Prayers for the Dying

by Tracy L. Ward

  “Father!” Margaret rushed to the opposite side of the bed just as Lord Marshall hit the floor with a pronounced thud. Even as Margaret held on to his shoulders, a feeble effort to calm him, he writhed and wriggled.

  “Fetch Maxwell and Cutter! Hurry!”

  Aunt Louisa fled the room as Edith and Margaret attempted to stop his outburst. Margaret focused on the protection of his head, which was dangerously close to being knocked against the wooden bedside table that held his lamp and books.

  “Father, stop it! Just stop it!”

  He kicked and bucked, trying to throw the women from him. Then all at once Edith was pulling at his arms, trying to lift him back into the bed on her own.

  “What are you doing?” Margaret asked, trying to pull her father’s limbs away from her grasp.

  “Be not alarmed,” the nurse said. “I’ve needed to do this many times before.” The woman’s words were stunted by the exertion of trying to calm Lord Marshall’s flailing and fighting against Margaret’s efforts to stop her. “I’ve dealt with many drunk men ’afore.”

  “He’s not drunk,” Margaret said.

  Cutter and Maxwell appeared one after the other and went straight to work. Knowing how the scene had played out before, Lord Marshall did not fight them as they took his arms and legs in hand and hoisted him back into the middle of the bed.

  Margaret pulled herself up from the floor, and pushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes just as Aunt Louisa returned. The newfound silence of the room was in deep contrast to the chaos moments prior.

  “Perhaps we should tell Lord Benedict your father is indisposed,” Aunt Louisa said from the doorway.

  Margaret nodded, but was too out of breath to reply.

  Half an hour passed and complete calm was restored. Lord Marshall was tucked tightly in his bed while Edith sat in the chair, a pair of knitting needles and yarn in her hands.

  Margaret hesitated on the opposite side. She had been staring at her father for some minutes, almost daring him to look at her, wondering if he would apologize in some way for his outburst. He didn’t turn his head toward her and returned his gaze to the opposite wall.

  “It’s all right, Miss Marshall,” Edith said, “I can see to him now.”

  Margaret gave a hesitant nod before pressing down the folds of her skirt and leaving the room.

  George and Hubert skirted by her on the stairs, leaving a rattled governess lumbering after them. “Boys! Boys!” Clutching the bannister firmly, the governess swung her free arm widely as she tried to catch up to them.

  “Pardon me, miss,” she said as she bounded by.

  From her place halfway down the staircase, Margaret saw them nearly plough into Maxwell, who had been making his way to answer the front door. Just shy of the door, Maxwell turned to face them. “For goodness’ sake,” he bellowed as he placed his hands on his hips.

  The two young boys stopped suddenly and looked up at the rather tall butler.

  “This isn’t a county fair. If that’s the way it is then get outside with ye.”

  With wide swinging hand motions, he shooed the boys toward the back of the foyer and down the hall, their governess more than happy to escort them the rest of the way.

  Margaret watched as Maxwell pulled down his jacket and adjusted his tie. “They keep us on our toes, yes?” she asked.

  “Yes, they certainly do,” he said, ill-amused.

  A second later Maxwell snapped open the door and revealed Winifred standing on the other side. She started at the abrupt opening. “Oh, I was beginning to think no one was coming.”

  “Can I assist you?” Maxwell asked.

  Before Winifred could reply Margaret was at his side. “Winifred, I’m delighted that you should stop by.”

  Winifred suddenly looked regretful for having called.

  “Is everything all right?” Margaret asked, pushing past the butler.

  “Yes, of course.” Winifred glanced down toward her house and pressed her lips together.

  “Thank you, Maxwell. I’ll take it from here.”

  Maxwell bowed slightly and left them both standing on the portico.

  “Has something happened?” Margaret asked.

  “It’s Mother. She’s in such a state. She bid me come for you,” Winifred explained. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” The woman spoke so quickly Margaret could feel the panic radiating from her words.

  Margaret purposely took a breath to coax Winifred to do the same. “Tell me what it is,” Margaret said.

