The Anatomist's Wife Page 27

  Of course, all of this supposition assumed that the killer had been thinking at all and not just acting mindlessly, whether in anger or fear. Gage certainly believed Lady Stratford had been reacting, and therein lay the crux of my doubt, for I somehow felt that most of this had been carefully thought out, planned for a specific purpose. That did not mesh with the amount of physical evidence we had discovered against Lady Stratford.

  Beowulf, who had been circling a tree, suddenly whined piteously and stood up on his hind legs to paw at the bark above his head. I moved closer and patted his head in reassurance as he dropped down. There was a hole in the trunk of the oak just above the level of my head. I scowled down at Beowulf. “You’re supposed to be searching for evidence, not chasing squirrels up trees.”

  He ignored my scolding and stood up on his hind legs, trying to reach the hole again. Grendel joined him, and the two pinned me between them as they whined and batted at the tree.

  I stared up at the hole, unnerved by the dogs’ persistence. What if it wasn’t a squirrel the wolfhounds were pawing at, but a piece of evidence stashed where no one would ever find it? My mind whirled with possibilities—the real murder weapon, a bloodied piece of clothing, an incriminating letter. I lifted my hand to reach in and then stilled.

  What if it wasn’t evidence but truly a family of squirrels hiding from the dogs or, worse, some kind of insect or spider’s home? I cringed at the thought. I found myself wishing for Gage’s solid presence by my side. Certainly, he was self-important and aggravating, but whether it was because of the pistol he carried or the confidence he exuded, at least I felt safe with him. And could rely upon him to conduct some of the more horrifying tasks, such as reaching into a hole in a tree trunk that might be home to an agitated animal. He had been rather a bulwark for me—in the chapel cellar, at the baby’s grave, even in my art studio—he had been there when I needed him. I couldn’t imagine how I would have made it through the last four days without him, and I badly wished he were there with me now.

  Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage and shut my eyes. I tentatively probed inside the hole, grateful that at least I was wearing a sturdy pair of kid-leather gloves. When nothing immediately bit me, I leaned forward on tiptoe, trying to reach deeper inside the hollow. My fingers brushed against something soft, and I stilled. When the object did not move, I snagged it with my fingers and began to pull it carefully out of the hole.

  My first glimpse of the white fabric made my heart leap into my throat. It was a handkerchief, a rather plain one, covered in streaks of dried crimson blood. The dogs sniffed at it, forcing me to lift it high to keep it out of their reach. The square had clearly belonged to man or a servant, for I had never seen a lady carry such a simple cloth. Customarily, a gentlewoman’s handkerchiefs were embroidered and trimmed in lace, and I highly doubted Lady Stratford’s were any different. However, the square could be her maid’s. Or it could indicate there was a man involved—one we had yet to discover.

  I moved toward the edge of the forest, leaning my hip against a sycamore along the path. The air was fresh with rain and summer green and musky from the mud churned up under my feet, but I still fancied I smelled the cloying, metallic scent of blood wafting from the handkerchief. I carefully tucked it inside the pocket of my skirt, shielding it from the rain, and any prying eyes that might still be watching me from the house.

  Staring across the expanse of the lawn toward the castle, I searched the facade. It was impossible to tell from such a distance, especially through the rain, but I studied the windows, looking for a twitch of a curtain or a shifting of light to indicate that there was someone there. That someone was spying on me. I couldn’t see them, but I felt them there, regardless. Just as I had the morning Gage and I returned from the maze. A trickle of fear caught in my throat.

  I was reluctant to leave the shelter of the trees and step out into the wide-open expanse of the lawn. It seemed like such a vulnerable position, even with the dogs in tow. However, there was no alternative route to the stables, unless I planned to slash my way through the thick growth of over a hundred yards of forest to find the little-used path winding through the forest behind the maze, carriage house, and stables. Such an act would be ridiculous.

  Scolding myself for my foolishness, I swallowed my nerves and struck out across the lawn. Almost immediately, I felt the unseen pair of eyes tracking my progress, this time from a window in the eastern block. I forced myself to walk, to measure my strides, even though my shoulders inched up around my ears and my heart leapt forward in my chest with each step. Beowulf and Grendel trotted alongside me like two dutiful guards. I suspected their presence was all that kept me from breaking into a run.

  Once again, I wished for Gage. This investigation had been much easier to conduct with him by my side. Perhaps I should try talking to him again. He’d said I might view things differently in the light of day, and so might he. Gage was not unreasonable—when he put aside his rather masculine impulse to discount my intuition. With this new piece of evidence, surely he would be forced to take me seriously. I simply had to appeal to his reason.

  With bolstered spirits, I hurried across the carriage yard. Philip stood speaking with Old Gaffer just inside the stable door when I shooed Beowulf and Grendel inside. Though he still sported dark circles under his eyes, it appeared Philip had at least found time to bathe, shave, and change clothes at some point during the morning. “Are you just returning?” he asked in surprise. “That was quite a long walk.”

  I shrugged and quickly changed the subject. “Do you know where I might find Mr. Gage?”

  “He rode out with Mr. Fulmer an hour or so ago. They were headed to Drumchork to see if they could locate our errant footman.”

