His sister's words stung though he knew emotions were running high in the household. “Are you not suspicious? She starts working for us and then Mother is murdered?”
“Peter!”
“Do I not have a right to question?”
“Yes, but Julia?”
“I mean Father.” Ainsley paced the room, hands on hips and looking to the window.
Margaret was quiet for some time either stunned or pondering her brother's words. “Father?”
Without trying to hide his disgust, Ainsley nodded.
“But Julia couldn't do such a thing,” Margaret continued incredulously. “I doubt she'd have the strength.”
Thinking of the sting on his cheek Julia dealt him a few days ago, Ainsley had no doubt regarding her strength. “We do not know this woman from Eve,” Ainsley said, “and remember Mother, remember how uncoordinated she was that night? I doubt it would take much strength if she was inebriated.”
Margaret swallowed, her eyes scanning room. “You believe Father hired Julia to kill Mother?”
Ainsley nodded.
She closed her eyes. “What evidence do you have, besides circumstance?”
“Give it time, Margaret. All I need is time.”
Chapter 22
The eyeballs fixing.
The following three days were a haze of flower deliveries, condolence cards and funeral preparations. Ainsley tried to throw himself into his work but his usual methodical pace descended into a crawl. Eventually he gave up trying to act normal and sent word that he was ill. As much as he mourned for his mother, he was also tortured irrevocably by the thought of his father’s hands doing the deed, the only one with sufficient cause to want her dismissed from their lives.
Ainsley sat at the window seat in his room, knees bent and hand to his mouth he watched over the street below. So unaffected were the passersby, he noticed, going about their daily chores, running errands, attending carriages, sweeping stoops, as if his entire world had not come crashing to an end. He closed his eyes against the image, willing his life to return to normal yet knowing it was useless.
His only way forward was simple. He needed to find the person responsible, even if it meant taking down his own family in the name of justice. As drunk and intolerable as his mother was, she deserved more than that ending.
The horse drawn hearse arrived, pulling up slowly to the kerb before stopping at the front step. In another hour, his mother's body would be interned and his eyes would never behold her again. Ainsley watched from his window as Daniel came out to the street, Billis at his side. They greeted the undertaker as he stepped out of a carriage that had followed closely behind the hearse. Adorned with black and silver livery the two teams of horses stomped in place, bobbing their heads as if showing off the great black plumes that adorned them. Such pomp and circumstance was traditional, and almost essential for their neighbourhood. Ainsley had no doubt his father had gone to great expense to prove to society how deeply he mourned. A sound escaped Ainsley's mouth, both a laugh and growl as he thought about it.
And then he saw his brother almost smile as he and Billis stood on the kerb discussing the coming procession and Ainsley's outlook changed. He wondered why it had never occurred to him before. Of course. His brother had the most to lose should his mother be shunned from society. Father had always cared little for it and yet he fit in as easily as anyone could, but Mother struggled. Daniel took after her in many ways but he possessed none of her nonchalance. His Achilles heel was that he cared too much. The more he thought about it, the more Ainsley's stomach churned.
A knock on his bedroom door snapped Ainsley from his disturbing trance. He looked up and saw Margaret at the threshold. She did not look as if she had been crying that day but her eyes gave warning that it could happen at any moment.
“Will you walk down with me?” she asked. She reminded Ainsley of her younger self, demure and soft spoken, unsure and lacking confidence.
Ainsley nodded, slipped from his seat and joined her in the hall.
The ceremony in Lambeth Church was short and somber. The turnout was respectable though Ainsley wondered if most of the attendees were there as spectators rather than mourners; less were gathered at the graveside following the service. Lady Charlotte Marshall's remains were to be interned at North Western Cemetery, an imposing square stone erected to mark her final resting place.
