Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (4 page)

“Oh no, I insist upon the carriage for you,” Mr. Forsythe said. “I
’m sure Eddie would have wanted it, especially after all you’ve been through.”

“All I
’ve been through?”

“It has to be uncomfortable to have all of those misinformed people acting as if this is somehow your fault.” Forsythe reached quickly for the door to open it for her, since the butler, along with all the other servants, was waiting to be questioned by Constable Snow.

“Uncomfortable? Of course not.” She was not being entirely truthful. It had been disconcerting to hear their complaints and accusations. For the briefest moment it stirred fears that she had been wrong about Elsie O’Riley. Could the girl really have been distraught enough to kill? Alexandra had nothing but instinct to go on when she left Elsie, who by that time was asleep, even without a sedative. But the cause of Lord Dunsford’s death had reinforced her instincts. He had been strangled, there was no doubt about that, and the stab wound had come later.

“Ah, wonderful, the carriage is ready,” Nicholas said. She glanced at the driveway and saw that he was right. The carriage and driver were waiting for her, and Lucy, her horse, was tied to the back. Forsythe must have summoned it much earlier than she thought.

“This really isn’t necessary, Mr. Forsythe,” she said.

“Of course it is. Quite necessary.” He lightly grasped her elbow and led her toward the carriage.

“But—”

“No need to protest. It is done now.” He helped her in and, to her surprise, went around to climb in the other side.

“Really, sir. To accompany me as well is asking too much, and besides, didn’t the constable say none of you were to leave the premises? Neither you nor the driver?”

“The driver was not on the premises last night. He was, in fact, seen by the constable himself in the local pub, so he has the perfect alibi. As for me, I would be less than a gentleman if I didn
’t accompany you, and that duty outweighs any edict from the local constabulary.”

“I find your attitude rather overly protective, not to mention cavalier.”

Forsythe signaled for the driver to leave. “Please keep in mind, Dr. Gladstone, that there is a murderer loose. I fail to see how you find my concern for you either overly protective or cavalier.”

She glanced at him, wondering if he was only pretending to be obtuse. “When I said you were cavalier, I was referring to your attitude toward the law.”

“There is a murderer loose,” he said, again with the kind of emphasis one might use for a particularly slow child.

She raised an eyebrow. “Then you are convinced that Elsie is guilty, since all the other suspects are confined to Montmarsh and she is the only one who is loose?”

Forsythe spoke cautiously after a brief silence. “Not necessarily, but you must admit the evidence raises suspicions.”

She turned toward him suddenly, defensively. “What evidence?”

“Why the fact that she threatened Eddie, and the fact that she then fled.”

Alexandra shook her head. “I believe
that is called circumstantial evidence. You must take into account that he was not killed with a knife. He died of strangulation.”

“That doesn
’t clear Elsie, does it?” Forsythe said. “She could have strangled him, couldn’t she? And then used the knife?”

Alexandra glanced at him again. “But why would she do that?”

Forsythe shrugged. “Who knows why anyone kills, really, but obviously she thought Eddie was somehow responsible for her lover’s death.”

Alexandra frowned.
“Oh, I know neither you nor the others want to think one of you could have done this,” she said. “But it actually could have been any one of you. Or any one of the servants.”

“And with what motive?” he asked.

Alexandra pulled her shawl a little tighter around her. “I don’t know. You knew Lord Dunsford better than I. Perhaps you can think of a possible motive. Perhaps you even had one yourself.”

She expected him to claim insult. Instead, he seemed to consider the premise for a moment. “Well, Eddie did like the ladies, that was quite well known, and he wasn
’t always discreet about his liaisons, but I know of no reason for a jealous husband among the guests.”

“Are you sure?

“Well, I’m reasonably sure, although I’ll admit, I didn’t know everything about Eddie’s escapades, and I certainly hadn’t seen as much of him recently as I once did. And as for me, I’m afraid I have no motive.” He gave her a broad smile.

“So it could have been a jealous husband?”

“Well, anything’s possible, but…” Forsythe shrugged, as if he was dismissing the idea.

“How about gambling debts?”

“None that I know of. Eddie was quite wealthy, you know. Not likely to be in debt to anyone.”

