Dead Silent

by Tracy L. Ward

  The porter hesitated but eventually relented. “I will be out at the desk, sir.”

  Ainsley nodded and waved a loose hand in the direction of the door. “Just go,” he said. He looked up and saw Margaret standing over him. “You as well,” he said, with little conviction. He reached for the bottle but her hand was quicker and she snatched it away. Without warning she raised the lip of the bottle to her mouth and took a long, drawn out drink. “What is this? Scottish?”

  Ainsley gave a smirk. “German.”

  The silence that followed was impenetrable. Ainsley was now privy to information his family had worked hard to keep secret. There was nothing left to say. Ainsley's career was a joke. His mother was gone and her killer remained unknown.

  “Daniel has set a date,” Margaret said suddenly. Placing the whiskey bottle back on the table, she pulled a small square of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “I received that by messenger this morning.”

  It was a wedding invitation, elegantly scrolled in black ink on a pure white paper embossed with filigree around its edges.

  “It's in three days?” Ainsley's shock was only tempered somewhat by the alcohol that swam in his veins.

  “I couldn't believe it myself.” Margaret said. “Seems... rushed, if you ask my opinion.”

  Ainsley pushed the paper away and grabbed the bottle. “What of it?” he asked roughly. “His decision.”

  “And you don't think it was Evelyn who pushed for this date?” Margaret asked, waving the invitation in the air in front of her. “Is there anything she could gain from rushing things?”

  Ainsley shook his head but when the room began to spin he stopped suddenly and raised his hands to his face. “He said she was eager,” he mumbled in reply.

  “My question is why?”

  “Why not? If they are both willing parties to their mutual gain, what does it matter?”

  “It matters because Daniel has no idea about Clara Buxton,” Margaret answered sternly. “Peter, you cannot just sit there and pretend none of this matters to you.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Peter bellowed. “It's their bed, not mine!” He reached for the bottle again but Margaret snatched it out of his hands before it found his lips. With great force she threw it to the ground, shattering the glass and sending the whiskey all over the floor.

  “One day you are going to have to stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

  She was halfway out of the room before Ainsley had gathered his wits enough to attempt to apologize.

  “Margaret,” he called.

  She continued walking.

  “Margaret! I'm sorry.”

  The door closed loudly behind her and the room went quiet. The sheets on the corpses moved slightly, swaying in the turbulence of Margaret's sudden departure.

  She was right. Margaret was always right.

  Ainsley gathered himself together, splashed cold water on his face from the trough sink in the corner and headed for the door.

  “Tell Dr. Crawford I went home ill,” he said as he passed Fisker's desk in the hallway. Almost at the stairwell, Ainsley turned to him and added, “And I'm sorry about the mess.” Ainsley did not stay to explain and he pretended not to see the look of confusion on the porter's face.

  Ainsley tore up the stairs of the hospital and out the front doors just in time to see Margaret stepping into their family's carriage. “Wait. Wait!” he called up to Jacob before the groom had a chance to urge the horses into motion. Ainsley jumped into the carriage, closing the door quickly. Margaret just shook her head as he entered and turned to look out the opposite window.

  “You are right,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Forgive me if I don't understand what you expect me to do about it.”

  Ainsley's words only seemed to anger Margaret more. Her jaw clenched, she turned her head slowly to look at him. “If I were a man I'd be able to go where I want, find the answers I seek and no one would think the worse of me,” she said coolly.

  “All right then, if you were a man what would you do to solve Clara Buxton's murder?” Ainsley asked.

  “Clara and Evelyn were cousins. Didn't Evelyn say she grew up in Aldsgate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your trail leads you there.”

  Chapter 27

  So let the warm winds range,

  The name and address that the workhouse matron had given Ainsley cost him ten shillings and his word to never reveal her involvement should the origin of his source be questioned. The neighbourhood he found himself in was filthy and overcrowded, a far cry from the one he would have imagined a refined lady like Evelyn growing up in. As he walked the streets, side stepping heaps of horse dung and human excrement, Ainsley could see how an advantageous marriage would appeal to her.

