The Anatomist's Wife (31 page)

“So his only motive for killing his wife was because she had not borne him an heir?”
Sir Graham’s voice rang with disgusted incredulity.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, who is the earl’s current heir?” he huffed. “A brother? A cousin? Was there
some animosity between them?”

“A distant cousin,” Philip answered. “A Frenchman, I believe.”

I nodded, thinking back on Stratford’s angry words the night before. “He seemed to
harbor a deep hatred of the French, something he developed during his service in the
war.”

“The man served under Wellington,” Gage confirmed, having returned to his position
next to the hearth. He rubbed his chin in thought. “He suffered several gunshot wounds,
if I recall.”

“One in his shoulder and one that grazed his scalp,” I confirmed.

Philip’s fingers drummed the arm of his chair in agitation. “What
I
would like to know is whether Stratford deliberately set about blaming his wife.”
His gaze flicked to his own wife. “I mean, how did Lady Stratford’s scissors and shawl
end up covered in blood? Did he just happen to have them in his pocket when he went
to meet Lady Godwin that night?”

I wrapped my arms around my swirling stomach and stared at my knees. “Make no mistake,
Philip. Every move Lord Stratford made from the moment he murdered Lady Godwin—with
the knife he carried in his boot, incidentally, not the embroidery shears—was deliberately
intended to direct the blame toward his wife.” Or me, I added silently. “He smeared
the scissors with blood and placed them in the maze. Then he swiped the very shawl
his wife had been wearing at dinner that night from her room and wrapped the child
in it.” My voice hardened with anger. “Even his decision to remove the baby was influenced
at least partly by his desire to point the finger at Lady Stratford.”

“All of our evidence wasn’t actually evidence at all. Even the apron,” Gage explained.
His voice was clipped, his eyes hard. “He manipulated us from the very beginning.”

“Wait.” Philip leaned forward in his chair. “Wasn’t he one of the first people to
appear after Lady Lydia screamed?”

I nodded and sighed. “And if I’d thought deeper about it at the time, I might have
realized how odd his appearance was.” The others stared at me in confusion. I reached
up to fiddle with the lapels of my dressing gown. “The buttons of his frock coat were
all off by one, as if they’d been buttoned up very quickly.” I shook my head. “I noted
it, but I was so distressed that I didn’t understand the significance.”

“Well, don’t scold yourself, Kiera.” Philip grimaced. “Stratford helped Gage and me
move the body to the cellar, and we never noticed anything suspicious.” His brow furrowed.
“The man must have had ice in his veins to be able to do such a thing and not give
himself away.”

“Likely learned from his time fighting France,” Sir Graham said grimly. “If he served
for any length of time on the peninsula, he would have had to train himself to block
off his emotions just to be able to survive.” He sighed and shook his head, as if
dismissing some troubling memory of his own. I wondered if he had spent time fighting
abroad as well. “Though killing an enemy on the battlefield is a far cry from killing
one’s own mistress and child.” He shook his head in disgust. “Did Stratford make up
an alibi?”

I thought back, trying to remember whether we had ever questioned him about it.

Gage gave a short bark of laughter. “He thought he had.” We all turned toward him
curiously. “Unfortunately, he was foolish enough to assume Lord Marsdale would cover
for him.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

His eyes crinkled with humor. “Remember when we asked Marsdale where he was during
the time of Lady Godwin’s murder? He told us he and Lord Stratford retired to the
men’s parlor for a smoke immediately after dinner.”

“Oh, yes,” I gasped in remembrance. “He told us Lord Stratford left soon after, leaving
him with no one to corroborate his alibi until Lord Lewis Effingham arrived to tell
him about the murder.”

Sir Graham appeared baffled. “Why would Lord Marsdale do such a thing?”

“Marsdale is the Duke of Norwich’s heir,” Gage muttered wryly, as if that explained
it.

And apparently Marsdale’s reputation preceded him, for Sir Graham heaved a sigh in
understanding and shook his head. “Well, in this instance, at least, it seems the
marquess’s devilry has done more good than harm, foiling Lord Stratford’s hoped-for
alibi.” A spark of amusement lit his eyes. “Perhaps I should inform the duke just
how helpful his son has been to this investigation.”

Philip’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I’m sure his grace would be happy to hear that his
wastrel heir is finally taking on some responsibility. It might tempt him to give
his son more.”

