The Anatomist's Wife Page 26

  He dodged and smiled devilishly. “You would have gone to your marriage bed expecting Sir Anthony to bite you on the back of the neck to hold you down.”

  “Stop!” I gasped, trying my best to stifle my laughter. I was quite sure he could hear it in my voice anyway. “I don’t want to imagine that!”

  He chuckled. “Well, we certainly don’t want that. I don’t believe my manly pride could support your thinking of another man while I’m in the room.” He began to work the cork out of the bottle. It emerged with a pop.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  He poured some of the bubbly liquid into a glass and handed it to me. “I thought we should celebrate.” He smiled. “This has been an interesting four days. And they would have been much less enjoyable without your assistance.” He poured his own glass and joined me by the window seat. “Shall we make a toast?”

  “Haven’t you tired of those yet this evening?” I teased.

  He grimaced. “Yes. They were all acting a bit ridiculous, weren’t they?” When I didn’t comment, he laughed. “I’ll take that as your agreement. All right, then.” He perched on the padded ledge across from me. “This toast is for you, Lady Darby. For I certainly wouldn’t have found the murderer without you.” Both of our cheeks flushed at the shared realization that he would likely have accused me of the crime. He cleared his throat and raised his glass. “To your future. May it be bright and beautiful.”

  I drank to that, wanting the embarrassment to stop. The champagne was sweet and peppery and burned as it rolled down my throat. I drained my glass and took a deep breath, feeling a giddy rush to my head.

  Gage chuckled. “Shall I top you off?”

  I shook my head. “After all the wine at dinner, I think I’ve had more than enough to drink this evening.” Indeed, I felt lethargic and just a tiny bit tipsy.

  He polished off his own glass and settled deeper into the window seat. Our bent legs were almost touching. Hidden beneath my skirt, my toes curled into the cushion, tingling with the knowledge that they could stretch out and graze the muscles of his leg. I leaned forward again to see outside, hoping to distract myself from the sensations swirling in my gut. Most of the gentlemen had vanished from the stable yard, and I wondered if they had been run off or had just grown bored.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I glanced up to find him studying me. “What do you mean?”

  “I expected to find you relieved, but you seem almost as tense as the evening we made our trip down to the chapel cellar.”

  I watched my hand smooth back and forth over the velvety fabric of one of the pillows. I couldn’t understand why I was so hesitant to explain what was bothering me. Perhaps it was because my doubts seemed insubstantial, even to me. I was worried how he would react, and maybe a bit afraid he would tell me I was being foolish. It had taken considerable effort to convince him to believe in me. I didn’t want that to all be ruined by a feeling, a sensation, I couldn’t even explain.

  “I’m wondering,” I began uncertainly. “If we are seeing the big picture. If we really accused the right person.”

  Gage tapped his champagne flute against his leg twice and leaned over to pick up the bottle. “You don’t think Lady Stratford murdered Lady Godwin,” he stated evenly as he poured himself another glass.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, allowing some hint of my distress to creep into my voice. “I just have this feeling that we’re missing something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” His calm seemed to only exacerbate the turmoil I felt inside me. “There are just a few things that are bothering me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, the murder weapon. I still don’t believe that a pair of embroidery scissors was used to slice Lady Godwin’s neck. The cut was simply too clean, too even.”

  He took a sip of champagne, watching me steadily over the rim. “So are you saying it is impossible that the scissors made that cut?”

  “No,” I hedged, having already known he would contradict me with such a question. “Just that it is highly unlikely.”

  “But by that admission you are still saying it is possible.”

  I frowned at the extreme logic he was using, not liking how silly it made me sound. “Well, anyone could have taken them from her embroidery basket. Just because they were hers does not mean she used them in such a capacity.”

  “True. But that means they would have also needed to steal her shawl and her maid’s apron.” The tone of his voice told me just how doubtful he was of such a thing happening. “That would take quite an organized killer—someone with a real vendetta against Lady Stratford.”

  I dropped my eyes from his gaze, not wanting to see the challenge there. I couldn’t argue with his assertions. It did all seem very unlikely, but not impossible. Lady Stratford had as much, if not more, of a capacity to incite enemies as anyone present at Gairloch. Jealousy, be it of her beauty or her position, could do strange things to people, not to mention the hatred a snubbing could cause. And Lady Stratford had snubbed more than her fair share of society.

  “Well, what about the amount of strength and stamina it would have taken to dig the baby’s grave?” I challenged. “You can’t tell me that you believe Lady Stratford and her maid to be capable of such a thing.”

  He leaned over to set his glass on the floor. “A footman.”

  I startled, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “What?”

  “I suspect a footman moved the rock and dug the grave,” he replied calmly, as if what he was saying made complete sense.

  I glared at him in confusion, irritated by his insouciant demeanor.

  “I spoke with the gardener to find out if any shovels have gone missing,” he explained. “And he told me that a few mornings ago he noticed one of the spades was not placed in its usual position. As if someone had used it and then returned it.” Gage leaned forward. “And the gardener specifically remembers seeing a man lurking about the gardening shed the night before.” He nodded his head in emphasis and sat back against the wall. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction at uncovering this last bit of information.