  At the indicated address he was directed up three flights of rotting stairs to a dark door with the letter 'C' painted crudely on its weather worn surface. His knock made the door rattle on its loose hinges before being opened abruptly.

  “I said I don't have it today—” the woman's voice cut off, and a look of fear came over her.

  “Lizzy White?” Ainsley asked.

  Propelled by fear she moved to step back into the house, reaching a hand to close the door but Ainsley stopped her with a hand firmly placed on the door.

  “I am not here to harm you,” he said quickly.

  “Yeah, what do ye want then?” she asked, her voice rising in panic.

  Ainsley stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Once he did, he wished he hadn't. The musty smell of the room was only somewhat masked by the smell of wood burning in a small, potbellied stove in the centre of the room. There was only one window, broken and patched with a muddy board no doubt scavenged from the streets. There was a small, narrow metal bed pushed close to the stove, a worn blanket over the flimsy mattress. A single, off-white man's shirt hung from a thin line fastened in front of the stove.

  “I have come to ask some questions,” he started after realizing he was staring.

  “Men dressed like you only come to ask for favours,” she answered with disgust. “At least that's what the lady downstairs tells me.”

  Ainsley was quick to shake his head. “I just want to know about Clara Buxton.”

  “What about 'er? 'eard she was dead. That true?”

  Ainsley nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then I see no need to speak of her,” Lizzy replied.

  “She was murdered,” Ainsley said quickly, with the hopes it would spur on some concern, or in the very least pity for the girl with whom she had been friends.

  Lizzy dropped her eyes, “I 'eard that too.”

  “Did she ever speak about Evelyn Weatherall?” Ainsley asked.

  A slight laugh escaped Lizzy's mouth before she looked up and met his gaze. “She was Clara's favourite.”

  “Favourite what?”

  Lizzy shook her head. “You think you men are the only ones inclined to have favourites.”

  “You mean, Clara fancied Evelyn? I was told they were cousins.”

  Her unladylike laugh filled the room. “God no. Favourite,” she said, with a raised eyebrow. “They were the best kind, if you ask me. Men bring you nothing but pain.” Lizzy glanced around the room as if memories brought on her words. When she looked back she tilted her head upwards to him and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “If you know what I mean.”

  Ainsley could well imagine but in truth his attention was fixated on the information she had given him. Had this friend of Clara's openly admitted that Clara and Evelyn were closer than friends? That would explain Evelyn’s disinterest in love and even fidelity. She cared more for security and perhaps children than she did about a loyal husband. It suddenly all made sense and Ainsley found himself smiling at the thought. His brother's marriage was a business deal and Evelyn saw it the same way.

  “When did you last see Clara?” he asked.

  “A week or so ago,” she said with a shrug. “She ‘ad been
living in Manchester, working at a mill but I saw ‘er a coupl’a streets over in the Borough. She said she’d been sacked ona ‘count of her smoking. Lighting a match in a place like that is deadly and she should ‘ave known better.”

  “Did she say anything else? Where she was going? Who she had been seeing?”

  “She was all dolled up and said sump'in about see’en an old friend, perhaps Evelyn, but I dunno, she never said.” Lizzy shrugged slightly and turned to a large pot on the stove. With a long handled ladle she stirred a watery liquid with scarcely anything inside. “We don't pry too much 'round 'ere,” she continued, “Not unless something is owed us.”

  “And you haven't seen her since?”

  Lizzy shook her head and her face fell. “Next thing I 'eard she'd been killed, ‘er body found at the boarding 'ouse.”

  “Anyone mad at her? Perhaps someone still holding a grudge from the last time she lived in London?”

  “The only person I'ze ever known to hate ‘er is Evelyn's new Pa. He married Evelyn's Ma and Clara weren't welcome no more. She lived with 'em before that and said she expected to go with ‘em when they moved to that fancy house, but next thing I know she's cryin’ on my stoop saying he threatened to kill ‘er if she ever came around again.”

