

  Daniel went down the steps to his waiting carriage, his driver opening the door as his employer approached.

  “How is Evelyn?” Margaret called out suddenly, feeling as if she should say something more personal to her brother. “Is she well?”

  Daniel turned, huffing slightly before settling into a scowl. “As well as can be expected,” he replied, “given the circumstances.”

  Margaret nodded and Daniel stepped up into his carriage. She knew his anger was not directed at her and reasoned that his heart was broken for the life they had been promised. Despite everything, Lady Charlotte’s death and the skeletons in Evelyn’s family, he married her quickly, not wanting to allow anything else to stand in their way. As Margaret watched the carriage roll down the street, she wondered if he regretted that now.

  Margaret entered her father’s study and was surprised to find him no longer wearing black, as she did. He stood behind his desk, with an open valise before him, wearing his brown waistcoat and trousers. He looked as if he was packing for an extended trip and the sight of it startled her as much as seeing him no longer in mourning.

  “What is it, Margaret?” Lord Marshall asked, a shortness lacing his tone. He pulled the slim cigar from his mouth and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

  Hesitantly, Margaret walked further into the room. There was no telling what mood she would find her father in. Already, she felt as if she was intruding, but it was too late to turn around.

  “I just met Daniel on the stoop,” she said.

  Lord Marshall raised an eyebrow.

  “He said you were leaving for the island?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “Lord Bailey and I are seeking more investors for our tobacco. He has some contacts there. He said I could accompany him.” He replaced his cigar and narrowed his eyes at her. “My valet tells me a man called on you this morning. A young doctor. Jonas Davies.”

  Margaret’s gaze dropped to the floor. She had done well keeping her attachment a secret and she imagined her mother had not said anything even though she had guessed at their liaison almost from the start. “He called on Peter, actually,” Margaret said quickly. She offered a shrug of nonchalance but knew it was not convincing.

  “Cutter says he specifically asked for you,” Lord Marshall charged.

  “Jonas has been a friend of Peter’s for some time,” she explained. “He was only worried about him since… well, since he hadn’t returned to work.”

  Lord Marshall snickered. No doubt his son’s disinterest in continuing medicine pleased him immensely. “Have I a need to worry?” he asked pointedly.

  Margaret was quick to shake her head. “No, sir,” she answered. “None at all.”

  Lord Marshall kept his gaze on his desk, scanning the papers and dossiers as if deciding which would be best to take. Margaret wanted to turn and leave, knowing her private room would provide far more warmth despite its loneliness. In truth, she felt homesick for The Briar, their country house, and all her friends in Tunbridge Wells. She wished to see familiar faces and perhaps hide away on the pedestrian bridge that crossed the creek behind the stables. Above all, she missed her mother and The Briar contained more of her mother than any other place on earth.

  Margaret bit her lower lip, debating whether to speak when her hasty nature blurted out the question that had been nagging her for weeks. “May I have your permission to stay at The Briar?”

  The look on her father’s face instantly gave her his answer. “Absolutely not,” he answered angrily.

  “But I—”

  Haven’t a friend in the entire city, she wanted to say, but didn’t. Peter and her new lady’s maid, Julia, were her only regular contacts and both relationships had their own unique limitations.

  “I have plans to sell it once I return,” Lord Marshall said suddenly. “I have no further need of such a place.” He stuffed a ledger in his valise.

  Margaret fought back stinging tears and tried to still her quivering chin. “But what about the staff? The horses? All of Mother’s things?”

  “They shall all be sold”—a chuckle escaped his lips—“except the staff, of course. Whomever I have no need of here will be given a proper reference.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Margaret charged. “You can’t sell Mother’s things. She’s not been gone a month.”

  Clearly exhausted by his daughter’s incessant questions, Lord Marshall threw his fist down onto the table. “Enough!” he yelled. “I will not be badgered, especially by you!”

  Margaret’s gaze shifted to the windows, though her shoulders and back remained rigid. She knew he meant to insult her gender, belittle her achievements, and remind her of her place in the family—the very bottom.

  “You need an occupation,” he said. “By the time I return I want your mother’s rooms empty.”

  Margaret looked up, panicked.

  “See to it, will you?”

  “Father, you are only— I couldn’t possibly—” Margaret swallowed nervously. Just the thought of going through her mother’s things and selling them off one by one made her stomach lurch.

  He laughed as if amused by the stress he caused her. “You will think of something. Keep what you like, not all of it, mind. Some must be returned to your mother’s people. Cutter can help you crate it up and send it over.”

  “And then what?” Margaret pressed, angered by the enjoyment he derived. “Shall I dye my hair a different colour and stuff my face to gain thirty pounds?” She raised an eyebrow when he looked to her. “Since you are determined to erase any sign that she ever existed. Perhaps you are wishing I no long bore her likeness.”

  It was obvious Margaret had struck a chord with him. There was no denying her close resemblance to the wife who had caused him so much pain. The wife who haunted them still.

  “You may go now, Margaret,” he said sternly, looking away from her and back to his papers.

  Margaret did not move. She stood defiant and even thought to approach his desk if only to see how he should respond. Would he spank her or order a servant to do as he had done when she was much younger?

  “How long will you be gone?” Margaret asked.

  Lord Marshall paused his packing and gave his only daughter a look of challenge. “As long as it takes.” His tone demoted her to that of child, worth no more than a message from a governess or butler. Already presented with her answers, her father expected to offer no more and this infuriated the normally calm Margaret.

  “You mean as long as it takes to forget her. Well, you can’t. She’s a part of us forever. She walks these halls and haunts our rooms. She was my mother and your wife. Getting rid of her possessions will not erase the fact that she lived!”

  Margaret turned on her heels and threw open the door. She charged up the rounded stai
rs of the open foyer to the second floor, expecting an angry summons to return. When she reached the second-floor landing she saw her father exiting his study, his face turned up to her.

  “May I remind you, there were two I loved and lost,” he called calmly from the foyer.

  She felt a stab at her heart. Amidst all the chaos that erupted following Lady Marshall’s murder, the family butler, Billis, a mainstay in Margaret’s childhood, also met an untimely end. It was a deep blow to Margaret and she could only imagine the pain felt by her father, who couldn’t have been any closer to Billis than if they were born brothers.

  Without giving her father a second glance, Margaret went quickly down the hall and found her room.

  Margaret had never enjoyed an easy relationship with her father but she had always revered him as protector and provider, the quintessential head of the home, and never saw need to question him, not even when her mother spoke disparagingly of the man she married. Even now, knowing her mother had broken faith with him and seeing the torment the late Lady Marshall had caused, Margaret did not pity him. He expected, as he had always done, to leave his children under someone else’s care and that they would all sit, as if in tableau, awaiting his anticipated return.

  Chapter 4

  O lost, beloved!

  Ainsley pulled a counter-height stool closer to the examination table and there he sat, his vantage point giving him full view over Jonathon’s dissected body. The most arduous part of the autopsy had been completed but Ainsley hesitated to stitch the boy up before gaining a further grasp of his final moments. With so much damage done and large pieces of organs missing it was hard to say what the murderer was truly after. Something like this would be considered personal were it not for the other bodies found in similar ways. A crime of opportunity would not explain the true length of time it would take to carry out the entirety of the task. The murder defied logic and Ainsley found it hard to reconcile the act with any possible motive.