“We are counting on your discretion,” Ainsley said, with a forced smiled. He waved to a porter who worked in the morgue with him as he passed them. As he turned back to Jonas he saw Dr. Crawford, with his disapproving superior walk, come through the double doors. Ainsley gave Jonas a reassuring pat on the upper arm. “Thank you, my friend. I knew we could.” Ainsley began to walk away, heading away from Dr. Crawford.
“Peter, we should talk,” Jonas called to his friend as he walked away.
Ainsley turned but continued to walk backwards. “We will. Come by the morgue sometime.”
Ainsley slipped down the back stairs, hoping Crawford had not seen him. He could not avoid him for the rest of the day but he certainly did not want his friend to be witness to the inevitable reprimand.
The stairway grew dark as he descended, and there was a marked chill in the air though the smell remained the same. The morgue and accompanying offices were tucked away at the back of the hospital, making sure to be far enough removed from visiting family members and female nurses. Only surgeons, medical students, male porters and families of the deceased were allowed so far back.
Ainsley passed the porter's reception table that regulated admittance, tapping a knuckle on the desk as he passed. The porter, Frisker, looked up and his gaze followed Ainsley as he walked by.
“Good day, Dr. Ainsley,” he called after him.
“Good morning Frisker.” Ainsley had heard the scraping of the dry wooden chair on the floor and knew the porter had stood and was now shadowing him down the hall.
“Anyone wake up while I was gone?” Ainsley asked, knowing Frisker to be a serious fellow and not at all inclined to jovial speech.
“No sir,” he answered with due seriousness. Frisker was a coloured man who spoke in an indistinguishable accent that Ainsley imagined to be from Barbados or somewhere else in the West Indies. He walked one pace behind Ainsley as he made his way toward the morgue examination room.
Ainsley paused at the doors, turning slightly to face him. “Can you tell Dr. Crawford that I do not wish to be disturbed?”
Frisker nodded. “If you think he will listen, sir.”
“It's worth a shot.”
“Shall I take your jacket and hat, sir?” Frisker asked, offering both hands.
Ainsley nodded. He slipped his arms from his jacket sleeves and allowed Frisker to take it by the collar before he tipped his hat from his head. “You are a fine dresser, if you don't mind me saying sir.”
Ainsley nodded his thanks and pushed through the extra wide door into his work area.
The bodies laid out on the tables were different than the ones there when he left. Those bodies had by now been processed and released by other surgeons in his absence. This new stock of corpses, covered by thin sheets of off-white and stained cloth, was lined up systematically, parallel to each other in a specific order. A single sheet of paper sat beneath the heel of each dead body, identifying them.
Ainsley sighed as he walked down the aisle between the bodies. London never seemed to have a shortage of them and he could rest assured that he would always have employment. He went straight for his workspace at the back wall where large windows, though slightly grimy from the soot and dust of the city, illuminated his space. He stopped briefly to examine his tools, saws, forceps, clamps and scalpels, seeing they were clean and placed where they should be. Being there made him eager to return to work, to busy himself so he didn't have to think about home or his mother.
He reached for his leather apron, hanging from a hook next to the window, and turned just as the door in the adjoining room opened. He craned his neck and his eyes strained to see past the bright light above him to the dim light beyond. He saw Frisker and another porter bringing in a stretcher. They weaved, almost effortlessly, through the maze of bodies and stopped in front of him. Two others entered the room but Ainsley did not notice. He saw the stretcher, a thin sheet over another body and an unmistakable, fresh blood stain on the sheet just above what would be the mid-section of the body.
The two porters hoisted the stretcher onto the table. Frisker gave Ainsley an apologetic look and retreated with the other porter without a word. Ainsley saw Crawford then, and he understood Frisker's silent apology.
“Dr. Ainsley, this is an important case,” Dr. Crawford said authoritatively.
“Aren't they all, Dr. Crawford?” Ainsley asked, his tone showing he was more annoyed than usual. Ainsley was not at all interested in getting into details about his trip to the north and the murders he had witnessed there. Ainsley looked to the dark figure behind the senior doctor and recognized Inspector Simms instantly. Ainsley's mouth immediately grew dry and his hands began to shake. Ainsley shifted slightly away in an effort to compose himself and worried that Inspector Simms had recognized him as Peter Marshall.
Dr. Crawford either did not notice, or he decided to ignore Ainsley's strange behaviour. “This here is believed to be Lady Charlotte Marshall, wife to house representative Lord Abraham Marshall.”
Ainsley turned, not caring whether the Inspector recognized him. He stared at the sheet covered body and the reddish-brown blotch that stained its midsection.
“It cannot be,” Ainsley said quietly.
“Oh yeah?” Dr. Crawford sneered, “And how would you know?” He slapped some sheets of papers onto Ainsley's chest.
Ainsley grasped for them before they all cascaded to the floor but his grip was loose.
“Take care with her Ainsley and tell this man, Inspector Simms, all you find.”
Ainsley swallowed hard and tried to hide a shiver that traced up his spine.
Dr. Crawford glanced to the body in front of them and crossed himself with his hand. When he turned to leave the room he called out over his shoulder. “Dr. Ainsley is my best man, Inspector. She is in good hands.”
