by Paula Paul
“What?” His sudden shift in the conversation struck her as comical. She almost choked on a bit of the fried bread she’d been served with her meal and was forced to take a sip of wine.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to change the topic to something benign. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
She lowered her eyes and placed the tip of her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing.
“There’s nothing a man dreads more than having a beautiful woman laugh at him,” Nicholas said.
She shook her head as she raised her eyes and tried to bite her lips to keep from laughing. “It’s…it’s just that you’re trying so hard,” she said. “We both are.”
“If I’d known the war in Africa would strike you so funny, I’d have brought it up long ago.”
“Am I really such a dreadful bore?” she asked.
“Dreadfully serious is all.”
“I know.”
“That’s not necessarily a fault.”
“I know.”
Nicholas laughed and picked up his glass. “To dreadful seriousness,” he said.
He made her laugh as well, and the conversation for the rest of the evening was much lighter. Nicholas, Alexandra realized, had a very clever way of putting her at ease. The relaxed mood lasted all the way home until they stood facing each other at the foot of the stairs.
“Thank you,” she said. “It was a pleasant—no, it was a delightful evening.”
He looked at her, his tall silk hat still cocked over one eye in a rakish way. He removed the hat and continued to look at her with a faint smile on his lips. “I’m still very curious, you know.”
“Curious?” she asked.
“About that mask you wear. I hope you’ll let me see behind it someday.”
She felt that void in her chest. It frightened her a little that he would be so perceptive, but when she spoke her voice was even. “Good night, Mr. Forsythe.”
He held her gaze with his own for the briefest of moments, and she thought at some point during that short time that he might kiss her, but he made no move, and she turned away and walked up the stairs.
Broomsfield came to help her undress, but she sent her away on the pretense that it was late and the maid needed her rest for her duties in the morning. The truth was, she wanted to be alone, to relive the evening. When she was in bed, however, her thoughts bumped against each other, bringing up memories not only of the pleasant and dangerously flirtatious conversation with Nicholas, but of his alarming perceptiveness and his rude encroachment on her visit with Dr. Mortimer, all that Mortimer had said, the intellectual game he had played and that she and Nicholas had replayed. She found it impossible to relax, because it was then that all that had happened in Newton came hammering back into her thoughts, along with her worry for Nancy and the others. And then there was the game again, with Dr. Mortimer’s voice this time. She most likely sees her victims only as the embodiment of what she fears or hates.
Fear and dread suddenly replaced all of her aimless thoughts and she sat up in bed. She knew who the killer was, and she knew she had to get back to Newton before someone else was murdered.
Chapter Thirteen
Robin Foggarty was worried. He hadn’t seen Nancy in more than two days. Not since shortly after Dr. Gladstone left for London. He and young Artie had been in the mews mucking out the little mare’s stall when he last saw her. She’d stepped out of the door at the back of the house to fetch some herbs from her garden, and she’d waved to them and wished them a good morning, said she was going to bake some chocolate biscuits later and she would bring them some. That big beast of a dog, Zack, was right at her heels, sniffing at the herbs as if he knew as well as Nancy what they were and what ailments they would heal. The two of them had gone back into the kitchen, Nancy carrying a basket full of herbs, Zack following close behind.
Artie had seen her after that. He often grew restless before any of their work was done, and, as he frequently did, told Rob he was going to the cistern at the side of the house for a sip of water. He’d had his drink, all right, but then he’d wandered off, looking for something more amusing than mucking out stalls. He happened to be near the front of the house, he said, when he saw Nancy leave with that woman, Polly Cobbe, who visited sometimes. He told Rob they both wore their bonnets and carried parasols, as if they were out for a stroll and that Zack wasn’t with them. At first, he’d been reluctant to admit having been in the front of the house and seeing the two of them, and Rob knew it was because he didn’t want a scolding and his ears cuffed for slacking his duty. He’d finally admitted seeing them, however, when he became as worried as Rob that Nancy hadn’t returned.
Rob didn’t have the heart to scold him then, or to cuff his ears. In fact, he was finding it harder and harder all the time to lay even a finger on the boy. He was probably no more than ten years old, or maybe no more than nine, the way Rob figured it, and he didn’t like to see the kid hurt—at his hands or anyone else’s. Rob had taken young Artie under his care two years ago when they were both on their own at the waterfront and living off what they could steal. Artie was hardly more than a baby then, the way Rob remembered it. He was near starved to death when he first showed up, scared out of his wits. His trip down the coast from Colchester had been hard on him, but the poor kid hadn’t known what else to do after his ma died except to keep moving in search of food and away from trouble in the form of other boys who tried to abuse him in one way or another.
Rob had first seen the dirty-faced little boy at one of the piers being cuffed by an oysterman who’d caught him stealing part of his catch. Rob rescued him by trading him for a jug of whisky he’d stolen himself from the old man everyone knew as Old Beaty, a former oysterman who liked to hang out around the piers. He’d taken him back to his family, a group of other boys who survived by theft. Most of that group was gone now—either dead or in chokey. He’d likely be there himself, along with little Artie, were it not for Nancy, who’d hired them both as stable boys for Dr. Gladstone, and for the good doctor herself, who’d let them stay in spite of the fact that Nancy had stepped out of bounds by hiring them without permission. Both women had been kind to him and little Artie, giving them a nice room above the stable and all the food they could eat, as well as a decent wage. Dr. Gladstone even let them eat and sleep in the house when there was a storm or one of them was sick and needed care. Rob had never known such kindness, and, he suspected, neither had Artie. He’d lay down his life for either Nancy or the doctor.