All the family’s servants from Belgravia formed a line behind Ainsley, Margaret, Daniel and Lord Marshall. The Weatheralls, the Cumberlands, the Brants, the Bells, the Ashfords and the Pennyfeathers, among other prominent families, lined the opposite side. Lady Brant stood alongside Margaret, holding her hand as women do to show solidarity. The men however betrayed nothing, standing at stoic attention, staring blankly as if unaffected and unconcerned. Inspector Simms stayed back but his presence was known. Ainsley knew why he was there. They both employed the same technique when flushing out the identity of a killer it seemed.
At last the vicar ended his reading, the family was invited to sprinkle fistfuls of dirt on the lowered coffin and those gathered began to disperse. Lord Marshall and Daniel left quickly but Ainsley and Margaret lingered with Lady Brant at the cemetery, meandering through the paths ignoring the coach that waited for them at the gates.
“That is Scotland Yard if I ever saw one,” Lady Brant said, glancing behind them as they strolled.
Ainsley followed her lead and looked.
Simms lingered near a tree, watching the threesome as they made their way down the gravel path.
“This is so embarrassing. Do either of you care to share with me the reason why we seem to have a chaparone?” Lady Brant asked.
Ainsley pressed his lips together, stopping himself from speaking, knowing it would only upset her if he did. Margaret sighed, raising her gaze from her feet.
“Both of you hold secrets,” Lady Brant said with a slightly stern face. “Do not make me bribe you with sweets like I would when you were knee high to a grasshopper.”
“Peter believes Mother was murdered,” Margaret said without warning.
Lady Brant must have already guessed as much. She nodded with a stern face and slipped her arm into the crook of his. She pulled him along, leaning into his arm as they walked. “You have your suspects, I imagine,” she said invitingly.
Ainsley nodded though he was unwilling to reveal his hand. Lady Brant seemed to sense this and became annoyed. “You may have your secrets,” she said dismissively. “But I would wager your suspicions mirror mine.”
Margaret gave Ainsley a panicked looked but he was quick to turn away, not wanting to fuel Lady Brant's blatant resentment for her best friend's widow.
“I have never appreciated your father,” Lady Brant said without solicitation. Their steps stopped short of her waiting carriage. “He and I have never gotten along and I doubt that is about to change. She deserved better in life and in death.” She raised a gloved hand to the side of Ainsley's face. “I know you will do right by her.” Patting his cheek gently she gave him a sympathetic smile.
Her footman holding the door for her, Lady Brant stepped up into her carriage but did not duck in. Instead she turned to Margaret. “The dissection I told you about happens in two days time, Margaret. You have not forgotten?”
Margaret hesitated.
“My dear, the man has donated his cadaver to the hospital. Wouldn't we be rather amiss to use an illegal specimen for such a public display?”
Still Margaret displayed less enthusiasm than she would have months prior.
Lady Brant looked to Ainsley and then back again. “Very well then. What a morbid pair you two have turned out to be,” she said with a sigh. Slipping inside her carriage, the footman shut her door securely. “I expect you to change your tune, Margaret,” Lady Brant said peering out the window and eyeing Margaret as the carriage began to roll along.
The cemetery was empty. The black carriages that had lined the meandering paths throughout were exiting the f
ar off iron gates by the time Ainsley escorted Margaret back to their family's conveyance. Lord Marshall and Daniel looked ill-amused at being forced to wait for their return.
“And what did she want?” Lord Marshall asked, unwilling to look his two youngest children in the eye.
“She is grieving, Father, as we all are,” Margaret answered, her normal patient tone absent. She accepted Ainsley’s steady hand and stepped up into the carriage before the others.
Ainsley glanced to a cluster of trees a few paces from his mother's grave where Simms stood observing the family.
“Why don't you head along,” Ainsley said to his father. “I'd like to walk.”
Daniel rolled his eyes and turned away, disappearing into the carriage. Lord Marshall's gaze followed his son's and saw the detective loitering behind them.
“Be mindful of the company you keep,” he warned sternly.
