Shadows of Madness

by Tracy L. Ward

  A wall of flowers greeted them in the foyer. Arrangements in varying sizes were displayed on tabletops and along the floor beginning at the door and stretching on further into the depths of the house. Margaret’s tiny offering, a nosegay of chrysanthemums and daisies, seemed superfluous next to the showcased blooms of roses and lilies.

  From the shadows of the hall a young servant girl stepped forward. She bowed her head and took the arrangement from Margaret’s hand before disappearing somewhere at the back of the house.

  “I’ve run out of vases, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Frobisher said without any hint of regret in her tone. “Nonnie will have to find a jar or glass or … something.” She walked between two French doors, propped open by an iron doorstop on each side, and made her way into the parlour.

  Next to one of the doors sat a small table with a lace doily placed in its centre and a pile of condolence cards with handwritten notes spilling out in a misshapen pile. Mrs. Frobisher gestured absently to the table.

  “You may leave your card there,” she said, walking by without even glancing back to see if Ainsley or Margaret obeyed her. Giving a sideways glance to Ainsley, Margaret pulled a prepared card from her reticule and laid it on top of all the forgotten others.

  “Come,” Mrs. Frobisher said sharply. “Sit.”

  Ainsley and Margaret promptly did as instructed, seating themselves directly opposite their host.

  The Frobishers’s withdrawing room had no such flower displays as the entrance hall had. Instead, Mrs. Frobisher used every inch of available space to house her expansive collection of live song birds. The cages, some suspended from the ceiling, others secured to their own ornate stands, were filled with two or more birds each and all of them flitted about in their tiny confines singing hapless songs.

  Ainsley saw how Margaret’s eyes were drawn to the tiny, trapped creatures, her expression revealing the sympathy she felt for them.

  “You must have pity,” Mrs. Frobisher said, unaware of her guest’s discomfort at seeing so many live creatures held against their natural will. “I have been forced to endure tea with a number of guests such as yourselves and I cannot stomach the thought of another sip. Forgive me if I don’t offer you any.”

  “Of course,” Margaret said sweetly, pulling her gaze from the sights all around them. “We are merely pleased you agreed to speak with us.”

  Mrs. Frobisher nodded, assured of her own thoughtfulness. “Which department of the university did you say you were from?” she asked, turning her attention to Ainsley.

  “I was a student not too long ago.”

  “A student of Charles’s?”

  “Yes. He taught me chemistry and he was present for most of my examinations.”

  Mrs. Frobisher’s face turned sour. “Did you know that Davies monster was also a student of my husband’s? You look about his age … Do you remember anything peculiar about him?”

  Ainsley grimaced and lowered his head. “No, ma’am, not Dr. Davies. I cannot believe him capable.”

  She scoffed. “I bet there is any number of murderers with similar statements said about them.” Her expression remained stern and unflinching as her gaze went between Ainsley and Margaret. “I do not mourn the loss of my husband, only the manner in which he was taken.” She raised her hand to her forehead and pushed back on the curly mound of hair as if checking to ensure everything was in its place. She heaved a great sigh and settled into her seat.

  “Were you and Professor Frobisher not close?” Margaret asked carefully.

  Mrs. Frobisher looked as if she was completely bored with the matter. “How close can one be in a marriage?” she asked. She turned to the nearest bird cage then, and opened the small gate. A tiny yellow bird popped out onto her outstretched finger. She made clicking noise with her tongue and stroked the bird’s breast with her free hand. “Do not fear,” Mrs. Frobisher said, seeing her guests’ eyes widen. “Their wings are clipped. They cannot fly the coop even if they had a mind to.” She pursed her lips as if to kiss the bird’s small head. “Charles spent so much time away that my beauties became my comfort.” She smiled when the bird let out a contented whistle.

  Ainsley gave an uncertain glance to Margaret at his side while Mrs. Frobisher replaced the bird to its cage.

  “I understand that some women know when their spouses die. They can feel it somewhere inside, like a piece is missing,” she said. “My mother knew the instant Father died. We had all been sitting around the table eating an early dinner and expecting him home at any moment.” A smile played on her lips. “Mother, who had been smiling moments before, suddenly stopped and looked to the door. My sisters and I knew something was wrong just by the look on her face.” Her gaze focused on her guests once again. “He had suffered an attack of the heart on the train,” she explained. “Charles was absent two days before the officer showed up at my door yesterday around noon. They said he had died in the night.” This was the closest Mrs. Frobisher had come to crying since the start of their visit, but still no tears fell. “I had no idea. I felt nothing. Even now I feel nothing. Is that horrid of me?”

  Margaret shook her head, but neither of them could think of any words to offer in consolation.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Frobisher’s features hardened. “That Davies man—I won’t call him doctor because a true doctor would never behave in such a way—he lured my husband away, drugged him, and completed his ghastly deed without the inconvenience of a struggle.”

  “Is that what the police have said, that the professor was influenced by something?” Margaret asked suddenly.

