The Dead Among Us

by Tracy L. Ward

  Margaret kept her gaze forward and her hands locked in front of her. She struggled to find a suitable reply, knowing any explanation she gave would only further degrade him. To any other woman he was an exemplary catch, a surgeon who had won the respect of many in the field. But to her he would always be beneath her in rank and breeding. She was Lord Marshall’s only daughter and she knew her father intended to use her marriage to further his political power and expand his business partnerships. She was never meant to choose her own husband and were she ever given such freedom she knew Dr. Jonas Davies would not be one of the permitted choices.

  Suddenly, Margaret felt Jonas grab her arm and pull her back to look at him.

  “Margaret, say something,” he demanded, pain of the conversation evident in the gloss of his eyes.

  “There’s nothing to say,” she said truthfully. “You have met my father. Nothing I say would be of any surprise to you.”

  Jonas straightened his stance, pulling his shoulders back and effectively distancing himself further from her. “Why do you walk out with me? What is the advantage in meeting me if you have no intentions toward me?”

  Margaret could not rightly say. Perhaps she was more like Peter, flaunting her disregard for their father’s rules in the same way Peter defied him by practicing medicine. It felt good to have a secret of her own, a time and place with no one in her family controlling her every action. Their disapproval was evident, lacing each encounter with guilt and hints of remorse. But, for the most part, Margaret found a freedom with Jonas she had never felt in any other part of her life.

  “Jonas, I…”

  Her hesitation only served to anger him more and before she could say another word he waved to a passing hansom and guided her to the kerb.

  Chapter 7

  Our requiems follow fast on our evangels,—

  Voice throbs in verse.

  Ainsley hid in his room, looking through his anatomy sketches from school, until midday but no one was about to protest. Cutter, the footman, came in once to retrieve Ainsley’s bloodstained clothes but left without a word, most likely supposing Ainsley was deep in thought. In truth, Ainsley was purposely avoiding his duties as man of the house. Ainsley had slept off the pain and alcohol from the night before but a severe headache had crept over him and as the morning wore on he cradled his head in his hand more and more.

  He opened the bottom drawer of his desk to retrieve his drawing pencils. The drawer clunked heavily with movement and Ainsley saw the pistol Simms had returned to him earlier. Only ever fired twice it seemed wasteful to have the firearm melted and yet its presence in the house seemed inappropriate. Unsure what to do with it, he pushed the pistol aside and pulled out the wooden box that held his pencils.

  “Peter.”

  A muffled sound came from the hall. Ainsley waited, and eventually lowered the pencil in his hand. He watched the door, supposing any moment it would fly open and his sister would appear, repeating his name.

  No one came.

  Dropping the pencil on the desktop, Ainsley stood and walked to the hall. He found it empty.

  And then he remembered Margaret had already gone to church and would take tea out in the afternoon. Father had already left for Barbados.

  Ainsley returned to his room, unnerved. He glanced around his room, as if expecting one of the servants, but found no one. He had heard his name called, had he not? He listened again, wondering if he had heard something out on the street or in another room that could account for the noise. He heard nothing.

  He walked the hall, looking in each room as he passed, and found no one in his vicinity. He spotted Julia in Margaret’s room and slipped past the threshold. “Did you call for me, Miss Kemp?” he asked, knowing very well she would have called him Lord Marshall if she had any need to call for him at all.

  He looked around the room as if the answers lay somewhere within the wallpaper.

  “No, sir,” Julia answered. She lowered the hat in her hands, a loose ribbon dangling from the brim, and squared her shoulders toward him as she spoke.

  “My sister has left then?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Despite the presence of servants, the house felt rather empty. The house was so large a body could occupy its own room and never realize another was about. This must resemble the loneliness Margaret often spoke about.

  “Are you fixing one of Margaret’s hats?” he asked, stepping further into the room.

