Medium Dead: An Alexandra Gladstone Mystery (2 page)

“Oh, no,” Nancy said. “That would be young Lucas. The poor half-wit has a habit of wandering around at night, you know. Young Beaty said Lucas came running to fetch him. Showed up at his door as white as a dead man and as frightened as if the dead had spoken to him.”

“Poor Lucas. I can well imagine he was frightened.” He was a young man of sixteen years, but with a mental age of little more than five or six. Alexandra and Nancy each had a special fondness for Lucas Pendennis, as well as for his mother, Gweneth, who was a lace dealer in Newton-upon-Sea. Most of the villagers held both Lucas and his mother in disdain, Lucas because of his mental deficiency and because he was a bastard, and Gweneth because she’d borne the boy out of wedlock. Alexandra’s own father, the late Dr. Huntington Gladstone, had claimed that women who indulge in carnal acts before marriage most likely suffer from a uterine disease that affects their minds and makes them act in immoral ways. Therefore, according to him and others of the same education, it was no surprise that a mentally deficient woman would have an imbecile child. Alexandra was of the firm belief that the theory was wrong. It was one of the few times she had disagreed with her father and one of the equally few times their disagreements had resulted in a heated argument. Nancy had been privy to most of the arguments, but neither she nor Alexandra ever spoke of them.

“If you ask me, Young Beaty was just as frightened as Lucas,” Nancy said. “There was more he wanted to tell, I’m sure of it. I just couldn’t get it out of him.”

Alexandra smiled to herself once again, knowing that Nancy had no doubt done her best to get Young Beaty to talk more.

“Pickwick herself said she thought Young Beaty was troubled. She came in just as he was leaving. ’Tis wife trouble in her estimation, but I don’t think so, myself,” Nancy said. “ ’Twas finding the body of poor Alvina that has him troubled, I say. Pickwick would have none of that. Didn’t want to talk about Alvina. Kept trying to change the subject. A person would think Pickwick killed the poor woman herself, the way she was acting so skittish about it.”

“You shouldn’t say such things about Mrs. Pickwick,” Alexandra said. “She’s your friend and a good woman.”

“Ah, you know I didn’t mean it,” Nancy said and immediately went on relaying more gossip to Alexandra while they had their tea. Alexandra listened with more interest than she liked to admit until they’d both finished their tea, and Nancy had stacked the cups and saucers on a tray to take them to the kitchen.

Nancy was hardly out of the room when a patient came to the surgery door wanting an infected splinter extracted from his thumb. A steady stream of patients kept Alexandra occupied until five o’clock, her normal time to close the surgery for the day. Nancy, as always, worked by her side.

“I’ll have the boys saddle Lucy again so I can take Old Beaty his tar plaster for his rheumatism,” Alexandra said to Nancy as she locked the door.

“Mind you don’t stay too long,” Nancy said. “I’ll have dinner ready in an hour, and you won’t want it cold.” Alexandra considered Nancy’s culinary skills adequate but uninspired. Still, it was best not to raise her ire by not appearing eager to eat what she prepared.

“I’ll be home as soon as possible.” As she spoke, Zack, her large black-and-white Newfoundland, rose from his resting place by the hearth, allowing his long tail to wiggle his entire behind as if he were still a puppy. She stroked Zack’s long back and saw the question in his big, round eyes. “Yes, you can come with me,” she said to the dog. He was accustomed to following her on all of her rounds, but he had missed the privilege earlier in the day because of her call to the undertaker’s.

Zack, as usual, waited outside when Young Beaty ushered her inside to see his father. The oysterman’s greeting was little more than a distracted grunt as he led Alexandra through the immaculately kept parlor and upstairs to his father’s bedroom. Young Beaty’s demeanor made Alexandra suspect Nancy and Mrs. Pickwick could be right about his being troubled. He was usually cordial and affable. Wordlessly opening the door to his father’s bedroom, he left Alexandra with the elderly man.

“Ah, Dr. Gladstone, ye’s here at last,” Old Beaty said when he saw her. He was sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, his legs covered with a blanket and another around his shoulders. “They’s a damp spell coming, I tell you that. ’Tis me shoulder tells me so. And me knees as well, if truf be told. Ye brought the plaster for the shoulder, did ye? And a tonic for the aches in me knees?”

“You know the weather like any good oysterman,” Alexandra said, referring to Old Beaty’s past profession. “And yes, I brought the plaster. And a tonic for your aches,” she added.

When she’d applied the plaster to his shoulder and given him a few ounces of the whiskey he referred to as tonic, she left him with an admonition to stay warm and her usual warning that he should make the whiskey last for at least a week. He was still protesting that she’d hardly given him enough for one toddy when she bade him goodbye and left his room.

