An Artless Demise
Page 11
I glanced toward where Gage stood watching the rain. “Are we going to wait here until they leave?”
“No. I don’t see any men lurking near the garden gate, so I’m going to have the carriage brought around to the mews.” He looked back at me. “Unless you wished to stay?”
I shook my head, weary from the day’s questionings but trying to conceal it.
In short order, he bustled me down the garden path, holding an umbrella over our heads, and out the gate to the carriage waiting beyond. If there were any newspapermen loitering nearby to intercept us, we couldn’t hear them through the drumming of the rain. The umbrella was passed to the footman, the carriage door secured, and we were on our way, no worse for wear save for a few water spots on my woolen skirts and a bit of mud on my half boots.
I stifled a yawn, blinking my eyes to stay alert as we turned out of the mews and gathered speed. “I’ve been thinking. Would it be worthwhile to discover who has purchased sticking plasters from apothecaries recently?”
“I had the same thought. Though it’s just as likely our killer took them from the supplies in their home, or someone else’s.” He frowned. “We’ll have to find a way to ask Redditch’s housekeeper without arousing suspicions. But for the sake of thoroughness, I’m going to send those lads I mentioned I’ve employed in the past to ask around.”
“What of the knife?” I asked, suppressing another yawn. “From what I could see, it appeared rather narrow.”
He turned to look at me, his eyes trailing over my features. “Yes. Some sort of Scottish dirk perhaps, though I did not get a good enough look at it to say for certain.”
“Do you suppose our killer could be Scottish, then?”
“Maybe. But I’ve known plenty of Englishmen who possess such blades as well. So I don’t think we can conclusively say.”
I nodded and covered my mouth with my hand as a wide yawn popped my jaw.
His gaze turned tender. “Darling, why don’t you rest your head on my shoulder and close your eyes?”
“It’s merely a yawn.”
“Your fifth one. Sixth.” His own mouth cracked open. “And now you have me doing it. So for heaven’s sakes, listen to your husband,” he teased, draping an arm around my back to pull me to his side.
“Very well,” I huffed, allowing my head to loll against him. “But we’re almost home.”
“Where you’re promptly going up to our bedchamber to rest for an hour.”
“I will do no such thing,” I retorted, lifting my head to glare at him. I wasn’t entirely certain why I was arguing with him when such a suggestion sounded delightful, but I resented his imperiousness.
He pressed my head back to his chest. “You will if I have to carry you there myself. In any case, I would rather not have you about when Mr. Day arrives. It would be best if I speak with him alone.”
I conceded this was probably wise, lest the newspaperman’s inquisitiveness be stretched too far. But that didn’t mean I liked being ordered about. “I’m not made of porcelain. You need not treat me with kid leather gloves.”
“No, but perhaps I wish to do so. You are my wife, after all. And you are carrying my child.” At this, he lifted his hand to gently press it to the swell of my belly. “It’s my privilege to see to your comfort.”
It was difficult to object when he phrased it like that, and with such affection. All I could do was sigh in acquiescence.
His mouth lowered to my temple. “Once Mr. Day leaves, I’ll join you.”
His warm breath feathering over my ear sent a frisson of awareness through me, just as he knew it would. However, I was a quick study, and the six months of our marriage had taught me much about how to tease my husband in return.
Feeling the carriage slowing to a stop, I arched my chin to look up at him, tossing him a saucy look through my lashes. “Then you’d better finish his interview quickly, or else I might lose interest.”
I sat upright, turning toward the door, but Gage pulled me back to him. I laughed.
“Lose interest, will you?” he murmured against my lips. “Then I’ll simply have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
His mouth captured mine, driving out all other thoughts. When the footman opened the door, he released me, a spark in his eyes that promised much more. I entered the house in a haze of anticipation, acutely aware of my husband watching me as I removed my outer garments.
“Has a Mr. Day called to see me?” he asked Jeffers.
“No, sir.”
“Well, he shall be in short order. Show him into my study.”
“Very good, sir. This arrived for you a short while ago.”
Gage finally tore his eyes away from me to accept the missive. His brow furrowed as he examined the seal and the handwriting. I moved closer as he broke it open to scan the pages. Looking over his shoulder, I could tell from the permanship that it was from his father, and felt a pulse of annoyance. His correspondence always signaled inconvenience or trouble for us, and I was sure this would prove no different.
“We’re being summoned,” he bit out mockingly.
And I was certain that was exactly what he meant. Lord Gage never requested. He commanded.
“He wants us to report to his townhouse as soon as possible.” He folded the missive, offering it to me.
I shook my head. I felt no desire to read his caustic words. “Then shall we go?” I sighed, feeling the weariness that had melted away under my husband’s attentions return tenfold.
His jaw firmed. “No. He can wait. I have matters to discuss with Mr. Day, and you need to rest. An hour’s delay will not make much difference, despite what my father might think.”
