It did not take long for Cutter and Maxwell to respond to her summons. Within minutes, they plucked Lord Marshall from his bed and transferred him to a high back wheeled chair fitted with cushions for both his underside and his backside. A strap had been fitted, however, to hold up his torso and keep him from tumbling out, which had been a common enough occurrence in the early days.
With Lord Marshall in his chair, Cutter and Maxwell went down the stairs to ensure a clear route, free of obstructions to the back garden. Margaret fetched a blanket to place around her father’s legs but stopped herself just before tucking it in. “The day is so hot,” she said with a weighted laugh. “I don’t think you will be needing this.”
A knock sounded from the front door. With curiosity, Margaret slipped from her father’s room and stopped when she reached the second-floor landing. She stood in the shadows and listened as Maxwell allowed Blair Thornton entry.
“I’ve come to call on Lady Margaret,” he said, somewhat formally. “Is she receiving visitors?”
Before Maxwell was able to give the standard regrets in Margaret’s place, Aunt Louisa’s voice billowed into the foyer and reverberated up to where Margaret eavesdropped.
“Mr. Thornton! What a wonderful surprise! Margaret was just speaking to me about you this morning at breakfast.” Aunt Louisa’s voice grew louder as she drew closer to the front door, and Margaret’s stomach hardened at her words. She had not spoken with Aunt Louisa at all that day, nor would she ever converse about her troubled relationship with the man who had recently saved her life.
“Was she?” Blair’s voice betrayed his surprise.
“I know she has been wishing to speak to you and so it is very serendipitous that you should come to call today.”
Margaret inched forward and peered around the corner. Blair Thornton was a very striking man, with a tall physique and broad shoulders. They had known each other as children, each growing up on their abutting country properties near Tunbridge Wells, and had become reacquainted recently. It was apparent, given his numerous enquiries and letters, that he meant for them to remain in contact. Margaret had never meant to lead him on, at least not this far. Her intention was to lay bare her relationship with Jonas Davies long before Blair developed an attachment.
“I heard of the unfortunate events down the street and thought I should come to make sure everything was all right.” Blair looked up and Margaret sprung back, praying he had not seen her. “Do you think Margaret will see me?”
“Oh absolutely, Mr. Thornton.”
Margaret imagined her aunt turning to Maxwell as her tone changed. “Where is my niece?”
“She is preparing to escort Lord Marshall for a turn in the garden, ma’am,” Maxwell answered.
“Excellent. You should join her then, Mr. Thornton.”
Margaret’s eyes closed as her heart sank. She had been successfully avoiding contact with him for the last few weeks and now there was no way around it.
“What are you waiting for then?” Aunt Louisa said, her commanding tone returning. “Go fetch my brother and niece. They have company.”
Moments later the sound of Maxwell’s shoes could be heard heading up the stairs. Margaret stepped back into her father’s room before they reached the landing.
Panic struck almost instantly as Margaret reached for the bubbly, purple scar at her collar and realized she was not wearing her scarf to hide it as she used to. The weather had been so hot and so seldom did she leave her father’s room that she had become used to removing it, and often ended up leaving it in various places. Crossing the room, she plucked it from the back of her reading chair.
When she turned she saw her father’s eyes upon her from his chair. He really did look like such a pitiful creature with his lip trembling and his hand shaking. For all the curt words he had ever said to her, all the snide remarks and harsh rebukes, the only thing that she wished to see in his eyes was the love he had for her; love in place of a thousand apologies.
She received neither.
“I’m so sorry, Father,” she said, tucking the ends of her scarf into the collar of her bodice. “We won’t be walking alone today. Aunt Louisa has made a decree.”
The rear garden at Marshall House was not expansive, but it was filled with enough foliage and a high canopy of trees, so that it gave an illusion of seclusion. An area at the centre of the yard was allotted for a small iron table and two chairs, ornately sculpted with filigree leaves and other organic accents. A path circled around the shaded space, meandering through flower beds and a finely manicured lawn. There remained a few stone sculptures that Margaret’s mother had once chosen as a young bride and which had since grown green with fine moss and intruding ivy. She tried not to look at them, afraid of the memories of her mother enveloping her yet again.