“Suppose someone was deeply in debt to him.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be likely to be anyone at the house, would it? One isn’t likely to invite someone who owes him money, is he? And even if Eddie did such a thing, anyone deeply in debt would be too embarrassed to come.”

“Unless he thought to get revenge.”

“My word, Dr. Gladstone. I don’t know whether to think you diabolical or merely analytical.”

By now the carriage had reached her house. “I shall leave that for you to decide, Mr. Forsythe.”

He got down from the carriage and walked around to offer his hand to help her alight while the driver untied Lucy’s rope. “If you are so certain that Elsie O’Riley isn’t guilty, I should like to help you investigate that possibility.”

“I try to leave police business to the police,” she said as he walked her to her front door.

His eyes held hers for a moment, then he tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “Very well. Good day, Dr. Gladstone.”

She watched him walk away and then, in spite of herself, called out his name.

“Mr. Forsythe…”

He turned to look at her.

“How, exactly would you go about doing that? Investigating possibilities?”

He smiled in a manner that seemed to be triumphant and took a step toward her. “I could question the other guests. Discreetly, of course.”

“To what end?”

“Why looking for motives, of course.”

“But you just said you know of no motives.”

“I don
’t, but who is to say we ever really know the heart of even our closest friend? I shall report back to you with what I learn.” He tipped his hat and stepped into the carriage again, and, in spite of herself, Alexandra found herself wishing she could join him in that discreet investigation.

Chapter
Four

“Irish, she is, that kitchen maid up at Montmarsh, and the way I sees it,
’tis always the Irish at the bottom of things when it comes to trouble. Me husband feels the same, ’e does.”

Nell Stillwell
’s head bobbed as she spouted her opinion, making it difficult for Alexandra to examine her infected eye. She had earlier given the butcher’s wife a solution of St. John’s wort and hyssop leaves to wash the eye that had become inflamed from a bit of straw from the pig sty. It was apparent to Alexandra, however, that Nell had not followed her instructions, judging from the almost full bottle of solution that remained on the woman’s shelf, not to mention the condition of her eye.

“Why have you not washed your eye, Nell?” Alexandra dabbed at the oozing pus with a bit of cloth.

“Well, there isn’t time, is there, Dr. Gladstone? What with all the extra work when the earl is back at Montmarsh, along with all of them guests and their fine appetites for beef and pork. It keeps me husband busy, it does, and meself along with ’im.”

“But you could lose your sight in that eye. It has gotten much worse. You must be careful.” Alexandra dropped some of the solution into her patient
’s eye then placed a large bandage over the infected area and wound the gauze around her head to secure it. She glanced at Zack, who usually accompanied her on her rounds. He was pacing back and forth, agitated by the smell of fresh meat.

“Lose me sight you say?
’Twould be better than this watery glob o’ oozing pus, the way I sees it, and all the time causing me the pain of Hades in that socket.”

“But
, Nell…”

“Aye, if some things would but die,
’twould end our troubles, wouldn’t it?”

Alexandra finished the bandaging and took a large bottle from her bag. “You mustn
’t think like that, Nell. There’s still a chance we can save your eye. I’m going to leave you with more solution, fresher and more potent. I want you to use it daily.”

“And was that what the kitchen maid was thinking, was it?”

Alexandra glanced at her patient, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“The kitchen maid. Elsie O
’Riley’s her name. The one what killed the earl. I guess she thought if someone would but die, ’twould end her trouble.”

“What makes you think Elsie O
’Riley killed the earl?”

Nell gave her a sly look. “Why, Dr. Gladstone, you was there yerself when she made the threats, so I hear. Why, the whole village has talked of nothing else since it happened the night before this last.”

“Threats don’t make her guilty.” Alexandra spoke as she packed her supplies back into her bag, marveling at how quickly the news had spread.

Nell gave a wave of her hand. “Go on, now. She had her reasons.”

“You’re referring to young George’s death.”

Nell
’s one eye brightened. “Aye, so you know, and did you know young George was a ne’er-do-well? Spent his time with other young thugs when he wasn’t with Elsie, ’e did. And young men with naught to do will make trouble, the way I sees it.”

“I
’ve heard about George and his less than desirable friends, but that still doesn’t make—”

“And did you know that some blame Lord Dunsford for George
’s death?”