  I smothered the rather childish impulse to stamp my foot. So that was Gage’s chosen course of action—to avoid me. I thought he would at least seek me out this morning, if for no other reason than to make certain I wasn’t going to do something foolish, like pursue this investigation further myself. The man could be quite territorial about such things. Instead he’d run off in pursuit of the footman without so much as a by-your-leave, and taken the gardener, whom I desperately wanted to question, with him. Who knew how long it would be before they returned?

  “Did you need him for something?” Philip asked me with some concern.

  I considered telling him about the handkerchief, about my doubts and suspicions, but he looked so tired—not only from the mare’s foaling in the middle of the night but also Alana’s continued resistance in leaving the nursery. Telling him about my misgivings would only add to his worries. Besides, he would insist we consult Gage before taking any further steps to remedy the situation, and I had no intention of sitting on my hands waiting for the prodigal son to return while Lady Stratford remained locked in the carriage house and a potential killer ran free. I had a few more ideas how I might uncover information, and Philip would only prevent me from pursuing them.

  So I lied. “It’s not important.” I flashed a reassuring smile. “I’ll just speak to him when he returns.”

  He nodded rather uncertainly but did not question me further.

  In an effort to avoid the other guests, I struck out for the side entrance, which fed into the servants’ staircase and wound up toward the family hall. As the door swung shut behind me I stumbled to a halt, suddenly realizing how dark and isolated the stairwell was. Dim sunlight filtered through the small windows on each landing, the only sources of light for the entire stairwell. Raindrops pinged against the glass, echoing through the space.

  I rubbed my palms down my skirts and ordered myself to stop jumping at ghosts. There was nothing there to get me but the figments of my own imagination. I shook my head at my foolishness and began to climb.

  The stairwell was darkest at each kickback, and I found myself hurrying past each one to get closer to the stormy
light straining through the windows. One flight below my destination, I heard a shuffle of feet on the landing below me. My heart kicked in my chest. There had been no sound of a door opening or feet stomping up the stairs after me. Was someone intentionally being quiet?

  I didn’t want to wait and find out. Gripping the banister, I propelled myself upward as fast as I could run.

  I couldn’t hear much beyond the pounding of my footsteps and my heart, but it sounded as if someone was pursuing me. Flinging open the door to the family wing, I darted into the hall. I forced my steps to slow to a brisk walk, glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone emerged from the stairwell after me.

  When I reached the door to my bedchamber, my hands shook so badly I had difficulty turning the doorknob. I slipped inside, slammed the door, and locked it. I pressed my back against the solid oak, listening for steps outside in the hall.

  Half a minute later, when nothing happened, the panic began to drain out of me. My gasping breaths began to slow. Another minute later, I began to feel ridiculous.

  I stumbled away from the door and flung my cloak over a chair in front of the hearth to dry. I stared into the low flames crackling in the fireplace.

  Had I just made up that entire pursuit in my head? I sank into the chair and scraped a hand through my hair. I tried to think back to the moment in the stairwell when I thought I heard someone on the landing below me, but all I could see were the darkened corners, and feel the surge of terror pumping through my heart.

  I shook my head. I needed to stop this nonsense. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had actually been following me. If there had been a shuffle, it had doubtless been a mouse. If there were feet pounding up the stairs behind me, it had probably been a servant hurrying to an upper floor. I really had to stop letting my morbid imagination run away with me. Just because I was afraid that the killer was still running free did not mean they were running after me.

  I pulled off my sodden half boots and tossed them across the room, angry at my foolishness. Then, rising in a swirl of skirts, I yanked the cord to summon my maid, Lucy. The bottom drawer to my escritoire stuck, as it often did when the weather was damp, and I slammed my fist against its front panel below the handle, prying it loose. My jewelry box lay tucked inside, between an old sketchbook and a journal I hadn’t written in since I was twelve. Why I still kept it, I didn’t know. I carefully extracted the bloody handkerchief from my pocket and opened the jewelry box to lay the cloth on top. Locking the box, I slid the drawer shut, making certain the swollen wood stuck as before.

  After tucking the key inside the loose backing of the landscape painting hanging above my desk, I settled in front of my dressing table and began to pull pins from my wilted hair. Lucy exclaimed in horror when she saw my bedraggled appearance, and began to fuss over me in the same way I suspected she fussed over her numerous siblings. Normally, I found her scolding tiresome, but today it felt familiar and soothing. She helped me to change into a plum afternoon dress with an overlay of black embroidered flowers. It was trimmed with black lace along the wide, low neckline and long sleeves. She pulled a brush through my thick hair and braided it into a tight coronet, which I knew, regardless, would be falling down around my ears by nightfall. Then I devoured the luncheon she brought me on a tray and set out to my next destination, determined not to see danger around every corner.

  Striding into the hall where many of the guests were housed, I passed Lady Bethel and Mrs. Calvin. I returned their polite greetings and ignored the curiosity shining in their gazes. I felt their eyes on my back and measured my steps so that the ladies would turn the corridor long before I reached my destination. Pausing at a door near the far end of the hall, I glanced around me to be certain no one was watching before I slipped inside.

