“What was determined to be the cause of death?” Ainsley asked.
“Don’t you read the papers?” Cecil asked, looking over the top of his spectacles.
“I’m not interested in what the papers have to say. Give me your expert opinion.”
Cecil seemed overly preoccupied and ill at ease.
Rebecca walked toward them and rounded the examination table so she could face both Margaret and Ainsley. “He was stabbed ten times,” she said before turning to pull a file from a table behind her.
Ainsley saw a handful of puncture wounds in the skin, superficial and scarcely an inch in width. “Where exactly?”
Heaving a sigh of annoyance, Cecil snatched the papers from Rebecca’s hands and opened the file. Leaning over the body toward Ainsley, he pointed to a rough sketch, an outline of a human body. On it was marked where each wound was located, all of them on the torso. The measurements of each were listed along a column next to the sketch.
“They all measure an inch, or less,” Ainsley said.
Cecil nodded.
Ainsley glanced up at Rebecca, who was making her way to the cache of tools. She returned to the group with a long, thin blade in her hands.
“Is this the murder weapon?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, but—”
“Perhaps there is some filing work you need to attend to,” Cecil interjected, darting a hardened stare in Rebecca’s direction. “I specifically recall Dr. Waters telling you not to keep him waiting for you again.”
With a hardened stare, Rebecca was quick to gather her paperwork, hugging it to her chest. She left the room the same way Margaret and Ainsley had entered it and never gave them a backward glance.
“The actual knife Dr. Davies used is being kept as evidence but this is the type of blade he would have had available to him as a surgeon.”
Ainsley took the surgical knife in hand and looked it over carefully. He remembered the tool well. During his studies, they were taught to use it during amputations to cut away the skin and severe the arteries before tying them off. A different knife, which resembled a saw more than anything else, was used to cut through the bone.
“These are standard in all medical kits,” Ainsley said for Margaret’s sake. “Any number of students and doctors would have access to them.”
“That narrows down the suspects,” she answered, taking the knife in her hand.
“How deep are the punctures?” Ainsley asked, leaning in closer. He pushed his finger into one of the openings and felt around.
“Some as long as the blade itself,” Cecil replied. He leaned onto the edge of the table and kept his gaze on the corpse in front of him.
“You measured them?”
“Naturally.” Cecil seemed to bristle at Ainsley’s line of questioning. “I’m not sure what second-rate country hospital you are used to working for but this is the University of Edinburgh and we take pride—”
“St. Thomas.”
“Excuse me?”
“I work for St. Thomas in London. Hardly second-rate.”
A muscle in Cecil’s cheek began to twitch. Ainsley ignored him and reached for the paperwork Cecil had left lying across Frobisher’s legs. “Says approximate time of death is estimated to be ten to twelve hours before the body was discovered.” Ainsley pointed his finger at the sentence before looking up.
“How is that possible?” Margaret asked, leaning in to look for herself.
“It must have been written in error,” Cecil explained.
“But this is the University of Edinburgh,” Ainsley said, “not a second-rate country hospital.”
“Minor details.” Cecil shrugged and feigned disinterest. “Hardly matters.”
“It matters because another man’s life is at stake.”
“A man who was found alongside the body.”
“Ten hours after Frobisher is believed to have expired.”
“He had the knife in his hand!”
“A knife that could have easily been placed there! Good God, man, when will you stop searching for evidence that fits the narrative and look at what’s actually in front of you?” Ainsley flicked the file at Cecil in disgust. “It says an estimated pint of blood was found at the scene. A pint! The man had ten wounds to his abdomen but his body only secreted a pint of blood out of a possible nine?”
“Peter.” Margaret tried to calm him by touching his arm but Ainsley shook her off.
Cecil began to stammer under Ainsley’s direct questioning. “I … I believe—”
“Don’t tell me what you believe. Tell me what you know! This is science!” Ainsley rounded the table that separated them and before he realized it he had Cecil by the collar. “My friend’s life depends on this.”