Gage laughed. “Marsdale would be so grateful to us.”

I shook my head at the men’s jesting, but I couldn’t stop the smile that curled my
own lips. Poor Marsdale. He had merely been attempting to further blacken his reputation,
and here he’d gone and done something worthwhile by being so honest. I doubted he
would find the realization so humorous.

“There’s one thing I just don’t understand,” Alana huffed in vexation. Her brow was
furrowed in serious contemplation. “If Lord Stratford went to all that trouble to
blame his wife, then why did he change his mind and decide to murder her? Wasn’t he
taking a big risk?”

The men’s good humor swiftly died, leaving a heavy silence in the room.

“Well,” I replied hesitantly, looking away from Alana’s earnest face. “I think partly
it was because he had begun to worry that he might have missed something—that something
or someone could unwittingly connect him to the crime. After all, Celeste had seen
him in his wife’s chamber the night of the murder, presumably to check in on her.
What if Celeste or Lady Stratford remembered something suspicious enough to shift
the inquiry his way?” I didn’t mention that the earl had also been worried I knew
too much, deciding Gage and my sister did not need to be privy to that information—not
if it would only worry them and earn me a scolding.

“But, mostly,” I continued, “I think it was because he needed his wife to actually
be dead before he could remarry.”

Alana’s hand lifted to cover her mouth.

“He started to realize how lengthy the trial process could be, and that there was
no guarantee his wife would be found guilty of the crime or executed for it. A guilty
verdict was likely, yes, but not certain. And here in Scotland, the jury could always
find the case simply ‘not proven,’ rather than guilty or not guilty.” I glanced at
Sir Graham for confirmation, and he nodded. “As for hanging her, well, I’m certain
you all realize that the upper classes are not particularly fond of killing their
own, particularly when the accused is titled and a female. After all, it sets a dangerous
precedent.” Justice was often skewed when it came to social class, and the upper echelons
preferred for it to stay that way. “Lord Stratford knew that while his wife still
drew breath he could not take another bride, and he understood that if he waited for
a trial, too many things could go wrong.”

Alana’s voice was sickened. “So he thought to guarantee her death himself by making
it appear as if she’d escaped and then drowned in the loch?”

“Yes.”

Her face screwed up in puzzlement. “But what if her body was never found? Wouldn’t
dumping her in the loch potentially cause him an even bigger problem?”

I shook my head. “He always intended for Lady Stratford’s body to conveniently wash
ashore. He hoped to make it look like Celeste had killed her and then escaped. He
even admitted that he planned to abduct them the night before, but there were too
many potential witnesses hanging about when Freya dropped her foal.”

“So he was forced to wait until last night,” Alana concluded. “And you got in his
way.”

“Well, yes.” I hesitated to elaborate, not wanting to upset my sister further by expounding
on Stratford’s altered plans.

“Stratford thought to make it look like you kidnapped Lady Stratford and Celeste,
didn’t he?” Gage crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me, forcing the point.

Alana gasped in outrage.

I scowled at him.

“He was going to make it look like you murdered Lady Stratford and Celeste and then
disappeared,” he continued doggedly, his voice tight with anger. “He was going to
leave us all wondering who the real criminal was.”

I felt no need to confirm what he said. I was still too twisted up inside by how very
close Lord Stratford had come to making that happen.

Alana pounded her fist on the back of the settee behind my head. “Why, the cad! How
dare he!”

“Calm yourself, Alana.” Philip murmured. “We’ve already seen what a manipulative monster
the man could be. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised he thought to use Kiera’s undeserved
reputation against her.”

My sister huffed. “Yes, well, the man still deserves to be stuck between the ribs
for such vile behavior.”

I flinched, wondering if Alana realized Stratford had already been stabbed, and by
none other than her baby sister.

Philip glanced at me in concern. “That seems a bit pointless now, Alana, seeing as
how the man is already dead.”

“Are we certain?” she persisted, glancing from one man to another. “Could he have
swum to shore?”

The men all exchanged glances with each other and then me.

“He’s dead,” Philip told her certainly. “Definitely dead.”

Alana opened her mouth as if to protest, but then seemed to think better of it. She
released a heavy breath and nodded her head, staring down at her lap.

