Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1)

by Paula Paul

  What if Snow proved to be too clever? An in-depth investigation, in which he looked for motives, could prove devastating. But if he too quickly blamed that wretched kitchen maid without a thorough enough investigation, some bloody reformer might claim he swept evidence under the rug, and that could cause a scandal, or worse, open up the case to even more scrutiny. Winningham’s earlier relief quickly turned to worry.

  “I asked Dr. Gladstone to assist me in…”

  Several of the ladies had grown quite pale, Winningham noticed, and his wife’s plump hand convulsed against his palm, obviously at something Snow had said. Isabel Atewater, however, remained composed with a look as self-satisfied as the Mona Lisa. The Gladstone woman was equally composed, but there was a hint of a troubled frown on her pretty forehead. Jeremy Atewater frowned as well, but with less of a troubled look than of concentration. Nicholas Forsythe, however, simply listened, his visage revealing nothing except that he undoubtedly possessed a barrister’s objectivity that bordered on the amoral.

  “…the obvious conclusion, given the girl’s threats and her disappearance. However, the investigation…”

  Winningham listened but heard nothing as Snow’s words piled up, covering them all with mind-numbing facts. He began to think he might fall asleep. But he was lulled out of his drowsiness by a sudden outburst from Isabel, and he quickly realized that he was alone in his distraction. The others, he saw, were becoming equally as agitated as she.

  “It’s simply out of the question for me to stay here until you complete the investigation. I have to get back to London. Tell him, Jeremy.” Isabel’s face had grown quite red, and Winningham could see a dewy ring beginning to develop around her hairline.

  “The lady is quite right to protest,” one of the gentlemen said over the din of voices. “You can’t expect that of us, Snow. I, too, have appointments in London.”

  “Please, please… Ladies and gentlemen, I beg of you…” Snow tried in vain to calm the rabble.

  “None of this would have happened if Miss Gladstone had done her duty and sedated that kitchen maid.” Winningham was surprised to see that it was his own Lady Winningham standing and shouting to make her protest heard while she made lacy threats with her handkerchief. “We are all innocent, and she has brought on all the trouble.”

  Winningham heard Miss Gladstone’s name shouted in more than one angry voice, and by this time young Forsythe was standing, trying, along with Snow, to quiet the angry crowd, but one protesting gentleman grew even louder.

  “She should be ashamed to call herself doctor. Why the woman shouldn’t be trusted to administer even to dumb animals. She should have—”

  “Please, sir, please,” Nick pleaded. “Let us give the good doctor a chance to explain her—”

  “Explain? She can’t explain. All she can do is make excuses for the deranged murderer she failed to protect us from. The girl should have been taken away to an asylum immediately, and any doctor worth his salt would have known—”

  “Of course she should have known.” Isabel interrupted over the gentleman’s tirade and Nick’s continuing efforts to calm the group. “And yes, she is making excuses to cover her mistake, claiming he died of strangulation instead of that stab in the heart that kitchen girl gave him. Indeed! She only wants to make it look as if the girl is innocent. But the girl’s run away, hasn’t she? Innocent people don’t run away.”

  “Here! Here!” Lady Winningham once again accentuated her fury with a wave of lace.

  “Quiet, please.” This time Nick’s voice had such a loud commanding tone that everyone fell into a stunned silence. Snow took advantage of the calm to speak again.

  “The investigation has just begun, and it is my responsibility to look at all possibilities. The good doctor and I will confer further, and all of you, along with the servants, will most likely be interviewed by me individually, but I assure you, I will inconvenience you as little as possible. I know that all of you are anxious to leave the primitive countryside and return to London, but you must understand that even in the hinterlands, the queen’s laws must be followed to the letter. I will do my best to see to it that you can all leave as quickly as possible. But do keep in mind, some or all of you could be called as witnesses later.”