Forced to look him in the eye, the man faltered. “I’m only a porter,” he yelled out in desperation.
“What?” He could feel the man shaking in his grasp. “Why would they let a porter complete a dissection of such importance?”
“I didn’t complete it, sir.”
Confused, Ainsley lowered him and eyed him suspiciously.
“But we saw you standing over a body when we entered,” Margaret said.
“I was cleaning it,” Cecil answered honestly. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a body beyond that.” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Sometimes, when no one else is here, I like to pretend I’m a surgeon. You’d be surprised to learn how people who don’t know any better treat you. It’s only for a bit of fun. I’d never … well, hurt anyone.”
Ainsley snorted in disgust and finally turned from him. The man made a mockery of his profession and toyed with Jonas’s life.
“Where is the real doctor?” Ainsley asked.
“He’s not here, sir. He won’t return until after the funeral.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow morning. I have to see that the body is stitched up and cleaned before six this evening. That’s when the mortician comes to take him away.”
Ainsley nodded. “Finally, something I can work with.” He unbuttoned the front of his jacket. “Margaret, time to roll up our sleeves.”
Chapter 17
Margaret stood at the enamel trough sink and washed her hands carefully, ensuring all of Professor Frobisher’s blood was removed from the tiny creases of her skin. There was a time, not so long ago, when she had hoped to be a doctor herself. She had spent a good portion of the last few years watching Ainsley as he pursued his medical career. She started off begging to visit him in the morgue when she visited Edinburgh and eventually she began borrowing some of his medical texts without his knowledge. If Father discovered her interest she had no doubt he’d send her away to live with some of their country relatives until such a time as he could marry her off to some noble’s son. She was lucky that Ainsley tried their patriarch’s patience to such a point that she looked like an angel by comparison. Lord Marshall never suspected anything and if he discovered it now … well, there was very little he could say.
Lord Marshall’s condition had deteriorated considerably since his head injury. He had lost all his verbal abilities. Even his earlier grunts and moans had been lost in recent weeks despite Margaret sitting daily with him, completing exercises as their doctors suggested. She wondered how Aunt Louisa was managing with him while she and Ainsley were gone. She wondered if her father even noticed their absence.
“Margaret?”
She shook her head free of her thoughts and twisted the faucet closed.
“We need to speak with Dr. Waters,” Ainsley said, looking over the paperwork for Professor Frobisher. “He completed the initial examination. I need to speak with him about the lack of blood at the crime scene.” He squinted and raised the paper closer to his face. “Perhaps he meant to write seven, instead of one.”
Margaret pulled a coarse towel from a nearby hook. “It’s late. Can we speak with him tomorrow?” She glanced to a small sliver of a window. The dark sky of twilight confirmed h
er suspicion.
Ainsley ignored her suggestion and continued to study the papers. Cecil had left an hour before and they hadn’t seen Rebecca since Cecil’s harsh words to her. As far as Margaret could tell they were the only ones left in that section of the building.
“I’m tired,” she said, putting the towel back on its hook. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” She thought about the vivid dreams and fits of uneasiness that had plagued her the night before. Now the nausea was taking hold of her insides again. “Peter?”
Again, he said nothing.
“Peter!”
He looked up with a start.
“I must get back to the house. I’m afraid I’ll crumble if I stand here much longer.”
His features betrayed his disappointment, but he relented. “Yes, of course. My apologies.”
***
The main hall of the department was dark but not entirely devoid of life. A seated, uniformed constable stood guard outside Frobisher’s office. Further along, a light emanated from a room on the opposite side of the hall. As Margaret and Ainsley passed they both looked in. A man with a crate of bottles and tins in his hands slipped past them through the doorway. When the way was clear Margaret recognized Eloise instantly and her heart sank.
“Miss Margaret!” Eloise turned from the counter and greeted them with a smile. “Hello, Peter.”