Philip rose from his chair and came around to kneel before her. He gripped her hands
and leaned forward to peer up into her eyes. They were bright with fear and uncertainty.
A lump formed in my throat at the evidence of her distress.

“He truly is dead,” he assured her in a soft voice. “We can all vouch for that. Lord
Stratford will never be able to hurt anyone again—not Kiera, not the children, not
anyone.”

She sniffed and nodded, her face contorted by the effort to hold back her tears. Philip
gathered her close and turned her face into his shoulder to shield her from our view.

I turned away, feeling like an intruder on this intimate moment. I was, however, relieved
to see them getting along again. I’d grown tired of watching them bicker and fight
over the past few days.

Sir Graham stared patiently down at his lap, allowing them their privacy. I wondered
if he was accustomed to seeing such displays of emotion. In his line of work, it seemed
very likely.

Gage had probably witnessed his fair share of tears as well. I glanced up to find
him watching me, a strange look in his eyes. It made the blood pump hard through my
veins. I didn’t understand it, and by the tightness around his eyes, I wasn’t certain
he did, either. But I knew it signaled that something had changed between us—something
that we couldn’t reverse. And I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Gage had come to mean a great deal more to me than I could have ever expected. I cared
for him—I couldn’t deny that, or the fact that I’d initially misjudged him—but I wasn’t
easy with the feelings developing between us. Not after his dismissal of my concerns
over Lady Stratford’s guilt. My anger and frustration at what I viewed as his abandonment
might have faded, but the pain and disillusionment had not. I could tell that Gage
regretted his actions toward me, though whether that was because of the consequences
or a twinge in his own conscience, I could not tell. Either way, I couldn’t be certain
he wouldn’t react the same way again, and I didn’t think I could be with a man who
doubted me. I might trust Gage with my life, but I did not trust him with my happiness
or my heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY

T
he carriage yard and lower levels of the castle were a madhouse the following morning
as the guests jockeyed for position, trying to persuade the Cromarty servants to move
their carriages to the front of the line to be loaded next. It seemed everyone was
eager to escape Gairloch after the long confinement in the wake of Lady Godwin’s murder,
and I could only say that the residents of Gairloch were just as happy to see them
go. Some more than others.

Though Alana insisted I stay in bed, I simply had too much restless energy. The flesh
wound in my side still pained me, and I could not move quickly, but as long as I left
off my corset and moved with care, I did not see why I should be confined to my room.
My sister scolded when I joined her and Philip for breakfast in the family salon,
avoiding the pandemonium downstairs, but I ignored her. When Alana was in the family
way, her emotions always swung in great arcs, and I knew that soon enough they would
have to take an upward turn.

I largely stayed away from the main areas of the castle, wanting to avoid contact
with the guests who gathered in the great hall and front drawing room as they waited
to board their carriages for their long journeys home. In the interest of my sanity,
and the preservation of even tempers, it seemed best to confine myself to the family
wing and the nursery. But late in the morning, when Philipa began to complain of a
stomachache, I made the mistake of volunteering to search out Alana. I found her easily
enough and coaxed her out into the great hall to explain about her daughter’s fussing.
She immediately turned her steps toward the stairs, with me trailing alongside her,
and we had all but exited through the doorway on the far side of the room, when Lady
Westlock’s strident voice echoed off the stone walls of the chamber.

Later, I would realize how fitting it was that the confrontation happened in the great
hall of the old keep, where weapons and armor decorated the walls from floor to ceiling.
The ancestors of the Earls of Cromarty had been warriors and then the lairds of the
Matheson clan long before the crown bestowed a title upon them, and they took great
pride in displaying these reminders of their former occupation. More than once, I
had caught Philip staring up at the emblem on a shield or the battered pommel of a
sword in grinning revelry, and his son, Malcolm, showed every sign of following him
in this absurd masculine regard for the trophies of war.

“You know, I simply don’t believe it,” Lady Westlock hissed. I glanced over my shoulder
to see that she stood beneath a flanged mace, gossiping with Mrs. Smythe. Her eyes
locked with mine, lit with vicious glee. “They say Lady Darby is the one who discovered
that Lord Stratford murdered Lady Godwin, but I think her family bribed Mr. Gage into
saying so.”

