Ainsley watched, expecting his father to shudder in repulsion but he did not. The man was too dignified for that.
“Your profession exists because people die,” Lord Marshall continued.
“Your profession exists because your great-grandfather gained favour with the King,” Ainsley answered with a laugh. “Your wealth grew in the fields of Barbados under the shadows of hard working slaves before you were a glimmer in grandmother’s eye. Indentured men work your fields now while you sit smugly in your chair smoking their spoils. I dare say my profession is a worthy profession, born of my own willing hands whereas yours is one in which you hardly need to lift a finger.” Ainsley shook his head and turned his attention back to the fire. “I would examine a hundred bodies before I considered making my living as you do.”
Ainsley steeled himself for a rebuke. His father was not known for allowing his children, or anyone else, to express their opinion without his approval. It took a moment before Ainsley realized it would not come. Lord Marshall sat quietly, drawing from his cigar on one side of his mouth and then venting the smoke from the other side.
“And I suppose I should count my lucky stars that you are only the second born. Your brother Daniel does not see things as you do.” Lord Marshall looked to his son, allowing what Ainsley thought to be a slight smile. “Grant me this wish, however,” Lord Marshall began, straightening himself in his chair, “I ask you to keep up the ruse. While it pains me to not have you seek a proper living, one that I can boast about to my colleagues, I remind you that in this house, and while you are in the company of this family, you are Peter Marshall and nothing more. You can be Peter Ainsley to all others.”
Ainsley smiled. “You mean, Doctor Peter Ainsley,”
Chapter 2
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
Margaret led the detective into the study, unnerved by the thought of him watching her as she went ahead of him. She took a seat in her father's chair and was thankful for the large mahogany desk that separated her from her inquisitor. Inspector Simms walked to the window, notepad poised in his hand, and looked beyond the long velvet curtains to the street.
“This 'ere is a quiet street, Miss,” he said. “Your family has lived here a long time.” He did not ask. It was as if he already knew.
“Yes,” she said. She swallowed hard as she crossed her ankles and interlaced her fingers on her lap. “We moved here when I was a little girl.”
The detective nodded. “And you have all lived here. Together?”
“What do you mean?” Margaret asked, wondering if he heard the crack in her voice.
“Your parents. They live separately,” Inspector Simms pressed. Sensing her hesitation, he turned to her squarely and explained. “It will help me understand the dynamic of the family. Everything you tell me will be held with the greatest of confidence.”
Margaret saw Inspector Simms twist his mouth to the side. He looked as if the words meant less to him than they should have. She hesitated, not willing to confess just how strained her parents' marriage had been of late. The fact that her mother entertained a lover weighed heavily on her mind and the possibility of his involvement in her disappearance was ever present. “My parents spend the majority of their time apart,” she confessed. “My father prefers the city house, my mother the country estate.”
Inspector Simms nodded and walked from the window. He crossed the room and stood in front of a bookcase. With his hands clasped behind his back he leaned in close as though to read the spines.
“They love each other still,” Margaret added quickly. “In their own way.”
“Of course they do, Lady Marshall,” Inspector Simms said with a slight smile. “Of course they do.”
Margaret licked her lips.
“Your father mentioned that you left the city a few days ago to visit her in Tunbridge Wells,” Inspector Simms said.
“Yes, I did.”
“You went with a young man?” Again he spoke as if he already knew the answer.
“Yes.”
“Can you give us his name. Lady Marshall?”
“His name is Dr. Davies, Jonas Davies. He is a dear friend... of my brother's.”
The detective began scribbling something on his paper, an action which startled Margaret somewhat. “What is it, Lady Marshall? Would you like to change your response?” He asked his pencil poised above the paper.
Margaret shook her head. “For what reason?” She shrugged in a vain attempt to show nonchalance. “He can verify my whereabouts.”
“Why did you visit your family's country estate?” he asked, walking toward the desk. He loomed over her for a moment, before half sitting on the desk's edge.
Margaret's eyes fell involuntarily to the floor for a moment before she forced them back up. She didn't want anything in her words or actions to reveal she was hiding something. She would refuse to acknowledge her mother's affair. She had no wish to see the entire account in the society pages the next day. Detectives or not, there was no way she was going to reveal her family's darkest secrets unless necessary.
The thought made her stomach churn and she saw them then, in her mind, the memory rushing back in flashes and waves of recollection. Her mother naked in the fire light and that man’s body on hers. Margaret tried to shake the thought from her mind but it would not go away. Once again she heard her mother's laughter that next morning, and her complete denial of any indiscretion. Margaret could still feel the sting of her sing-song dismissal and harsh teasing. And then Margaret remembered Jonas' arms about her, consoling her as she cried into his sweetly scented shirt.
“Miss Marshall?”
Margaret's attention was brought back to the present abruptly. “Yes, sir?” she asked meekly, aware that Inspector Simms stared at her unrelentingly.
“You looked ill for a moment. Are you all right?” he asked, with a genuine look of concern on his face.
“Yes, quite all right. Just tired. It's been a long day. Are we almost done?”