Young Beaty was nowhere in sight when she got to the parlor, but his wife, Wilma, emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Dr. Gladstone. I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.” She spoke in an anxious voice.

“Are you ill, Wilma?”

“No, no, ’tisn’t me. ’Tis me husband.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure Young Beaty wasn’t listening. “That woman he brought to the undertaker? She must have put a spell on ’im. Even though she was dead, she still done it. He ain’t been right since—”

“It ain’t old Miss Alvina what’s got me.” Young Beaty interrupted his wife as he entered the small parlor. “ ’Twas something else.”

Alexandra waited for him to say more, but he didn’t speak for several long seconds.

“I knows who done the killin’.”

Wilma sucked in her breath as if she’d known what her husband would say. “Husband, you mustn’t—”

“No, no, I has to tell somebody. It wasn’t in me to tell the constable, but I can trust the doctor. Just like I could trust her father before her.”

“Mr. Beaty,” Alexandra said in as gentle a voice as possible. “If you know who killed the poor woman, you must tell Constable Snow.”

“No!” he protested, louder this time. “How can I tell him it was Her Majesty the queen herself what killed her?”

“The queen?” Alexandra wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. “You must be mistaken. Her Majesty is not in the parish, nor is she likely ever to be.”

“I seen her leaving the grave where Alvina lay sprawled with her throat cut. Lucas seen her, too, before he comes to get me. She was still there when I got there. Just leaving, I tell ye, and Alvina’s body still warm.”

“But Mr. Beaty—”

“ ’Twas Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself killed that woman.”

“And when I asked him how he knew it was the queen, he said he saw the royal carriage when he went back to the graveyard with Lucas.” Alexandra spoke to Nancy as they ate their dinner. “He also claims he saw Her Majesty as she got back into the carriage.”

“How could he tell it was the royal carriage?” Nancy asked.

“He claims he knows a royal carriage when he sees one,” Alexandra said. “Says he saw it once in London. Claims he’d recognize it anywhere, even though the royal insignia was covered with a black drape.”

“Doesn’t make sense at all, now, does it?” Nancy said as she sawed away at the roast beef on her plate. “Why would Her Majesty be in the cemetery at Newton-upon-Sea?”

“Why would she be in Newton-upon-Sea in the first place?”

“Precisely,” Nancy said. “Young Beaty’s gone batty, if you ask me. Must have taken to nipping on his father’s tonic.”

Alexandra laid her fork and knife aside and stared into the space behind Nancy as if she would find an answer there. “I don’t think that’s the case,” she said.

Nancy gave her a surprised look. “Surely you don’t believe—”

She turned her gaze to Nancy. “I
do
believe Young Beaty thinks he saw the queen, and I
don’t
believe he was delusional because of alcohol or anything else. I simply don’t know why he thinks he saw her.”

“You’ve always been a bit gullible, now, haven’t you, Miss Alex?” Nancy dabbed her napkin at her mouth and stood to clear the table. “As for the Beatys, like father, like son, I say, and there’s no question that the senior Beaty likes his spirits, so it follows that—”

“Nancy…”

“Very well, but if he wasn’t drinking, then why would he say such nonsense? Her Majesty indeed!”

“As I said, I simply don’t know.”

“Could be he’s lying.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows. “Why would he lie?”

“To protect someone. Maybe he really does know who did it. Or maybe he did it himself.”

Alexandra rubbed her throbbing temples. “Don’t assume I didn’t think of that, but—”

“But you don’t like thinking that, I know,” Nancy said. “Don’t like thinking Young Beaty could be a killer.”

“If he killed the woman, why would he bring her body to the undertaker, knowing he would notify the constable?”

Nancy shrugged. “To make himself look innocent?”

Alexandra didn’t respond. She sat motionless for a few seconds, contemplating Young Beaty’s puzzling pronouncement, before she stood and made her way down the long, dark hall that led to the surgery. It was the same routine they followed every night. While Nancy cleaned up after the meal, Alexandra went to the surgery to make certain all the notes on the patients she’d seen that day were complete. Later, they would meet in the parlor to read awhile before bed.

Nancy had already settled into her favorite chair next to the fire when Alexandra entered the parlor. Nancy was engrossed in one of her romantic novels that often caused her to gasp and squirm in her chair or wipe a tear from her eye. Alexandra had learned not to disturb her. Instead she picked up the book she’d been reading—a relatively recent publication of a book by the American Henry James.

When she’d first started reading the novel, titled
The American,
she’d been fascinated by the confrontation of New World and Old World societies, but now she found it tedious and difficult and completely incapable of holding her interest. She could think of nothing other than Young Beaty and his claim of seeing the queen in the graveyard and of Nancy’s suggestion—more plausible than she wanted to admit—that he could be the killer.