  Ainsley straightened his stance, remembering Lord Weatherall's reaction to Inspectors Simms and Wright's visit.

  Lizzy shrugged. “I guess he weren't keen on his new daughter's friend. Why you wanna know anyway? You a Bobby or some’pin?”

  Ainsley smiled, and realized he should depart before he outstayed his welcome. “Thank you for your time,” he said tipping his hat.

  On the street, Ainsley made his way through the maze of alleys and passages to get back to the carriage and driver he had left at a less conspicuous location. Despite an extreme focus on his footing, careful to avoid any gutter filth, Ainsley was lost in thought pondering the tidbits he had just learned. Was it possible Lord Weatherall knew his daughter had gone to see Clara? Had he followed her there and proved good on his previous threat? It seemed unlikely, a man of his stature and prominence would be noticed and no one at the boarding house had admitted to seeing him there.

  Ainsley had expected to unearth a relationship between Will and Clara, never had he imagined Evelyn having a tryst of her own. Evelyn's reaction to the news of Clara's death was painful to witness, and now that Ainsley knew her better, it seemed out of character for her normal docile demeanor. He knew her to be quite even-tempered and less inclined to dramatics. At the time he thought it was a natural reaction to news of a cousin’s passing, but it was more than that. She was mourning someone she loved.

  Chapter 28

  And the blue wave beat the shore;

  Once home, the sound of Lord Weatherall's boisterous laugh met Ainsley in the foyer. He guessed that Evelyn's father and Lord Marshall were in the parlour smoking cigars and sharing a drink, congratulating themselves on a match well made and nearly consummated. Two more days and their families would be tied forever.

  Ainsley found himself reluctant to join them. Despite his need for a drink, he had no need for talk of business or politics or their latest speculation, rightly chosen or otherwise.

  “Is everything well, sir?”

  Ainsley turned. Billis had caught him staring at the door to the parlour. The butler looked at him without judgement but with genuine concern.

  “I doubt things will be well for some time,” Ainsley answered quietly.

  Their conversation was ended abruptly when the door to the study opened sharply.

  “Peter,” Lord Marshall said with surprise.

  Lord Weatherall looked at him over Lord Marshall's shoulder, as if amused by his damp, dishevelled state. Beyond the two men Ainsley could see Will and Daniel seated, once in conversation but now looking over to Ainsley.

  “Father,” Ainsley answered with resignation. There would be no escaping now.

  “I was just about to show Lord Weatherall the new cellars. He does not believe I have an 1812 Scotch. Care to join us?” Lord Marshall asked.

  “No—”

  “His lordship was just asking for a plate of food to be brought to him,” Billis broke in. “Shall I serve it in the dining hall?” the butler asked turning to Peter.

  Ainsley smiled. “Yes, Billis. The dining hall, thank you.”

  Billis bowed slightly and took a step back before turning to leave. Ainsley stepped out of the way as his father and Lord Weatherall stepped out from the study.

  “You are home rather late,” Lord Weatherall said, indicating the darkness outside a nearby window.

  “My son has an affinity for the card tables,” Lord Marshall answered quickly for Ainsley. “I suppose it is better than some pursuits.”

  Ainsley knew his father was speaking of the time he spent at the hospital. It was amusing that his father would rather have a son who gambles than a son who assists humanity. He wondered how long he could defy his father's wishes before he would disown him entirely. That eventual outcome was what Ainsley had been slowly preparing himself for; the day when he would be forced to choose between medicine and his inheritance. But now he realized that Lord Marshall wouldn't disown him, he couldn’t. Ainsley was his only true heir and Lord Marshall could no more disown Ainsley than he could declare Daniel was not his son. The disgrace on both accounts would be his undoing.

  Lord Marshall and Lord Weatherall began to walk down the long hall toward the stairs that would take them to the new wine cellars installed the previous year. Before leaving Lord Weatherall turned suddenly.