Alexandra
’s facade disappeared. She glanced at the woman, suddenly alarmed. “Nell!”

“Aye, I sees that you know.”

“I know nothing of the kind, Nell Stillwell. Who, exactly, blames Lord Dunsford for George’s death?”

“Them that knows.” The Cyclops eye bore into Alexandra.

“Knows what? What are you talking about, Nell? That’s only a rumor started by a frightened young girl.”

Nell turned her eye away from Alexandra and stared at the window. She spoke only one word. “Aye.”

“What do you mean, ‘aye’?”

Nell faced her again, briefly. “I knows what I knows.” Once again she turned her glance a
way to stare out the window. “’Tis like I said, Miss Alex. Some things is best left to die.” She stood and made her way to the stairs as if to return to the butcher shop below. “Your father would know what I mean.”

With that she was gone, leaving Alexandra to finish gathering up her medicines and make her way down the stairs. She had not missed Nell
’s point in making reference to her father, nor the fact that she had called her Miss Alex, rather than Dr. Gladstone. It had been a long struggle to get a certain few of the villagers, Nell among them, to stop thinking of her as little Miss Alex. When she was uncertain about a diagnosis, or they felt for any reason that she was particularly obtuse or inept, they often gave her the edict, “Your father would know.” It was something she might never live down.

She had one more patient to see before noon, and then she would return home for a quick lunch before she opened the surgery to see patients in the afternoon. She secretly hoped there would not be many on this particular afternoon, and that she would have time to steal away to Montmarsh and perhaps meet with Nicholas Forsythe. She was eager to learn if he had, in fact, been able to discern any more from his surreptitious investigations.

Her next patient, John Beaty, known to most as Old Beaty, was well into his seventies and, because of his rheumatism, now left all of the work to his son, who was known as Young Beaty. Young Beaty, like his father before him, was an oyster man. Old Beaty spent his time either warming his aching joints at his daughter-in-law’s hearth or, on a good day, among other old farmers and fishermen at the Blue Ram.

Old Beaty greeted Alexandra with a toothless grin when he saw her approach through the open door. “Aye, the good doctor
.” he cried out.

Alexandra stepped inside. Zack followed and made himself comfortable next to the hearth. “Hello, Mr. Beaty. You
’re feeling better it seems.”

“
’Tis yer medicine what done the trick.”

Alexandra glanced at the empty bottle she had left with him—a mixture of poke root, blue flag root, prickly ash bark, black cohosh root, and bitter root mixed in two quarts of whisky. “Mr. Beaty, what has happened to your medicine? I gave this to you only two days ago, and you were supposed to take only three tablespoons a day
.”

“Aye, but it made me feel so good, I takes me a little more each day.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Along with the whisky you take with your cronies at the Blue Ram, I suppose.”

“Medicinal it is. You said so yerself.”

Alexandra tried to suppress a smile. “Too much will make your rheumatism worse, Mr. Beaty.”

“And now you sounds like yer father, you does. Would never let me have me dram of whisky. Don
’t be going back to his old fashioned ways, girl.”

“You
’ve done your vapor baths faithfully?” she asked, ignoring his scolding.

He shook his head. “Makes me sweat too much, they does.”

“The purpose is to make you sweat, Mr. Beaty.” Alexandra spoke as she gently manipulated one of his gnarled hands. “The theory is that it will sweat out some of the poison in your body that causes the rheumatism.”

“
’Tis a pity it won’t sweat the evil out of some.”

Alexandra gave him a wary look. “I suppose you
’re referring to the awful thing that happened at Montmarsh.”

“
’Twas awful all right. And the story’s on everybody’s lips, it is.”

“Apparently.”

“And she done it all for that no-count George Stirling. He’ll never return the favor, I’ll tell ye that much.”

“I suppose not, since he
’s dead.”

“There
’s more than one corpse that walks among the living.”

Alexandra gave Old Beaty a quick skeptical glance while she continued to massage the twisted knot that was his hand.

“I never knew you to be superstitious, Mr. Beaty, nor to judge another quickly. Elsie’s not proven guilty yet.”

“Never said she was guilty, now did I
, Dr. Gladstone? But I say this: if you wants to help the lass, ye’ll find that bloody corpse.”

Alexandra stopped the massage, but still held his knot of a hand. “What are you saying, Mr. Beaty?”

