Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) (14 page)

“
Nancy,” she called. “Bring me a mixture of—”

“Here it is, Miss.”
Nancy spoke to her from the doorway where she was carrying a bowl and pestle. “A mixture of elm and lobelia leaves with a sprinkling of bloodroot to keep down the proud flesh.”

Alexandra nodded, feeling grateful for
Nancy’s efficiency. Obviously, she had made the same diagnosis and prepared the mixture in anticipation of Alexandra’s orders. She also immediately went to a cabinet and pulled out supplies for stitching up the wound.

“I hope the animal wasn
’t rabid,” Alexandra said, still watching for the reaction of the boys.

The expression in their eyes grew even more alarmed, still, they said nothing for several seconds. Finally the older one, who had only a few puncture wounds on his hands, spoke. “You
’re the one, ain’t you? The one at the pier last night with the damnable beast.”

Alexandra didn
’t answer, but she looked up from her work, and the boy’s eyes caught hers.

“Quince said you
’re the one,” the boy continued. “He told us to come here. That was before…”

The boy seemed unwilling to say more, but the younger boy, Artie, urged him. “Go on, tell her.”

There was a long silence and Alexandra had to encourage them to continue. “Quince told you to come here before…”

“Quince is dead,” the older boy said. “Murdered.”

Chapter Twelve

It took Nicholas a moment to realize that the cry he heard following the gun shot had come from him. He became aware of a warm trickle of blood down his face and into his eyes and of a burning
sensation high on his forehead and realized the bullet had only grazed his head. Yet, he was bleeding profusely. He heard the two men who had accosted him run away into the darkness. His confusion lingered as he tried to decide whether to pursue them or see to his own wound.

In the next instant he heard someone groaning and remembered the coach driver. Wiping the blood away from his eyes, he moved in the direction of the sound.

“Is that you, Driver? Are you all right?” He groped his way in the darkness until he stumbled upon the man, still lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.

The man groaned again. “Oooh, me bloody head feels like it
’s been crushed.” He groped for Nicholas’s hand. “Where’s the coach? And the ’orses?”

As if in answer, one of horses neighed from a short distance away where the team had run with the coach. Apparently the darkness kept them from traveling too far.

“Oooh! Me bloody head.” the driver said again as Nicholas helped him get to his feet. “How about you, sir? Are ye all right?”

“Yes, quite. Just a little scrape.” Nicholas dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Did the buggars rob ye blind? Where’d they go? I hope ye shot ’em dead.” The driver kicked at the ground as if he was looking for the bodies.

“They only got a few pounds, and no, they
’re not dead. They simply ran away.” Nicholas felt relieved that the bleeding from his forehead had subsided.

“Well, that
’s the young for ye.” The driver spoke over his shoulder as he hobbled toward the coach and horses. “None of ’em’s got any backbone. None of ’em wants to do the job right. Not even the bloody thieves.”

London
was just beginning to awaken when the coach with its two wounded pulled up to Nicholas’s residence in Kensington. He offered to have Morton, his manservant, take the driver to his own personal physician to see about his head wound, but the driver refused. In the end, Nicholas gave him five pounds and extracted a promise that he would see a physician on his own. The driver took the money and left Nicholas with the distinct impression that he had no intention of keeping his promise.

For his own part, Nicholas was equally unwilling to take the time to see a doctor, but he allowed Morton to clean the wound, which did indeed turn out to be superficial. While Morton was seeing to the wound, Nicholas was compelled to answer a barrage of questions about his well being and about what, exactly, had occurred and whether or not the thieves were recognizable.

It was out of character for Morton to be either curious or talkative, but given the circumstances and their long-term relationship, Nicholas was willing to forgive the impropriety.

“I
’m afraid I do have some bad news, however.” Nicholas spoke as he removed the soiled linen shirt he wore. “Lord Dunsford is dead.”

Morton accepted the shirt. “Yes, sir.
The news had already reached London. I understand there was a big funeral. Almost all of Parliament was there, as well as the queen herself. I was surprised you didn’t return for the funeral, sir.”

“I
’m afraid I’ve gotten involved in some of the legal aspects of Lord Dunsford’s death. Found it difficult to leave.”

“Yes
, sir. Shall I draw your bath, sir?”