Their well-mannered upbringing forced them to step inside the room. A clerk stood behind a tall counter, a ledger in front of him on the desk and a vast array of bottles and jars displayed behind him. The room, which looked more like a storage closet, went much further back than the gaslight above them could reach.
“Good evening, Miss Locke,” Ainsley said, his tone mirroring Margaret’s feelings of disdain. “Seems rather late for you to be here.”
“I’m just picking up a few things for Father,” she said. “With all the excitement yesterday I couldn’t make it past the front doors. And Father’s arthritis was making him very sour today, so I couldn’t make it here earlier.”
Margaret ventured to look beyond the clerk to see what exactly lay in the shadows. It looked like mostly chemicals and compounds, bell jars and bottles.
“Father’s a chemist, Miss Margaret,” she said.
“I am aware,” Margaret answered, a little more harshly than she intended. “Jonas told me.”
“Oh. I hadn’t realized you two were so … informal together.” Before Margaret could formulate a curt reply, Eloise turned to Ainsley. “Would you be a dear, Peter, and help me shuttle this to the carriage?” She gestured to the front of the building. “It’s just waiting outside.”
Ainsley nodded and pulled the crate from the counter. He walked quickly to the carriage, leaving Margaret to walk alongside Eloise.
“It’s so nice to have a capable young man around, isn’t it?” Eloise asked as they walked the length of the hall slowly. A downcast look overcame her seconds later. “I don’t know how I shall bear not having Jonas at my side if he … if he …”
Her distress looked truly genuine to Margaret, who struggled to find the correct manner with which to respond. Eloise seemed so convinced that Jonas was meant for the gallows and didn’t allow herself the chance to believe that he could be innocent. Eloise’s lack of loyalty was sickening. It took a great deal of effort for Margaret to shield her frustration.
“Peter and I are determined,” she said, unable to bring herself to look in Eloise’s direction, “it shall never come to that. Jonas will be exonerated.” She stole a glance to Eloise in time to see a look of elation wash over her.
“Do you mean it?” she asked.
The last thing Margaret wished to spend her energy on was allaying Eloise’s fears. She’d prefer to watch the woman stew in her own anxiety, especially after the way she was patronized the day before. But in the end, Margaret was not the vindictive sort and before she knew it she was offering words of comfort. “I believe, before long, this will all be but a faint memory,” she said, keeping her gaze straight. If Margaret were truthful she’d admit to having complete faith in Jonas while possessing nothing but contempt for the inconsistency of the Scottish legal system.
“Well now, Miss Margaret, you have just summed up the philosophy by which I live my life.” Her walking pace slowed as she slipped her arm under Margaret’s and held her hand as if they were dear friends. “The dark days never last long, do they?”
Margaret preferred not to answer. Her dark days had been many and the only thing that kept her heading forward was the promise of a new day and new possibilities. In the end, even the darkest days would be but a small dot on the expanse of her life.
The dark days of which Eloise spoke of, however, seemed to be of a different sort altogether. Despite her uppity demeanour and laissez-faire bearing, Margaret got the impression that Eloise was anything but forgiving. She had a perfectionist quality about her, a ruthlessness which demanded absolute adherence and a promise of brutal retaliation if her expectations were not met.
“You are so clever,” Eloise said, squeezing Margaret’s arm and drawing even closer. “I shall like to have you come visit us regularly once Jonas and I are married.” Eloise stopped, and placed her other hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, dear.” She twisted slightly to face her, a look of delight masquerading as regret on her face. “I had forgotten that he asked me not to tell you just yet.”
The woman was either trying desperately to alarm Margaret, or the delusion ran deep. Margaret tried hard to keep her expression steady so as not to give Eloise any indication either way. She offered an indifferent shrug. “Seems a happy enough announcement. Why would you ever wish to keep it a secret?”
Eloise faltered. Her bait had been avoided. “You truly feel that way?” Eloise looked at her with an air of pity.
“Of course.” Margaret flashed a contrived smile and started walking toward the front of the building again, desperate to be within earshot of Ainsley. “Your happiness is of greater importance than any discomfort I may feel.”