As Margaret took a turn around the yard, Blair inched along slightly behind her.
Thrice Blair tried to begin a conversation and each time the topics introduced petered out. Margaret was not purposely trying to make their meeting uncomfortable but, circumstances being as they were, theirs was an uncomfortable relationship.
“Your father is doing well, I see,” Blair said, gesturing to Lord Marshall in the wheeled chair ahead of them, pushed by Cutter along the path. “All things considering.”
Margaret smiled. It was a perfectly ludicrous thing to say. Her father had not been doing well and he showed only slight improvement. She had turned away enough inquisitive busybodies who only came to spy and later gossip about her father’s misfortune. She was in no mood to accept such rude behaviour from Blair as well.
Blair drew a breath. “I only mean…well, that my regard for him and your family has not diminished in any way since…well…you understand.”
Indeed, Margaret did understand. A cripple, even an exceedingly rich one, was still a cripple. “How is your mother, the Duchess?” Margaret asked, purposely changing the subject. “She must still be in the depths of mourning.”
“I have no doubt you have heard,” Blair said, his jaw tightening somewhat. “London society is famous for its tittle-tattle.”
Margaret stopped and turned. “I have not heard anything beyond these walls,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely. “Not that I would care to hear about any trite, slanderous gossip. I would never keep company with anyone who speaks ill of the Duchess. She is like a mother to me. When I ask, ‘how is Lady Thornton?’, it is exactly what I mean.”
She saw his eyes dart to her scarf before forcibly bringing them back to her face. He had seen her with if off once and Margaret had been very careful to not let that happen again. She began to walk and realized her throat had gone dry. No longer did she have patience for any of this. She wished he would go and that others like him would not think to ring their bell again.
“Forgive me,” Blair said. “In no way did I mean you had participated in such gossip. You must understand how difficult the last few weeks have been on my family.”
Margaret suddenly felt ashamed. The Thorntons had lost a son, Blair’s brother, with whom he was very close. She stopped. “I did not mean…” Margaret floundered, angered by her narrow view of the world. She had spoken of her own suffering, forgetting the suffering of others. Besides, this wasn’t precisely the gratitude she should be showing to the man who saved her life.
She took a breath and made an effort to smile. “I’m glad you came to visit,” she said, restarting their conversation. “What brings you to London?” Without thought, she slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow and together they walked side by side through the garden.
Chapter 4
At the end of the day, Ainsley left the hospital, foregoing a farewell to his supervisor and instead heading straight to 4 Whitehall Place. He wasn’t expecting fanfare or even a lukewarm welcome. He knew he had squandered any remaining goodwill between himself and Inspector Simms by deceiving his constable, but something about where the remains were found troubled him. This wasn’t a standard murder, one do
ne in the heat of the moment in a back alley in Whitechapel. The way the body was displayed indicated the murderer wanted his victim to be found immediately and was somehow using it as a message.
The heavy oak desk in the foyer of Scotland Yard created a partition, separating the good men of the Yard from the public they served. A desk sergeant stood on guard, a heap of books, ledgers, and paperwork indicating the mountain of work waiting for him in addition to the many people who streamed in and out of the building. Sergeant Fisher looked to Ainsley without raising his chin from the ledger in front of him. “Not today, Peter. He isn’t in the mood.”
“Can you summon him down?” Ainsley pleaded. “I may have some information regarding the Belgravia body.”
Fisher smirked and slapped the ledger closed. “Dr. Muller is already on that case.”
“The drunk? I wouldn’t trust a dead dog to that man.” Surprised such a doctor remained on the Yard’s payroll, Ainsley’s voice bellowed louder than he intended.