I smiled at him in approval, and the hard look in his eyes softened.
“Do you wish me to send Bree to you?”
“No.”
He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Then go on. I’ll wake you in an hour or so.”
I hadn’t missed the fact he’d said he would wake me, and let him see that knowledge in my eyes as I gazed at him over my shoulder while striding toward the staircase.
* * *
• • •
It was rather more like two hours later that Gage and I finally presented ourselves at Lord Gage’s home in Hill Street. My husband had been right. A short rest and his inspired attentions had revived me and relieved Gage of some of the tension which always beset him when forced to confront his father. As such, we were both in equitable spirits when we were ushered into Lord Gage’s drawing room.
But a short distance from Berkeley Square, Hill Street was a more fashionable address and boasted larger homes than Chapel Street. Our little townhouse stood only a few blocks away, still situated in Mayfair, but the difference was striking. Lord Gage’s interest in his abode lay in status and pretention, while Gage preferred privacy and comfort. Of course, one day the Hill Street house would be his, as would his father’s title, and perhaps by then we would welcome the extra space. For now, I was quite satisfied with our dwelling and couldn’t care less if most of our neighbors were gentry and wealthy tradesmen rather than nobility.
Lord Gage’s drawing room was an airy chamber painted in a shade of soft rose gray. However, this delicate color was where my enjoyment of the room ended. The moldings, woodwork, and drapes were all white, as was much of the furniture, and everywhere there was gilt. Gilt mirrors and platters. Gilt sconces and trim. Gilt spindles and brackets. I had seen enough London drawing rooms to understand this was purported to be the height of elegance, but I found it cold and gaudy.
Worst of all was the artwork, which was the type that had been chosen solely because it matched the room’s aesthetic, rather than for the particular skill of the artist, or the emotion it stirred, or the personal connection the owner felt to the subject. It made me want to curl my lip in disgust every time I was forced to look upon it. I’d tri
ed to broach the subject with my father-in-law once but had soon realized he cared as little for art as I did for becoming a successful political hostess. It seemed we were hopelessly mismatched in our desires for the other.
My steps faltered at the sight of Lord Melbourne rising from his chair before the hearth. His thick dark hair had largely gone to gray, as had the large swaths of facial hair down the sides of his face. However, it was his hooked nose and bushy eyebrows, which moved up and down expressively, that were his most prominent features. At fifty-two, he was still a striking man, even standing in the shade of Lord Gage’s charms.
I didn’t know quite what to expect from Melbourne’s presence, but at least I could count on Lord Gage being civil. Abhorring deleterious gossip, he always treated me with faultless politeness in public now that my union to his son was sealed. It was only in private that he turned his cold hauteur on me.
Once greetings were exchanged and we were settled before the fire, Lord Gage moved straight to the point of our summons.
“I don’t know how much leisure you’ve had to read the newspapers, given how busy you are . . .” Though his tone was genial, his sharp gaze made it clear he had noted the late hour of our arrival. “But there has been a grave development in the Italian Boy inquiry.”
“I heard the coroner’s jury finally returned their verdict at half past ten last night,” Gage replied evenly, refusing to be baited. “‘Willful murder against some person or persons unknown,’ just as expected. Is there more? Has the boy finally been identified?”
“Not yet.” Melbourne braced his elbows on the arms of his chair, clasping his hands together in front of him as he examined us both in turn. “And to be sure, his unknown identity is troubling, but that is not the grave development we speak of.” His gaze locked with Gage. “You are perhaps familiar with James Corder, the Covent Garden vestry clerk?”
“Yes. I’ve made the man’s acquaintance.”
“Well, given the obvious similarities to the Burke and Hare murders, I asked him to report to me directly any pertinent discoveries once the verdict came in. I received a hand-delivered letter from him last night at eleven o’clock.”
The matter must have been urgent for him to have felt the need to apprise him of it at such a late hour.
His formidable eyebrows rose. “Apparently, in the course of the inquiry, it was disclosed that several boys of similar age to the deceased have, in fact, gone missing. But more than that, there seems to be grounds for assuming that they have, with the Italian Boy, been the victims of the resurrectionists who supply the medical schools.”
Gage and I shared an apprehensive look. We and Lord Gage had come to this uneasy suspicion several days past, but to have it seemingly confirmed was horrifying.
“Then the Italian Boy is likely not the first victim of such an appalling crime—whether or not they were committed specifically by the men who are accused of killing him or by other resurrectionists—and he may not be the last,” Gage surmised.
The home secretary leaned forward in agitation. “Worse still, this has all now been made public knowledge, aired before all at the hearing.”
“The newspapers have already seized upon it,” Lord Gage added in forbidding tones. “They will stir the populace into a frenzy.”
Melbourne nodded dully, his eyes staring unseeing at the floor. “First the unrest over the failure to pass the Reform Bill, and now this. London is a simmering pot waiting to boil over. If this matter is not handled with utmost care, we could have a full-fledged rebellion on our hands.”