  Julia smiled and looked down at the velvet-covered headpiece in her grasp. “Yes, it flew from her hand the other day and I chased it down the pavement. I had to step on it to keep it from blowing in the street.” She turned the hat over in her hands. “I’m afraid I crushed it.”

  Ainsley could not help but laugh. “You chased down a hat?”

  “It was a very windy day,” Julia answered in earnest. Her smile faded and she looked over the mangled bow with consternation.

  “Oh, I am not laughing at you,” Ainsley said quickly. He raised his hand and touched her arm as he would with Margaret when he wanted her to look at him. “I am entertained at the thought of you running down the road to retrieve a hat when Margaret has an allowance to buy a dozen more in its place.”

  Julia smiled. “And so said Margaret as well.” She fiddled with the bow and bit her lower lip as she smiled.

  Ainsley took back his hand. “You should keep it,” he said. “If you think you could fix it.”

  Julia surveyed the hat. “I should be able to, but I could never—”

  “I’ll talk to Margaret about it,” Ainsley said. “It would look pretty on you.”

  Julia smiled and nodded. She glanced toward him slightly as she passed him and began walking toward the door.

  “Miss Kemp.” Ainsley turned. “I’m sorry for grabbing your arm yesterday,” he said.

  “You were in pain, sir,” she said dismissively. “We all do things we regret when we are hurting.”

  Ainsley nodded, glad that, to her at least, their encounter was of no great importance and that he had not embarrassed himself completely.

  Julia smiled and bowed her head before leaving the room.

  Lady Gemma Brant’s house stood unassuming on the outside, a testament to the high-end neighbourhood and well-bred families who resided in similar dwellings up and down the street. But despite being well-bred, Lady Brant stood out as eccentric and rarely entertained visitors. Once past the foyer any visitor to her home was immediately greeted by display case after display case filled with well-preserved body parts, each intricately coloured and showcased for its anatomical properties. Layers of skin were cut back from the bones, revealing veins and arteries, muscles and fat, all of which Lady Brant painstakingly accentuated with dyes, wax and resin, colorant, and stiffeners. Each dissected hand, foot, skull, or heart was displayed as a piece of art to be admired, though many often recoiled.

  Ainsley had so often visited Lady Brant’s home he did not shy away from inching in for a closer look. Lady Brant’s work was a contribution to anatomical study at large. More than once she had referred to her misfortune of being born female. She had never been permitted to attend medical school nor had her womb held a child. In effect, she admitted, she had never entirely been a man or a woman and that suited her all the same.

  “Peter!” Half-moon spectacles perched on her nose, Lady Brant greet Ainsley with outstretched arms. “You have not visited me for some time. Come.” She ushered him further into the room and led him to a plush, velvet settee. “I will have the girl fetch tea.”

  Ainsley smiled at Lady Brant’s use of the word girl. The turnover for servants in the Brant household was high, far greater than was average, on account of Lady Brant’s activities. There was a steady stream of torsos and bloodied body parts making their way through the doors, causing any hired help who hadn’t the fortitude to stomach it to find a better position. Frustrated with having to remember the names of her ever-changing staff, Lady Brant began referring to them as girl,
boy, man, and woman, sometimes assigning the adjective young or old, as if it weren’t already clear.

  Lady Brant rang the little bell on the table beside her chair and removed her spectacles. When the maid arrived, her eyes trained forward with marked determination, Lady Brant asked for tea and the girl left with her eyes to the rug and nothing else. Lady Brant growled slightly at the sight of it. “Girls these days are far too fragile,” she said with great annoyance.

  Ainsley chuckled. “Margaret would certainly agree.”

  “How is she holding up?” Lady Brant settled back into her seat. “I worry about her with no other females in the house.”

  Ainsley watched as Lady Brant took on a pensive look. She may never have borne a child but she was mothering Margaret with a lot more fervor than their real mother ever had. “It’s been difficult for everyone,” Ainsley said, avoiding singling his sister out.

