An Artless Demise

by Anna Lee Huber

  Lifting my brush from the canvas, I arched my back, already feeling strain on my body from standing in such a position—but a taste of the further changes that would need to come, no doubt. I’d already been forced to teach my lady’s maid, Bree, how to prepare my paints. The pigments which had to be ground and mixed with linseed oil to create the colors I desired were sometimes toxic, and although I had always taken precautions for my own health, I’d decided it would be safer not to risk harming the baby. This task fell outside Bree’s normal realm of duties, but she was the only one I trusted to do it.

  In any case, our relationship had never followed protocol. I was far more familiar with her than most ladies were with their maids, as evidenced by my calling her by her first name. She also often assisted Gage and me with our investigations alongside my husband’s valet, Anderley.

  Happily, Bree seemed to take an interest in my artwork, and so I had given her a few rudimentary drawing lessons. Her sketches showed little promise of artistic achievement, but if she enjoyed it, I was not going to discourage her.

  So when Jeffers entered the studio late in the afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the mews at the back of the garden, he found me at one of my easels and Bree seated in the corner, her pencil rasping across the paper as she shaded some image. I flicked a glance at him as he gave a short bow.

  “My lady, Mr. Gage wished me to inform you that Lord Gage has arrived, and that they await your attendance in the drawing room.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from frowning in displeasure. A most improper reaction, but I knew Jeffers would understand. He held almost as little liking for the man as I did. It was one of the reasons Gage had poached him from another lord, though truth be told, Jeffers had intended to leave the baron’s service anyway.

  I sighed and nodded. “Thank you, Jeffers.”

  He bowed and turned to leave as Bree bustled over and untied the strings of my apron.

  “I’ll tidy up here, m’lady,” she told me as her eyes scoured my appearance.

  I dipped a rag in linseed oil and scrubbed at the paint stuck to my hands while she adjusted a few of the pins in my chestnut hair and fluffed the curls at the side of my face.

  Her gaze dropped to my plain lavender kerseymere gown. “Did ye wish to change?”

  I considered the matter for a moment and then shook my head. “Lord Gage’s sartorial taste will undoubtedly be offended, but he shall have to overlook it.” At least I wasn’t wearing the drab brown or muddy puce dresses I also used when painting.

  On my way to the drawing room, I paused to wash my hands and then inspect my reflection in one of the entry hall mirrors to be certain there were no flecks of paint on my face before joining the gentlemen.

  As a bachelor, Gage had done little entertaining. So when we had arrived in London, he had urged me to redecorate the house as I saw fit, saying he trusted I would not make it overly feminine or ostentatious. I had little experience or interest in such things, but I did know what I liked in other people’s homes and sought to emulate it, with Alana’s wise counsel to assist me.

  I had the walls in the drawing room painted a lovely sea green color, and the woodwork and moldings a shade darker for contrast. The fireplace brick was whitewashed to soften its appearance, and I chose pearl gray drapes for the windows. Much of the furniture was not to my taste, being too large and bulky, but I was careful to replace them with sofas and chairs that would not be too dainty for a man of Gage’s height to sit comfortably. A few of my own portraits graced the walls—the ones I could not part with. My painting of Gage held pride of place over the mantel. However, I had not covered all the walls, leaving space for some of the artwork I had inherited from Gage’s late grandfather when we collected them from his home on Dartmoor.

  Overall, I was quite pleased with the results, and I knew only the most finicky of individuals could find fault with it. Which, unfortunately, described Gage’s father.

  I found both men standing before the hearth. Lord Gage glowered at the pale brick as he listened to his son. What they were discussing, I didn’t know, for he broke off as I entered the room. Bracing myself for whatever criticism my father-in-law would offer, I crossed the room toward them, holding my head high despite the derisive sweep of his gaze over my person.

  Just like his son after him, Lord Gage was rumored to have been one of the handsomest men of his generation. Truth be told, he was still quite attractive, even at the ripe age of fifty-eight. His golden hair had turned gray, and his face was weathered and perpetually bronzed due to his decades at sea as a captain in the Royal Navy, but his jaw was still firm, his physique trim, and his charm legendary. I had witnessed its effect on others, even if he’d never seen fit to turn it on me.

  “My apologies,” I told them. “But I expect Jeffers informed you I was in my studio. How do you do, sir?” I offered Lord Gage my hand, which he clasped while dipping only the barest inch of his head. “Shall you be joining us for dinner?” Not that I wished him to, but it was polite to ask.

  His nose wrinkled, smelling the oil and turpentine clinging to my gown, no doubt. “Is that what you intend to dine in?”

  “Of course not.” I arched a single eyebrow in chastisement. “But I supposed you would be cross if I kept you waiting any longer. If you intend to dine with us, I shall go change immediately.”

  I knew better than to expect him to be the least contrite. “I’ll be dining at my club.”

  “Very well. Tea, then?” I offered, leading them toward the pair of cream upholstered Hepplewhite sofas with mahogany cabriole legs which faced each other before the fireplace.

