Dead Silent

by Tracy L. Ward

  Ainsley cleared his throat.

  Jonas looked up, his pleased expression turning sour when he registered Ainsley's pained look. “Is it Margaret?”

  Ainsley shook his head.

  Later that evening with the other doctors long gone, Jonas met with Ainsley down in the underbelly of the hospital, chilled like an ice house in the dead of winter. Ainsley stood back while Jonas looked over the body on the examination table.

  “Peter, say it isn't so,” Jonas said without taking his eyes from the body.

  “Say you'll do it. Do it and I shall never ask another favour as long as I live.” Ainsley bit his lip and shook his head slightly before closing his eyes. Denial eluded him. For as long as he lived he'd never forget that image.

  Jonas swallowed and spoke hesitantly. “I'll do it,” he said, “But I beg you not to tell Margaret.”

  “Oh what difference does it make?” Ainsley asked, suddenly agitated and impatient. “Our mother is dead and I need to know if someone killed her or if it’s the result of her own... dependency.”

  “What am I to look for?”

  “Laudanum. Opiates. Alcohol. Just do it now before I lose my nerve.” Ainsley raised his hand to his mouth and began working on his thumbnail again. “I need to know if she was with child.”

  Jonas looked to Ainsley. “What difference would it make now?”

  “Is that not a possible motive for murder, an illegitimate child? A stain on an otherwise pristine pedigree?”Ainsley found himself sneering at the mere thought. His father was more than capable of murder and he had certainly been given sufficient enough reason by then to want to wash his hands of his infidel wife completely.

  “You'll forgive me if I have little patience,” Ainsley said.

  Jonas nodded without hesitation and their gazes locked for a long moment. It was then that Ainsley felt his old demons of self-loathing rising up and ripping at his chest. In the six years that Jonas had been his friend Ainsley had been unrelentingly harsh, judgmental and demanding, and here Jonas was, willing to break hospital protocol to help him yet again. It was clear they remained friends because Jonas was able to overlook Ainsley's arrogance.

  Their rivalry had started with good intentions. Neither one seemed to mind their competitive streaks; comparing exam marks, wooing women, gambling and boxing. In fact their friendship seemed to spur Ainsley on when his enthusiasm for his studies waned. For that alone Ainsley owed Jonas a tremendous debt. In recent months though their rivalry had taken a turn and their encounters had become strained. Ainsley realized his folly as he watched his friend set to work positioning lights around the body.

  “Is something wrong, Peter?” Jonas asked, looking up briefly.

  “I was just trying to think of a way to say thank you,” Ainsley said, allowing a small smile. “I don't think I say that enough.”

  Jonas was already hunched over, scalpel in hand. “You're right,” Jonas said, “you don't.”

  Like many other things, Ainsley regretted the flask he had downed by the time the third punch connected with his face. Had he been sober he would never have allowed a boxing opponent so much leeway. Hit after hit struck him with unrelenting force and Ainsley swayed unable to get a grip on his senses, unable to defend the barrage that was always one second ahead of his reflexes. The chorus of the yelling crowd, dock workers and railway men mostly, became shrouded in a high pitched ringing that only grew louder as seconds passed.

  The next thing Ainsley knew he was sprawled out on a cot in the hospital. Jonas was leaning over him, a bit too closely, and Ainsley tried to wave him away but Jonas caught his wrist.

  “Do not touch it!” he commanded, holding fast as he stitched the long cut above Ainsley's eye.

  And then the pain hit him. The ringing was gone, the crowd as well and all Ainsley could feel was the poke of the curved needle penetrating his tender skin and then the thread being tugged through.

  “Just one more,” Jonas said in deep concentration.

  Eyes closed, Ainsley scrunched up his fists and clenched his jaw until Jonas finally tied it off.

  “How many?” Ainsley asked, resisting the urge to put his fingers up to feel it.

  “Four.” Jonas handed him a small hand mirror before turning to clean up his table. “You're going to be quite the sight at your mother's funeral.”

