by Anne Renwick
“Just answer the question,” Lord Thornton insisted. “Where were you last night?”
Spite made her answer, “With you.”
Mr. Black snickered.
Lord Thornton frowned. “Before,” he clarified.
“At the Townson’s dinner party.”
“Can anyone bear witness to that?” he asked.
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Have you never been to a dinner party?” The lines around Lord Thornton’s mouth deepened further. “Generally, a large number of people sit about a long table for several hours of inane conversation.”
Lord Thornton’s jaw clenched.
Mr. Black pressed, “Names, if you please, Lady Amanda.”
Amanda refused to look away from Lord Thornton as she answered. She’d count it a small victory if she could make his teeth grind. “Lord Guntwaithe visually calculated the depth of my cleavage, while Lord Lowsley employed his voice to its full soporific effect.”
Mr. Black spoke. “As verified.”
“And after I left?” Lord Thornton leaned forward over his desk. “What of the early morning?”
Amanda sucked in an outraged breath. “I was in my bed.” That, for the most part, was the truth. “Alone, of course. How dare you suggest otherwise.” She stepped toward the door, waving at Mr. Black to move. “I’ll not spend another minute answering these offensive questions. Expect to hear from my father. Please step aside.”
But Mr. Black continued to block her exit, his face expressionless. “My apologies, Lady Amanda, but we simply cannot allow you to leave.”
“There was a situation last night.” Lady Huntley’s tone was conciliatory. “At the Queen’s request, Lord Thornton and Mr. Black were on hand to assist. Aside from the brief stop at your town home, they spent the early hours of the morning here. As a result, their manners are strained.”
“A situation?” She tipped her head, intrigued.
Lady Huntley nodded. “Despite all evidence to the contrary,” she shot a dark look at Lord Thornton, “we would very much like to enlist your help.”
Amanda crossed her arms, suspecting they were about to confirm her earlier suspicions. “With what, exactly?”
“I’m afraid we must have your agreement first,” Lady Huntley said.
Amanda looked about the room from face to face to face. It seemed they had reached an impasse. All were firmly closed, though she was certain they knew something about her spider. If they didn’t have it, they knew who did. She would have it back, and it seemed the only way to that end was to agree to assist them.
Concern warred with curiosity, but not for long. “Fine,” she bit out.
“I like her,” Mr. Black said to Lord Thornton, his mood lightening once more. “Not at all like you described.” Then, throwing her a wink, Mr. Black turned and exited through the door.
“This is a bad idea,” Lord Thornton grumbled.
“Not at all,” Lady Huntley replied. “It’s our only idea.”
Chapter Six
“SHALL WE ADJOURN to the morgue?” Lady Huntley gestured toward the door.
“Leave off that ridiculous hat,” Thornton snapped at Lady Amanda. “It has so many feathers it’s about to take flight.” Feathers that brushed against the nape of her neck, much like a man’s kiss might. An irritating thought he swept aside.
Lady Amanda’s mouth dropped.
“You’ll have to excuse Thornton,” Lady Huntley said. “He’s rather cranky today. Your hat, however, may indeed prove an inconvenience.”
Lady Amanda cast him a dark glance. She pinched a hatpin between thumb and forefinger, sliding forth the long, sharp implement and dropping it upon his desk. The hat followed. “If he’s capable of being pleasant, I’ve yet to experience it,” she said, then turned on her heel to exit his office.
Her angry steps made her hips sway beneath her bustle in the most distracting manner. Why was he wondering what the real woman looked like underneath? Better that she found him cold and unbending and harsh. She might be his social equal, but here, at Lister University School of Medicine, she was first and foremost his student. Admittedly, one whose home he’d invaded in the dark of night, upsetting her equilibrium with the merest of glances and allowing her, for just a moment, to think he was there to play suitor.
He was still trying to interpret the resulting look upon her face. Shock and horror? Surprise and hope? He wasn’t certain. Either way, they would be in close proximity for the foreseeable future, and Thornton would need to maintain professional distance from this woman. Theirs would be a working relationship, not a personal one.