She bid Nancy good night, although she wasn’t certain the maid heard her, involved as she was in the book she held in her hand. Sleep didn’t come easily. Had it not been for Zack’s rhythmical and soft snore lulling her as he lay on a rug next to her bed, she might never have slept.

The next morning, as soon as she’d had her breakfast, she started on her rounds. Her last patient was the six-year-old son of Berth and Hugh Mason, whom she’d ordered confined to his bed with croup. He smelled of the camphor and coal oil–soaked cloth she’d placed on his chest the day before, but he was much improved. There was nothing to do except tell Berth to keep him in bed one more day and feed him warm liquids. That meant she finished her rounds early and had just enough time to stop by the Beaty cottage. She wanted very much to talk to Young Beaty again.

Wilma opened the door after Alexandra knocked. She didn’t speak for a few seconds, obviously surprised to see the doctor. Judging by the expression on her face, Alexandra surmised that she might be a little dismayed to see her as well.

“Oh!” Wilma said, finally. “We…we didn’t send for you, Dr. Gladstone. There must be some mistake.” She backed away as she spoke, as if she didn’t want to be too close to the doctor. “Everyone here is in the best of health. No need for a doctor. No need at all.”

“I know you didn’t send for me, Wilma, and I don’t mean to intrude.” Alexandra spoke softly, trying to calm Wilma. “I only wanted to stop by to talk to Young Beaty. I was concerned that he—”

“He’s not here,” Wilma said, interrupting her. Her eyes had grown wide with what appeared to be fright. “He’s down at the oyster beds. Beds needed tending, you see. Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“I see,” Alexandra said. Odd, she thought, that Beaty would find the need to tend the oyster beds now. The annual Oyster Harvest Festival had ended two weeks ago. Most oystermen had already groomed their beds by the time of the festival.

“Don’t know when he’ll be back.” Wilma tried once again to close the door.

“Are you all right, Wilma?”

“Of course,” she replied a little too quickly. She hesitated for a moment, as if she couldn’t decide whether or not to try to close the door again. “I’m weary to the bone,” she added. “I guess you can see that.”

“Do you need—”

“All I need is for Old Beaty to stop his moans and his demands day and night. ’Tis bothering me husband, too, you know. Gets beside hisself sometimes, Husband does. Says things he don’t mean. Like seeing the queen.” She tried to laugh, but it came out sounding strained. “He never meant a word of that, you know. ’Twas just his way of…well, what I mean…he never meant a word of…gets beside himself, he does. What with his father…” She let the words hang in the air while her eyes pleaded with Alexandra to accept her lies.

“Certainly I didn’t think it likely he really saw the queen,” Alexandra said. She saw some of the tension go out of Wilma as she spoke. “But he was acting strangely, and that gave me cause to worry. Is he sleeping well? Perhaps I could leave some powders to help him rest.”

“No, no. No need at all. He sleeps like a babe. Oh!” she exclaimed and jerked her head toward the stairs. “There he is again. Old Beaty calling for attention. Thank you for stopping. Thank you.” Her last words were muffled as she finally closed the door.

Alexandra left the Beaty cottage feeling even more concerned. Wilma was now acting as oddly as her husband was. There had been no call from Old Beaty. For some reason, Wilma didn’t want to talk to Alexandra. It occurred to her that Young Beaty could be having hallucinations and Wilma was trying to protect him from embarrassment. She’d seen wives react that way before. Young Beaty was still in his fifties, and while it wasn’t unheard of, it was certainly not common for a man of that age to begin a decline into dementia. Was he drinking heavily? No sign of that and no gossip to indicate it was so. In a village the size of Newton-upon-Sea, word would spread if a member of the community took to drink. Nancy would be among the first to know. She had her ways of getting people to confide in her, but there’d been no mention of it from Nancy or anyone else. It concerned her still that Wilma and Young Beaty could have a more sinister reason for their strange behavior. But killing an old woman? Why? She couldn’t imagine a motive.

Alexandra was still contemplating the odd behavior of the Beatys when she arrived at her home and turned her mare over to Rob and Artie. She called out to Nancy as she entered the house while Zack went immediately to his favorite spot in front of the fireplace, where a coal fire was blazing. He dropped himself with a thud and with no hint of grace onto his stomach with his rear to the fire.

“Lunch is almost ready, miss,” Nancy said, appearing suddenly from the back. “I made a meat pie from the leftover beef.”

“Yes, of course,” Alexandra said, without knowing she’d said anything.

“You’re distracted,” Nancy said, stepping closer to peer at Alexandra’s face. “Someone have a troubling illness?”

“No. All of my patients seem to be doing well.”

“Except whom?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re worried about something. Or someone.”

“Well,” Alexandra said with a sigh. “Wilma is acting as strangely as her husband. I’m a bit concerned about both of them.” She hadn’t wanted to discuss it with Nancy, thinking it would likely breed gossip, but she knew better than to resist Nancy’s uncanny ability to read her temperament and the subsequent cajoling for answers.