Ainsley found his mouth curling into a slight smile, “You as well.” His words were meant as a warning though he doubted his father would take notice. So self-assured was the man, Ainsley knew it would be impossible to unseat his composure.
The family's carriage began to roll away and Ainsley took a few steps to Simms who waited by a large sycamore tree that was void of leaves and stood skeletal against the grey winter sky.
“Who was that woman your sister and you were walking with?” Simms asked, gesturing to the path where Margaret and Ainsley had walked with Lady Brant.
“She is a longtime friend of my mother's,” Ainsley explained matter-of-factly. He pressed his cold hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the biting wind. “Lady Gemma Brant, widow of the Marquess of Exeter.”
Simms raised his eyebrows.
“My father despises her.”
Ainsley saw a slight smile touch Simms' mouth. “I will not pretend to concern myself with the rivalries within the peerage,” he said in a very policeman-like manner. “I need you to do something for me,” he said, glancing around as if to assure they were alone. “Evelyn has a brother, has she not?”
“Yes, Will is his Christian name.”
Simms nodded. “Speak with her about him.”
“Along what lines?”
“I understand he held an appreciation for Clara Buxton,” Simms explained. “Those I have interviewed describe him as sullen, would you say the same?”
Ainsley shrugged. “Not my sort of company, though he seemed amiable enough. Do you think he has a connection to Clara's murder?”
“Witnesses only describe a woman leaving Clara's room on the day she was murdered, but I cannot discount other leads. I need you to speak with Evelyn, and find out if Will and Clara were intimate.”
“And how should I ask?” Ainsley asked, laughing slightly. “How does one broach such a private subject?”
Simms smiled. “Such is the nature of police work.”
Chapter 23
Nine times goes the passing bell:
The operating theatre was connected to the hospital on the south side, a perfect position for curious Londoners to come witness the macabre dissection of a willing cadaver. Such scenes had become popular amongst elite society and it developed into a great way for the hospital to raise funds and favoured opinion amongst possible benefactors. The operations themselves had developed over time, slowly becoming evenings filled with theatrical play acting, turning surgeons into thespians as they displayed each action and subsequent organ as if it were a show piece.
At first Margaret found the evenings riveting, and she could easily understand why her brother had been drawn to the profession and all its scientific precedence. As of late, however, the operations had become more and more gruesome which generated a more boisterous response from the gathered socialites but it put Magaret on edge and sometimes left her wondering why she had come. Ainsley would never show his face as either surgeon or visitor; he could not risk either side of the theatre recognizing him.
Lady Gemma Brant practically pulled Margaret around in the theatre, directing her from one group of friends to another. A certain segment of the London elite ventured to these affairs and for Lady Brant it was all the more interesting for its chances at social achievements as well as simple professional curiosity.
“Miss Margaret, how do you find these sorts of engagements?” a friend of Lady Brant asked.
Margaret was snapped from her thoughts and forced into conversation. “I am not sure,” she replied, unwilling to concede absolute fascination for the proceedings. She had little doubt her very presence was risque enough for her teetering reputation. Her response aroused boisterous laughter from the mixed group of five standing around her.
“Isn't she precious?” Lady Brant asked in a somewhat disparaging way. Lady Brant pulled her close and gave her a gentle stroke along her back, meant to coax out the Margaret of old who was not so dreadfully dull, before pulling her arm away to shake the hand of an approaching physician.
“Dr. Lehmann!” she called. “So lovely to see you this evening. Are you performing the procedure?”
He gave a quick nod. His eyes darted to Margaret and away again quickly.
“Oh,” Lady Brant started, “you remember, Lady Margaret Marshall, the daughter of Lady Charlotte Marshall, don't you?” Margaret offered her hand and he bowed his head slightly as he shook it. He was a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes. He had a somewhat imposing posture and yet lacked refinement. He avoided her gaze, looking away and fidgeting as if afraid he would miss another important visitor. It was only a moment before Margaret was completely put off.