Eloise hesitated. “Forgive me. I was under the impression you had your heart set on him.”
“Certainly not,” Margaret lied. “I’m only glad to hear any infatuation he may have had for me is now relegated to the past.”
A relieved smile touched Eloise’s lips. “I’m very glad to hear you say that, Miss Margaret.”
They reached the front doors where the cool October air greeted them, nipping at their exposed skin and sending a breeze into the curls of their hair. Ainsley stood alongside the carriage. The crate he had been carrying had been stashed with all the others.
“Everything’s here,” Ainsley said as the women made their way down the front steps. He unlatched the carriage door and offered a hand to Eloise as she climbed inside.
“Thank you very much, Peter,” she said through the carriage window. Her attention turned once again to Margaret, who stood next to him on the pavement. “If you ever tire of only men in the house, Margaret, do come visit me. There is much I’d like to talk about. We can have tea.”
Margaret said nothing. She only nodded and gave a small wave as the carriage began to roll down the laneway.
“And that is exactly why I wish we had left an hour ago,” Margaret said bluntly. With the carriage slipping into the fog at the end of the lane, she turned and headed down the pavement in the opposite direction toward their hansom.
Begrudgingly, Margaret allowed her brother to help her up into the rickety conveyance. Ainsley gave orders to the driver to take them home before joining Margaret inside. Seconds later the carriage jerked into motion.
“The nerve of that woman,” Margaret said, before she could stop herself. The conversation had done much to vex her, sending her nerves into a tizzy where even slow, calculated breaths could not calm her down effectively. “As if anyone would believe Jonas is capable of loving such an insecure creature.”
“What exactly did she say to you?” Ainsley asked.
“Only that
she’d like me to visit once she and Jonas are married.”
Ainsley waved a dismissive hand. “Jonas himself has decried her claims as false.”
“I am aware,” Margaret said. “I know he speaks the truth about her. I can be gullible at times but not so gullible to believe more than half of what that woman says.”
“She is simply trying to unseat you,” Ainsley said, leaning back in the carriage bench. “And it appears to me she had succeeded as well.”
Margaret bristled at the suggestion. “You would be unnerved as well if such a situation existed between you and J— Cassandra.” She turned her attention outside the carriage, where light rain gathered on the small window. “I’ve been forced into two separate conversations with the woman and each time it feels as if she is rearing up to eat me alive. It’s the manner in which she looks at me.” A shiver slipped down Margaret’s spine, forcing her to pull her shawl tighter around her arms. “My only hope is that my protestations regarding Jonas’s connection to me have done the trick. I mean to convince her that Jonas and I have no feelings for each other in the hopes that she will let us be.”
“How long can you keep up such a charade?” Ainsley asked, lowering his head to the back of the carriage bench, suddenly exhausted.
“Long enough to prove his innocence in the eyes of the courts,” she answered. “I must concentrate on one thing at a time and this case is of greater importan—” Margaret stopped suddenly and her expression soured. “Does Eloise look like me?”
Ainsley closed his eyes in exasperation. “Margaret, you are much prettier.”
“But if it’s dark and you’d been drinking,” she suggested. “Is there a chance she could look like me?”
Ainsley’s eyes popped open and he turned his head to look at her. “The barkeep.”
Margaret nodded and flashed a delighted smile.
Chapter 18
Margaret was quiet most of the journey home, which Ainsley was grateful for. Their breakthrough was significant, but there was little they could do for it then with night falling fast. The examination of Professor Frobisher had been difficult, made especially so since a dissection had already been undertaken. In the end Ainsley couldn’t determine why so little blood had been found at the scene. Judging by the state of rigor mortis, the time of death was accurate within a span of a few hours. But what the autopsy couldn’t reveal was why Jonas would have killed Frobisher at night and then waited until morning to make his getaway. Any man with an intention to kill, even a highly intoxicated one, would have known to leave the scene.
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