  Winningham did not miss the resentment in Snow’s attitude, and he could not help but smile. He was not so much amused by Snow’s defensive jibe at his superiors as he was relieved to see that the situation was deteriorating into pandemonium. Confusion could slow the investigation. Confusion could protect him.

  “Have the carriage readied for me? Oh no, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Forsythe.” Alexandra was pulling on her riding gloves, preparing to leave Montmarsh. She had already been questioned by the constable. She gave her testimony regarding Elsie, and it had been established that she had left the house while Lord Dunsford was still in the ballroom, and therefore, before the murder took place. She had, however, been instructed not to leave the village.

  “Oh no, I insist upon the carriage for you,” Mr. Forsythe said. “I’m sure Eddie would have wanted it, especially after all you’ve been through.”

  “All I’ve been through?”

  “It has to be uncomfortable to have all of those misinformed people acting as if this is somehow your fault.” Forsythe reached quickly for the door to open it for her, since the butler, along with all the other servants, was waiting to be questioned by Constable Snow.

  “Uncomfortable? Of course not.” She was not being entirely truthful. It had been disconcerting to hear their complaints and accusations. For the briefest moment it stirred fears that she had been wrong about Elsie O’Riley. Could the girl really have been distraught enough to kill? Alexandra had nothing but instinct to go on when she left Elsie, who by that time was asleep, even without a sedative. But the cause of Lord Dunsford’s death had reinforced her instincts. He had been strangled, there was no doubt about that, and the stab wound had come later.

  “Ah, wonderful, the carriage is ready,” Nicholas said. She glanced at the driveway and saw that he was right. The carriage and driver were waiting for her, and Lucy, her horse, was tied to the back. Forsythe must have summoned it much earlier than she thought.

  “This really isn’t necessary, Mr. Forsythe,” she said.

  “Of course it is. Quite necessary.” He lightly grasped her elbow and led her toward the carriage.

  “But—”

  “No need to protest. It is done now.” He helped her in and, to her surprise, went around to climb in the other side.

  “Really, sir. To accompany me as well is asking too much, and besides, didn’t the constable say none of you were to leave the premises? Neither you nor the driver?”

  “The driver was not on the premises last night. He was, in fact, seen by the constable himself in the local pub, so he has the perfect alibi. As for me, I would be less than a gentleman if I didn’t accompany you, and that duty outweighs any edict from the local constabulary.”

  “I find your attitude rather overly protective, not to mention cavalier.”

  Forsythe signaled for the driver to leave. “Please keep in mind, Dr. Gladstone, that there is a murderer loose. I fail to see how you find my concern for you either overly protective or cavalier.”

  She glanced at him, wondering if he was only pretending to be obtuse. “When I said you were cavalier, I was referring to your attitude toward the law.”

  “There is a murderer loose,” he said, again with the kind of emphasis one might use for a particularly slow child.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Then you are convinced that Elsie is guilty, since all the other suspects are confined to Montmarsh and she is the only one who is loose?”

  Forsythe spoke cautiously after a brief silence. “Not necessarily, but you must admit the evidence raises suspicions.”

  She turned toward him suddenly, defensively. “What evidence?”

  “Why the fact that she threatened Eddie, and the fact that she then fled.”
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  Alexandra shook her head. “I believe that is called circumstantial evidence. You must take into account that he was not killed with a knife. He died of strangulation.”

  “That doesn’t clear Elsie, does it?” Forsythe said. “She could have strangled him, couldn’t she? And then used the knife?”

  Alexandra glanced at him again. “But why would she do that?”

  Forsythe shrugged. “Who knows why anyone kills, really, but obviously she thought Eddie was somehow responsible for her lover’s death.”

  Alexandra frowned. “Oh, I know neither you nor the others want to think one of you could have done this,” she said. “But it actually could have been any one of you. Or any one of the servants.”

  “And with what motive?” he asked.

  Alexandra pulled her shawl a little tighter around her. “I don’t know. You knew Lord Dunsford better than I. Perhaps you can think of a possible motive. Perhaps you even had one yourself.”