  Ainsley looked at his reflection and cringed. The skin around one eye had turned black and the other was now marred by an unsightly cut just under his eyebrow. Despite Jonas' steady suturing Ainsley knew it would never heal flat. He slapped the mirror on to the cot beside him in disgust.

  “It took myself and three men to bring you here. I had hoped you would stay out for the entirety. But the third stitch was troublesome.” Jonas turned to Ainsley on his stool and let out a sorrowful sigh as he clasped his hands in front of him. “Why would you agree to such a match?” he asked, “One would think you have a death wish. You know the Queensbury's allow you to use gloves now?”

  “They confine the hands,” Ainsley explained. “Besides, it's not like you haven't participated in a fight or two of your own.”

  Jonas placed a small square cloth on Ainsley's stitches. “People mature, they find new pasttimes,” he said, taking on a fatherly tone. “You should consider it.”

  Ainsley disagreed and shook his head slightly. “There is no pain greater than growing up.”

  The pair grew quiet before Ainsley spoke up, “Speaking of which, what did you find about Mother?” His tone was resigned. He already knew much more about her character than he had ever thought possible and it pained him to know there was still more to learn.

  “She was not with child,” Jonas offered. He reached for his bag pulling out pages of notes and diagrams he had scribbled earlier.

  “Thank god.”

  “There was evidence of alcohol in her system,” Jonas said as he flipped the pages, searching for verification. He finally stopped and began to read. “I couldn't detect anything else,” he said slowly, as if hesitating to go further.

  “Tell me,” Ainsley told his friend.

  Jonas nodded and continued. “She drowned, but there was a struggle, like you said. I found bruising on her shoulders and a small fracture of the collar bone. And a nail on her right hand was broken, as if it had been under considerable pressure.”

  “She fought back,” Ainsley breathed.

  “Which part of the room was she facing?”

  “Away from the door...” Ainsley's voice trailed off as the foggy realization hit him. “She wouldn’t have seen who it was but it wouldn’t be unusual if she thought Violetta had come back.”

  Jonas nodded with a sorrowful look on his face.

  The world became silent and even the distant wails of suffering patients were enveloped by the altered reality. With his rapidly increasing heartbeat, Ainsley found himself struggling for breath. The pain in his face and head that had been so pronounced seconds earlier ended abruptly before returning with a pulsing to match his heart.

  Father.

  Ainsley raised a hand to his face, shielding the forthcoming tears from his friend and then turned his gaze. He wanted to ask more questions, hungered for the answers but only a choking noise escaped his throat forcing him to take a moment. He felt Jonas' reassuring hand on his shoulder and closed his eyes against the pain.

  Chapter 21

  Ice with the warm blood mixing;

  Ainsley lingered at the threshold to his mother's room which had already been altered from its disheveled state. Everything was back in place and cleaned. The bath had been removed but the splashing water had left a waterlogged look to the grains in the wood. Ainsley approached, his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the site in front of the hearth where the tub had been. A flash of the morning before assaulted him.

  Screaming from Margaret.

  His own desperate attempts to revive his mother.

  He gave a quick shake of his head to banish the memory.

  The one thing he
wanted to remember was the one that eluded him. When he first came to his mother's side had there been water on the ground? Those minor details, the ones which he would have remembered on any other occasion were lost in the panic. He had never been witness to such a scene concerning his family and he found his normal propensity to remember minute details completely blank. He had been wet to the skin by the time he had finished, that much he remembered, but had he stepped into a pool of water already present?

  Ainsley growled at himself and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “You did everything you could,” Margaret said from the door.

  Ainsley started and turned, unaware that he was being watched.

  “Was the floor wet?” he blurted at the sight of her.

  Margaret's eyes went wide with panic and she shook her head but it appeared less than a committed response. “I don't know,” she said quietly.

  Ainsley let out another deep throaty growl.

  “My apologies Peter!” she yelled. “I am not used to such scenes as you are.” He heard the panic rising in her voice and she began to back away as if disgusted at his anger toward her.

