Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (21 page)

He hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Aye, yer a cruel woman, ye are.” He sighed again. “All right, I tell ye the truth. I knows not the boys, and I knows not any of their names, but they is more than petty thieves, I’ll tell ye that. Word is among me old mates there at the docks they works for one of the nobs that has connections here through the late earl, may God rest his soul. The nob sets it up for ’em by telling ’em who has the jewels and such and where it is, or sometimes when one of the rich dandies or his lady will be on the coach to or from London. The boys does the stealin’ and gives the nob a cut of the profit.” Old Beaty looked longingly at the whisky.

“Who is this so-called nob you
’re talking about?”

Old Beaty kept his eyes on the whisky, but Alexandra still didn
’t offer it to him. Finally he glanced at Alexandra and shook his head. “I knows not, but the talk is, the earl was in on it, too, and something went bad that got him killed.”

Alexandra handed him the glass. He
grabbed it eagerly and drank deeply. Old Beaty seemed certain the killer was one of the guests, nobs, as he called them, which was what George had led her to believe. But did that mean she could trust that Old Beaty really was telling the truth and telling her everything he knew? She wasn’t sure.

She glanced at him as he took another swallow of the whisky. “What did you mean when you told me once that if I found the corpse I
’d find the killer?”

Old Beaty held the empty whisky glass in both his hands and rolled it between his palms, looking down at his knees. “I
’d heered all that talk about the jewel thief ring, and I’d heered one o’ the boys was kilt, but I never believed it. I thought ’e was maybe injured and fearful, so ’e was hiding.”

“Why didn
’t you believe he was dead?”

Old Beaty raised his head to look at her. “Why, if
’e’d been dead, Quince would have buried ’im. Quince may have been a thief, but ’e was a good Christian boy, he was. ’E’d see his boys got buried proper. No, Quince sends ’im off to hide, if you ask me. Wanted ’im to leave the town, I’d wager, but the way it looks, the poor bloke was love sick for yer Elsie, so ’e stayed around to be with ’er.”

Alexandra was silent a moment, trying to sort it out in her mind. When she spoke, it was in a careful, thoughtful tone of voice. “So both Quince and George knew something they weren
’t supposed to know, and whatever it was got Quince killed and almost the same for George.”

Old Beaty nodded. “
’Tis the way I sees it.”

There was no more from Old Beaty. He only continued to shake his head and roll the glass between his palms.

Alexandra stood and placed the whisky back on the top shelf in the cupboard. She was feeling a bit guilty about using it to ply answers from Old Beaty. It appeared he was becoming addicted to it, and if she fostered the addiction she was breaking her oath to do no harm. She would have to deal with her guilt another time, though. For now, she had a murderer to find.

She turned to her guest. “Thank you, Mr. Beaty. You
’ve been most helpful.”

He looked a bit crestfallen when he saw there was to be no more whisky, but he managed a gracious response. “Glad to be of
’elp, Doctor.” He hobbled toward the door. “Ye’ll be coming ’round with more of ye wonderful tonic, won’t ye?”

Alexandra gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Of course I will, but I
’m thinking of a small change in the prescription.”

He gave her a worried look and bade her good bye. When he was gone, Alexandra paced the floor for a time, still trying to sort all the facts in her mind. She tried to relive the events of the night Lord Dunsford was killed and of the next morning when she examined the body. While there was reason to suspect several of the guests, nothing came to her except the fact that she had to try once again to find George.

She had to saddle Lucy herself for the four-mile ride to Montmarsh, since Freddie, as usual, had wandered off. When she reached the estate, no one answered her knock. Obviously all the guests and several of the servants had been called as witnesses, and the rest, with no master around to stop them, were attending the trial. The front door was locked, but she did manage to find a door at the back that had been carelessly left open.

The door gave access to the servants
’ quarters, which, like the rest of the house, appeared empty. She searched each of the rooms, though, and then let herself into the kitchen, which was as silent as a tomb. If the guests expected to be served a luncheon on this day, they would be disappointed. If the heir to Montmarsh didn’t show up soon, the house would be in chaos.

She searched the attic and down in the cellar, but all in vain. She went back into the house to search more rooms, calling out George
’s name, but her voice echoed eerily down empty halls.

The house was enormous, and she knew she could never search every room in the short time she had before her duty as a witness bade her leave. And even if every room was searched, George could easily be in one wing of the house while she was in another.

At least, she had to try the rooms on the wing where the guests had stayed the night of the murder. The door to the first room was left slightly ajar, and when she slowly pushed it open, the hinges squealed, sending shivers through her body. Cautiously, she stepped inside. The room had obviously been Lord Winningham’s. She recognized the coat that was now flung carelessly on a chair as the one he had worn the night before.

“George,” she called softly. “George. Are you here?”

She was answered only with silence. She made a quick search of the room and then left, leaving the door partially opened, as she had found it. She searched all the other rooms on the wing except the one in which the earl died, finding nothing. When she entered that chamber, she saw that it, like the others, was uninhabited, and the bed had been cleaned and neatly made. It now looked as benign as any other room. In spite of that, she could not help but see, in her mind’s eye, the gory sight of his sheets and his natty silk nightshirt turned dark in one spot with his blood.

She turned away to leave, but turned back again with the unexplainable feeling that she was missing something. But what? She had no time to ponder it, because she had to get to the trial in time to testify.