“Quite natural that they would be acting strangely,” Nancy said. “If one is to assume Young Beaty wasn’t lying about finding a dead woman and seeing the queen, I mean. Neither of those things is something a person does every day, you know. Might upset anyone.” She was walking toward the kitchen, where they often took their meals.

Alexandra followed Nancy into the kitchen. “He did find the dead woman. I suppose that’s upsetting enough.”

“We can never know what gets into a person,” Nancy said as she sliced the pie. “Could be Old Beaty is driving him mad.”

“That’s the excuse Wilma gave,” Alexandra said as she unfolded a napkin and placed it on her lap.

“You’re wise to listen to her. A wife knows her husband’s mind better than he knows it himself.”

Alexandra made no attempt to argue with Nancy and managed to steer the conversation to more mundane subjects as they ate their meal. When they finished, Alexandra made her way to the surgery to see patients while Nancy saw to cleaning the kitchen. Later, she joined Alexandra in the surgery to straighten and organize the shelves of herbs and chemicals they kept on hand. The number of people visiting the surgery was light compared to the day before. Alexandra and Nancy were both grateful for the less taxing day and were looking forward to closing the surgery early when Zack came bounding in from the living quarters barking and sounding agitated—something he rarely did, since, over the years, he’d grown quite used to patients coming and going all day. He barked only when he sensed something unusual.

“There’s someone out there in a carriage,” Nancy said, peering through the window. “No one we know comes in a carriage.” She made it sound as if arriving in a carriage was a distasteful act. “No wonder Zack is causing such a ruckus. That’s a stranger out there.”

“Open the door and bid him come in,” Alexandra said as she spread a clean sheet on the examination table.

Nancy had not quite made her way to the door when several loud and rapid knocks sounded, and Zack’s barking became even more urgent.

“Patience! Patience!” Nancy called as she fumbled with the lock. “Breaking the door down doesn’t improve the service. There! I have it,” she said as the lock clicked. “Now calm yourself before you…Oh! It’s you!”

“Nicholas!” Alexandra said, as the visitor entered. Zack growled while the fur on his neck lifted.

“Lord Dunsford!” Nancy said at the same time.

“Please come in,” Alexandra said. She was silently chastising herself for not addressing him by his title, even though he had long ago insisted she call him Nicholas. “I’m surprised to see you. I had no idea you were in Newton. I thought you were in—”

“In London, of course. Where I should be,” Nicholas said as he stepped inside. He kept a wary eye on Zack, who growled again. For some reason, Zack had taken a disliking to Nicholas. Nancy insisted it was because Nicholas had too much interest in Alexandra, making Zack jealous.

“Shush, Zack,” Alexandra said. “Are you ill?” Alexandra asked, scrutinizing Nicholas, taking in his tall frame, dark hair, and hyacinth-blue eyes, and skin a little too swarthy for the average Englishman. All in all, he appeared in fine fettle.

“Quite fit.” Nicholas took his eyes off Zack long enough to address Alexandra. “It’s my mother who needs your attention.”

“Your mother? I didn’t know she was in the parish,” Alexandra said, reaching for her bag. “Fetch my cloak, please, Nancy, and tell the boys to saddle Lucy.”

“You’ll ride with me in my carriage. No need to saddle the little mare,” Nicholas said.

“My cloak, Nancy!” Alexandra said, with a wave of her hand toward the maid. She turned back to Nicholas and noticed the perspiration on his upper lip and his restless manner. He was obviously concerned about his mother. “What’s the nature of Lady Forsythe’s complaint?”

“She says there is pain in her heart,” Nicholas said.

“I see.” Alexandra reached for a bottle of distilled foxglove and dropped it into her bag. “Any other symptoms? Nausea? Vomiting?”

“I don’t believe so,” Nicholas said, “but she does keep clutching her side and cries out that it is burning.”

Alexandra nodded and reached for another bottle to drop into her bag. By now, Nancy had returned with her cloak. Nicholas grabbed it quickly and draped it over Alexandra’s shoulders.

Nicholas took her arm. “I must warn you that Lady Forsythe will not be an easy patient. She can be…unpleasant.”

“Please don’t concern yourself.” Alexandra was not inexperienced with difficult patients.

“And she’s not likely to trust you,” he added as he helped her into the carriage.

“Then why did she send for me?”

Nicholas waited until he had made his way around to the other side of the carriage and had taken up the reins before he answered. “She didn’t send for you. That was my decision.”

Alexandra breathed a weary sigh. “Then she most likely will indeed be difficult. Perhaps I should have—”

“Should have refused to come?” Nicholas said, interrupting her and sounding agitated. “You don’t understand. She is gravely ill.”