  He waved this offer aside impatiently as he sat across from Gage and me. “I suspect my son has informed you of the resurrectionists arrested at King’s College on suspicion of murder.” His voice was clipped, precise, and cold, as it always was when alone in our company.

  “I have. Has the parish surgeon examined the corpse?” Gage asked, taking hold of my hand where it rested on my knee.

  His father nodded. “Along with Herbert Mayo and Richard Partridge.” The professor of anatomy and demonstrator at King’s College, respectively. I had made both of their acquaintances when wed to Sir Anthony.

  “Partridge is the man who sent for the police?”

  “Yes.” His expression turned grave. “And it appears he was right to do so.”

  “Murder, then?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  None of us spoke for a moment, each contemplating the ramifications of such a certainty while the clock ticked away on the mantel.

  Lord Gage roused himself to further explain. “They estimate the boy was about fourteen years of age and in fair health. He’d only been dead about three days, and never buried, though his chest and thighs were smeared with earth and clay to try to obscure that fact. The three surgeons had differing opinions on how exactly death had occurred. But they all agreed his bloodshot, bulging eyes; caved-in chest; and the evidence of coagulated blood and hemorrhages below the scalp, as well as the fact his damaged jaw was still dripping blood, indicated murder most foul.”

  I bit my lip to withhold the improvident words gathering on my tongue, but Lord Gage’s eagle eyes missed nothing.

  Those eyes narrowed. “Do you have something to add?”

  I glanced at Gage, hesitant to speak, but in the name of truth I felt I had to. “By your mention of a damaged jaw, do you mean to say his teeth had been removed?”

  If possible, Lord Gage’s cold stare turned even more frigid. “I do.”

  “Well, then, it’s probable the bodysnatchers removed them to sell separately to a dentist. At least . . . that’s what I was led to believe was their standard procedure.” Of the numerous corpses Sir Anthony had forced me to sketch, only one had retained any teeth, and they were so damaged as to be worthless.

  “One of the accused had an inj
ured hand and tried to claim he’d done it while removing the teeth from the body with a bradawl. And that he had, indeed, sold them to a dentist,” he admitted. “Though that in no way clears him of the murder.”

  “Of course. But . . . I feel I should also mention that there are some surgeons who disagree with the widely held belief that blood never coagulates after death. They suggest that it could also do so in a still-warm corpse. I heard one such anatomist argue with Sir Anthony about it often enough,” I added by way of explanation.

  “Well, I suggest we trust the findings of the noted surgeons on this matter.”

  My cheeks flushed at this sharply worded reminder that I was not.

  “She’s only trying to help, Father,” Gage said in my defense.

  “The last thing this investigation needs is her airing her theories and clouding the issue. The situation is serious, and growing more worrisome by the hour.”

  I would have taken him to task for thinking I would share my thoughts willy-nilly to just anyone, but for the evidence he was troubled. Some of his calm assurance had been stripped away. He almost seemed unable to sit still.

  “What else has happened?” Gage asked in a low voice.

  “As of yet, we don’t know the boy’s identity. But multiple parents have come forward after reading the description of the boy in the police handbills and notices posted about the parish. They are all reporting missing sons of the same age and asking to view the body.” He paused, seeming to gather himself. “There are others stepping forward as well, to share their stories of missing children, both male and female, of varying ages.”

  My hand tightened around Gage’s where he still clasped it, my stomach hollow with dread.

  “You grasp the implications,” he murmured. “How many more missing children are there? How many more missing people? And do they have anything to do with the resurrectionists?”

  Gage muttered a horrified curse.

  His father nodded. “Alarm is building, and it is going to take a great deal of discretion to stave off a full-blown panic.” His gaze shifted toward me where I sat staring at the floor, my other hand draped protectively around the small swell of my abdomen. “What of you?” he demanded.

  I blinked in confusion.

  “Are you saying you knew nothing of this?”

  My head reared back. “Of the missing children?” I asked in astonishment. “Of course not! You . . . you honestly think that had I known about them, had I even contemplated the possibility that they were being taken and sold . . .” I broke off, unable to voice the words. “What kind of monster do you think I am?!”

  “Then what of the resurrectionists’ business? What do you know of it?”

  “Father, that is enough,” Gage barked.

  “Nothing! I know nothing,” I snapped back. “All I concerned myself with was the appearance of Sir Anthony’s subjects once they rested on his dissection table, nothing before or after.”

  “You never wondered where his supply of fresh corpses came from?” he asked incredulously.

  Hot shame stained my cheeks. “Of course I did! But I knew better than to ask. He made certain of that.” I broke off, turning to gaze into the fireplace, wishing the flames could burn the memories from my mind. I inhaled a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t handle it. Not if . . .” I shook my head, halting the thought, and turned back to face Lord Gage. “If you wish to know more about bodysnatchers and their . . . their methods, I am not the person to ask.”

  Lord Gage’s face showed not the least amount of sympathy, but his stony expression had softened. I could see the speculation behind his eyes. I had said too much. Gage might know about my first husband’s cruel and sometimes violent mistreatment of me, but I had never spoken of it to his father, and I knew Gage better than to wonder if he had. He would never disclose such a thing without my permission.