Of all the times for his libido to reawaken.
Thornton ran a hand over his face, then forced himself to his feet and reached for his cane. He needed rest, needed sleep. Two nights, two murders, two autopsies. And his leg was killing him. But increasing the dosage of the medication would only hurry along the inevitable. Already the painkiller was at sixty-two percent purity. According to his calculations, the fibular nerve would begin to erode at seventy-four percent. He had a week, maybe two before the brace would no longer suffice.
Relegated to desk duty, the murderer might well escape his grasp. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
He followed the women to the ascension chamber, climbing inside when the doors slid open to stand stiffly beside Lady Amanda. The room was not made to carry three, and the ladies’ skirts made it a tight fit. Warmed by the angry heat of her skin, a faint floral scent drifted past. Orange blossoms? Thornton gripped the top of his cane tighter and fixed his gaze on the doors. He had no business wondering.
“What can you tell me about this situation?” Lady Amanda asked as the doors closed and the chamber’s engine engaged. “And how can it possibly relate to my neurachnid?”
As they dropped downward, Thornton answered, “It appears we may have a lead on who has stolen your spider. We require your… expertise to examine the evidence.”
The doors slid open once, disgorging them into a cool, subterranean room.
“An autopsy suite!” Lady Amanda glanced about with interest, then pressed a hand against the metal wall. Her voice held a note of amazement. “I’ve heard of the novel cooling systems, water pipes providing a continuous flow of cold water to refrigerate bodies and prevent their decay.”
“Slow their decay,” he corrected. “We are one of the first facilities to install one. An important step to preserve evidence.”
It was a far cry from the traditional dissection theater, one that was lined with wooden benches and tall windows with a table in the center from which the surgeon would perform his autopsy, often over several days as the stink rose, all the while describing with clinical detachment exactly what he found. Here they became intimately involved with those murder victims who caught the eye of the Queen’s agents.
Three walls and the floor were lined with mint green tile. A large circular grate covered a drain in the floor. Much easier to keep clean. One wall contained a supply cabinet and a sink. Another wall contained metal doors covering six storage slots around which the pipes ran. Over the central table hung harsh, bright lamps, the better to ferret out evidence of wrongdoings.
Thornton crossed the room to one of the doors in the wall and twisted its handle, yanking it open. “Are you aware of the recent string of murders?”
“The gypsy murders?” Lady Amanda asked. “I am. There was mention of one in the London Times the other morning.”
Lady Huntley shot him a grim look before turning to Amanda. “Often the most curious news is covered in a mere sentence and never expanded upon. This particular bit of news happens to be our concern.”
Thornton tugged on a metal shelf within and the gurney rolled forth, its contents discreetly covered with a white cloth. “This is the sixth such murder. We suspect there will be yet more. Prior to this murder, we have had few leads. Lady Huntley and I have already examined this latest victim and made our observations. Now, we require yours.”
“Mine?�
�� Lady Amanda pressed a hand to her chest where leather buckles encircled her torso.
An interesting and practical alternative to a corset. He imagined it wouldn’t take much time to remove such a bodice. He forced his gaze away; staring at her figure was improper, and her attire did not require his attention. This victim did. “Until now, the victims, all gypsy, have had their eyes removed with surgical precision, as if the perpetrator was deliberately practicing—unsuccessfully—a specific technique upon them. What that is, exactly, has been unclear.”
Each death weighed heavily upon his mind. Sleep no longer came easily.
“But now?” Her eyes were fixed expectantly on the white sheet.
He pulled the cloth away from the victim’s face. A disconcerting sight, a human face without eyes. But Lady Amanda didn’t scream or turn away. Her face didn’t take on a tell-tale green pallor. No bucket was necessary. Aside from a noticeable swallow, one might be convinced she dealt with such sights daily.