Ainsley struggled for air and used the edge of the examination table to hold himself up.
“Are you going to be all right, doctor?” Inspector Simms asked stepping forward. He held his hands together in front of him.
Ainsley nodded. “Just give me a moment,” he said, unsure. Even in that dim light Simms should have recognized him.
“Perhaps we should arrange for another doctor to examine the body,” Inspector Simms continued, “considering your relationship to the deceased.”
Ainsley looked up slowly.
“I had wondered why Dr. Jonas was described as a good friend. Now I see.” Inspector Simms walked around the examination table and surveyed the arrangement of tools with a self-satisfied grin. “What an odd profession for someone of your station.”
Ainsley did not move as Inspector Simms took in his array of tools and workspace. Ainsley simply stared at the covered body in front of him, not willing to believe it could be the body of his mother. “Where did you find her?” Ainsley asked, almost choking on his words.
“In a rooming house. The matron said she had arrived with a man a few days before and no one had seen her go in or out of her room for a couple of days.” Inspector Simms spoke matter of factly, but then, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, he softened his tone. “They checked in the day your mother was supposed to be travelling back to Tunbridge Wells.”
Ainsley nodded at all of this. “How did she die?”
Inspector Simms came to the foot of the table and looked to Ainsley. “Stab wound to the stomach.”
It took a moment for Ainsley to steel himself against the horror that struck him. The image of his mother dying alone in a letted room, no doubt bleeding for some time, writhing in pain, before finally succumbing, seemed almost too much to bear. His sorrow was diluted by his love for his profession and his ability to shut off all emotion as he worked on body after body throughout his daily life. Ainsley reached for the cloth, preparing to pull it down.
Inspector Simms grabbed his wrist and stopped him. “Perhaps we should have someone else do this,” he said looking Ainsley squarely in the eye.
“Who bette
r to do it?” Ainsley asked.
Once Simms released his wrist, Ainsley pulled down the sheet to the woman's shoulders. He bowed his head and once again braced himself on the edge of the table. The silent tears came like waves, uncontrolled and unending as he hid his face from view. With the back of his hand to his mouth, Ainsley cried all the tears he had held back the night before and all the tears he had wanted to cry while on his way home. He did not care that Inspector Simms saw him. He wept for his mother and the fact that this woman who lay dead in front of him was not her.
Inspector Simms moved to cover the body but Ainsley raised a hand to stop him.
“It's not her,” Ainsley said in a gasp. “It's not her.” He breathed in deeply pushing the tears back and composing himself.
Inspector Simms looked to the body, almost in doubt of what Ainsley had told him. “She fits the description.” He said reaching for his notepad in his inside pocket.
“I agree, but it is not her.” Ainsley looked over the woman's features once more. The woman in front of him did have brown hair, though it was not as thick and wavy as his mother's was. Her skin was not nearly as pale, and he also noticed, now that he was able to see without fear, that this woman was much shorter, slimmer and younger than his mother. In all other respects it did indeed look like Charlotte Marshall. He knew it was not his mother but anyone who did not know her would not see those differences as easily.
Inspector Simms let out a long breath and replaced his notepad to his inside pocket. “Your being here has saved me the embarrassment of contacting your family.”
Ainsley said nothing at this. His torment had saved his family from the same.
The detective looked at the dead woman contemplatively. “If you don't mind making her a priority, I would be much obliged. We have no idea who this woman is.”
Ainsley nodded. “Absolutely.”
Simms shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Such a shame.”
He turned to leave but Ainsley called him back. “Inspector Simms, you won't tell anyone, will you?”
Ainsley watched as the detective stared. “We should share drinks,” he said, neither confirming nor allaying Ainsley's biggest fear. The detective was gone a few moments later, the door closing loudly as he left.
Her body was not quite as bloody as he was used to. When Ainsley opened her, she was pink but not red, as she ought to have been. He examined her wound first, noting the depth and type of cut that was made. It was a single thrust he determined, and he imagined, as he looked over her, that the assailant had pulled away suddenly. He either wanted to watch her flail or he was surprised at his actions.
When Ainsley cut into her skin and then pulled back the layers of muscle he saw that her stomach was punctured and had bled out slowly. Ainsley silently wished he could have visited her at the site of death. He could have seen where she fell and how. He could have judged, by the amount of blood on the floor, how long she had lingered before dying.
She was cold, and no longer stiff. She would have died the evening before, or perhaps prior, given those clues. Ainsley could not help identify who she was though, that was Simms’ job. He would tell the detective that the woman was over twenty, perhaps twenty-five. Within a few moments he could determine if she had ever bore a child, but not whether that child was still living, or in her care.
When his examination was done, he replaced all of her organs and sewed her up as best he could using a thick, black thread. Just as he tied off the last stitch Frisker walked in, his arms loaded with folded, cleaned sheets. They were still near grey with yellow circular blotches showing on the folds. Frisker nodded slightly, acknowledging the doctor before walking past him and placing the sheets in a nearby cupboard.
“I am just about done,” Ainsley said over his shoulder to the porter.