She rode Lucy to the Blue Ram, now set up as a courtroom. In spite of the fact that the windows were open, the room was hot, and, as she had suspected, it was packed with observers, whose perspiring bodies contributed to both the rank odor and the sensation that the air was liquid. Among the observers sitting on one of the benches was Nancy, damp curls plastered against her glowing face where they had escaped her bonnet. She also saw the Atewaters and Lord and Lady Winningham along with Mrs. Pickwick and Nicholas, all of whom would testify, if they hadn’t already.

Elsie sat alone at a table near the front looking pale and frightened and very young. Alexandra took a seat on one of the tavern chairs next to
Nancy.

Nancy
leaned close and whispered, “I’m surprised it took you so long since all your patients are here at the trial.”

Alexandra responded with a benign smile and then whispered
, “I thought you told me you have no interest in such gory matters.”

Nancy
stiffened and refused to look at her. She kept her eyes on the prosecuting attorney, who had just sworn in Nicholas.

The prosecutor
’s robe billowed over his portly frame, giving him the look of an enormous bewigged ball rolling toward the witness box. When he spoke—“State your name please”—his voice had a deep, hollow sound, like thunder through a tunnel.

“Nicholas Andrew William Forsythe.” Alexandra could see the worried expression on Nicholas
’s face even from so far away. That must mean things were not going well for Elsie.

“Were you a guest at the country house of Lord Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford on the night of August sixth?” The prosecutor raised his eyes to look at the ceiling as he spoke.

“Yes,” Nicholas said.

“Who were the other guests present?” The prosecutor was still looking at the ceiling with a bored expression on his face.

A sound, something like a growl, escaped the throat of the judge. “Mr. Crudgington, I think by now the court knows who was at the dinner. You’ve asked the same question of every single witness so far.”

The prosecutor dropped his eyes and his head to look at the justice. “Excuse me,
my lord, I was merely trying to establish that all of the witnesses were indeed present at the dinner.”

The judge picked up a handkerchief and patted his glistening face with it. “I think you
’ve established that, Mr. Crudgington. Just get on with the business at hand.”

The prosecutor seemed to puff himself up even more to hide his chagrin. “Very well. Mr. Forsythe, describe the events of the evening of Lord Dunsford
’s death.”

The judge mopped the back of his neck under his periwig and leaned toward the witness box. “Did you observe the defendant enter the dining hall, Mr. Forsythe?”

“I did, my lord.”

“Then begin with that.”

Nicholas obliged by describing how Elsie came rushing into the dining hall brandishing a knife and threatening Lord Dunsford for killing her Georgie.

The prosecutor glanced at the jury, which, Alexandra noticed, was comprised mostly of local merchants. Among them was Dave Stillwell, the butcher, who, Alexandra remembered, was already convinced of Elsie
’s guilt long before the trial, by virtue of her being Irish.

“Do you see the young woman who made those threats in the courtroom?” the prosecutor asked.

“I do.”

“Will you point to her, please
?”

Nicholas hesitated a moment, and Alexandra saw his jaw tense before he pointed to Elsie.

A look of satisfaction spread across the broad expanse of the prosecutor’s face. “When was the last time you saw Lord Dunsford alive?”

“It was quite late,” Nicholas said. “The two of us lingered in the library after all the other guests had gone to bed. Then, after we
’d finished our brandy, we said good night at the top of the stairs, and Lord Dunsford went one way to his bedchamber, and I the other.”

“And when did you realize he was dead?” the prosecutor asked.

“Not until the next morning. I left the house rather early for a ride in the morning air, and when I came back, I discovered his body in his room.”

Nicholas was asked next to describe what he saw.

“It was a grizzly scene. The earl’s head thrown back and twisted slightly to the side, mouth agape, eyes bulging, a bit of blood making a dark stain on Lord Dunsford’s nightshirt…”

“A bit of blood?” the judge asked.

“It was difficult to tell how much at first, my lord, since Lord Dunsford was wearing a red silk night shirt. But there was a slightly darker stain on it, and Dr. Gladstone said—”

“Dr. Gladstone will have her own opportunity to testify, Mr. Forsythe,” the judge said. “Please, just describe what you saw.

Nicholas continued to describe the scene just as Alexandra remembered it.

“I must confess I did not notice the mark on Lord Dunsford
’s neck until Dr. Gladstone pointed it out,” Nicholas said.

“You were not asked to describe things you did not notice.” It was the prosecutor who spoke this time, and who was literally looking down his nose at Nicholas. “And you needn
’t speculate on anything Dr. Gladstone saw, as, the judge has instructed you, and as, being a barrister, I’m sure you already knew.”

Once again the judge leaned toward Nicholas in the witness box. “You were apparently the only one of the guests to see the body before the constable and the doctor arrived.”

“Yes, my lord, I believe that is what they claim.”

“Proceed,” the prosecutor said.

“None of the other guests had emerged from their bedchambers when I returned from my ride,” Nicholas said, “and when I started upstairs to my room to change out of my riding clothes, I saw Eddie’s door ajar, so I stopped and peered inside, hoping to have a word with him.”

The judge frowned. “Whose bedchamber?”

“Lord Dunsford’s, my lord. Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford.”

“Let the record show that Eddie and Edward Boswick, Fifth Earl of Dunsford, are one and the same.” The judge gave Nicholas a stern look. “We must keep the record straight.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Proceed,” the judge said with a nod of his head to Nicholas.

“When I saw the body, and it was clear to me that he had been murdered, I left his room, of course. I secured a key from the housekeeper to lock the room. I also instructed the staff that no one was to enter, and then I sent one of the servants for the constable. By this time, the others were arising, and I told them the awful news. They all appeared shocked, as one might expect.”

“You say you gave instructions that no one was to enter?” the prosecutor once again had his face lifted upward as if waiting for God to shower blessings on him.