Fisher glanced left and right before leaning over the wide desk. “I ain’t ever heard Simms say as many negative things about Dr. Muller as I heard him say about you. This morning he came here in a right furious rage. Nearly decked my constable here, who tried to go near him. I ain’t ever seen him so irate.”
Ainsley winced at the thought of it.
“If I were in them shiny shoes of yours I’d run back to St. Thomas before he found out I darkened those doors.” Fisher raised his eyebrows to emphasize his words.
“He’s ordered you not to send me up?” Ainsley asked.
Fisher pursed his lips and shook his head as he straightened his stance. “No, sir, hasn’t gone so far as that,” he explained. “But I ain’t the sort of police officer who’d knowingly send a man to certain death, no sir. Won’t have that on my conscience.”
Ainsley shook his head. “Why don’t you let me deal with Simms on my own?”
“I can’t, sir.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because he’s not here.” Fisher offered a shrug and a wink.
Ainsley smiled. “I’ll leave a note then.”
Fisher presented him with a blank sheet of paper and a fountain pen from. After quickly scribbling off a message for Simms to contact him at home as soon as possible, Ainsley folded the page and presented it to Fisher with thanks.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Specialist.”
Ainsley cringed at the sound of a familiar voice. He needn’t have turned around to know Theodore Fenton, of the Daily Telegraph and Courier, stood behind him. He was the journalist who held the secret of Ainsley’s double life—and he was also the one person with such knowledge who held no loyalty to Ainsley whatsoever.
When Ainsley turned he walked forward, tipping his hat as he passed. “Good day, Mr. Fenton.”
“I just spent the entire afternoon canvassing your neighbourhood, Dr. Ainsley,” Fenton called out after him.
Ainsley could feel the newspaperman following him as he exited the building and into the street.
“Or should I address you as Mr. Marshall? This life of yours always seems to have me confused.”
“You wouldn’t be so confused if you just left me and my family alone,” Ainsley reminded him as he raised his hand to hail a hansom.
Fenton smiled. “What would the fun in that be?”
Ainsley turned and stepped into Fenton. “Is that what I am to you? Entertainment?”
Fenton blinked. “In part.”
The old Ainsley would have thought nothing of raising his fist to the miscreant. For weeks, Ainsley and his family had been the subject of carefully worded passages in the society pages. Already, Aunt Louisa and Margaret had refused invites and retreated to the house to save themselves from the piteous questions and hateful remarks directed at them from the other society women. Many acted as if Lord Marshall’s condition were contagious, easily procured through casual contact. No one continued to see Lord Marshall as a prominent member of London society. His condition had made him an outcast and that meant his children were as well.
Ainsley blamed Fenton for fanning the flames with his superfluous articles, having no doubt Mr. Fenton paid their former chambermaid for the private details. Each passing day brought new worry to Ainsley, who would have preferred to concentrate on his father’s recovery, or at the very least, his family’s adjustment to the new rhythm of their lives. He was in no place to worry about the papers and what they may reveal about him, but he remained anxious nonetheless.
When Ainsley didn’t reply to his obvious baiting, the newspaperman spoke again, “What’s the matter, Peter, lost all will to fight? Your newfound calm came too late, didn’t it? A certain someone would still be alive today if only you had discovered this side of you earlier.”
There was a time, not so long ago, when Ainsley, full of angst, leapt at any chance to right all the world’s wrongs with his innate strength. It was a flaw that created the current rift between him and Simms, and also managed to etch profound scars upon his soul. A deep scowl set in to Ainsley’s features as he looked over his shoulder at the man he so greatly despised, the man who seemed fixated on broadcasting all his misdeeds or, at the very least, threatening to.
A devilish smile spread over Fenton’s face. “There he is! That’s the man I remember!” He clapped his hands together in glee. “You can take the man out of the cockfight, but you can’t take the cockfight out of the man.”
Ainsley turned and pressed a finger into the man’s chest. “Who did you pay for the information about my father? The maid?”