  “Yes, but Margaret”—Lady Brant clicked her tongue—“she needs the guidance of another woman. I don’t think your father has given much thought to these matters.”

  “He’s left for the islands.”

  “Barbados!” Lady Brant’s voice rose in disbelief. “The nerve of that man leaving at such a time. He could never be counted on to do the right thing, not when it matters.”

  Ainsley smiled to himself. Lady Brant never liked the man her best friend ended up marrying and it was never a secret Lady Brant attempted to hide. Ainsley grew up knowing the tensions between Lady Brant and Lord Marshall existed, but the Marshall children were never strangers to tension.

  “I believe Margaret has things well in hand,” Ainsley said, not wishing to give Lady Brant any room to manoeuver into the family’s affairs.

  Lady Brant pressed her lips together and shifted in her seat, readjusting her skirt. She looked as if she had more to say, so Ainsley spoke quickly, not caring if he cut her off. “I’ve come to ask about any new specimens you may have collected.” He glanced around her parlour, not noticing anything new or out of the ordinary.

  “What do you mean?” Lady Brant stiffened at the mention of her work.

  “Raw specimens, I should say.” Ainsley stood and walked toward a small glass case at the far end of the room. Inside were bronchioles, the tiny capillary-like stems inside a human lung which looked remarkably like tree branches since they were mounted to the floor of the case. The specimen had been coloured, of course, and injected with a resin-wax mixture meant to extenuate the track. “Is this new?” Ainsley asked, bending over it.

  Lady Brant was soon at his side, always eager to explain her art. “Not exactly,” she said from behind him. “I’ve been working on it for a year trying to get the hue just right. I’m still not sure it does the organ justice.” Lady Brant walked around the small table slowly. “The human body is such a work of art.”

  Ainsley envied her sense of wonder after so many years. Clearly, she remained passionate.

  Lady Brant plucked a smaller case from the mantel and placed it on the table beside the lung specimens. “I completed this one last week.” Inside was a brain, cut into a cross-section, with leathery skin and straggly hair still attached to the bulbous side.

  “Has anyone come to you offering organs? Hearts? Livers? Anyone you haven’t worked with before? Maybe you have something in your laboratory.”

  “Peter, your questions injury me. To suggest I would accept such a thing brought to my back door as if I were common rabble.” Lady Brant gave him an indignant look. “I only obtain my specimens from the hospital and perhaps, from time to time, the university. But every family is paid a fair price and they are thankful for it, I may add.”

  “I meant no offence,” Ainsley said, quickly turning toward her as she paced the room behind him.

  “This is about that Surgeon, isn’t it?” she asked sharply, her memory suddenly jogged by something. “Oh, please tell me you haven’t been pulled into that case with the Yard. You have, haven’t you? Oh Peter, what would your mother have to say?”

  “I think you may be confused,” Ainsley said, “I’m not The Surgeon, if that’s what you are implying.”

  “Don’t be so crass, of course I wasn’t suggesting such a thing.” She waved a dismissive hand at him.

  “Then why do you speak as if my involvement with the investigation makes me as guilty as the perpetrator?”

  “Because I have never known an officer of the law to operate aboveboard, if I may be so bold. You are the company you keep and you have been keeping some questionable company these days.”

  Ainsley stifled laughter. He never had high scruples for the people he associated with and it was on this tenet that his shaky reputation was built upon. Lady Brant didn’t seem to notice. She rounded the back of the settees and leaned in, digging her fingers into the forgiving upholstery.

  “I am only helping in the case to find the killer. The police surgeon cannot be counted upon to do his due diligence.”

  Lady Brant raised an eyebrow at this and began to wring her hands. “And if your name is given to the papers?”

  Ainsley shook his head. “No, Simms has assured me.”

  Lady Brant huffed.

  Ainsley decided to keep the conversation on point despite her insistence to meddle. “Has anyone in your circle mentioned a new source for their cadavers, body parts mostly?”

  “No.” Lady Brant met his gaze squarely.