I stiffened, both shocked by her derisive words and surprised to hear that Gage had
informed the others of my involvement. Part of me was pleased to be acknowledged in
such a manner, but another part of me was anxious about how society would react, and
what new tales they would invent about me.

“They actually think we’ll be foolish enough to fall for such a blatant ploy to repair
her character,” Lady Westlock sneered, echoing my fears.

Alana halted in her tracks beside me. Her gaze swung toward Lady Westlock and narrowed
with a fury that raised the hairs along my arms. Sensing the impending altercation,
I reached out to try to urge her along. But, foolishly, Lady Westlock would not be
denied her chance to deride me.

“If she assisted with the investigation, it was only because she wanted an opportunity
to view Lady Godwin’s corpse,” she declared, raising her voice even louder to be heard
across the hall. She seemed completely oblivious to her hostess’s towering rage, even
though Mrs. Smythe was shaking her head at her in warning. Several ladies and gentlemen
on the other side of the room had even turned to stare at her, but Lady Westlock would
not be deterred. I decided right then and there that the woman was not only cruel
but stupid. “She’s sick, I tell you. Sick.”

“Lady Westlock,” Alana snapped, marching across the hall in long strides.

Still oblivious to her peril, the baroness smirked.

“Are your bags being packed?”

Lady Westlock seemed startled by the question. “Why, yes. Yes, they are. My husband
and I are eager to be away.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Alana announced in clipped tones, her eyes narrowed as if on
an insect. “Because you have exactly a quarter of an hour to get off my husband’s
property or I will have you thrown out.”

Lady Westlock’s mouth dropped open comically, her chin bobbing as she attempted to
form a response. Mrs. Smythe gasped while the others gathered across the hall began
to whisper to one another excitedly. I pressed my fingers to my lips, having difficulty
suppressing my amusement at seeing Lady Westlock in such a state. My sister ignored
all but the baroness, keeping her dark gaze fixed upon her.

“Well . . . well, I never,” Lady Westlock spluttered. “How dare you! I will
not
be treated in such a manner.”

“You are a guest in
my
home, Lady Westlock,” Alana retorted firmly. “A guest who has belittled and berated
members of my family, and circulated nasty rumors about them. I am completely in my
rights to throw you out.” She had steadily shifted forward until she was biting off
each word inches from the baroness’s face. “Especially in light of the fact that your
husband attacked my sister.”

Lady Westlock’s face flushed as bright as a beet. “He didn’t attack her. He thought
she was the murderer.”

“And bashed her over the head.”

The whispers across the hall grew feverish with speculation.

“Figgins,” Alana called to her butler without taking her eyes from Lady Westlock.
“Note the time. I want you to make certain Lord and Lady Westlock have departed Gairloch
in exactly fifteen minutes. If they fail to make that deadline, I give you permission
to expel them by force.”

Lady Westlock’s jowls quivered with indignation.

“As you wish, my lady,” Figgins replied without even batting an eyelash at the absurd
command.

“You’ll regret this,” Lady Westlock threatened.

Alana answered swiftly and decidedly. “No, I won’t. I would have tossed you out four
days ago had we known for certain that neither you nor your husband was the murderer.”

Lady Westlock gasped.

“Be glad I didn’t set you upon the road in the middle of the night.” With a swish
of her lavender skirts, my sister turned to stride off.

I remained behind a moment to gloat, wanting the countess to know that although I
allowed my sister to defend me, I did not hide behind her skirts. Lady Westlock’s
jaw was locked in anger.

“Have a safe journey.” I glanced at the long clock. “Best hurry. You only have fourteen
minutes.” Then with a twirl of my own skirts, I followed my sister through the door.

Had Lady Westlock been able to pull the mace down from the wall, I was quite certain
she would have followed her husband’s example and bashed me over the head as well.

•   •   •

M
uch to my sister’s disappointment, the Westlocks departed before their quarter hour
passed. And though their luggage and servants straggled behind a half an hour later,
Alana decided it would not be fair to penalize them for their employers’ rudeness.
She believed it likely the maids and footmen were punished enough in working for the
baron and his harridan of a wife.

