The Anatomist's Wife (19 page)

“Then they can pick the lock on my bedroom door just as easily.”

He glared at me. “Yes. But someone can hear you if you scream in your bedchamber.”

“I’ll prop a chair underneath the doorknob,” I offered weakly, realizing I was not
going to win this argument, and uncertain I even wanted to. The prospect of traversing
through the darkened corridors of the castle alone made my heart begin to race.

“And then if you accidentally set a fire, you won’t be able to get out. No, Lady Darby.
I am not leaving you here alone.”

I sighed in feigned irritation, not wanting to appear that I had given in easily,
and gathered up my sketchbook and the leather container holding my charcoal. If I
was to be forced back to my bedchamber, then at least I could take some of my sketching
materials with me. My eyes snagged on the bloody apron lying on the floor. “What are
we going to do with that?”

“I’ll take it,” he said, picking it up carefully in a spot that was not stained with
red. He held it away from his body and glanced around the room. “Do you have something
I might be able to carry it in?”

I emptied out a small box that held old brushes and palette knives and handed it to
him. He stuffed the apron inside, closed the lid, and then swiped his hand down his
trousers. We each blew out a lamp. Then I waited patiently until the last ember on
each wick died before following him through the door.

“Oh, no,” I realized. “We still don’t have a key, and this door
must
be locked.”

Gage looked down at me. “That important?”

“Yes!”

His answering smile told me he was getting far too much enjoyment from exasperating
me. “Give me one of your hairpins.”

I arched a brow at him curiously and extracted a pin from my hair. A heavy lock of
hair tumbled down over my shoulder. He seemed momentarily distracted by the chestnut
tresses. “Here,” I said, gesturing with the hairpin. He snatched it from my hand and
knelt in front of the door.

I tried to watch what he was doing, but the light was too dim and his broad shoulders
blocked most of my view.

“There.” He stood and tugged soundly on the doorknob several times. “That should hold.”
He handed me my hairpin, now twisted oddly. “Unless someone has a key or decides to
pick it again.”

I nodded, impressed by his speed. How often did Gage go about picking locks and locking
them again? Of course, I knew nothing about locks. Perhaps it was much easier to bolt
a door than unbolt it. I vowed to find out.

“Now,” he declared. “If there are no further impediments, let’s get you back to your
room.”

I rolled my eyes at the familiar gleam in his eyes that told me he was pleased to
have gotten his way. He clearly believed he had maneuvered me into returning to my
bedchamber by overcoming all my faulty objections. I decided it was better not to
correct him, and instead clung tighter to his arm as we passed through the dark corridors
at the top of the castle where the lit wall sconces were few and far between.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
he world was warm and hazy when I floated toward consciousness the next morning, and
I lingered there, pulling at the threads of a dream I could not remember, yet I did
not want to leave. It was cozy and happy and streamed with sunlight, and it billowed
away from me like a kite whose owner has lost hold of its string. It bobbed and drifted,
letting the wind carry it far away.

I rolled to my side and instantly regretted it. Muscles in my back and neck wrenched
in pain and something clattered to the floor. I blinked open my eyes to find myself
staring at the cold hearth. I groaned. I had fallen asleep in my chair again. Which
explained the kink in my neck and the numbness in my right arm where it was trapped
beneath my body. I shook it, trying to force some blood back into the prickling extremity,
and pushed myself up into a seated position with my left hand.

A glance at the clock on the mantel told me it was barely seven. I could still climb
into bed for a few more hours of sleep and no one would think it odd, but my sluggish
mind was slowly catching up to me. The confrontation with Lady Westlock. The discovery
of the baby’s grave. The bloody apron in my studio.

I leaned forward to cradle my head in my hands and emitted another groan, though this
one was far more despondent. There was still a murderer to be caught—one who was far
too devious and clever. I had a sick feeling in my stomach that our investigation
was not going to get any easier, or be any less emotionally fraught. There had been
no suspicious letter slid under my door the night before, something I was both relieved
and curious about. Had the sender decided to stop trying to frighten me, or had they
simply lacked the opportunity? I wanted to believe they had ceased to worry about
my threat to them, but I understood that to do so would be the height of foolishness.
If anything, the lack of a letter made me even more anxious.

I scrubbed my hands over my face and sat up. My sketchbook lay at my feet, and I realized
I must have fallen asleep while drawing. Which explained the stripe of charcoal smeared
across the mauve skirts of my gown. I sighed and bent to pick up the book. It flipped
open to a picture of a woman and child seated in a garden, my imagining of the viscountess
and her unborn daughter. Lady Godwin grinned at the child with a far more gentle and
maternal smile than I’d ever seen her use in real life. The baby cooed back, lifting
her pudgy arms toward her mother. It made me sad to think that this was the only meeting
the pair would have, short of heaven.