Morton, who now seemed assured Nicholas had not been seriously harmed, was his old efficient and proper self again. There were no probing questions about why Nicholas had returned or whether or not he might be going back to
Newton-Upon-Sea. Nicholas would confide in Morton eventually, but for now, he wanted to concentrate on finding Lord Winningham, as well as finding out as much about his alleged motive as possible.

Once he was bathed and dressed and had convinced Morton to replace the bandage on his forehead with a smaller, less conspicuous one, he left for Winningham
’s London house. He was in need of sleep, but the bath and a light meal had revived him.

Nicholas
had thought for some time about what he might say to Lord Winningham. It was obvious he couldn’t very well ask him outright about the incident the servants had been discussing and whether or not he’d killed Eddie to keep him quiet. All he could hope for was to talk to him, to try to get him to talk as well. He also wanted to check on the valet’s story and see if there was a way to prove or disprove it. That would require his paying a call on Isabel. He’d learned in his limited contact with her that she seemed to know all the worst gossip about everyone.

When his carriage stopped in front of the Winningham
’s residence, he told the driver to wait, then walked to the front door to knock. There was an unusually long wait before a servant finally came to the door.

“Nicholas Forsythe,” he said, handing the butler his card. “I
’d like to see Lord Winningham, please.”

“Lord Winningham is not present.” The butler started to close the door, but Nicholas stopped him by putting his hand on the door frame.

“Perhaps I could wait, then.”

“I
’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. Lord Winningham is not expected back for several days.” He started to close the door again, and again Nicholas stopped him.

“Gone is he? But he
’s hardly had time to return from Montmarsh. Why would he be gone again?”

“I
’m sure I don’t know, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“What
’s wrong, Chapman? Who’s there?” Lady Margaret, the Countess of Winningham, emerged from the parlor, craning her wrinkled and sagging neck to see what was happening. “Is that you, Nicholas? Why, of course it is. Show him in, Chapman.”

Chapman stood aside and without allowing his eyes to focus on Nicholas, took his hat and cloak.

The countess walked toward him with her hands outstretched. “Oh, Nicholas, I’m so glad you’re here.” She caught her breath. “My dear, what has happened to your head?”

“Just a scratch, My Lady. A silly accident.”

She allowed him to kiss one of her hands. “Chapman, see that we have tea in the morning room.”

Nicholas followed his hostess into a room with walls papered with delicate pastel flowers and hung with blue velvet drapes. Several sentimental paintings of pastoral scenes vied with the patterned wallpaper. A rose colored settee and chairs were clustered around a tea table, and a collection of miniature paintings and photogravures as well as crystal and porcelain figurines added to the clutter.

Lady Winningham looked equally over-decorated in her ruffled lace collar and cuffs and her old-fashioned lace cap.

“Nicholas, my dear boy, it is so kind of you to call.” Lady Winningham settled herself into one of the lurid settees. “You have no idea how upset I
’ve been over the events at Montmarsh and with no one to console me now that Winnie’s gone off.” She fanned herself with a lace handkerchief. “It was terribly distressing, you know, and you’d think that Winnie would be more understanding. But he’s nowhere near as sensitive as you are, dear boy,” she said as she leaned slightly toward him.

“Lord Winningham was compelled to travel again?” Nicholas had to force himself not to shrink back from her.

Lady Winningham gave her handkerchief a little fling, as if she were brushing the idea away, and the heavy sweet scent of gardenias wafted around her. “Winnie’s always running off. To Norfolk mostly. Although he hates it there, in spite of the fact that the estate is quite grand and lovely. Too remote he says. Too many country bumpkins, he says. Our son is living there now, with his wife, who in spite of her impeccable lineage, has no taste at all when it comes to decor.”

“Indeed,” Nicholas said with a furtive glance around the room. A maid brought in a tray of tea and sandwiches, and Lady Winningham began to pour.

“Our son will inherit, of course, and he’s quite happy there and does an excellent job of overseeing the estate. Winnie always says so himself, so I don’t understand why he’s always running up there to see about it. Winnie can be terribly obtuse at times. And our daughter-in-law, who will one day be Countess Winningham after I’m gone, simply does not have the
elan
one needs for the title, although, as I said, her lineage is impeccable. But one learns to recognize that it takes more than blood lines, doesn’t one? My own blood lines, I admit, are not so impeccable, but one is, nevertheless, born with a certain affinity, don’t you agree? Winnie recognizes this, too, of course, and he has little patience for the country-lass image our daughter-in-law projects. No more than he has patience for the remoteness of Oxbow, our estate in Norfolk. So why is he always in such a state to go there? It’s rather mysterious. In fact, he seemed quite anxious to be home the whole time we were at Montmarsh. I think that brassy Mrs. Atewater got on his nerves. Do you think it is right that I told the justice I saw her coming out of poor Eddie’s room? I rather wish I hadn’t, for it means I shall have to testify again.” She placed a hand delicately on her chest and tried to look weakened. “But one has to do one’s duty to the queen, doesn’t one?”