“You certain, are you, Artie, that Nancy never told you where she was going?” Rob had asked the question at least half a dozen times before, and he asked it again as he and Artie, along with Zack, sat in their quarters above the stable, dining on what was left of the boiled mutton they’d found in the larder inside the main house.
“I told ye, Rob, Nance acted like she never seen me. She was lookin’ straight ahead like she wanted me to think she never knowed I was there. And before ye asks again, Polly never seen me for sure. And she never said a word, ’cept to Nance, and I knows not what she said on account of I couldn’t hear it.”
Rob was silent, trying to think it through. Since Artie hadn’t mentioned at first that he seen the two of them leave, Rob had not suspected anything for a long time. Even when Nancy failed to bring their supper up as she usually did, he didn’t question it, assuming she might have walked to the village to see a patient for Dr. Gladstone. It wasn’t until he heard the beast howling to be let out of the house that he felt the first hint of concern. It wasn’t like Nancy to leave Zack for so long. He’d expected to have to break a window to get inside to free the dog, but he was surprised to learn that Nancy had left the back door unlocked. Did that mean she had planned to come back right away? Or had she left it unlocked because she wanted him to get inside and find the message she’d written on a scrap of paper? At least he thought it was a message, but he wasn’t certain, since he was unable to read anything except his own n
ame, which he recognized at the top of the note. He’d picked up the paper and stuck it deep into a pocket. Later that night he’d pulled the paper out and stared at it for a long time as if he could somehow will the letters on the page to speak to him. Besides the note that seemed to call to him all night long in a language he couldn’t understand, he’d had to listen to Zack howl because Nancy hadn’t returned.
Now another night had passed, and they were well into another day, and she still hadn’t returned. Then patients started showing up for the surgery hours, Kate with her baby, and Nell, the butcher’s wife, and of course farty old Mrs. Sommers. Dr. Gladstone wasn’t due back for another day yet, so Rob had sent them all away, telling them to come back tomorrow. It was clear as the nose on a man’s face that something was wrong with Nancy, though, and it was equally clear that something had to be done. Rob knew it was up to him to do it.
“Is she all right, Rob?” Artie asked. “Ye think she’s run off?”
“I told you, I don’t know.” Rob stood and cleared the table of the dishes, dumping them all in the big basin to be washed later. His response had come out sounding angry, and he immediately regretted it. Little Artie was as worried as he was, and it would do no good to be cross with him. He picked up a morsel of the mutton that had fallen on the table and tossed it to Zack, who sat in front of the door. The dog sniffed at the meat, but didn’t eat it. He had eaten very little since Nancy left.
“What should we do, Rob?” Artie’s voice was choked. He was having a hard time keeping the tears back. When Rob didn’t answer, he spoke again in a small, frightened voice. “Maybe we should tell old Snow.”
Rob glanced up at him suddenly. “The constable?” He shook his head. “We ain’t never had nothin’ but trouble with coppers, Artie.”
“Then what? We got to do something.”
Rob tried to ignore Artie’s large glistening eyes pleading with him. He threw the last spoon in the basin and walked to the window, his back to Artie. What should he do? Maybe the kid was right. Maybe they ought to talk to the constable. But Rob still couldn’t get it out of his mind that a policeman equaled trouble. What would old Snow do anyway, if he did somehow know Nancy was missing? Look for her, of course. Where? Artie had said they were headed toward the village. Maybe they could ask people there if they’d seen them. They could even take Zack along. Dogs had good noses on them. He could sniff her scent.
He turned around in time to see Artie quickly brush a tear from his pale, frightened face. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.” When he saw Artie’s face brighten, he didn’t have the heart to tell him what a feeble plan it was.
Alexandra was relieved to see that Nicholas had not yet gone to bed. He was standing at the window at the top of the landing, staring out at the stars that nibbled holes in the darkness above his garden. He had removed his coat and loosened his cravat and stood there in a stance that was relaxed but oddly melancholic as he smoked a cigar. He turned around abruptly when he heard the soft pad of her bare feet on the wooden floor.
“Dr. Gladstone? Is something wrong?”
She was struck by how libertine he looked. The same hand that held his cigar also held a glass of some amber liquid, which she judged to be whisky. “Yes,” she said at length. “I’m afraid there is something wrong.” He took a step toward her, his eyes full of concern. Before he could take another step, she said, “I know who the killer is.”
His only sign of curiosity was a momentary rise of his eyebrows.
She wanted to tell him, to get it said and in the open, but, in spite of the relatively warm night, she felt suddenly cold, and fear robbed her of her voice.