I sank back into my seat, studying the beautiful woman and her child. What had Lady
Godwin planned to do with the baby? It sounded as if she intended to hide away at
the home of Lady Stratford’s great-aunt until the birth, but what then? I had a hard
time believing she intended to keep the little girl. Her husband’s return from India
would have made that difficult. It seemed more likely the child would be given up
for adoption, but to whom? Had the arrangements already been made?

And what of the infant’s real father? Did he know about the child? We assumed so,
since that was our best lead on a killer with motive to both kill Lady Godwin and
destroy any evidence of the baby. But could we be on the wrong track? Perhaps someone
else had reason to wish both Lady Godwin and her child dead. I didn’t know what that
reason could be, but that made it no less a possibility. One that we had overlooked
in favor of searching for the father.

Too troubled to continue staring at my rendering of the deceased mother and child,
I flipped the page only to gaze into Gage’s laughing eyes. I wanted to pretend that
I had not spent half the night sketching images of him, but unfortunately I couldn’t.
The proof rested in my hands. Four pages had been devoted to him—one of him sitting
in the chair across the hearth from me, another of him at dinner, dressed in full
evening kit, a third of him gazing out the skylight in my art studio, and the last
of him shoveling dirt. His muscles seemed to ripple before my eyes under the fine
lawn of his shirt as he lifted another heavy load of earth. I felt my cheeks heat
at the evidence of the detail I had put into this last picture—the curve of his bottom
as he bent, the flex of his upper arms. When had I had time to notice such things
while my emotions were so jumbled with fear over what we would find?

I slammed the sketchbook closed and tossed it on the table before rising. My back
and ribs ached from too many hours constrained by a corset. I hobbled across the room
to tug the bellpull, and then stripped myself of all my clothes except my chemise.
My bones and muscles thanked me as I released them. I wrapped a blanket around me,
flopped back on the counterpane, and massaged the skin that had been rubbed painfully
by the boning of my corset.

Lucy appeared not long after with my normal breakfast fare of chocolate and toast.
My stomach growled loudly, reminding me I had forgone dinner the previous evening.
I devoured the meal while I waited for my bath to be prepared. When I finally slid
into the tub of warm water, it felt so good I thought I might decide to stay there
the entire day. I scrubbed the charcoal from my fingers and the splotches I had smeared
on my face and settled back in the water to relax.

It was while I was contemplating the stains left behind on the washcloth and that
last picture I had drawn of Gage shoveling dirt, which I could not seem to stop thinking
about, that I realized I
had
seen something of importance in the maze the night we discovered Lady Godwin’s body.
I had missed any facial expressions, but I
had
noticed the mud splattering the back of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s trousers.

I sat up sharply.

Mr. Fitzpatrick had given Gage an alibi, but was it completely sound? He could have
murdered Lady Godwin, ditched the baby in the woods nearby, as we suspected, and
then
joined the men’s conversation about horses. Later he could have gone back to retrieve
the child and bury her on the hill next to the creek.

But what was his motive in doing such a thing if he was not the father?

I frowned. Maybe Fitzpatrick had lied. Maybe he was the father. Or maybe he was jealous
of the father.

I began to scrub my body quickly. I didn’t know whether Mr. Fitzpatrick was capable
of such a thing or not. But I definitely wanted to hear his explanation for how he
managed to splatter mud halfway up the back of his leg in a dry, well-manicured garden.

•   •   •

“I
’m not certain that’s much to go on, but it is a reason to question him again,” Gage
told me after I relayed the information I remembered about Mr. Fitzpatrick. “And to
actually check his alibi with Sir David and Mr. Abingdon.”

I frowned at his unenthusiastic reaction. “Well, I didn’t say it was the key to the
investigation,” I remarked crossly. “Did you speak with Mrs. MacLean?”

He nodded and slouched deeper into the red chair he occupied in my brother-in-law’s
study. “She’s going to ask the staff to see if anyone is missing an apron. Without
any adornment, she thought it likely belonged to a servant.”

I glanced at Philip where he sat behind his desk. Some pained emotion tightened his
features.

“We have another problem,” Gage said.

I looked back and forth between the men as my heartbeat sped up. “What?”

Gage nodded toward Philip, telling him to relay the news.

“Alana knows about the baby,” he told me in a flat voice.

“How?” I asked.

“She saw me carrying the child to the chapel and demanded to know what was going on.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth in thought. I could well imagine my sister demanding
such information, but I was surprised he had given it to her. She must have pressured
him hard to make him tell her. “Where is she now?”

Philip turned to the side to look out the window. “She won’t come out of the nursery.”

That seemed a natural response, and, overall, a fairly harmless one. Of course, she
would want to be close to her children—to keep them safe. “I’ll try to talk to her,”
I assured him. “But I don’t know that it will do much good. At least, not until this
murderer is caught.”