“You have heard of her recent departure from this world?” Lady Brant asked, coaxing him into a conversation that he very clearly did not wish to engage in.
Forced to look back at them he nodded and then spoke in a diluted German accent. “Yes, my heartfelt condolences, Lady Marshall. Your mother...” he looked away, easily distracted it seemed, “was a great patron of this hospital.”
Lady Brant smiled, nodding her agreement. Margaret pressed a quick smile but could muster no more. He was gone quickly after that, muttering some regrets.
“I find him rather disagreeable,” Margaret said quietly to Lady Brant soon after he left. She did not try to hide her annoyance. Lady Brant laughed but people began to claim seats and they were forced to do the same.
The operating theatre resembled a Greek stage, with a platform placed in the centre and seats arranged in the round, ascending with each row to allow as many as possible to see the performance. Despite the black metal railings to distinguish the stage from the audience, Margaret and Lady Brant had a rather good vantage point with seats in the front row and slightly to the side. Margaret watched closely as the recessed area filled with doctors, and bit her tongue once Jonas stepped out amongst them. She felt Lady Brant lean into her, keeping her eyes trained on the front of the theatre.
“Is that not Peter's friend?” she asked.
Margaret swallowed hard, looked to her fidgeting fingers, and decided to change the subject. “Dr. Lehmann, have I made his acquaintance before?” she asked.
Lady Brant shrugged. Neither one took their gaze from the sheet covered stretcher that was escorted into the theatre by two porters in crisp white uniforms.
“Perhaps you have seen him at the last public dissection?”
Margaret searched her memory unable to place where she had seen him before. “No,” she said at last. The general murmur of the crowd, a packed house with standing room only, died away and the room became eerily quiet.
Dr. Lehmann spoke first. “Welcome.” After giving general remarks, addressing the donor's time in life and the purpose of the gathering, Jonas was instructed to remove the sheet from the body. Noise rose from the crowd, and people began to crane their necks for a better view.
“Please,” Dr. Lehmann said, raising his hands to subdue the eager crowd. “We will proceed slowly so everyone may see what we are doing.” He introduced the four doctors behind him of whom Margaret only recogniz
ed Jonas and Crawford. Jonas saw her and smiled and Margaret was grateful he did not do anything else, as anything more would be improper.
Though it was Jonas' steady hand that made each cut, Margaret soon lost all interest in the cadaver and began to focus on Dr. Lehmann. Her gaze followed him as she recalled each word he had said and tried to decipher their meaning. He knew her mother, knew her enough to remember her and her contribution to the hospital, if any such contribution existed. Margaret could scarcely recall.
Dr. Lehmann must have felt her gaze and he looked over, his narration to the audience faltering when he did so. Margaret kept her stare trained on him and he continued to stammer.
“Margaret, please, you are unnerving the man,” Lady Brant whispered.
“I know him,” Margaret hissed. “He knows my mother.”
Lady Brant exhaled deeply. “Margaret please,” she said through gritted teeth.
His jaw line, his dark curls and even the deeper tones of his voice seemed ever so familiar and yet she could not yet place him. Each second that passed felt like a curtain being pulled away from the cloudiness of memory until finally all that remained was him with her mother.
“That's him.”
She knew she had seen him, though it had not been him her attention was on. “That's her lover.” Margaret felt her composure slipping away as the panic set in. The relief at finally finding him faded into anger and frustration. Margaret felt Lady Brant's hand on hers and she was forced to look away from Dr. Lehmann who was stuttering with greater pronouncement.
“Margaret, please be quiet, you are embarrassing both of us.” Lady Brant looked around concerned with the people who were beginning to take notice of the scene.
Keep quiet. Don't make a disturbance. Act like a lady. It all rushed over Margaret making the anger boil and spill over. Without care or concern, Margaret stood, shaking Lady Brant's hands from her own. “I will not be quiet!” she yelled.
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