Thornton supposed she did. The cadavers in the dissection theater were often grislier displays. Still, her composure impressed him. “This time a different approach has been used,” he said. “A technique much like the one you described in your communication to me. It uses fine gold threads—”
She looked up. “You read my letter?”
He had indeed. And recognized brilliance immediately. “Your work is promising.”
“Yet you couldn’t be bothered to respond?” Ire laced her voice. Fire flashed in her eyes. “Five years I’ve been working on this project. Struggling. Was it too much to expect a few words of encouragement? Of insight?”
It was indeed. Her approach to nerve repair so closely paralleled his own research it had been unsettling to learn of another mind that traveled the same path. But his work was the property of the Crown, and protocol dictated he offer her no help. “Those of us who work for the Queen are not permitted open exchange of ideas with…”
Lady Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “With a woman.”
“Not at all.” Lady Huntley spoke up, saving him from swallowing his foot. “How else do you explain my presence? Communication with anyone outside of Lister Laboratories is not permitted unless sanctioned by Queen Victoria herself. Our research ensures the safety of our shores and our citizens. At the time of your missive, you were not even an applicant to medical school. Any medical school.”
In truth, any other person would have been immediately recruited. But her work had been dismissed, not because she was female, but because she was ton. As certain as the turning of the tides of the Thames, the daughter of a duke would marry and abandon any academic pursuits, no matter the raw talent she possessed. The Crown refused to invest time or funds educating such women.
That Lady Amanda matriculated at Lister University at all was… extraordinary.
“If not for your current status as student and the strings the Duke of Avesbury tugged on your behalf, you would not be here,” Lady Huntley said bluntly.
Lady Amanda blinked, her expression incredulous.
Lady Huntley opened the supply cabinet doors and withdrew a simple linen apron. “Please examine the interior of the eye socket. You may recognize the work.”
After a brief hesitation, Lady Amanda nodded, taking the apron, tying it about her neck and waist. “I’ll do what I can.” Pushing her sleeves above her elbows, she collected several tools and donned a pair of magnifying goggles before approaching the body. Delicately, she probed the empty sockets. Then she bent, peering closely. “This man was found last night?”
“Hours before my arrival on your doorstep,” Thornton said.
“I see now the reason for your visit. The weave of the gold fibers is exactly what my neurachnid is programmed to accomplish. Except my spider is designed to work with peripheral nerves, not cranial nerves. There are significant differences between the two in terms of how they originate from the central nervous system. The nerve involved here is the oculomotor nerve, the third cranial nerve. It controls a key muscle for eye movement. It appears the murderer severed the oculomotor nerve in both eyes before attempting to reconnect it to…” Lady Amanda straightened, pushing the goggles onto her forehead with a bare forearm. A few dark locks escaped their pins to brush against the side of her face. Concerned eyes met his across the body, and she tipped her head in question. “To what?”
Behind her, Lady Huntley shook her head. Lady Amanda wasn’t cleared for that information.
“That does seem to be the key question here,” he said. “We have our suspicions, but would like to hear yours.”
“Well,” she began. “It certainly isn’t punishment for what the gypsy has seen, as the newspapers speculate. Since someone went through the trouble of stealing my neurachnid, there must be a defined goal.”
“Go on,” he urged.
“Given the third cranial nerve originates in the mesencephalon, the midbrain, could this be an attempt to access its functions? Vision, hearing, temperature regulation?” Her cheeks pinkened but she did not glance away. If anything, her eyes darkened. “Arousal?”
Had her mind slid away from the cadaver? To him?
Yes, it appeared the attraction was mutual. Contrary to Black’s hypothesis, neither the accident nor his former fiancée, Lady Anne, had castrated him. He’d simply needed time. How inconvenient that a student should reawaken such an overwhelming sense of need.
A problem that would have to be handled delicately given she was the daughter of the Duke of Avesbury.
“An impressive analysis,” he said, offering her a rare compliment in his most professorial voice, hoping to dampen her interest, but her flush only deepened.