“Peter, Peter, calm yourself.” Fenton adjusted his collar. “No maliciousness is intended. My respect for Lord Marshall knows no bounds. I see nothing wrong with showing my appreciation for the time it took to conduct my interview.”
“So it was the maid then?”
Fenton smiled. “What did you expect? Loyalty?”
“Decency.”
Fenton shrugged.
Disgusted, Ainsley turned away. “Good day, Mr. Fenton.”
His search for a cab to ferry him home proved fruitless and so he began to walk. He didn’t trust himself to keep his temper in check. He needed to put as much distance between himself and Fenton as possible, or else their encounter wouldn’t end well.
“Leaving so soon, Specialist?” Fenton kept pace behind Ainsley as he weaved between the rush of pedestrians in the streets. “Did you try this hard to avoid a confrontation with Elliot Holliwell? How about the fight you had with that young boxer, what was his name again?”
Ainsley stopped suddenly, turned, and pushed Fenton into the brick wall behind him. With a clenched fist at Fenton’s throat, Ainsley leaned in close. “What are you playing at?” he commanded.
Fear flashed over the newspaperman’s features and then vanished, replaced by a self-satisfied smirk. He tried to wriggle away, but Ainsley kept a firm hold. “Watch yourself, Peter, we are right outside the Yard, are we not?”
Begrudgingly, Ainsley released him and watched as the man adjusted his coat. “You leave me alone, do you hear me? Or next time I won’t find the will to stop.”
“That would be unwise, Mr. Marshall,” Fenton said, smiling. “The days when the good officers of the Yard protected you are over. It won’t be so easy to avoid the swing of the rope from now on.”
Ainsley’s jaw clenched the man spoke. He was very much aware that he needed to watch his step. Already that day he had tread a fine line, but Ainsley knew he was capable of far worse acts than just misdirecting a body from a crime scene.
“I haven’t any clue what you are speaking of,” Ainsley said, working hard to keep his voice steady.
An uneasy silence erupted as their eyes met.
“Oh, I think you do.” Fenton adjusted his bowler hat so it sat squarely on his head and stepped forward, crashing into Ainsley’s shoulder as he made his exit. “Tread carefully, Peter,” he said over his shoulder as he left. “I possess endless amounts of information regarding this town a
nd no one is immune, not even the Marshall family.”
Ainsley watched as Fenton retreated down the street, glancing left and right, no doubt collecting further tidbits of information as he sauntered along.
Chapter 5
Even though the hour was late, the evening sun gave off a pink glow throughout the city as Ainsley returned home. No one was at the door to greet him, and the house sat quiet as he strode into the foyer.
“Oh Peter, thank goodness!” Aunt Louisa appeared at the top of the stairs clutching a gloved hand to her breast. She scooped up a fold of her taffeta skirt and began a slow descent to greet him. “Your sister has been run off her feet and now your father is in such a state.”
Again.
When Ainsley climbed the stairs to meet her she snatched up his hand and nearly dragged him the second half of the way up.
“Katherine did not show up this morning,” Aunt Louisa said over her shoulder as she led him along. “The ner’do well!”
“I was made aware,” Ainsley said in an effort to forego any long explanations.
Aunt Louisa stopped and jerked her head toward him. “How is that possible? I sent you no missive.”
Ainsley stammered, unable to admit it was Julia who had made an unauthorized stop at his place of work. “I received a note by messenger,” he answered quickly. “Margaret sent it.”
His aunt nodded, though her expression remained doubtful. “Very well.” Once again she pulled him along.
“A replacement is coming in the morning,” Ainsley said. “An older woman this time, a nurse of course, who informed me she prefers private work such as this.”
Aunt Louisa stopped short of Lord Marshall’s room. Then she licked her lips, tugging lightly on them with her teeth while still clutching Ainsley’s hand firmly. “Does she understand the extent of her duties? The…difficulties?”
Prayers for the Dying Page 5