  Mrs. Frobisher looked surprised by such a direct question. “It would make sense, wouldn’t it? My husband was not a weak man. He could have easily defended himself.” Mrs. Frobisher shook her head, dismissing an alternative possibility outright. She looked to Ainsley. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, so I hear. Mr. Davies is fatherless and his mother was a mere washerwoman. Why the university ever agreed to admit such a man is a mystery to me, further still why they would offer him a professorship.” She scrunched up her nose as if a foul smell suddenly permeated the air.

  Ainsley shifted uncomfortably and glanced to Margaret. He noticed her hands were balled into fists at her side and she pinched her lips together determinedly. Slowly, he reached over and placed his hand over hers before speaking.

  “Mrs. Frobisher, do you know if the professor had any recent arguments with anyone, perhaps in a professional capacity?”

  She thought for a moment, as a deep frown set into her features. “If he did he would never say anything to me. We never spoke of such things.” She closed her eyes with an air of disinterest and used her smallest finger to smooth out her eyebrow. “Our marriage was one in which we both operated under certain parameters. He kept to his duties and I kept to mine.” A muscle at her neck flexed. “Yet it vexes me greatly to think Charles had come to such an end by the hand of such a man.”

  Ainsley saw a tear slip from the corner of her eye and trail down the outer curve of her cheek.

  “Forgive me,” she said stoically. “I must take leave of you.” She stood stiffly and turned from them. She left with her back straight and her head held high.

  Margaret and Ainsley exchanged glances as they rose and began making their way to the foyer. “She’s in shock,” Ainsley said quietly. “She needs to lay blame and Jonas is her chosen target.”

  “Jonas is the only target they have offered her,” Margaret said. “He bears the brunt of her anger while her husband’s true killer remains unknown.”

  Ainsley paused at the front door, his hand resting on the brass knob. “The atmosphere of their marriage seems strange, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Nothing any stranger than our own parents’.”

  “He had been stepping out on her.” The voice of Nonnie, the maid, startled them. They both turned and saw her a few steps from the bottom of the stairs, her arms laden with folded linens.

  “Mrs. Frobisher knew about it t
oo.” She reached the bottom of the steps but did not lower her voice. It was clear she hadn’t any concern whether or not her employer overheard them talking. “They cared very little for each other. I heard Mrs. Frobisher say once to her sister that she wished they hadn’t sold their cottage in the Cotswolds because she would have liked to live separately from him there. Now she doesn’t have to worry about such things.”

  Ainsley and Margaret were too shocked to say anything straightaway. The maid turned and began to walk down the hall.

  “Nonnie, is it?” Ainsley called out, stepping toward her to prevent her from leaving.

  The maid looked to them.

  “Is it true what Mrs. Frobisher said, that the professor had been gone for two days?”

  The maid nodded. “Aye, ’tisn’t unusual.”

  “Where does he sleep when he’s not here? At his office?”

  The maid shrugged. “I told you. He had other interests.”

  ***

  Margaret and Ainsley left the Frobisher residence with all they had learned pressing on their minds. They climbed into their waiting hansom and sat silently for the first few minutes of their ride to the university.

  “Do you think Mrs. Frobisher is capable of arranging her husband’s murder?” Margaret asked, finally breaking the silence. “I mean, she wanted to be rid of him. That much is clear.”

  “Wanting to be rid of him and doing the deed are two very different things,” Ainsley said. “The newspapers described the attack as ‘passionately done’. Mrs. Frobisher is indifferent. If there was any passion it disappeared long ago.”

  “And you believe what’s written in the papers?”

  “I believe in my own instinct, which is telling me, in this case at least, that Mrs. Frobisher was content in their arrangement. Whether he was having an affair …” A sign hanging over the neighbouring pavement caught his attention.

  “Peter, what is it?”

  “Stop the carriage!” Ainsley pounded the ceiling with his fist. “Stop the carriage!” He did not wait for the carriage to stop completely before he leapt from the carriage door. Margaret leaned forward in her seat just as Ainsley reached a shadowed doorway.

  “Peter! Where are you going?”

  Ainsley paused long enough to point to the wood sign hanging on a chain above the door, The White Wolf, and then disappeared inside.

  Chapter 14

  The drapes in Jonas’s room were parted just enough to allow Jonas a look outside to the front of the house. The crowd along the pavement had thinned somewhat, but the fervour remained unchanged. Mrs. Crane had already gone out once, under John and Ezra’s protection, to sweep away the rotten filth that had been hurled at the front door throughout the night. Her efforts proved fruitless, however. It did little good as the city folk awoke and began their commute through the city, making sure to pass the house of the now famous Professor of Murder, dubbed so by local papers.

  From his hiding place, Jonas spotted refuse scattered along the pavement. Bits of paper, wilted cabbage leaves, and a broken vegetable crate. The curious and fearful had brought bruised apples and rotten carrots just to delight in throwing them at the house. The act temporarily bolstered their courage and allowed them to believe they were the righteous ones in a society riddled with sin.

  Their fury was misdirected. Jonas knew this. He no longer thought himself capable. No memory of the killing existed in him. He did not possess enough anger or rage to propel him to such a deed as murder. It simply was not possible. He knew this now. But the details were sketchy, the night a near haze of bits and pieces.