The Smythes, as well as the other guests, swiftly followed, one by one, until the
great hall and drawing room were blessedly empty. I was surprised when many of them
went out of their way to speak with me before they departed, thanking me for my part
in the investigation and inquiring after my health. I understood that most of them
were only trying to maintain appearances, or prevent themselves from being thrown
out on their ear like the Westlocks, but I could tell that some of them were genuinely
trying to make amends for their earlier suspicions of me, even if they never actually
uttered an apology. I knew better than to expect one. The nobility was notoriously
poor at admitting they were wrong. I only hoped my example would encourage them to
be more skeptical of gossip, even as I was aware that these very same people would
be racing southward to spread the tale about what had happened here. They would be
dining out for weeks on such juicy morsels of information.

By noon, the only two guests remaining at Gairloch were Mr. Gage and Lady Stratford,
who had not left her chamber since retiring to it after the ordeal on the boat. I
knew Alana was looking after the countess and her maid, so I felt no need to bother
them. In fact, I suspected Lady Stratford might rather I stayed away. So when
she
sought
me
out just before luncheon, I was shocked, to say the least.

I had settled onto a settee in the sunny family parlor with my sketchbook when the
swish of skirts across the floor alerted me to someone’s presence. I glanced up with
a smile, expecting to see Alana, only to find Lady Stratford hovering in the doorway.
She wore a lovely black crepe traveling costume trimmed in braid. I recognized the
gown. It had been borrowed from my sister, though it had clearly been altered, and
rather swiftly, to fit the petite countess.

I set down my book, waiting for her to advance into the room. She seemed nervous,
her hands wringing the kid leather of the gloves encasing them. I pressed my hand
against the arm of the settee to help me rise, and that little movement seemed to
jostle her out of her stupor, for she met me halfway across the room. Her eyes searched
mine frantically, and I realized she was at a loss for words—something I had never
expected to witness from the poised Lady Stratford.

Taking pity on her, I offered her my wishes for a safe journey. “Must you leave so
soon?”

“Thank you,” she replied with trembling breath. “But, yes. I need to go. I . . . I
need to get away from here. I think I’ll do better at my great-aunt’s.”

I nodded, understanding her need to escape the place where so many dark and terrible
things had happened.

“Faye is coming with me, and . . . Lady Godwin.”

I knew Philip had arranged for a wagon to transport Lady Godwin and her child’s coffin,
as well as her belongings. With the full coterie of Stratford and Godwin servants
accompanying her, I was certain Lady Stratford would make it to her great-aunt’s home
near Glasgow safely, and I told her so.

Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I . . . I wanted to express my gratitude for what
you did for me,” she added softly, her words stilted with emotion. Her head lifted,
and she seemed determined to look me in the eye as she said what came next. “And . . .
I wanted to apologize for . . . what my husband . . . did to you . . .”

I reached out to take her hand. “No,” I said gently, shaking my head.

Her eyes flared wide with panic. “But . . .”

I squeezed her fingers to stop her. “Your husband’s actions are not yours to atone
for.”

She blinked quickly over her suddenly bright eyes.

“Whatever evil your husband wrought, it was not your doing.” Those words twisted inside
me, and I smiled sadly. “Believe me, I know.”

It had taken me sixteen and a half months after Sir Anthony’s death to finally realize
that. I didn’t want Lady Stratford to take that long to figure it out. We, none of
us, should have to live in the shadow of others’ misdeeds.

She looked at first as if she might like to argue, but then I could see her come to
the realization that, by doing so, she would also be condemning me for my husband’s
actions. The light in her soft gray eyes shifted, and she seemed to study me with
a new understanding. Her head bobbed once in acceptance, and then she pulled her hand
from mine to search for a handkerchief in her reticule. She dabbed at her eyes and
gave me a watery smile.

“Well.” She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. “My carriage awaits.”

I nodded.

She looked as if she wished to say more, but instead she merely acknowledged my nod
with one of her own and turned to go. I watched her leave, hoping she would be able
to make peace with all her husband had done.

At the door, she hesitated and then looked back over her shoulder at me. “When you’re
in London next, I hope you’ll call on me,” she declared, sounding more like her old
self.

My eyes widened in astonishment, and she smiled. Then with a swish of her skirts she
was gone before I could form a response.

Alana appeared in the doorway only moments later. She glanced after Lady Stratford’s
retreating form with a satisfied smirk, clearly having heard her closing remark. “Close
your mouth, dear,” she told me. “It’s terribly unbecoming.”