  “Margaret, no,” he said quickly, putting out a hand. “I am not angry. Not with you. With myself for not remembering.”

  She lingered, but her expression was leery. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft and less sure. “I have been thinking of what you told me,” she stopped suddenly, swallowing hard and licking her lips. “I saw someone leave her room that night.”

  “What? Who?” Ainlsye stepped closer, unable to hide his desperation.

  “I don’t know. It was dark. I was too tired to think much of it.” A tear slipped from her eye and cascaded down her cheek. “I fell asleep in the library and…” She began to sob more openly, “if only I had woken up a few moments earlier.”

  “You must remember who it was,” Ainsley pressed.

  Surprised, Margaret’s eye grew wide. “I don’t know! Goodness Peter,” She raised her hand to her face, pushing tears from her red rimmed eyes. “I am frightened, Peter.” She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and backed away when he approached. He wanted to hug her, hold her and reassure her, but she wouldn't let him.

  Her eyes lifted then, as if catching a glimpse of something she had not seen before. “What happened to your face?” she asked.

  Instantly he raised his fingers to his stitches and regretted it once they touched his wound. Wincing slightly, he shrugged it off.

  “Were you drunk again this time?” she asked disapprovingly.

  “How else could I knowingly stand in front of a man who is vying to hit me as many times as he can?” his soft tone gave way to his annoyance at her meddling but Margaret seemed to be in no mood for their standard teasing. “Margaret, please.”

  She turned from him and retreated to her room, slamming the door as Ainsley tried to follow her.

  For a moment, he hesitated in the hallway wondering if he should step forth and barge in, like he would have done under normal circumstances. Things were different but not so entirely different that Margaret would not indulge him.

  When he did open the door he found Margaret seated on the edge of her bed, one arm wrapped around the wood post that held her bed curtains in place. A dress form was set up at the far end of the room, near the window with one of Margaret's mourning dresses set upon it.

  Margaret looked as if she was talking to someone and when Ainsley looked back at the dress form he saw Julia crouched down and concentrating on the hem of the skirt. As if caught trespassing Ainsley stopped and set his shoulders straighter.

  “Peter, I am in no mood to argue,” he heard Margaret say from the bed, though his attention was placed elsewhere.

  “I have not come to argue,” Ainsley answered turning his gaze to his sister. “I only thought you had been vexed with me.”

  “Why shouldn't I be? That which you men call sport is barbaric and reprehensible.”

  Ainsley could see her knuckles turn white as she gripped the post. He knew she did not agree with his liking for boxing but her protests had never been so forceful.

  “You would not want to hear what I think of your drinking,” Margaret nearly hissed.

  Julia stood slowly, a needle carefully held in her slender fingers. “Perhaps Miss Margaret wishes to speak in private,” she said demurely, her eyes to the floor.

  Margaret let out a sigh and waved a dismissive hand at her lady's maid. “No, please stay. Forgive me.” Margaret gave a forced smile. “I am overwrought.”

  Ainsley watched as his sister raised a hand to her face, rubbing her cheek with an open palm before resting her chin on it. Her hand lingered there, her eyes fixated on something in front of her and then he saw a tear slip from her eye and spill onto the fabric of her dress.

  “Margaret,” Ainsley breathed as he stepped forward taking a seat beside her on the bed. By the time he placed a consoling arm around her, she was openly weeping, her body trembling with her sobs. She did not push him away but rather melted into him like she often did when they were small. It was then that Ainsley realized their once strong bond had fallen to the wayside under the expectations of adulthood. He had been neglectful of her in his quest for scientific excellence. It was a situation he remembered once reassuring her would never happen. With Ainsley's arms wrapped around her, she buried her face in his chest and gripped his lapel, using it to muffle her sorrowful cries.

  Over the top of Margaret's weeping form, Ainsley saw Julia watching them, her task paused and her eyes glistening with sympathy. Their gazes locked for the briefest of seconds but it was when Julia turned away, using her sleeve to dry her eyes, that Ainsley felt his heart nearly stop and he was remorseful for allowing the moment to pass.