  “A man?” I restated.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the gardener get a good look at this . . . man . . . or are you just assuming it was a footman?” I snapped in exasperation.

  Gage arched an eyebrow at my display of temper. “I didn’t assume anything. It just so happens that, as of this afternoon, one of Cromarty’s footmen has suspiciously gone missing.”

  I had no reply to that. A footman’s disappearance just hours after Lady Stratford’s detainment did seem exceedingly suspicious.

  “I suspect Lady Stratford convinced this footman to assist her with, if nothing else, at least burying the child.”

  “How? A bribe?” I had a difficult time imagining one of Philip’s loyal staff being coerced into doing something so horrible.

  “Money can be a powerful motivator,” Gage replied, correctly reading my thoughts. “And perhaps the footman didn’t know exactly what he was being paid to bury. Though, I can’t imagine he would be naive enough to believe it was harmless. Perhaps he only realized just how much trouble he could be in after Lady Stratford was detained, and he panicked.”

  I turned to stare at the log crackling in the hearth. Gage’s assumptions seemed logical, I could not dispute that, but how could he know that they were right? “What if the man lurking around the gardening shed wasn’t the footman?”

  His eyebrows lifted in doubt.

  “Well, what if it was someone else?” I persisted. “And what if this footman has disappeared for another reason? What if he’s in some kind of trouble?”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs,” he murmured dryly.

  I glared at him. �
�And your assumptions aren’t? You’re still jumping to conclusions. Even about Lady Stratford.”

  Gage closed his eyes and sighed. “Lady Darby, my father has been an inquiry agent for nearly twelve years, and I have been assisting him for a number of those. Rarely, in an incident with no witnesses, do we uncover evidence that is so cut and dry. Lady Stratford cannot convincingly explain away the shawl and the scissors, and neither can I. If I thought I could, I would do everything I could to make certain I had reached the right conclusion. There is simply no other explanation.”

  “But you should have seen her this afternoon,” I pleaded with him to understand. “When I forced her to admit her barren state, she was heartbroken. Her pain and anguish were genuine. She is desperate for a child. I just cannot believe she would have cut into Lady Godwin’s womb. Kill Lady Godwin, yes. But she would never have harmed that child.”

  “The child was not her own. Believe me, my lady, there is a difference. And Lady Stratford would have seen it as such.”

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it of her. And you wouldn’t either if you had seen the look on her face.”

  “She was acting,” he snapped, as annoyance twisted his features. “You are inexperienced with such things, Lady Darby, but I am not. Being accused of a crime brings out the most brilliant acting you have ever seen. I have seen performances to rival any production on the stage of the Theatre Royal.”

  “Then how do you know who is telling the truth?”

  “You don’t. That’s why you rely on the evidence. It is the only thing that is certain. Not instincts or strange feelings, which do come in handy from time to time. However, you cannot build a solid case around them.”

  I understood what he was saying. I even agreed with him—to a certain degree—but I still couldn’t escape the horrible sensation pressing down on me that, in this instance, we were very wrong.

  “Couldn’t we at least follow up on any other leads?”

  “What other leads?” He sighed and raked a hand back through his hair. “There is no use in pursuing this further. There is nothing else to even consider. I will find the footman and question him, and then it will be finished.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “No, Kiera. It’s over. I understand you feel some compassion for Lady Stratford, but you cannot change what she has done.” His gaze turned brooding, and he seemed to look inward. “There are some people who are guilty of the crimes they are accused of.”

  I turned away, confused by the personal significance he seemed to invest in those words, and hurt by the betrayal I felt because he would not help me with this.

  “Now.” He rose to his feet. “I think you just need a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel differently in the morning. The dark has a way of making us see shadows where they are not.” The door closed softly behind him.

  I pulled my legs up and wrapped my arms around my knees.

  Was he right? Was I jumping at shadows, at memories of the time I was dragged before a magistrate and accused of unspeakable acts? I didn’t know. All I knew was how hurt and frustrated I was that Gage had not tried harder to understand. It wasn’t as if I wanted to doubt Lady Stratford’s guilt. I wanted to feel triumphant and confident we had caught the murderer, just like everyone else. My uncertainties and misgivings certainly weren’t welcome sensations. They gnawed at me like an open wound.

  I leaned over again to peer out at the darkened carriage house. My sister was right. I couldn’t let this go. Not yet. Not until I knew I had done everything I could to uncover the whole truth, whatever it might be. I would try to get a good night’s sleep as Gage suggested, and when the doubts did not go away, as I knew they wouldn’t, I would start the day with a rested mind and a fresh pair of eyes. I had at least one more day to uncover the truth before the procurator fiscal from Inverness arrived, or else damn my conscience and Lady Stratford to the consequences.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The following morning, the weather was damp and dreary. Which was, of course, fitting, considering the mood I awakened in and the course of action I had chosen to take before I finally fell asleep after tossing and turning for half the night. I would be drenched by the time I finished retracing the killer’s steps, but perhaps I would be closer to the truth. It appeared I must be made to suffer in my endeavor to acquire proof of Lady Stratford’s guilt or innocence.