Ainsley stood at the white porcelain sink near the cupboard and turned on the water. He washed his hands, scrubbing up and down his arms all the way to his elbows. Then he grabbed the small square of soap, made by one of the nurses upstairs looking for some extra money to her regular wages.
“Would you rather I washed the body, sir?” Frisker asked, his head bent low as he spoke. “Save you the trouble.”
Ainsley smiled. “Thank you, Frisker. You can help me bring over another one. Let's see if I can make Dr. Crawford not hate me so much.”
Ainsley walked back toward the body and pulled the sheet from her feet to just below her chin.
“Oh no sir,” Frisker said approaching the examination table. “He does not hate you sir. Every day while you were gone he asked if you had returned.”
Ainsley let out a slight laugh. “Angered with me no doubt.”
“No, anxious for you to return. He said you are his best surgeon.”
Ainsley stopped and stared at the old porter. “He said that?”
Frisker nodded.
“Well, I'll be....” Ainsley's mouth contorted into a smile. “Thank you, Frisker. You have made my day.”
Chapter 5
Yet all things must die.
Margaret began to fidget, her needlepoint lay on her lap neglected, and soon the grandfather clock grew to annoy her immensely. She had changed her seat innumerable times that morning, and found no break from her anxiety. She desperately wanted to leave the house and search for her mother. She would have liked to knock on every door in the city, and would be doing so had her father not forbade her. She had thought to visit close friends and family but when she suggested it he scowled and grew angry.
“Would you like to take out an advertisement as well?” he yelled, “Tell everyone I cannot suppress my own wife?” He was right in his own way, though Margaret hated to admit it.
It simply was not fair that Peter had a vocation with which to occupy himself whilst she sat in wait with her nails bitten to the quick and loose strands of thread picked from her clothing.
Her last change of seat brought her next to the window in the drawing room which overlooked the back garden. In her quest to forget that her mother was gone and she was helpless to find her, Margaret had already traced the perimeter of every stone in the walkway and counted each plank of wood that made up the stout fence. There were no flowers or foliage to see, though the holly bush stood out crisply against its grey surroundings. Christmas was in a few weeks’ time and she would have to gather some sprigs soon from that bush, though it pained her every time she did it. She'd make a wreath for the front door and perhaps use some laurel and other greenery to make a centerpiece for the holidays.
Oh please Margaret, she chided herself, as if your projects matter in comparison! She knew it to be true. If her mother turned up dead she'd be even more angered with herself. But then again what else was there for her to do?
Perhaps her mother was at a friend's house, stopped there to break her journey or for company. The country house could be rather lonely, especially at that time of year. But which friends remained, she wondered, when the parties and gatherings ended months ago? Who would stay in the city?
Margaret stood suddenly remembering her mother's dearest friend, Lady Gemma Brant, who made her home in Chelsea. Margaret was at the door and nearly through when her father walked in from the other side of the room.
“Where can you be off too?” he asked.
Margaret turned, twisting her hands in front of her. His voice was brash, and it reminded Margaret of when her father had been drinking. She glanced to the clock and saw that it was barely dinner-time.
“Come sit a while with your Papa.”
“I was otherwise engaged in a task,” she said, hoping he would not press further.
“I imagine it can wait.” He patted the back cushion of a chair while he stood behind it.
Margaret hesitated for a moment, pondering an argument they would have if she disobeyed him. She would need to leave the house at some point and angering him would not serve her well then. She relented, crossed back toward him and took a seat in the chair that he indicated. He sat opposite he
r.
She could smell his whisky tainted breath from a few feet away and saw how his mood had changed since she had last seen him at breakfast. He had been tucked away in his study all morning, not seeing to business as she had supposed, but drinking.
“What is it Father?” she asked lightly.
He raised an eyebrow in her direction and she knew he meant it as a warning. “What did you tell the Inspector?” he asked in a monotone.
His question surprised her as he had been the one to encourage her to speak with him in the first place, and had allowed her to do so alone.
“I don't know what you mean,” she answered, unsure whether it would anger him or not.
“You should take care, daughter, for your reputation,” he said. “It will do no one any good to have your honour tarnished publicly.”
“My honour?”
“Yes Margaret, I have not forgotten that you left without my blessing, with the last man whom I'd approve as your escort.”
Margaret bowed her head, accepting her part in the misadventure. “Jonas is a good man.” Her voice was quiet and queer, lacking the conviction she displayed when speaking with her brother about Jonas. She heard her father laugh slightly but chose to ignore it. It would do no good to anger him further, not when she could smell the whiskey as if he had bathed in it.
They sat in silence for a long while, Margaret letting her eyes move over the room and Lord Marshall trailing his fingers along the fabric of the arm of the chair. When Margaret finally looked at him she saw his jaw clenched.
“You find yourself attached to him to spite me?” he asked.
Margaret shook her head. “Of course not. I was thinking rashly. I knew you would not allow me to leave.”
“What kind of father do you believe I am?” he hollered.
Margaret swallowed, her heart rate quickening. “Father, you have been drinking,” she dared to say. “Perhaps we should have this conversation another time?” She winced slightly against a forthcoming rebuke.
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