  When Lord Gage spoke next, it was with more care. “I’ve been given to understand it is not uncommon for the bodies of children to be dissected. Did Sir Anthony Darby ever do so in front of you?”

  I shook my head vehemently, though for the sake of honesty, I added, “That’s not to say he didn’t plan to, for I was not privy to his designs for his anatomy textbook. I merely sketched what I was told to. But I never witnessed such a thing.”

  He accepted this with a single nod.

  “If you’re done interrogating my wife,” Gage bit out in a hard voice, “can you tell me what any of this has to do with you? Has Lord Melbourne asked you to investigate?”

  He sank back into the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “Not officially. But he has asked me to keep informed on the matter, and ordered the authorities involved to grant me access.”

  “And I suppose this is your way of keeping us abreast of the matter in turn,” Gage muttered, obviously suspecting the same thing I did. If Lord Gage had been asked to assist, then he would be dragging Gage and me into the inquiry along with him.

  However, the nature of the murder and its intersection with my past complicated matters.

  “Yes.” His gaze shifted to me. “Though I shall wish for any part you might play to remain behind the scenes, for obvious reasons.” He reached down to pick an invisible piece of lint from his coat sleeve. “I told you your imprudent bride’s past would come back to haunt you.”

  “Through no fault of her own,” Gage fired back, growing angry at this far too familiar refrain.

  I pressed a hand to his arm. It was pointless to argue the matter with his father. He did not care to listen, as evidenced by his careless shrug, which communicated quite clearly that he believed the exact opposite. I would forever be the villain of this piece in his mind.

  In any case, I’d long ago recognized the truth of the uneasy truce that had developed between us since my return to London. He’d simply been watching me, biding his time, waiting for me to make a mistake. What I hadn’t known was whether he intended to pounce on it or smooth over my misstep. Whatever the case, I knew it would come with a price. I only had to wait for him to name it.

  For now, he glossed over the matter. “The newspapers are calling the murdered child the Italian Boy.”

  Gage startled, but when I glanced at him, he swiftly masked his shock.

  “They’re seizing on the connection to the number of Italians who stepped forward to view the body, claiming one such boy had gone missing. Several of them thought it was him.” Lord Gage glowered. “But none of them could tell us his name.”

  He pushed to his feet but added one last parting comment. “I do not know how people will react tomorrow when the story appears in all the newspapers, but you should be prepared.” With that ominous warning, he took his leave.

  As the door shut behind him, I turned to face my husband, but before I could speak, he began apologizing for his father.

  I pressed a hand to his lips to forestall him. “No, Gage. Please stop. How many times must I tell you? You are not responsible for your father.”

  He sighed, lowering my hand to clutch it with the other in his lap. “I know. But when he says such things . . .”

  “Yes, I know.” I leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. “He makes both of us want to commit violence.”

  This surprised a smile out of him, and I lifted one of his hands to my lips, kissing the knuckles.

  “Let’s forget him for the moment.” I gazed down at the callus along the side of one of his fingers. “Instead, tell me why his mention of the Italian Boy so unsettled you.”

  “It’s nothing,” he replied, shrugging the matter off. “Only, one hates to think of such a terrible fate befalling one of those lads.”

  “They usually are quite arresting, aren’t they?”

  With their dark hair, imploring eyes, and sweetly melancholy dispositions, they were easily some of London’s most sentimental street figures. Some of them
acted as image boys, carrying trays of plaster busts and figures of the great and good upon their heads throughout the city for their artist masters and hawking them to passersby. Still others were entertainers, performing music or pathos, or exhibiting animals, be it white mice in a cage hung around their neck, a tortoise, or a dancing monkey.

  The economies of the Italian states had been devastated by the Napoleonic Wars, so it was no wonder why so many of those countrymen had migrated to England. For the most part they were welcomed, particularly for their renowned craftsmanship with optical devices, musical instruments, and waxworks. However, I did not know why so many of the Italian boys seemed reduced to near vagrancy. And I’d never contemplated the matter until now.

  “It somehow makes this crime all the more horrifying,” Gage replied, his brow puckered as if trying to understand why that was so.

  I sobered. “Yes.”

  But despite his convincing response, I could tell there was something else he wasn’t saying. It was betrayed by the tautness of his shoulders, the manner in which he continued to avoid my gaze. My first thought was that perhaps it involved one of his past inquiries. Perhaps one that had not ended satisfactorily. But then why the evasion?

  Before I could press him, he forced a smile. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Anderley about something before dinner.”

  “Of course.”

  I watched him go before rising more slowly to follow.

  It was only later, as Bree was buttoning up the back of my dinner gown, that I realized how strange his parting words were. After all, as his valet, Anderley would already be helping him to dress for dinner. So why did he need to speak with him particularly?

  Was it something to do with the Italian Boy investigation, some point of fact he wished clarified? Or was it a personal matter? Something related to his reaction over the body’s identity?