  She expected him to claim insult. Instead, he seemed to consider the premise for a moment. “Well, Eddie did like the ladies, that was quite well known, and he wasn’t always discreet about his liaisons, but I know of no reason for a jealous husband among the guests.”

  “Are you sure?

  “Well, I’m reasonably sure, although I’ll admit, I didn’t know everything about Eddie’s escapades, and I certainly hadn’t seen as much of him recently as I once did. And as for me, I’m afraid I have no motive.” He gave her a broad smile.

  “So it could have been a jealous husband?”

  “Well, anything’s possible, but…” Forsythe shrugged, as if he was dismissing the idea.

  “How about gambling debts?”

  “None that I know of. Eddie was quite wealthy, you know. Not likely to be in debt to anyone.”

  “Suppose someone was deeply in debt to him.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be likely to be anyone at the house, would it? One isn’t likely to invite someone who owes him money, is he? And even if Eddie did such a thing, anyone deeply in debt would be too embarrassed to come.”

  “Unless he thought to get revenge.”

  “My word, Dr. Gladstone. I don’t know whether to think you diabolical or merely analytical.”

  By now the carriage had reached her house. “I shall leave that for you to decide, Mr. Forsythe.”

  He got down from the carriage and walked around to offer his hand to help her alight while the driver untied Lucy’s rope. “If you are so certain that Elsie O’Riley isn’t guilty, I should like to help you investigate that possibility.”

  “I try to leave police business to the police,” she said as he walked her to her front door.

  His eyes held hers for a moment, then he tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “Very well. Good day, Dr. Gladstone.”

  She watched him walk away and then, in spite of herself, called out his name.

  “Mr. Forsythe…”

  He turned to look at her.

  “How, exactly would you go about doing that? Investigating possibilities?”

  He smiled in a manner that seemed to be triumphant and took a step toward her. “I could question the other guests. Discreetly, of course.”

  “To what end?”

  “Why looking for motives, of course.”

  “But you just said you know of no motives.”

  “I don’t, but who is to say we ever really know the heart of even our closest friend? I shall report back to you with what I learn.” He tipped his hat and stepped into the carriage again, and, in spite of herself, Alexandra found herself wishing she could join him in that discreet investigation.

  Chapter Four

  “Irish, she is, that kitchen maid up at Montmarsh, and the way I sees it, ’tis always the Irish at the bottom of things when it comes to trouble. Me husband feels the same, ’e does.”

  Nell Stillwell’s head bobbed as she spouted her opinion, making it difficult for Alexandra to examine her infected eye. She had earlier given the butcher’s wife a solution of St. John’s wort and hyssop leaves to wash the eye that had become inflamed from a bit of straw from the pig sty. It was apparent to Alexandra, however, that Nell had not followed her instructions, judging from the almost full bottle of solution that remained on the woman’s shelf, not to mention the condition of her eye.

  “Why have you not washed your eye, Nell?” Alexandra dabbed at the oozing pus with a bit of cloth.

  “Well, there isn’t time, is there, Dr. Gladstone? What with all the extra work when the earl is back at Montmarsh, along with all of them guests and their fine appetites for beef and pork. It keeps me husband busy, it does, and meself along with ’im.”

  “But you could lose your sight in that eye. It has gotten much worse. You must be careful.” Alexandra dropped some of the solution into her patient’s eye then placed a large bandage over the infected area and wound the gauze around her head to secure it. She glanced at Zack, who usually accompanied her on her rounds. He was pacing back and forth, agitated by the smell of fresh meat.

  “Lose me sight you say? ’Twould be better than this watery glob o’ oozing pus, the way I sees it, and all the time causing me the pain of Hades in that socket.”

  “But, Nell…”

  “Aye, if some things would but die, ’twould end our troubles, wouldn’t it?”

  Alexandra finished the bandaging and took a large bottle from her bag. “You mustn’t think like that, Nell. There’s still a chance we can save your eye. I’m going to leave you with more solution, fresher and more potent. I want you to use it daily.”