  “We found something and we don’t know what it means. We didn’t realize it was there until just this morning. Please don’t think awful of us, Margaret. We had nothing to do with that man’s death.”

  “Of course not,” Margaret said, softly. She pulled at Winifred’s hand and led her down the few steps to the pavement. “Come now. Let us see what can be done.”

  Margaret was led through the dark hall of the house and into the back garden. Just outside the back door, Mrs. Talbot stood dabbing her nose with a lace handkerchief. A female servant stood close at hand consoling her.

  “It’s just over here,” Winifred said.

  “Oh, don’t look, Margaret,” Mrs. Talbot pleaded between sobs. “It’s too ghastly. I’ve already summoned the police. They should be here shortly.” She raised her handkerchief again and hid her face.

  Margaret turned to Winifred, who looked cautiously at her mother before pulling Margaret toward the back of the garden. They circled an ancient yew tree that shaded much of the yard and stopped at the ivy-covered gate that led into a rear alley. The iron hinges groaned as Winifred pulled the gate toward them, standing carefully to one side so Margaret could see.

  Behind the gate on the cobbles was a rather large pool of blood, congealed and solidified. As the gate swung further in Margaret could see blood had also trickled over the wood panels that made up the gate.

  “Merciful heavens,” Margaret said in a near whisper.

  “We did not see it until this morning,” Winifred said, almost apologetically. “I nearly stepped in it myself.”

  Margaret inched closer. She could see faint footprints in the blood and then immediately around the area. She hiked up her skirt to walk around the discovery and made her way into the alley. It was a narrow passageway that ran parallel to the houses on both sides. Other gateways were visible all along the block. There were a few more footprints in the passageway that led out to where the lane connected with the street.

  “Do you think this has to do with that man?” Winifred asked from the other side of the gate.

  Margaret’s heart sank at the thought of it. “I’m afraid so.” She pulled out a plain white handkerchief she had under the hem of her bodice and unfolded it. Winifred stepped closer as Margaret laid the fabric on one of the bloody footprints with the crispest outline.

  “What are you doing?” Winifred asked.

  Gingerly, Margaret pressed the cloth into the blood, taking extra care not to shift it side to side. When she plied the handkerchief from the ground a marking had transferred to the cloth, faint but clear enough to see with the naked eye.

  “What do you plan to do with it?” Winifred asked.

  “If this is where the man met his end, then it’s likely this is the killer’s footprint,” Margaret said, holding the handkerchief flat on her upturned palm.

  “Don’t show Mother,” Winifred cautioned.

  Margaret took great care to fold the clean edges around the print in such a way as to preserve the marking. She held the squared handkerchief in her hand as they made their way back into the Talbot’s garden.

  Mrs. Talbot still stood at the back door, sobbing into her handkerchief.

  “Do you wish you had heeded my advice?” she asked, looking at the pair of young women as one would look at chastised children.

  Margaret and Winifred exchanged glances before nodding in unison. In cases such as these it was much better to agree than force an argument.

  “I
think I may faint,” Mrs. Talbot said suddenly, placing a hand on her stomach. “Fetch some tea,” she said to the maid beside her. Mrs. Talbot showed Margaret into the drawing room. Each took a seat, but they all looked expectantly out the large window, none of them able to take their eyes from the back gate.

  “How was the discovery made?” Margaret asked.

  “Winifred heard some cats in the back lane,” Mrs. Talbot said.

  “They made such an awful racket this morning. I could hear it from the window in my room,” Winifred explained. “I wanted to make sure neither of them was badly hurt.”

  Mrs. Talbot huffed then, rolling her eyes at her stepdaughter’s concern. “I can’t stand the beasts,” she said.

  “Mother doesn’t care for cats,” Winifred said, lowering her voice.

  “Filthy creatures.” Mrs. Talbot crinkled her nose and shook her head.

  The maid entered the room and placed a tray on the table in front of them. One by one, she prepared a cup of tea for each of the women before Mrs. Talbot dismissed her.

  “Do you think the blood is from that man?” Winifred pointed to the front of the house.