  “Can you enquire—?”

  “Peter!”

  “It’s an investigation. We have to investigate!”

  Ainsley had never raised his voice to Lady Brant before. He had taken all her interfering and insinuations in stride, but her impediments to their work was too much. It didn’t matter that the subject made her uncomfortable or that people would talk. The only thing that mattered was ensuring the murderer was brought to justice.

  After a quiet moment, Lady Brant exhaled and squared her shoulders. “I will ask,” she said, “discreetly. But you must promise me to do all you can to keep your names from the papers. I cannot think of what may happen to Margaret should your affair with medicine become public knowledge.”

  “Is that what this is about? You are afraid my work will make Margaret less desirable?”

  Lady Brant avoided his direct gaze and shrugged.

  “I see,” Ainsley said. “My conduct wields such power? Above all else? Father and mother’s conduct? Lady Evelyn and her brother? All their deeds and scandals can be overlooked but my interest in medicine, my work to bring a villain to task for his deeds, that’s a real cause for concern.” Ainsley could feel his voice rising with each syllable but he couldn’t stop himself. “Lady Brant, if that’s your biggest concern then you are demonstrative of everything that is wrong with this world!”

  Ainsley stormed from the room, not caring how his outburst was received by his mother’s longtime friend. His anger wasn’t entirely directed at her. Despite her firm position on the outskirts of proper society, she was the physical representation of it, and her opinions reminded him of society’s views and, at the heart of it, that is what angered him the most. He wished he could conduct business in the open without having to care for his family’s reputation. He wished he could himself in all areas of his life, not just be half the man he was half the time.

  Ainsley had not intended to head to the hospital that day but the oppressive atmosphere of the house and his argument with Lady Brant propelled him to the hospital’s door. Absentmindedly, his feet led him along the pavement and soon he found himself standing outside of St. Thomas looking up at the third-story window directly above the front doors. Beyond the pane of glass stood his friend Jonas. Ainsley felt the urge to wave at him but before he could he saw the woman standing next to him, and that’s when Ainsley realized she was reaching for his hand.

  Transfixed by the peculiarity of the scene, Ainsley found it difficult to look away, even when he saw Jonas lean toward the woman, brushing the hair from her ear.

  Someone coming from the hospital doors bumped i
nto Ainsley with marked force.

  “My apologies,” a porter called over a bundle of laundry. Ainsley tipped his hat in acknowledgement and when he looked back to the window the pair was gone.

  The memory of them stayed with him as he made his way down to the hospital mortuary. Margaret had continued to deny any attachment to Jonas but Ainsley had always suspected she was fibbing. She knew nothing could come of it, especially given Jonas’s employment. But Ainsley had seen the way they looked at each other. He had caught them a time or two holding hands in the parlour. Once he had even seen Jonas’s arm around Margaret’s waist as if pulling her in for a kiss.

  Ainsley himself had made his position on the matter clear. She was the only female sibling and as much as she toyed with the idea of shirking her responsibility, they both knew she was bound to it by duty. She would marry a man who received their father’s blessing, and by doing so she’d restore the family’s respectability.

  The irony of the situation was not lost on him however. He flaunted his responsibility and threatened the last remaining threads of respectability, all the while anticipating that she would stay the course. The duty that he found stifling was pressed upon her all the more. Perhaps he should have been more supportive of their liaison; doing so might have prevented Jonas from seeking interest from another.

  Ainsley wondered if Margaret knew that Jonas had moved on, but then again she may have been the one to end it. The thought did not ease his worry, though. Something inside him told him the woman in the window was another conquest in a rather long line. His only fear was that Margaret had somehow been discarded.

  The rooms of the hospital basement were dark and sparsely populated. He saw a colleague in their office, hunched over a book, but Ainsley did not care to announce his presence. Instead, he went down the hall and slipped unannounced into his exam room, where he would be assured quiet amongst the bodies of the dead.