  I dressed in my warm charcoal-gray walking dress and sturdy boots and pulled up the hood of my heavy hunter-green cloak before stepping out into the rain. I picked my way across the muddy carriage yard, careful to avoid the ruts now filled with water. From the outside, the stables appeared lazy and quiet, but inside I found the stable hands bustling about, joking with one another while they completed their morning chores. Old Gaffer, the stable master, pointed me toward the back where Philip leaned over a stall, his arms draped along the top.

  He glanced up as I approached and smiled. His eyes drooped with fatigue, and he was badly in need of a shave, but he seemed content. The foaling must have gone well.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  He waved a hand toward the stall. “Take a look.”

  I peeked over the wall to see the chestnut-brown foal standing on shaky legs already nursing from her mother. “Is it a she?”

  He nodded.

  I grinned at the little filly. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Aye.”

  “Where are Beowulf and Grendel?” I asked, glancing around the floor near his feet. Normally, they followed Philip around like two lovesick swains.

  He glanced at me curiously and then whistled. The two wolfhounds trotted around the corner.

  I reached out to pet Grendel’s shaggy brindle coat. “I’m going to take them for a walk.”

  Philip’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

  I diverted my gaze, concentrating on scratching behind the dog’s ears. “I want to get out of the castle,” I replied, hoping he would think I was just eager to escape the guests. Beowulf bumped into my leg, wanting the same attention as his brother. I laughed.

  “Wait your turn, old boy,” Philip scolded with a chuckle. His voice was husky from lack of sleep, and his brogue had deepened. “Just be sure they dinna run you ragged,” he warned. “They haven’t been allowed to run free in days, so they’re liable to get a bit carried away.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m well aware of what I’m in for.”

  The rain fell in a steady shower, drenching my cloak in a matter of minutes. Any sane person would have stayed indoors if they could help it, so I expected to have the grounds completely to myself. I led the two dogs past the carriage house, nodding to the footman guarding its door, and then across the garden toward the path leading into the western woods. I had planned to begin at the maze and retrace the killer’s steps around the eastern circuit of the path to the place where we uncovered the baby. However, I was conscious of Philip watching me from the stables’ dooryard, and not wanting to arouse his suspicion, I decided instead to work my way around backward.

  The rain striking my hood lessened as I stepped beneath the bower of thick pines, sycamores, and yew trees at the edge of the forest, and for a moment I thought it was the loss of this sensation that caused my scalp to tingle and the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I scanned the woods before me, searching the leafy shadows, and then turned back toward the castle. My gaze settled on the deserted western block, carefully studying the windows spanning the facade. The curtain of rain made it difficult to see at such a distance with much clarity, but I could have sworn someone was watching me, observing my progress into the forest. An icy chill ran down my neck like the cold rivulet of a raindrop. I hurried into the shelter of the trees.

  The woods were still except for the soft patter of rain against the leaves an
d the panting of the dogs as they wove to and fro among the vegetation. I tried to reassure myself that the wolfhounds would alert me to any danger long before it reached me, but I could not shake the creeping sensation along my spine. I found myself glancing over my shoulder and easing cautiously around bends in the path.

  By the time the wolfhounds and I reached the hill where Lady Godwin’s baby had been buried, I was thoroughly sick of my paranoia. There was nothing nefarious about someone watching me from the castle windows, even from the empty west wing. Perhaps it had merely been a bored guest gone exploring or a servant hiding from chores. There was no proof of ill intentions, only my nerves getting the better of me.

  I huffed in irritation and directed my attention to the dogs. So far they had found nothing more troubling than a sparrow carcass, which I had to drag them away from. I hoped the eastern loop of the trail, which I had yet to search, would offer up something more pertinent to the investigation.

  We set off across the back boundary of Philip’s property, strolling through the field of heather that stretched northward, forming a glen between two Highland ridges. The eastern forest swallowed us beneath its branches, thicker than its western cousin, and even more steeped in shadow. With the gloom, the crawling sensation returned, sending my heart tripping in my chest and distracting me from the task at hand. In fact, if not for Beowulf and Grendel, I might have blundered onward unawares.

  Their whines raised gooseflesh all over my skin, and I glanced around me before cautiously moving forward to see what the dogs were pawing at. The edge of the forest was not more than fifteen feet away, and I wondered if perhaps this was the spot where Philip and the wolfhounds had found blood three days ago. He had suggested that the killer laid the baby there, just inside the woods, and then rejoined the other guests in the garden, or, in Lady Stratford’s case, returned to her bedchamber. Then the murderer returned later to bury the child’s body.

  I shook my head. Why hadn’t the killer left the child with its mother, even after taking it from her body? Why bury it? Had the killer hoped to hide the baby’s existence? Had Lady Stratford thought to hide her husband’s indiscretion? All of it seemed so extreme, so unnecessary. Returning to the scene to bury the child without being seen, leaving evidence behind in the child’s grave—all of those steps left a trail and heightened the risk that they would be caught.