  “Yes,” Margaret said slowly. “It most certainly is human, as I believe there is too much to be feline.”

  Winifred blanched at this remark. Mrs. Talbot merely closed her eyes. “I do not understand how you can speak of these things so casually,” she said.

  Margaret faltered. She couldn’t confess that these types of things were a regular occurrence for her and her brother. “I’ve been reading a lot of newspaper serials lately,” she said, “and a book on Florence Nightingale.”

  The mother-daughter pair seemed assured by this explanation.

  “I knew there was a reason I told Winifred to fetch you,” Mrs. Talbot said, offering a comforting smile. “You are so bright, my dear.”

  Chapter 14

  The two-room flat Mary and Robert called home grew stifling hot by midday and never cooled enough at night to make any time spent there bearable. The adjacent buildings blocked any breeze from entering their two windows, no matter how far Julia was able to prop up the sash. Mary and Julia were forced to fan themselves with whatever they could find, Mary a tin pie plate and Julia a leaflet paper on the virtues of regular prayer, while they sat at the table. With only a nappy to cover her bottom, Lucy slept in a wooden box lined with blankets between them.

  “It’s been too long,” Mary said fretfully. “’E’s been gone too long.”

  By the time Julia arrived, two days prior, Robert had already gone in search of his friend, Jeremiah, who hadn’t been seen since he made the journey on foot to Belgravia. Julia knew now Jeremiah was the man discovered tied to the lamppost, but she said nothing for fear of distressing Mary even further.

  “Something’s ’appened to ’im,” Mary said. She looked to Julia imploringly. “What do we do?”

  “We wait,” Julia said, trying hard to keep her voice even and calm. By the time Julia arrived, Mary had been driven to near-hysterics, worrying and fretting for her husband’s safety. She couldn’t just leave her niece in the care of a woman who could barely care for herself, so Julia stayed. She did her best to care for the child and Mary, who seemed less concerned with the running of the house and more concerned with perpetuating her worry. No matter how much Julia tried to coax her from her listless state, Mary became despondent and preferred to sit at the table staring at the opposite wall.

  “T’is yer fault,” Mary said, somewhat casually. “’E was going to take us far away from ’ere, but ’e insisted on taking ye wit’ us.” A fresh set of tears glistened in Mary’s eyes. “We would ’ave been ’alfway across the Atlantic by now.”

  Julia shook her head at the woman’s careless words and her lack of geographic knowledge. “Hardly halfway,” she said under her breath.

  Mary turned at the sound of Julia’s voice, and gave a look of disgust. “’Ow can you know?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  Julia ignored Mary’s protest and craned her neck to look out the window. They couldn’t see much of anything save a small sliver of the alley below. Julia had spent much of the night before watching for signs of both Robert and Thaddeus. If anyone had seen her walking into Robert and Mary’s place, he’d know before long.

  “Ye know, I ain’t ever seen anyone put on so much airs as ye. Ye’d think ye were a princess the way ye prance around here in yer fine dresses and shiny hair.”

  “Please, Mary, let’s not get at odds here.” Julia looked down to Lucy, who stirred in her makeshift cot.

  “Ye spend one ’ear with the toffers in Belgravia and that makes ye better ’an the rest of us?”

  Julia closed her eyes and turned her head as her sister-in-law raised her voice. It had come to her attention there were two types of people when it involved the hardships of life: those who use adversity to spur action and those who use it to wallow in misery. She highly suspected Mary was the latter.

  “I am not your enemy, Mary,” she said. “My only wish is to help you and Lucy until Robert returns and even then perhaps I can help with your passage to Boston.”

  Mary snorted in disgust. “We don’t want yer help, not from the likes of ye. Ye forget, Princess. I know who ye really are.” Mary stood and leaned over the table to point a finger at Julia. “I know what ye’ve done, Julia Calvin.”

  Julia snatched Mary’s wrist and pushed her hand hard into the table. “Pipe down,” Julia hissed. “Or you are going to get us all killed!”

  Lucy let out a deep-throated wail at this and Mary simply collapsed back into her chair, holding to her injured hand. She cried openly as Julia bent down to pick up the baby.

