The Anatomist's Wife (18 page)

“He wouldn’t let you paint unless you assisted him with his anatomy book?” he guessed.

I nodded. “I . . . I don’t know if you can understand, but . . . my artwork is everything
to me.” I blinked up at him. “If I were not able to paint, well, it would be like
perdition. Like . . . losing part of my soul.” He did not speak, but the compassion
in his eyes told me he grasped what I was trying to say. I turned back to my skirts
as the flush in my cheeks cooled. “I did not want to help my husband with his anatomical
sketches, but I didn’t want to lose my painting
privileges
,” I almost spat the word, “even more.”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to remember. “The first dissection was like
a living nightmare. The rancid smells, the shush and pop of his instruments slicing
into flesh and spreading open the chest cavity, the welling blood and bulging organs.
I vomited less than a minute into the procedure. Sir Anthony told me that now that
my stomach was empty, it wouldn’t happen again, and the next time I would remember
not to eat anything beforehand.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice as I recalled
his pompous tone when he talked down to me where I knelt on the floor of his examining
room while my body still shook from stomach contractions. “Each time he would slice
into the man on his dissection table, I thought I would faint. And the idea that I
might collapse on top of the corpse, or that Sir Anthony might reach out to catch
me with his blood-smeared hands, made me want to run screaming from the room.”

I paused and sucked in a steadying breath, feeling light-headed just from the memories.
Gage reached out to rub a hand over my back in comfort. His touch reminded me I was
no longer in the past, but grounded firmly in the present. I leaned closer to him,
wanting to feel the warmth of his leg against mine.

“I don’t know how exactly I made it through that first time. But I will never forget
Frederick Oliver.” I looked up into Gage’s questioning eyes. “That was the name of
the man on the dissection table. Sir Anthony did not have names for all of the subjects
he examined, or at least he didn’t tell them to me, but I did know the name of the
first. Frederick Oliver was not particularly attractive or healthy, but seeing him
as a man still helped me somehow. I . . . I tried to imagine him as a subject for
one of my portraits. A very odd and . . . disconcerting subject.” Gage’s eyes crinkled
into a smile. “He wasn’t the first disconcerting subject I’d had, after all,” I tried
to explain. “I had painted a portrait of Lord and Lady Acklen a year before, and Lord
Acklen had the most disquieting way of looking at me while I worked.”

His eyes hardened at the mention of Acklen’s name. “I can well imagine,” he muttered
dryly. “Acklen is a scoundrel of the highest order.”

“Oh,” I replied, suddenly seeing that strange experience in a different light. “I
wonder if that explains why he kept trying to convince me to paint some fellow named
John Thomas.” Gage sounded as if he were choking. “I told him I probably could, but
I would have to meet him first.”

“I hope you had a male escort with you during those sessions?” He seemed angry for
some reason.

“My father always insisted that my brother accompany me to their house. And Lady Acklen
was, of course, present, since she was also in the portrait.”

Gage nodded in satisfaction, and I blinked at him quizzically. “Go on.”

I swallowed, thinking back to where I’d stopped.

“How long did you sketch for Sir Anthony?” he asked, helping me.

“On and off for almost three years. There were weeks when Sir Anthony insisted on
dissecting one part or another each and every day, and then two months would go by
when we did nothing.”

“Did he autopsy a new body every day?” he questioned in shock.

“No. He used the same body for several days, up to a week, until the body began to
decompose too quickly.” I cringed, remembering how the stench increased with each
passing day the corpse spent on Sir Anthony’s table.

“Where did the bodies come from?”

I shook my head sharply. “I honestly do not know. I did not want to. Perhaps that
was wrong of me, but I’m not certain I could have handled knowing. What would I have
done with the information anyway? A magistrate would never have listened to me, and
if Sir Anthony had discovered I tried to tell someone . . .” I shivered. “It was better
to keep quiet.” I rubbed my fingers over my amethyst necklace. “I did see two men
come to the servants’ door one night, but I didn’t stay to see what they wanted. I
told the magistrate that.”

“I thought you didn’t go to a magistrate?”

“Not then. Later.”