“The Blue Ram speaks you know, with a hundred voices.” He removed his hand from her grasp, carefully. “What one says, the other says the opposite, but it adds up to one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Which is, ye best be careful, Dr. Gladstone. If ye wants to help Elsie, ye best be careful. Ye best not be seen together.”

“Mr. Beaty
!” She took his frail shoulders in each of her hands and forced him to look at her. “I’m not certain what you’re attempting to say, but if you know where Elsie is, tell me.”

Old Beaty shook his head. “I knows but naught.”

“But you don’t think she killed Lord Dunsford, do you?”

“I don
’t know the lass, so how could I make a judgment? And I told ye, I knows but naught, so ye mustn’t let on that I told you but naught.” He got up from his chair, creaking and groaning, and walked toward his bed, leaning heavily on his cane. He stopped once and spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll be needin’ more of yer fine medicine, Dr. Gladstone.”

Alexandra watched him silently for a moment then, knowing it would be futile to push him further, she picked up her bag. “I
’ll bring it when I visit tomorrow.”

She bid him goodbye, signaled to Zack to follow her, and rode Lucy back to her house. When she arrived, the surgery, which could be entered by a side door, was already beginning to fill with patients, and
Nancy was doing her best to keep order. It was almost time for tea by the time the last patient left. She was very tired indeed, but a good strong cup of tea and one of Nancy’s delightful chocolate biscuits would revive her, then she would ride over to Montmarsh to confer with Mr. Forsythe.

She was about to summon
Nancy for the tea when there was a knock at her door. It opened slightly, and Nancy stuck her head around the edge.

“There
’s one more, Miss Alex.” Nancy, who had been her playmate when they were younger, had never been able to develop the habit of addressing her as Dr. Gladstone. Alexandra did nothing to discourage her chosen form of address. Truth was, she would have felt a certain loss of closeness to Nancy if she’d used the more formal title. Besides, to both of them, Dr. Gladstone would always be her father, Dr. Huntington Gladstone.

“One more?” Alexandra could not keep the weariness from her voice.

“I’m afraid so,” Nancy whispered. “He’s been waiting for over an hour now.”

“Very well. Show him in.” Alexandra picked up a medical volume from her desk and went to the book shelf to put it away while she tried to shore up her energy for one more consultation and examination, knowing that it would make her too late to ride all the way to Montmarsh to visit with Nicholas Forsythe.

She heard Nancy’s voice from outside her door. “The doctor will see you now, sir.” Her back was turned to the door while she shelved yet another volume when she heard the patient enter.

“Loosen your clothes, please, and have a seat on the table. I
’ll be with you short…” She stopped with the word unfinished as she turned around and saw that the
patient
was none other than Nicholas Forsythe.

“Loosen my clothes? An interesting suggestion,” he said.

“Mr. Forsythe! I…”

“Perhaps you should call me Nicholas, given the fact that our relationship has so quickly evolved.”

Alexandra felt her face grow warm, and she knew she was blushing—something that rarely happened. She had thought her profession had made her immune to it. She did her best to recover.

“Are you ill, Mr. Forsythe?”

“Nicholas.”

“Very well…Nicholas.” She found it difficult to say his name. It suggested a familiarity and informality she was not sure she was ready to accept.

“Good! And why would you think I was ill, Alexandra? If I may call you Alexandra?”

“This is a surgery after all,” she said. She had not given him permission to use her Christian name, but she had the sense that it would do no good to protest.

“Of course, but didn’t we agree that I would report back to you after I’d had a chance to learn something from the other guests?”

“You do have something to report, then.” An eager excitement had crept into her voice in spite of her attempts to sound cool and detached.

“Something rather interesting, I think. It seems that Eddie…” Nicholas stopped speaking, and his eyes grew wary as Zack ambled into the room and sniffed his feet, growling.

Alexandra knew what that growl meant, and she spoke the dog
’s name in a tone that was quiet but urgent. She was too late. Zack had already pounced. His two front paws were on Nicholas’s shoulders. Nicholas fell back against the examination table and might have tried to push the dog away, except that he had to use both hands, placed behind him, to steady himself against the table. Zack, in the meantime, was licking Nicholas’s face enthusiastically with his enormous tongue.