  “He’s dead,” Mary said, crying into her hands. “I know he’s dead. And ’ere I am left with a babe and no way to feed her. I’ll be in the workhouse ’fore long.”

  “Don’t speak like that,” Julia said, cradling Lucy against her chest and shoulder. “He will be home. We just need to wait.” Julia bobbed Lucy up and down gently. “Quietly,” she added.

  Chapter 15

  It seemed repugnant to think Julia was capable of such a thing as murder. She had always been soft-spoken, kind, and patient. All the things Ainsley was not. There were hints of strength, situations that revealed a formidable force behind her amiable exterior. It was that strength that drew Ainsley to her. He knew there were pieces to her past that she preferred to stay hidden. Out of respect for her he didn’t pry. In the end, he was just happy to spend time with her, knowing she was as equally enthralled with him as he was with her.

  “There must have been a mistake,” Ainsley said at last. “It’s just not possible.”

  Simms said nothing and only tilted his head to the side, his expression sympathetic.

  “You don’t really think she killed someone.”

  “I know she did. And I’m willing to bet Thaddeus knows she did too.”

  Ainsley felt like throwing up.

  “I don’t know what your relationship with Mrs. Calvin is—”

  “Kemp. Her name is Miss Kemp.”

  Simms ignored Ainsley’s correction and continued. “The only reason why I haven’t arrested her is the same reason why I haven’t arrested you. No one will collaborate and Mr. Edgar Calvin isn’t the type of person the Yard likes to waste manpower on, if you understand my meaning. Are you going to be all right, Peter? You don’t look well.”

  Ainsley pulled his hand away from his forehead and sat up. He nodded, but his gesture lacked conviction. “He must have her then. He found her. What if he’s already instituted his own justice for his brother’s death?”

  Simms slowly placed his palms onto the top of his desk in an effort to calm Ainsley down. “We don’t know that.”

  “What else could it possibly be?” He laughed nervously and then looked down, aware that he could break out into tears at any moment. “What did Thaddeus and his family do before they came to London?”

  Simms looked confused at first, almost flustered
at such a query. He flipped through a few pages before finding his answer. “Worked with horses on the canals. Why do you ask?”

  “He’s responsible for the women found in the Thames,” Ainsley pressed, the muscles in his face tightening as he spoke.

  Simms blanched. “How do you know this?”

  Ainsley hesitated. “I saw something as I pulled the woman from the water earlier.”

  “What did you see?”

  This was his chance, an opportunity to assist the Yard again and perhaps find out what happened to Julia. He may not like what he found and he’d certainly be heartbroken if he discovered Julia had gone back to her husband, or worse that she had been killed by his hand, but he knew he’d never sleep again until he knew for certain. “Let me examine the body properly,” he said sternly, “and all the others. I want notes and files.”

  Disturbed at the thought, Simms shook his head. “Peter—”

  “I want back in, Simms. London has a disease and the symptom is murder. Let me right the wrong I did.”

  “You want redemption?”

  “I want peace”—Ainsley pointed to his chest, slightly to the left—“here.”

  For a moment it looked as if Simms could not be won over. His face remained hardened and, while his tone had softened, his expression was marred by disbelief. After a long pause, Simms pulled the papers in front of him into a neat pile. “I’ll have Cooper bring her to St. Thomas,” he said as he stood up. His words sounded like a grunt, something done against his better judgement.

  Ainsley pushed down a smile.

  “But from now on there will be rules and you will follow them,” he said with a pointed finger.

  Ainsley nodded. “Yes, Inspector.”

  “I hope I don’t end up regretting this,” Simms said sternly.

  “I’m a different man now,” Ainsley said in earnest.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Ainsley left the offices of the Yard with a dejected feeling in the pit of his stomach. His dishevelled appearance betrayed his dishevelled heart. Julia was married? It seemed impossible and yet he knew Simms to be an honest man, exceedingly so. There would be no reason for the detective to lie to him. Ainsley didn’t want to think Julia had left them to return to her husband, not willingly at least.