  “What are we to do?” he heard his sister say from the folds of his jacket. She sniffled and Ainsley pulled out his handkerchief and held it out for her.

  He wanted to reassure her, tell her everything was going to be all right but words failed him. If the Weatherall's decided to call off the wedding or society shunned the Marshall name completely, he cared little. He had his sights set on one thing, and one thing only, finding out who killed their mother.

  Margaret's sobs grew stronger when he gave no immediate answer.

  “Hush now,” he found himself saying, though he could not say why it mattered.

  “If what you say is true,” she said, pulling her face from his shoulder to look at him, “and someone killed her—” He words broke off as she cried forcibly.

  Ainsley's eyes darted to the other side of the room where Julia was dutifully pretending not to hear.

  “I will find out,” he answered softly.

  He saw Julia swallow hard at his words and she looked up to him nervously. Suddenly she stood and made for the door. Ainsley was quick to step up, grabbing her arm before she made it to the door.

  “Wait a minute!” he yelled, pulling her back with a forceful grip.

  “You are hurting me,” she cried, trying to gingerly pull his hand from her arm. She wriggled under his strength but he only pulled her closer.

  “Peter, stop!”

  Ainsley felt his sister at his side, pulling him back but he could not relent. “You know something,” he growled, caring not how she cried.

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head furiously. “I was the one to draw her bath but I swear I don't know anything more.”

  Ainsley's grip loosened and Margaret, as well, appeared shocked at her maid’s words.

  “Where was Violetta?” Margaret asked, stepping between Ainsley and Julia.

  “She had collapsed, my lady.” Again Julia tried to twist her arm free. “Please, you are hurting me.”

  “Peter, let her go!” Margaret demanded.

  “What do you mean she collapsed?” Ainsley pressed, pulling Julia even closer.

  The maid appeared panic stricken. Her eyes grew wide and she looked as if she would weep under the scrutiny. “She was overtired, I suspect. I
saw to her ladyship's bath. She was fine when I left her. I was in the kitchen but a minute when I heard Miss Margaret's screams.”

  A flash of the night before came to his mind and he remembered Julia and Billis standing at the door looking in over the scene while Ainsley and Daniel tried to revive their mother.

  Suddenly feeling ashamed of his treatment of her Ainsley quickly let go. His anger had given way to remorse and then shame.

  Julia turned to Margaret, openly crying. “I'm sorry, Lady Margaret,” she said between sobs. “I should have told you. It was my fault. I should have been watching her. I knew she was not herself that night. I should have kept a closer eye. Forgive me.”

  Margaret shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive, Julia,” she said, pulling the maid close.

  Ainsley raised a hand to his mouth and then traced his jaw bone to his chin. “Forgive me,” he said, unconvincingly.

  Julia swallowed nervously when she looked to him. Though she nodded, Ainsley doubted whether she truly did forgive him.

  “Is Violetta recovered?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes, my lady, though like all of us she is handling her ladyship's passing quite hard,” Julia explained.

  “Nay, I'd say worse,” Ainsley offered, knowing how close she and his mother had been.

  Julia nodded in agreement. “May I return later to finish your dress, my lady?” she asked between sniffles.

  No sooner had Margaret nodded than Julia dropped a quick curtsey and left the room.

  “Peter Benjamin Marshall!” Margaret snarled, using his name as if it were laden with curse words. “How could you do such a thing? Imagine the week that poor woman has had.”

  Ainsley was forced to admit her first week of employment with the Marshall's must have been hellish. It was a miracle she had not given notice and run for Canada.

  “You have taken a liking to her then?” Ainsley said, admittedly changing the subject from his own misdeeds.

  “Yes,” Margaret answered without a thought, “She's been listening to me ramble for hours about Mother, and hasn't said a peep in return that wasn't amiable and uplifting. You are becoming a brute.”