  “Peter, my daughter tells me you were going to look at the case of Clara Buxton?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ainsley answered, squaring his shoulders as he faced the man.

  “Any news on that front? Any developments my family should be aware of?” The manner in which he asked his questions was casual, if not flippant, but Ainsley knew the stake his family had in the investigation's outcome. Lord Weatherall wanted everyone to believe he held little concern for finding the girl's killer, but Ainsley knew better. Someone in his family had murdered that girl.

  “News, sir?” Ainsley asked innocently.

  “Have they reached a conclusion? Found the scoundrel who did it then?”

  “No, sir,” Ainsley answered. “Nothing yet, though they tell me very little.”

  Lord Weatherall nodded, looking down his long nose at Ainsley, his mouth partly open. “Is that so? Well thank you all the same. Your words were a comfort to Evelyn.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Lord Weatherall nodded and turned from Ainsley, joining Lord Marshall at the end of the hall. Ainsley was in no mood to entertain Will or converse with his brother. He left them drinking in the study and enjoyed a quite dinner in the dining hall where he could think over the case.

  The exchange he had had with Lord Weatherall left a bitter taste in Ainsley's mouth and a sour scowl on his face. It surprised him that Weatherall would consider bringing the matter up in front of his father as well. For a family in such a hurry to marry off a daughter Ainsley wondered why he wouldn't be more guarded about such information and less inclined to remind new family ties of their involvement with a murder.

  Weatherall couldn't have known he was a suspect in Ainsley's mind. Had his words been meant as a warning? Perhaps Ainsley had dodged a bullet by answering and eluding his questions. Then again, his words were not malicious in the slightest way. Perhaps he meant to publicly soften his stance on the issue of Clara to alleviate suspicion.

  Then again, Will was another likely suspect. Or had been until Ainsley met with Clara's friend earlier that day. Given their intimate history, Clara's murder could be the culmination of a lovers' spat, a final solution to a problem that could bring an end to Evelyn's marital ambition. She was more than capable, Ainsley concluded, and experience had taught him never to dismiss one who weeps openly.

  “Margaret, you must help!” Ainsley burst into Margaret's room, without a knock or even
a care as to what would be found inside.

  Margaret, Evelyn and Julia turned, a look of surprise on all their faces. Evelyn was standing on a stool or some such thing, while Margaret crouched in front of her. With a few pins in her mouth Julia was sitting her heels pinning Evelyn's hem.

  “Mother's wedding dress,” Ainsley breathed as he took in the scene.

  “Margaret said I may wear it,” Evelyn answered with a smile, her joy slipping from her features as Ainsley walked into the room. “I suppose I should have asked everyone.”

  “Nonsense,” Margaret blurted out. She stood up from her stooped position beside Julia and gave a disapproving look to Ainsley. “It's been sitting in Mother's wardrobe for nearly thirty years. All it needs are a few alterations and we are set. Don't you like it Peter?”

  Ainsley stammered. He could barely look at the woman in the same way, knowing what he knew of her past and the marriage ahead. “Yes, yes of course. I just... well I was just struck by the resemblance. Forgive my intrusion.”

  “See,” Margaret turned to Evelyn, “Nothing to fret about.”

  Evelyn nodded though her expression remained somber. “I suppose it is a bit hasty of Daniel and I to set the date so soon. All the dressmakers in London nearly laughed in our faces when Margaret and I enquired. So close to the holidays too.”

  Margaret and Evelyn exchanged slight smiles.

  “I was so relieved when your sister suggested your mother's dress. Perhaps it is too soon after her passing.”

  Behind Evelyn's back, Ainsley could see Margaret forcing a smile and indicating that he should follow her lead.

  “Margaret is right,” Ainsley blurted out. “Mother would have wanted you to wear it.”

  Evelyn's mood perked up immediately. “Perhaps one day your betrothed will wear it for you,” she suggested.