“Just a few more questions if you don't mind,” Inspector Simms said. “What made you visit the Briar?”
Margaret swallowed. “Am I not allowed to visit my mother?”
Dissatisfied with her answer, Simms pressed his lips together and moved on.
“How long did you stay in Tunbridge Wells?”
“One night.”
“Why did you leave so suddenly?”
“I wanted to visit my brother, Peter, north of the city. He was... conducting business on behalf of Father. I had never been to any of the mill towns and wanted to see what they were like.” Margaret shrugged and pouted slightly, as if it was no big deal. She wondered if he believed her.
“Did...,” he scanned his notepad, “Dr. Davies accompany you there as well?”
“Yes.”
“Was your mother not happy to see you?” he pressed.
“No... I mean yes, she was happy to see me...us I mean.” She saw his smile of amusement.
“Did your father give you permission to travel in Jonas Davies' company?”
Margaret fidgeted slightly in her chair “No, not exactly.”
“Then why did you go with him? You are a young lady of good breeding. Why associate yourself with a doctor, of all trades.” A smirk spread over his face. “There must be something you are not telling me. Something between you and this doctor?”
“I beg your pardon! What are you implying?” Margaret sat up straighter and flashed wide eyes at the inquisitive detective, who raised his hands defensively while releasing a slight laugh.
“Nothing, Lady Margaret, nothing. I am only asking questions.”
Margaret swallowed hard and looked away briefly before turning back to the detective. “I asked him to accompany me because he is a dear family friend and—” Margaret stopped. She could scarcely reveal the true depth of her feelings.
“What is it?”
“And he had business with my brother as well,�
�� she lied.
Inspector Simms nodded and scribbled something on his notepad. “Your brother and this doctor had business dealings? Were you privy to what those might entail?”
“No,” she replied. “I am only a woman.” She nearly choked at her own words, as if betraying her entire sex. She needed to lie to cover the lie. She knew she needed to play the part.
“Quite right,” the detective answered, folding his notepad with one quick movement.
“Is that all, sir?” She hated to say the word but courtesy required it of her. Margaret slipped from her chair and stood up in one graceful motion. Her hands still clasped in front of her, she looked at the detective standing on the other side of her father's desk.
“Just one more thing,” Inspector Simms started, “When you saw your mother, was she behaving strangely?”
“What do you mean, Inspector?” Margaret worked hard to feign an air of ignorance.
“Was she acting like herself? Did anything happen out of the ordinary?”
Margaret let the room fall into silence as she pondered the detective's question. If he meant, did she see her mother coupling with a man not her husband, then yes, it was quite out of the ordinary.
“No, Inspector I cannot recall anything strange at all.”
She could feel his eyes burning into her as she stood in front of him. She wondered if he could sense her falsehoods, her blatant lies. She did her best to remain stoic and unchanged but secretly feared she bore her betrayal on her face. The pair of them stood silent for a moment, Inspector Simms poking the inside of his mouth with his tongue, and Margaret twisting her fingers together behind her back to suppress her urge to have another outburst.
“Now, if you will excuse me, it's been a long day of travel and I am weary.” She motioned for the door. “I suspect you wish to speak with Peter?”
Simms shook his head. “No ma’am, just you and Lord Marshall since you were the last family members to see her alive.”
Margaret nodded, the gravity of his words sending a quiver to her lips. “Our butler will show you to the door,” she managed to say. With two steps, she was able to pull the cord for the bell, summoning Billis to the study.
Simms nodded slightly just as Billis appeared at the door that led into the main floor hallway. “Thank you for your time and patience, Miss,” Inspector Simms said before turning to the door.
Left alone at last, Margaret let out a deep exhale of breath and clutched her chest. Then suddenly she began to cry. Leaning into her father's desk for strength she gasped for breath and let the tears stream down her cheeks uncontrollably. Her mother was missing, most likely dead, and there was nothing she could do to help them find her. She wished she could tell them. She wished that her mother's transgressions did not have such a stain on every member of her family. Margaret knew she did not lie for her own sake, but for that of her brothers, Peter and Daniel, and most importantly for her father who did not deserve the stigma of a wayward wife.
She cried for some time, holding her wrist to her mouth and nose to muffle her audible cries. She was not sure how long she stood there like that, but eventually the tears dried up and her gasps for breath subsided. She sniffled slightly as she straightened, dabbing her cheeks dry with the back of her hand. She pushed some loose strands of hair from her face and adjusted her skirt. Blinking, Margaret waited for her composure to return before leaving the room.
Chapter 3
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Ainsley climbed the main staircase, his legs weary from their long day of travel. As much as he wanted to retreat to his room, and the bottled comfort he had hidden there, he knew there was still much work to be done. He walked past his own door and marched instead for his mother's suite of rooms situated at the back of the house. There was one entrance to her rooms, a single door framed with intricately carved molding, which opened into her sitting room. Ainsley stood in the doorway for a moment, his hands shoved in his pockets as he looked around.