He was in trouble.
There was no denying her keen mind was part of her attraction. Students in their first year rarely knew anything about cranial nerves. It seemed Lady Amanda had made a considerable effort to self-educate before enrolling at Lister University. If he were a betting man, and he wasn’t, he’d guess medical school to be a mere formality. The poor woman must be terminally bored in lectures.
But fortunately for him, in this case, she was far off the mark. “But no one is certain, Lady Amanda,” he said. Practice made the lie fall easily from his lips.
Without meeting his gaze, she began setting aside the steel tools. “How did he die? These injuries are awful, but given the care taken to cauterize the blood vessels of the eye, not fatal.”
“Violence.” He waved at the sheet. “Go ahead, look.” He’d want to know as well, and it was best she realize the full extent of what they faced.
She lifted it clear of the body. And stared at the gaping hole in the thigh, the massive damage done to the femoral artery. The final—and fatal—injury.
“He was found tied to a chair,” Thornton said. “Shot in the leg. He bled out.”
“A horrible way to die.” Only the slightest of tremors shook her voice as she spread the cloth back over the victim and turned to the sink.
He slid the gurney back into the wall. He and Lady Huntley waited silently, giving Lady Amanda a chance to collect herself. Contrary to common belief, scientists were not cold-blooded, emotionless creatures. It took effort and practice to suppress the instinctive reaction to blood, pain and death, to push aside the worry, the fear, and the horror so that one might do something to prevent such occurrences. In this particular case, murder, so that they might work to prevent it from happening again.
For a few minutes the only sound in the room was the sound of running water as Lady Amanda scrubbed her hands mercilessly. Finally, she turned around, drying her hands upon a linen towel and removing her apron. “There’s one other feature of my neurachnid I should mention, one I did not divulge in my communications with other scientists.”
“Yes,” he urged.
“The procedure will not work on a fully anesthetized patient. During surgery, the neurachnid must constantly probe and test the nerve remnant to ensure a proper electrical connection is being
established. To accomplish this, my spider contains a vial in its abdomen that injects, via a small needle, a mild nerve toxin that quiets, but does not fully numb, the nerve.”
“A nerve agent?” he asked, his ears pricking. “Which one do you use?”
She shook her head. “Not one you are familiar with. My sister, Emily, concocted a novel agent. Unfortunately, the stolen device contained the last of the toxin.”
“Have her make more,” he said.
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” She looked pained. “My sister is… traveling.”
“Contact her.” He threw a hand in the air. “Have her send the formula. Our chemists will reproduce it.” Enough dithering. This nerve agent needed to be analyzed. Immediately. It could be the answer to so very many of the issues they faced in his laboratory.
“Thornton.” Lady Huntley’s voice held a note of warning.
“I’ll try,” Lady Amanda said. Her fingers fiddled with one of her buckles as if this request presented an enormous obstacle.
What could possibly be the problem? He wanted to bark that she’d do more than try, but Lady Huntley shot him a pointed look, and so he bit his tongue. His assistant knew all too well why word of a novel nerve agent would spike his interest out of all proportion. He was willing to try anything that might dampen the persistent pain in his leg.
“Then I believe we’re done here.” He moved toward the ascension chamber and jammed his finger on the button.
“Without the neurachnid, the nerve agent is… pointless.” She glanced at his leg.
She’d taken note of his brace the night he appeared at her house. Now she wondered if he had other uses in mind for the nerve agent, personal uses. Of course he did. But he hated that everyone was forever considering the state of his damaged leg. Hated the way they tiptoed around the topic.
He turned to face her. “Yes, it would be nice if somehow your device, your nerve agent could fix my injury, but know that I place the lives of other men, even gypsies, far above my own problem. We must stop this murderer.” He paused. “The stolen spider was unable to accomplish the man’s goal, a goal he will not abandon. At this point, we have no other leads. You will build another neurachnid, one that is better, one that can connect to the cranial nerves, one we will use to lure him out of hiding.”