  “And was that what the kitchen maid was thinking, was it?”

  Alexandra glanced at her patient, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The kitchen maid. Elsie O’Riley’s her name. The one what killed the earl. I guess she thought if someone would but die, ’twould end her trouble.”

  “What makes you think Elsie O’Riley killed the earl?”

  Nell gave her a sly look. “Why, Dr. Gladstone, you was there yerself when she made the threats, so I hear. Why, the whole village has talked of nothing else since it happened the night before this last.”

  “Threats don’t make her guilty.” Alexandra spoke as she packed her supplies back into her bag, marveling at how quickly the news had spread.

  Nell gave a wave of her hand. “Go on, now. She had her reasons.”

  “You’re referring to young George’s death.”

  Nell’s one eye brightened. “Aye, so you know, and did you know young George was a ne’er-do-well? Spent his time with other young thugs when he wasn’t with Elsie, ’e did. And young men with naught to do will make trouble, the way I sees it.”

  “I’ve heard about George and his less than desirable friends, but that still doesn’t make—”

  “And did you know that some blame Lord Dunsford for George’s death?”

  Alexandra’s facade disappeared. She glanced at the woman, suddenly alarmed. “Nell!”

  “Aye, I sees that you know.”

  “I know nothing of the kind, Nell Stillwell. Who, exactly, blames Lord Dunsford for George’s death?”

  “Them that knows.” The Cyclops eye bore into Alexandra.

  “Knows what? What are you talking about, Nell? That’s only a rumor started by a frightened young girl.”

  Nell turned her eye away from Alexandra and stared at the window. She spoke only one word. “Aye.”

  “What do you mean, ‘aye’?”

  Nell faced her again, briefly. “I knows what I knows.” Once again she turned her glance away to stare out the window. “’Tis like I said, Miss Alex. Some things is best left to die.” She stood and made her way to the stairs as if to return to the butcher shop below. “Your father would know what I mean.”

  With that she was gone, leaving Alexandra to finish gathering up her medicines and make her way down the stairs. She had not missed Nell’s point in making reference to her father, nor the fact
that she had called her Miss Alex, rather than Dr. Gladstone. It had been a long struggle to get a certain few of the villagers, Nell among them, to stop thinking of her as little Miss Alex. When she was uncertain about a diagnosis, or they felt for any reason that she was particularly obtuse or inept, they often gave her the edict, “Your father would know.” It was something she might never live down.

  She had one more patient to see before noon, and then she would return home for a quick lunch before she opened the surgery to see patients in the afternoon. She secretly hoped there would not be many on this particular afternoon, and that she would have time to steal away to Montmarsh and perhaps meet with Nicholas Forsythe. She was eager to learn if he had, in fact, been able to discern any more from his surreptitious investigations.

  Her next patient, John Beaty, known to most as Old Beaty, was well into his seventies and, because of his rheumatism, now left all of the work to his son, who was known as Young Beaty. Young Beaty, like his father before him, was an oyster man. Old Beaty spent his time either warming his aching joints at his daughter-in-law’s hearth or, on a good day, among other old farmers and fishermen at the Blue Ram.

  Old Beaty greeted Alexandra with a toothless grin when he saw her approach through the open door. “Aye, the good doctor.” he cried out.

  Alexandra stepped inside. Zack followed and made himself comfortable next to the hearth. “Hello, Mr. Beaty. You’re feeling better it seems.”

  “’Tis yer medicine what done the trick.”

  Alexandra glanced at the empty bottle she had left with him—a mixture of poke root, blue flag root, prickly ash bark, black cohosh root, and bitter root mixed in two quarts of whisky. “Mr. Beaty, what has happened to your medicine? I gave this to you only two days ago, and you were supposed to take only three tablespoons a day.”

  “Aye, but it made me feel so good, I takes me a little more each day.”