“So you had nothing to do with the requisition of the bodies as Mr. Fitzpatrick claimed.”

“Correct. I did not go wandering through the streets at night ‘searching for victims.’
Nor did I ‘seduce men to their early graves,’” I retorted, repeating just a few of
the charges leveled at me. “If Sir Anthony performed a human vivisection, I was never
present for it,” I added, thinking back on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s words that day in the
library. “I would not have been able to handle that.” The blood drained from my face
at the thought of someone being forced to endure being dissected alive. I shook my
head hard.

“And you don’t have to tell me you’re not a cannibal.” Gage rubbed my back again.
“I already know that.”

I nodded and swallowed.

“So how did Sir Anthony die? And what happened afterward?”

“An apoplexy,” I explained. “At least, that’s what his physician said. I was not there
when it happened, and I had no reason to doubt the man.” I tilted my head to the side.
“In light of everything, I’m glad I wasn’t there. Otherwise, I’m afraid I might have
been blamed for his demise as well.” I shook my head. “He was buried, and I prepared
to move into my brother’s house because I knew Sir Anthony’s town house was to go
to his cousin. Then, during the reading of his will, his friend Dr. Mayer was given
the finished pages of his anatomy textbook and asked to see that the project was finished.
My name was not attached to the manuscript, so I assumed I was finally free of it.
No one but Sir Anthony and an old assistant of his, who lived in Edinburgh at the
time the will was read, knew that I had anything to do with the book.” I sighed. “Sadly,
I was wrong.

“Of course, I was aware that my husband could not sketch with much skill, but I had
no idea that his colleagues often mocked him for it. Dr. Mayer instantly suspected
my involvement, but I didn’t know that until he and a few more of Sir Anthony’s friends
stopped by for a not-so-friendly chat a few days later.” I pulled my knees up to my
chest and hugged them. I felt like I was facing their inquisition once again, having
names and epithets hurled my way. “I didn’t know that I should have kept my mouth
shut. Instead, I tried to make them understand. But they treated me like I was some
sort of monstrosity.”

I shook my head. “I’ve always been aware of society’s double standard when it comes
to women. Ladies are expected to look the other way while gentlemen indulge in affairs
and other amoral behavior, but ladies must remain virtuous and above reproach. And,
apparently, while a man may take part in a dissection without censure, the thought
of a woman doing so is so beyond the pale as to be a criminal atrocity.”

Gage’s fingers brushed across the skin of my neck as he rubbed my upper back in comfort.
“Were Sir Anthony’s colleagues the ones who notified the magistrate?”

I nodded. “They sent two Bow Street Runners for me the next day. Fortunately, I had
the foresight to move to my brother’s house the evening before, and my brother insisted
on taking me to the Magistrates’ Court in his carriage. He also sent word to Philip,
who was in town.” I sat up straighter so that I could look at him. “Trevor and Philip
were able to convince the magistrate to have my case thrown out on the grounds that
I had been following my husband’s orders and they had no proof to say otherwise. But
the damage was done. Everyone in the courtroom heard the charges leveled against me.
By the time we left, the streets had filled with people jeering me and calling me
a witch and a murderer. They threw things at the carriage and camped outside my brother’s
door until I left London.”

“They were frightened because of the Burke and Hare case in Edinburgh, afraid that
people in London were also being murdered and sold to surgeons and medical schools
by enterprising grave robbers.”

“I know. But I assure you, understanding the reasoning behind their reactions does
not make me feel better about it, especially since I’m innocent of the crimes they
charged me with.”

He grimaced sympathetically and rubbed the muscles of my neck and up into my hair.
His touch made my skin tingle and helped the horrors of the past to fade into the
background of my thoughts. I tilted my head so that it rested lightly on his shoulder,
wanting to touch and be touched after all the dreadful events of the day.

“What are you going to do?” I had been reluctant to ask it, but the question hovered
on my lips and simply would not disappear.

His hand stilled but did not lift from my neck, so I did not move my head. I could
smell the dirt and sweat clinging to his clothes and skin.