He nodded and continued to stare out at the courtyard beyond.

My heart ached for his distress. He loved my sister so much. To see her so upset and
not be able to do anything about it must be tearing him up inside. I rounded his desk
to kneel by his chair.

“She will be all right,” I murmured as I grabbed hold of his hand. He gazed back at
me blankly. “She’s just frightened and needs to be with your children now. She knows
they are all safe and secure together in the nursery because you made it so.” His
eyes warmed a bit. “Once the killer is caught . . . And they
will
be caught, Philip. I promised her that, and I promise you. Then she will come out
of this. She will.” I squeezed his hand determinedly.

He stretched out his other hand to center a page on his desk. “Of course. You’re right,”
he said quietly and then repeated it more confidently. “You’re right.” He lifted my
hand to place a kiss on the back of it, and then helped me to my feet, already looking
more like the self-assured man I was used to. He took a deep breath and moved around
his desk toward the door. “I’ll send a servant to locate Mr. Fitzpatrick and have
him meet you here,” he told Gage. “It will give you some privacy and a greater image
of authority.”

“Thank you, Cromarty.”

He waved it off with a flick of his wrist and quit the room, closing the door behind
him.

Gage turned to look at me, his blue eyes brightened by the midnight hue of his jacket.
I spoke before he could say something I did not wish to hear. “You should sit here,”
I instructed him, touching the back of Philip’s large chair. “It will give your appearance
more weight.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Yes. I’d already planned on that.” He crossed behind the desk
to the right while I went in the opposite direction. “And just where do you propose
to sit?” It was a leading question.

“Why, right here,” I proclaimed, settling back into the red wingback chair farthest
from the door and straightening the pansy-purple skirts of my morning dress.

He sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to sit out on this one?” He
sounded so hopeful.

I smiled. “Sorry.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you are.” He gazed at me for a moment, as if trying to decide
whether to make any further effort to remove me. “All right,” he relented. “But I’ll
ask the questions.”

I nodded, not caring who interrogated the man, so long as I was present.

“You know,” he said after a minute longer of staring at me, in which I was beginning
to feel quite uncomfortable. “You shouldn’t have promised them you would catch the
killer.”

“Why not? I certainly plan to.”

“Not every investigation gets solved, no matter how diligently it is pursued.” His
words were slow and precise.

“Well,” I faltered for words, thrown off by the pity in his eyes. “
This
one is going to be.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “So stop trying to discourage
me.”

“I just wanted to make certain you . . .”

“I understand,” I stated firmly. I glared at him, telling him to change the subject.

He sighed and lifted his hands as if to ward off my evil eye. The chair squeaked as
he leaned back. “So . . . did you remember anything else you saw in the maze, or just
Mr. Fitzpatrick’s
trousers
?” The end of his question was heavy with insinuation, as if I’d been intentionally
examining the man’s lower extremities, and I resented it. The door opened before I
could respond.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Gage, but I was finishing my breakfast,” Mr. Fitzpatrick
exclaimed jovially as he entered. “Footman said you wanted to see me.”

Gage rose and reached across the desk to shake his hand. “No problem. The Cromartys
offer quite a spread, don’t they?”

“That they do. The cook must know we men need a hearty break to our fast before we
start the day.”

“You know Lady Darby.” Gage gestured my way, and Mr. Fitzpatrick stiffened.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” He recovered quickly from his shock and offered me a shallow
bow. “How do you do, my lady?”

“I am well,” I replied, deciding to be cordial. “Thank you for asking. And yourself?”

“Oh, wonderful, wonderful.”

I wondered if he planned to keep repeating his words through our entire conversation.

“Have a seat, sir,” Gage said, settling back into his own chair. “I just have a few
additional questions for you.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and shifted uncomfortably.
“Of course, of course.”

“It has come to my attention that you had mud splattered all over the back of your
trousers when you appeared in the maze after the discovery of Lady Godwin’s body.
Can you explain how it got there?”

“Oh, well,” he stammered, flicking his gaze to me once again. He leaned toward Gage
and whispered. “Is this really an appropriate conversation to be having while
she
is present?” As if I couldn’t hear him.

“
She
is here for a reason,” Gage replied with a hard glint in his eye. “Now, ignore her
and answer the question.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick huffed and fidgeted. “Well, if you really must know . . .” His gaze
shifted to me again. “I was . . . chasing Lady Lewis.”

I couldn’t stop my eyebrows from rising.

“Chasing?” Gage queried, keeping his voice and face carefully neutral.

“Yes,” he grumbled. “She promised me a kiss if I could catch her.”

A twinkle lit Gage’s eyes, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh. “I see. And
the mud?”

“I slipped in a flower patch and almost fell. It was damn embarrassing. She saw the
whole thing.” He glanced at me. “That’s when I gave up and joined Sir David and Mr.
Abingdon.”