“You must consider passing emergency legislation against sedition,” Lord Gage coaxed, clearly picking up the thread of an earlier argument.
Melbourne seemed to consider his words for a moment but then shook his head. “No. Stifling the press would only increase the public’s ire. I will trust in the normal rule of law and our New Police to keep the peace.”
I agreed with him, and I could tell Gage did as well, for his shoulders relaxed from the position they’d taken up around his ears after his father had made the suggestion.
Melbourne’s eyes were deeply troubled. “But measures must be taken. I told Corder to find out how it’s possible that so many young people could go missing without anyone noticing.”
I glanced between the two older men, wondering if they were truly as clueless as their expressions implied. “Surely you’re aware that, despite the Vagrancy Act, there are hundreds of children still sleeping on the street,” I ventured to say, having taken interest in several charities which aimed to help them. “Orphaned and destitute, or afraid to return home because of the rough treatment they receive. Some of them are sent out to beg for money and told not to return unless they have it.” Covent Garden, in particular, was notorious for the number of children who slept beneath the market stalls or among the fruit and vegetable baskets, trying to escape the cold.
Melbourne sighed, crossing one leg over the other as he turned his gaze toward the fire. “Yes, I’ve been apprised of the issue. I’m informed many of the constables are prone to take pity on them, and so do not round them up as they are supposed to. That many of them have already run away from the parish workhouse several times.” He glanced up, his face drawn. “But some of these boys reported missing are not among the destitute. They’re sons of respectable tradesmen. Indeed, one of these fathers wept openly in court. If even they can disappear, what chance do the street children have?”
Instinctively, my arm lifted to cradle my stomach, as if I could somehow shield myself and my unborn child from such realities. The thought of someone harming him or her, of killing him in order to sell his body to a medical school for profit, sent a quiver down my spine and a chill through my body.
I glanced up to find Lord Gage watching me. He had seen my protective gesture. But rather than sneer at me, as I’d half expected, his gaze seemed almost gentle. Given the fact he’d never looked at me with such kindness, I could be excused my astonishment. This reaction must have registered on my face, for his lips curled into a smile of mild chagrin as he turned away.
“What of the medical schools?” Gage asked. “Can’t they be called to give an account of the bodies they’ve procured from resurrectionists in, say, the past three months? Wouldn’t that tell you whether an inordinate amount of children have been sold to the interests of science?”
“Yes, and many of them have already done so,” Melbourne confirmed. “But you must grasp that the situation is an embarrassing one, for the medical profession and the legal one.”
This was an understatement if ever I’d heard one. There were laws against the illegal exhumation of a corpse, but the crime was only a misdemeanor. The theft of the property of a corpse carried a far stiffer penalty than the actual theft of the body. Still, I would wager there were a fair number of resurrectionists who had served short prison sentences for bodysnatching, but few, if any, medical professionals who had served time for providing impetus for the crime. The courts knew what was happening, and yet this covert official connivance went largely unchecked and unchallenged. Until Burke and Hare. And now this new case of Bishop, Williams, and May.
“So we may never know the truth,” Gage summarized, sinking deeper into the settee on which we perched. His furrowed brow communicated his frustration.
Personally, I thought it improbable even a moderate amount of children had been trafficked to the anatomists without someone noticing the irregularity and raising an outcry. There were only so many places to sell corpses. London had four hospital medical schools and about a dozen and a half private anatomy schools, in addition to a handful of anatomists who required corpses for their own research, like Sir Anthony. Most of these men were not monsters. They were simply trapped in an impossible situation. They needed bodies in order to teach their surgical students, and the legal supply of them from executed criminals was not even remotely enough to meet the need.
However, I didn’t say any of this aloud. No need to draw any more attention to my past than necessary. Especially with Lord Melbourne seated among us.
The statesman dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Just so. So from this point forward we must focus our efforts on keeping it from happening again.” He inhaled a deep breath, shifting his shoulders so that he faced us more squarely. “But that is a matter for the Home Office and the New Police to handle. Lord Gage called you here because I wish to know about this murder of Redditch’s heir. Word has reached my ears that you are investigating the matter.”
Gage confirmed this. “We actually witnessed the attack on Lord Feckenham, and if not for the fog I might have apprehended the culprit.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re the ones who found him?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can tell us if the whispers we’ve been hearing in some quarters are true.”
I glanced at Gage in apprehension.
“What whispers?” he murmured.
Melbourne leaned forward. “That Feckenham’s death was the work of a burker. That they’re now haunting the streets of Mayfair.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My stomach dropped at this pronouncement. We had anticipated such rumors sprouting up, though we’d never expected they would be entertained by the people who would whisper them into the ear of the home secretary.
Gage held my gaze, silently sharing my disquiet.
When neither of us spoke for some seconds, Lord Gage was shocked into speech. “It’s true, then?”