When Lady Winningham finally stopped her chatter long enough to take a breath, Nicholas put down his teacup and threw another morsel of bait to her. “Of course you did the right thing by telling the justice everything,
my lady. And as for Lord Winningham, perhaps he simply doesn’t want to worry you with his affairs.” Nicholas’s pun was unintentional. He quite literally suspected, judging by his reputation, Lord Winningham was, indeed, having an affair and using his travels to Norfolk as a cover. But there had never been any evidence or gossip either, for that matter, that Lord Winnie dallied with anyone other than the opposite sex. Perhaps his indiscretion the valet mentioned, if it happened at all, was just an experiment, but one that could cost him his reputation. Was Lord Winningham sufficiently worried about that to commit murder?

The Countess sank back into her chair and assumed a suffering expression. “Not wanting me to worry certainly has never been his concern before. The hours he keeps
. Why, many are the mornings when he’s been out all…” She stopped herself, as if she had said too much and fanned herself with her handkerchief again, causing the overwhelmingly sweet scent to waft toward Nicholas. “I don’t know, dear boy. I never concern myself with the affairs of our estates. And anyway, Winnie can be terribly inconsiderate. He never tells me anything.”

Nicholas made himself reach for her hand. “Now, now
, Lady Winningham, you mustn’t get yourself worked up, I know the events at Montmarsh were stressful for you.”

She put her other hand over his, and Nicholas thought he could see a forced tear in her eye. “You are such a comfort, dear. I
’ve needed someone to confide in. Especially since Winnie’s been acting so strangely lately.”

“Strangely?” Nicholas allowed his fingers to close slightly tighter around her hand.

“Why yes.” She gave him a wan, affected smile. “I thought he actually seemed to be avoiding Lord Dunsford for a while, and then I was surprised when he accepted his invitation to join him at Montmarsh, although one could hardly afford to refuse such an important social event, could one? Still, Winnie seemed rather edgy the entire time we were there. Wanted to come home early. But then after the…the unspeakable event, he actually seemed to relax a bit. That is until we left for home, and he became edgy again and said he would have to leave soon for Norfolk. It seemed foolish to make such a long trip when he’ll have to make yet another trip to Montmarsh in less than a fortnight. We will both be compelled to testify, you know. I should think I’ve done my duty by testifying at the preliminary hearing and shouldn’t have to return for the trial. One does hope the Queen’s Bench recognizes there are certain limits as to what a lady wishes to do.”

“Of course,” Nicholas said, although he wasn
’t at all sure of what Lady Winningham had said. He was still thinking about Lord Winningham. It was indeed odd that he’d gone off to Norfolk with the trial date so near.

“I should have thought Winnie would be as upset about being called as a witness as I am.” Lady Winningham patted her bosom with her handkerchief. “Oddly enough, though he said something about it all being his good fortune.”

Nicholas leaned forward. “In what context, Countess?”

Lady Winningham slipped her hand from his and leaned back in her chair again, a weary gesture. “Oh, I
’m not sure. I was weeping over poor Eddie’s death, and Winnie said something to me about in the midst of tragedy, one can find good fortune, but then, as I said, he became edgy again and said he had to make sure his fortune wasn’t lost by the diligence of others and that one had to be careful what he said in court. Which I’m sure you know, my dear boy.”

Nicholas frowned. “Just what was the good fortune he was speaking of?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Could it be he thought he was fortunate to have the opportunity to help solve poor Eddie’s murder by appearing as a witness at the trial?” Lady Winningham shook her head. “Not like Winnie at all, you know. He hates that sort of thing. I rather think it had something to do with an investment, although what, I can’t imagine. It’s just that Eddie was always pulling his friends into investments with him. I’m surprised he didn’t do the same to you.” Lady Winningham fanned her bosom again.