  Jonas eyed the crowd, scanning each face and wondering if any of them could have been behind the accusations against him. He recognized no one and, despite their antagonism, he doubted any of them were capable of something so manufactured. The evening had been preplanned, of that Jonas was sure. Someone intended to catch him unaware, perhaps forecasting his drunkenness or even enabling it and using it to gain his compliance.

  The worst thoughts had come to him the night before when he was seated at the dinner table. Was one of his own housemates to blame? They had enticed him to pub, hadn’t they? None of them made sure he returned home and not one of them had come forward with an explanation. Was it one of them or perhaps all of them?

  A rotten tomato hit the window pane near his hiding place with a pronounced thud. He stepped back from the window and snapped the opening in the drapes closed. How long, he thought, how long would he be a prisoner for something he did not do? He could scarcely imagine ever being free again.

  He went to the top drawer of his bureau and pulled out a small, blue velvet box he had hidden in the back of the top drawer. He had performed this ritual at least once a day since he had bought it home from the jeweller months ago. With the cover off he pulled the dainty ring from its cushion and slipped it to the first joint of his finger, only so far as the gold band would fit. He had hoped to see it on Margaret’s finger long before this day.

  Months ago she had agreed to follow him to Edinburgh even without the blessing of her family. Until he had heard her promise to him he never dared to dream it could be possible. She was a highborn lady who had been pursued by a number of suitors, men in greater positions of wealth and power than he could ever imagine. He was a surgeon, a tradesman in the eyes of good society, those who got their hands dirty.

  He had been content to love her from afar, no matter how maddening it was. While he had been driven mad with longing so had she. The future was very clear; either they both suffered alone or gave in to their desires. Good society be damned.

  He loved her. And she loved him. At one point that was all that mattered.

  Jonas struggled to stave off tears before returning the ring to its box and placing it at the back of the bureau. He used the stability of the bureau to hold himself upright and bowed his head.

  Her father became ill, and he waited. He was content to wait and would have waited until the end times knowing she had promised herself to him. She would come. Eventually. Of that he was certain.

  Jonas closed his eyes and brushed away the tears that slid onto his cheeks. Look at him, weak at the thought of her and the promise of what was to be. Of what could no longer be. All but convicted of murder, a crime he no more committed than Mrs. Crane in the kitchen downstairs. How could he ask Margaret to wed him now with such a stain on his character?

  “Sad times, this.”

  Jonas snapped the bureau drawer shut and turned to John, who stood at the door.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, pushing open the door a few inches more.

  There was an awkward silence between them. Jonas found himself distrustful of everyone he had once called friend, save Peter.

  “Are you feeling all right? You look … pale.” John studied him with a slight tilt of the head before pushing his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose.

  “How could you do it?” Jonas asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Leave me there! Not ensure I get home safe. How can any of you call me friend when you left me in such a state?”

  “You were drunk—”

  “I had two drinks! That is all.”

  “Well, it was enough to make you forget your beloved Margaret, that is for certain.” John looked down the hall and lowered his voice. “I did not tell her, if that is what you are concerned about.”

  Jonas started. “What are you on about?”

  “We didn’t leave you there. You left of your own accord with a woman. There was no stopping you.”

  “Which woman?”

  “The woman who had been seated next to us the entire night. Ezra and I were very surprised at how forward you were with her, especially given your professed longing for Miss Margaret.”

  Jonas shook his head and closed his eyes. If someone was determined to hurt him Margaret would be a surefire way to destroy him. “I should never have told you about her.”

  “I’m sure you aren’t the only m
an who looks for diversion in the arms of others, but don’t blame your friends when you finally give in to your carnal desires.”

  “I don’t remember a woman!” Jonas nearly growled, more angry with himself than with John. How could he have allowed himself to get so incapacitated? He pounded the top of the bureau with a closed hand and rubbed his face with his other. “I don’t remember anything,” he said, his tone softer.

  John looked on with puzzlement and uncertainty. “I know you didn’t do it,” he said at last. “It’s just not possible. They’re saying you did it because of Frobisher’s complaint against you, but I know—”

  “What did you say?”

  “I know it’s not possible. You wouldn’t—”

  “No, the other thing. Frobisher filed a complaint against me?”

  John blanched. “I thought you knew. He filed it the day before yesterday. Unfortunate timing, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, God.” Jonas ran both his hands through his hair and turned from the door in anguish. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Well, then that proves it. You didn’t know. There’d be no reason for you to … do what they say you did.”

  Jonas turned to him and shook his head. “They would have to take my word for it and no one is going to believe the son of a washerwoman.” A silence fell over them as the implications became clear. The reasoning was flimsy, but it would be enough to convince a judge that Jonas, a man of humble birth and low rank, had planned the attack against his superior, a man of impeccable character if only believed so by his elevated position in society, the knighthood bestowed upon him and his accumulation of wealth. These facts, the juxtaposition of their respective places in society, would surely be enough to see Jonas hang.