  The room Lady Godwin had been given was decorated in shades of lavender and pearl gray. The furnishings were dainty and the bedding and draperies covered in ribbons and frills. It was clearly a lady’s boudoir. I could just imagine how insulted a man like Mr. Gage or Lord Marsdale would feel if they were assigned such a chamber. They would probably expect a willing lady to come with it.

  I locked the door, so as not to be surprised in the middle of my search, and then crossed the room to open the drapes and let in a little light and air. The chamber smelled heavily of Lady Godwin’s cloying perfume. I noticed that much of the lady’s luggage had been brought to the room so that Faye could perform the tedious task of repacking all of the viscountess’s belongings for the journey back to London. I wondered how the maid was faring. If her employer’s death hadn’t been enough of a shock, to have the lady who so kindly offered to escort her back to England turn up as the suspected murderer must have overwhelmed her completely.

  I sorted carefully through the trunk filled with petticoats and other undergarments, including a pair of stays that extended down over the hips. Lady Godwin must have worn it to hide the growing swell at her waistline. Shoes, hats, gloves, and other accessories filled another trunk; however, a thorough search revealed nothing of interest. Her gowns still hung in the wardrobe in a rainbow of exotic colors. I had noticed the viscountess liked color, and the more striking the shade the better.

  The surface of her dressing table was covered with potions and unctions, some of which smelled quite horrid. They all claimed to make a woman look younger, slimmer, or more beautiful, and I was curious as to whether any of them actually worked. I found an ornate box in one drawer and thought it might contain jewelry; however, it proved to be filled with a rather lovely collection of delicate paper figurines. A swan, a butterfly, a crane, and a rose—each one lovingly crafted. There was no evidence that Lady Godwin had not created the figures herself, but I somehow knew they were gifts. From whom, I could not begin to guess. I was intensely curious as to why the viscountess would keep such funny little creatures and treasure them enough to carry them with her on her travels. She had not seemed the least sentimental, but this collection proved otherwise. I shook my head and crossed to the desk.

  The surface was covered in correspondence. I thumbed through the letters, most of which were from her husband’s solicitor or her sister in Shropshire. There were a few bills and one short message from Lady Stratford about the arrangements at her great-aunt’s cottage near Glasgow. Nothing to incriminate anyone. Nothing to even hint at an illicit relationship. Just evidence of a woman who was constantly spending money and asking for more. A woman who had a much younger sister who asked eagerly about London and spoke of a gentleman suitor who had recently called upon her. In fact, the single interesting bit of information the correspondence yielded was the creator of Lady Godwin’s paper figurines—this selfsame sister, who claimed to miss Lady Godwin so very much, and longed to see her little nephews.

  I sank down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. The only thing this search had achieved was to prove how human Lady Godwin had been. She had been more than a woman who took far too many lovers, including her closest friend’s husband. Lady Godwin had an existence outside of those bedrooms, a life before she met Lord Godwin, and more depth than many of us had suspected. I almost wished she had remained that vain, unfeeling caricature of my imagination. It made accepting her murder much easier.

  I smoothed a hand over my hair and glanced down at my shoes. A piece of paper had fallen to the floor and slid so far under the desk that only a corner peeked out. I picked it up to set it with the rest of the correspondence, skimming it as I did so. The words written there made me stop.

  It was a letter begun by Lady Godwin and never finished. It was not addressed, but the information it contained made it easy to guess whom the intended recipient had been. The words jogged something in my memory, something I had read very recently, and I began rifling through the correspondence on the desk looking for one of the letters from Lady Godwin’s younger sister. A quick second scan of the note yielded the connection I had been looking for. />
  I reeled, feeling as if all of the wind had been knocked from my lungs. It seemed almost impossible, the events that I could suddenly see unfurling in my brain. Such actions would require the mind of a heartless, malicious individual. I shivered. I had conversed with just such a person, had perhaps even laughed with them, and I had never suspected what truly lay beneath the jaded exterior.

  I stared down at the two missives again. They appeared so innocuous, yet they pieced together a tale so twisted I could scarce believe it. It was no wonder Gage had overlooked their importance, especially when he had yet to uncover the facts that would make sense of the words. Lady Godwin had spoken in such vague terms, I’m not certain I would have seen any more than Gage if I had read them but two short days ago.

  I thought of the letter Lady Godwin had been so eager to post to her sister—the one Alana had so casually mentioned when she was trying to give Philip the direction of Lady Godwin’s family. I would have given a great deal to read that missive, even though I was quite certain I already knew what it said.

  I folded the letters I did have and tucked them securely into my pocket. I swallowed, trying to remove the revulsion that coated my throat. It filled my stomach, making me feel tainted by the evil that continued to lurk among us. If only Gage had not ridden to Drumchork. One glance toward the windows told me that the rain had not abated, but increased, racing down the windows in crooked streaks. The wind stirred up white caps on the gray waves of the loch. Gage would not be returning anytime soon.

  I took a deep breath and rose unsteadily to my feet. Perhaps I should speak with Philip. Even if he insisted on waiting for Gage’s return, at least someone else would share this burden of knowing.