“You’re shaking,” Nicholas said. “I’ll wake one of the servants to make you tea and—”
“No!” She sounded emphatic. “Don’t awaken anyone. I should like to discuss this with you privately. Can we go downstairs?”
“Certainly. Let’s go to the drawing room…”
She sensed that he wanted to say more, specifically that he wanted to ask her again, whom, exactly, she thought was the killer, but he resisted and led her to the drawing room, taking pains to see that she was comfortable and that her shoulders were covered with a throw that had been draped across the back of one of the chairs. “All right now,” he said leaning forward when he had put out his cigar and seated himself across from her, “tell me, is it Polly?”
His question both surprised and unnerved her. “Why would you suggest it’s Polly?”
Nicholas shrugged slightly and leaned back in his chair. “It’s just that Mortimer gave such a plausible motive for Miss Pendennis when he was conducting his mental exercise as he called it, but you were emphatic in your belief that it couldn’t have been she, so I started thinking that the same motive could apply to this Polly you told me about. She apparently hasn’t had any illegitimate children, of course. At least you haven’t mentioned any, but there are other reasons for women to hate men, aren’t there? There are so many ways to abuse a woman—physically, sexually, perhaps even emotionally.”
“But there is that possibility for any number of women. What made you choose Polly when you don’t even know her?”
“Perhaps the fact that I don’t know her is part of the reason I thought you might suspect her.” He leaned all the way back in his chair and started to take a sip of his whisky, but he glanced at her again and asked, “Would you like a drink? Sherry, perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you, and I don’t know whether to think your statement is egotistical or irrational.”
Nicholas set his drink aside. “It’s neither. It’s just that I’ve been to Newton-Upon-Sea enough to know that the population is relatively stable, and I dare say I’ve met most of the people in the town. Or a good many of them anyway. And the fact that these murders began only recently could mean it’s someone new. Someone I don’t know. Polly perhaps.”
“Mr. Forsythe, not even I could possibly know all the new people who might come to town. I say your reasoning is unsound.”
“Perhaps it is, but mind you, I said that was only part of the reason.” He set his glass aside. “And anyway, I didn’t say I suspected her as the killer, I was merely guessing that you might. Suppose you tell me why you suspect her.”
“I didn’t say it is she I suspect.”
“But it is.”
Alexandra was silent for a long moment, annoyed that he would use such faulty logic to come to his conclusion. Annoyed even more that, using that faulty logic, he had guessed right. “All right,” she said with reluctance. “Let’s say I do suspect her. Let’s say that I agree with your reasoning that she could possibly have an insane reason to kill, as you suggested. I would then say, speculating further, that her training as a nurse would give her some understanding of surgical procedures so that she could, possibly, remove the heart of her victims.”
“But you say the last victim was mutilated in a more inexpert way.” Nicholas’s words were spoken not as criticism, she realized, but as analysis.
“Yes. That’s certainly difficult to explain.”
“Could she have been in a hurry for some reason?” Nicholas asked, leaning forward again.
“Of course she could have been,” Alexandra said, “but I can’t quite work out the reason. Unless…”
“Unless? You’re on to something. What is it?” Nicholas leaned forward even more eagerly.
“I was just remembering something Dr. Mortimer said about how killers who murder a series of victims enjoy the notoriety, even anonymously. So if—”
“Of course!” Nicholas interrupted, suddenly standing. “If the suspicion was pointing to someone else—Lucas or his mother—then the killer might feel compelled to do something to remove the suspicion. Namely, kill again, this time making sure neither Lucas nor his mother could be blamed.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Alexandra said, looking up at him. “But there’s more.”
“More?”
“I think so. I’m j
ust not certain…”
“My God, Alexandra, what is it? Remember it’s only a mental exercise. We don’t have anyone on trial.” Nicholas sat next to her on the settee. He was seemingly unaware that he had used her Christian name to address her, but the sound of it on his lips made Alexandra’s heart beat a little faster.
“I…I’m not quite certain…” She hesitated a moment, willing herself to be calm. “It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about something Miss Nightingale said.”
“About Polly?” Nicholas seemed puzzled, confirming what she had suspected all along—that he had not paid close attention to their conversation during lunch.
“Yes, remember she said she’d met Polly in Paris? And that she had been employed by Monsieur Louis Pasteur?”
“Mmmm, yes,” he said, giving her further suspicion that he had no idea what she was referring to.
“Quite by coincidence, Dr. Lister mentioned Monsieur Pasteur’s work on vaccines, which I am familiar with, of course, but I didn’t know he was experimenting with anthrax vaccines.”
Understanding shown in Nicholas’s face. “My god! Polly could have had access to the germs.”
Alexandra nodded, but she was silent again for a moment, trying to order her thoughts and to make sense of them. She glanced up at Nicholas. “Remember, I also said the third victim, Ben Milligan survived.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Isn’t it possible that when Ben survived, Polly resorted to strangulation to kill him.”
“Of course!”
The two of them stared at each other silently for a moment before Nicholas spoke. “Nancy?”
“She is with Polly.”
“God help us.” Nicholas whispered. “Dr. Mortimer said killers like that will kill someone who doesn’t fit the description of their usual victim only if that person begins to suspect… And Nancy is clever enough…”