“Well,” he began in a low voice. “We now have several more pieces of evidence besides
the scissors—a bloody apron and two shawls.”

“What did the second shawl look like?”

He glanced down at me in question.

“I heard you describe the first—the one with the pink roses—but what of the second?”

“It was woven with fine gold thread,” he replied, but did not elaborate.

“Then it was likely Lady Godwin’s. She wore a gold shawl to dinner the night she was
killed. I wondered about it when it did not turn up near her body. I’d planned to
look for it in her rooms.”

Gage contemplated this for a moment. “All right, so we have three pieces of evidence.
One of which was found near the crime scene, one in the baby’s grave, and another
that was placed in your studio. I suspect someone is trying to make you look guilty,
Lady Darby.”

I wished he would call me Kiera again. “Yes, and it’s no wonder why. Most of the guests
at Gairloch already blame me.”

His hand squeezed my neck in commiseration, and I felt the calluses on his palms scrape
against my skin. I wondered again why he had such rough hands.

“We need to figure out how someone was able to break in here. Perhaps they picked
the lock. Did you notice whether there were any scrapes or scratches on the doorknob?”

“I didn’t look.” I had been too shocked by it being open in the first place.

“I’ll check on my way out.”

I lifted my head to gaze up at him in curiosity. “Can
you
pick a lock?”

He smiled and a devilish twinkle entered his eyes. “Well, now. I wouldn’t be a very
good investigator if I couldn’t. But don’t go spreading that around about me.”

“Is that why you have calluses on your palms?”

He stilled as if I’d surprised him and began to lift his hand away from my neck. Then
he stopped himself and rubbed his fingers across my nape. “No. That’s from fencing.”

He must be quite a serious swordsman to develop such tough skin, and wield his weapon
with both hands in order to raise such calluses on each. “Don’t you wear gloves?”

He hesitated again, and I glanced up at him in curiosity. “Not often,” he finally
replied. “I like to feel the sword against my skin. It gives me a better grip.”

I tilted my head. “I think I understand.” He lifted his eyebrows as if to ask me to
elaborate. “It’s like with a paintbrush. I need the hold and the angle to be just
right, and I can’t correctly feel the pressure of the canvas or the texture of the
paint already applied if I’m wearing gloves.”

He smiled as if I’d said something amusing. “Yes. That’s exactly right.”

I tried to smile back, but the muscles felt strange after all of the scowling and
crying I had done.

“Well.” He pushed himself hastily to his feet, and I suddenly got the impression he
was eager to change the subject. “I would like to ask Mrs. MacLean about the scissors,
shawl, and apron tomorrow.” He reached out a hand to help me up. “And see if her staff
or any of the guests’ servants have reported any items missing. Then maybe we should
start questioning the guests again.”

I brushed the back of my skirt off. “Why not tonight?”

He waited until I met his eye before answering. “Because people have a tendency to
see things that aren’t there and give sensational answers when it’s dark outside.”
He pointed up through the skylight. “Especially if there’s a full moon.”

I stared up at the bright luminescent orb for a moment before turning back to him.
“Do you know this from experience or is that superstition talking?”

He twisted his lips. “It is unfortunately a well-known truism among sheriffs, constables,
and military men that more trouble breaks out during a full moon than any other time
of the month.”

I lifted my eyebrows in skepticism but opted not to argue with him. I didn’t know
that I agreed with his full-moon theory, but it was true in my case, at least, that
I tended to be more easily frightened at night. I supposed this fell under the same
scope of his explanation.

“Are you retiring?”

“No. I thought I would stay here awhile,” I replied, reluctant to return to my room.
Sleep would not come easy for me tonight, and I knew I would spend at least half of
it pacing up and down the length of my chamber, as I had the previous night.

Gage’s expression darkened. “I really don’t think that is a good idea.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Have you forgotten that someone recently broke into this room?”

“Well . . .” I paused, trying to come up with an argument. “Did they pick the lock?”

He arched an eyebrow at the irritable tone of my voice and then marched across the
room to examine the doorknob. “It appears so. Unless you are particularly bad at sliding
your key into the slot?” He glanced up at me in challenge.