It looked as it always did, impeccably tidy without a pillow or vase out of place. A gold striped sofa and settee took up the main portion of the room, a low table between them. A writing table was placed near the window, a collection of pens and ink silhouetted by the light coming in through the window. The rest of the room was adorned with mirrors, paintings and imported pottery from France. There were fresh arrangements of flowers and Ainsley could smell the lavender and rose oils the maids used to keep the linens smelling fresh.
Aside from the occasional visit by the household staff, his mother's chamber was scarcely visited and even though he had been told she visited recently, her set of rooms gave no clue that anyone had walked across the threshold in weeks. Ainsley remembered his mother often describing how she felt like a stranger in her apartment, segregated from the rest of the house and hidden at the back. She had said her room and its darkness unnerved her like no other room. Even so, Ainsley could not recall a time when she had visited his father's room at the other end of the hall.
Ainsley walked in but stopped suddenly when he caught sight of his reflection in one of the large, ornate mirrors. He looked tired and haggard, almost a decade older than when he left London the week before. He ran a hand through his dark hair in an attempt to tame it but the locks just fell back into their haphazard places. He hardly looked the part of an Earl's son, barely resembling the man of fortune he had been raised to be. His clothes, though hand tailored and fitted snugly to his broad shoulders and slender form, bore an unkempt look synonymous with extensive travel. He looked more like his colleagues at the hospital than he did a gentleman in London's high society. His profession was taking its toll, ageing him before he was ready and causing stress he had never known existed.
His mother's bedchamber was accessed by a door to the right and from there he could see her deep rolltop bateau bath tub set against the window. No pipes, faucets or taps protruded from the bath and so it sat independently on the floor swathed in the sun from the window.
His mother was particularly fond of warm baths in the evenings. Lord Marshall had spent a pretty penny purcuring this model for her from Paris so now he refused to install the new gas burning ones that many of their friends were rushing to buy. Such an inclusion would require a full renovation of Lady Marshall’s rooms and since the Countess scarcely lived there, he saw no need to see to her comfort in that regard. The housemaids were the ones required to fetch bucketful after bucketful of water from the kitchens and so it did not inconvenience Lord Marshall in the least.
Above the bath was an arched stained glass window installed a number of years before the Marshall’s moved in. Using red and green in geometric shapes the window was dominated by a large white lotus flower in the middle of the arch. Ainsley had often found Margaret in their mother’s room, sitting cross-legged on the floor staring up at the colours and the way they sparkled in the light. It was such a pity the room was not used very much.
Ainsley heard someone walk into the sitting room and he turned abruptly. Margaret gave a forced smile as she peered at him from the doorway.
“Has the Inspector gone?” he asked, walking back toward her with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Yes,” Margaret answered quietly, “He is gone.”
“What did you tell him? Everything?”
Margaret shook her head. “No.” She looked as if she would cry and Ainsley wondered, seeing the redness around her eyes, if she had already been crying. “How could I? It's too disgraceful,” she explained.
Ainsley moved toward her but she dodged him, slipping further into Lady Marshall’s bedchamber as she passed. When he rounded he saw Margaret opening the bureau drawers and shifting their mother's belongings from side to side.
“I do not trust him Peter,” she said as she rummaged. “He seemed so... condemnable.” She spoke through gritted teeth, her choppy movements punctuating her anger.
Ainsley let out a breath and looked around the room. “He is o
nly doing his job, nothing more.” Enough detectives and police officers had come through the hospital that Ainsley felt at ease around them. Most of them seemed like amiable folk, though some appeared rougher than others.
“But Peter, it's just so invasive.” Margaret did not stop taking her inventory as she spoke. She pulled each drawer out one by one and shuffled through everything inside before throwing it all back in and slamming the drawer shut.
“What do you expect to find?” Ainsley finally asked.
“Something, anything to tell me where she could be.” Margaret marched into the bedchamber and began stripping down the quilts, blankets and sheets from the mattress. With a few quick motions the once untouched room became a housekeeper's nightmare.
“I'll be damned if those policemen are going to find her with that man, doing God knows what.” Margaret paused, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She surveyed the bed clothes before pulling them back up, not caring that they did not fall as neatly as before she had attacked them.
She turned to her mother's wardrobe and opened the double doors in one swift movement. “She has subjected this family to disgrace for long enough. I will find her and drag her back home by force if I have to.” Margaret pulled two hat boxes down from the highest shelf and held them out to her brother. “Peter, take these.”
Reluctantly, Ainsley walked toward her and accepted the parcels she presented to him. He laid them out on the bed and then Margaret was at his side with two more.
“I doubt she will have left a hidden note stating 'I have run away with my lover and we are hidden here',” he said.
Margaret acted as if she had not heard him. She flipped the lid of the hat box closest to her. It was filled with embroidered handkerchiefs and an empty bottle of perfume from Paris. There was a tiny leather bound book at the bottom of the box. Ainsley watched Margaret flip through the pages. From his spot, he could see it was a journal of some sort. For a moment Margaret looked elated but her joy fell flat when the pages turned blank.
Dead Silent Page 2