The Anatomist's Wife (5 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

S
omehow I managed to spin away from Lady Godwin’s corpse before I emptied the contents
of my stomach all over the cellar floor. With my hands held out in front of me still
coated in her blood, I retched. I couldn’t stop imagining that poor baby’s fate—her
life so viciously ended. The viscountess could not have been more than five months
along. The still-small swell of her belly had been easily kept hidden by the flounces
of her gown. I now understood her strange deviation from the fashions with fitted
waists and belts the other lady guests wore.

Gage knelt down to support me, lacing his arm underneath mine to cup my shoulder.
I panted, still shaking from the force of my stomach contractions. A handkerchief
came around from behind me, and I allowed him to wipe my mouth and chin. It didn’t
even occur to me to feel embarrassed, for I was too overwhelmed by Lady Godwin’s wounds.

“Blow,” he ordered, refolding the cloth and pressing it to my nose.

I did as I was told, leaning back into the warmth his body radiated behind me. I closed
my eyes as he removed the handkerchief. Taking deep breaths through my mouth, I remained
in Gage’s loose embrace until I felt my muscles steadying. He cupped my elbow to help
me rise, and I immediately felt the loss of his comforting hold and heat.

The cellar seemed much cooler than when we arrived, and my knees were quivering from
kneeling over. I realized I was not as in control of myself as I thought. There was
nothing more I could do here tonight. I needed to clean up and get out while I could
still walk on my own two feet.

I swallowed the acid coating my mouth and throat, and stepped back toward Lady Godwin’s
corpse. “I think that’s all we’re going to discover tonight,” I told Gage. My voice
was rough and gravelly from my illness.

“Of course,” he replied, helping me place the sheet back over the body. “Wash the
blood off your hands. The rest can be cleaned up later.”

I didn’t argue. The quicker I was away from Lady Godwin’s corpse, the better. Besides,
I doubted the addition of vomit to the other stomach-churning stenches in the room
would make much of a difference.

Yanking the ruined gloves off my fingers, I plunged my arms into the bucket of cold
water and scrubbed frantically at the red that had seeped through the worn fabric.
Gage handed me a towel to dry my hands while he tugged at the ties of my apron. He
clearly understood my hurry. Tossing the apron over my implement bag, I picked up
my shawl and headed toward the stairs.

The chapel above felt like London in July compared to the icy cold of the cellar.
I made it midway through the sanctuary before collapsing onto the solid wood of a
pew. Gage joined me a moment later.

We sat quietly, listening to the winds off the bay rattle the windows, the only other
sound besides my frantic breaths. I closed my eyes, feeling the rise and fall of my
chest slow as I allowed the peace of the chapel to settle into my bones. Scotsmen
had come here for centuries—desperate, remorseful, and grieving—in search of solitude,
and comfort from their maker. I felt their ghosts filling the benches around me, offering
up their silent prayers. It made my fear and distress somehow easier to manage, knowing
I was in their company.

That and the pressure of Gage’s sleeve against my own. It appeared I had greatly misjudged
him. So far he had been steadier than I, and the fact that he had not lorded it over
me or belittled my effort earned my respect and tentative trust. It was tempting to
lean into his solid presence, a reaction I couldn’t remember ever happening with a
man outside of my family. I had never felt so comfortable with Sir Anthony, not even
in the early days of our short courtship and marriage. It was puzzling and slightly
unnerving.

I sighed, catching a small whiff of his spicy cologne. It helped to clear the lingering
stench of the cellar from my nose.

“I should thank you,” Gage said softly. His tone sounded almost reluctant. I glanced
up at him, but his gaze remained focused on the altar in front of us.

“I never would have uncovered the fact that Lady Godwin was expecting.” His eyes finally
met mine, but it was too dark to truly see into them. The lantern on the floor at
his feet gilded his golden hair but shadowed the features of his face.

I turned away, uncertain how to respond.

“Could you tell how far along she was?” he asked, saving me from coming up with a
reply.

“No more than five months. The skin of her stomach was not overly stretched. I never
noticed she was showing,” I said, recalling the way she had flitted about the parlor
only the night before.

Gage nodded, clearly having thought of the same thing. “Are you
certain
she was with child?” he queried. “Could the killer simply have been . . . disfiguring
her?”

I blinked slowly, remembering the coil of the severed umbilical cord. “She was enceinte,”
I stated decisively.

He nodded again, accepting my word without further argument. “So there is a missing
baby somewhere.” He sighed. “Was there anything else you noticed? Anything that might
help us?”

In my mind, I cautiously returned to the scene downstairs and tried to think like
Sir Anthony, like one of his students. But I didn’t think like a surgeon. I thought
like an artist. I saw everything as it was—the contours, the colors, the rhythm—not
how it should be. My mind did not try to correct an image but capture it.

I wrapped my shawl tighter around me and ignored my frustration over what I didn’t
have the education for, and instead focused on what I did. “Beyond the inflicted wounds,
I noticed no particular signs of deterioration or illness. Her bowel would have been
fine except . . .” I paused, realizing something. “The cut at her neck was made precisely
and, I would venture to add, with some skill. But the incisions on her abdomen were
jagged, awkward. I suppose that could be attributed to a certain amount of struggling
from Lady Godwin, but I dare say she died, or at least passed out, before her murderer
sliced into her abdomen.” I glanced at Gage, who had begun to run his index finger
over his lips as he thought.

“Maybe our murderer has no experience cutting body parts other than the neck.”

“Or they were emotionally distraught,” I added.

“Or . . .” He looked up at me. “We’re dealing with more than one person. Perhaps our
murderer had an accomplice.”

I nodded. I had been thinking of one man as well, but we could be dealing with multiple
villains. And though I suspected the person who sliced Lady Godwin’s neck was a man,
the accomplice could be a man or a woman. “Whoever it was, they likely got blood on
themselves. Blood sprays when the jugular vein is cut in the neck. I highly doubt
they escaped without becoming soiled by it, as well as the mess they made of her abdomen.”

“I had thought of that. Your brother-in-law’s staff has been instructed to inform
me if they discover blood anywhere on the estate, be it clothing, linens, or the floor.”
He leaned forward in the pew, propping his elbows on his knees. “Lady Godwin must
have been murdered right there in the garden, sometime after dinner.”

I nodded. There had been too much blood on and around the stone bench for it to make
any sense otherwise. I needed to examine the scene. Perhaps there was some clue as
to the location of the baby or the manner of the initial assault. I also wanted to
compare the imprint of Lady Godwin’s body with the wounds I found. I was about to
tell Gage so when he made an urgent gesture with his hands.

“The killer
must
have been aware of Lady Godwin’s delicate condition,” he declared. “Otherwise, why
would he have sliced her open?”

I gnawed my lip, agreeing with him.

Gage sat up slowly. “Didn’t Lord Cromarty say that Lord Godwin is in India?”

“He did.” I realized what he was getting at. “Do you know how long he’s been there?”

“No. But it would be very interesting to find out.”

“Did Lady Godwin have a lover?”

He nodded. “Most recently, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

I remembered the man’s arrival at the scene in the garden maze shortly after mine,
and the mud stains on the back of his trousers, but I couldn’t see how that would
have any connection to the murder.

“But I do not know how long they have been intimately connected,” Gage admitted. “I
have not made it a habit to keep track of Lady Godwin’s peccadilloes.”

No, only Mrs. Cline’s.

“Well, then, I suppose we should find someone who does,” I replied a bit more testily
than I intended. “For if Mr. Fitzpatrick was not bedding her five months ago, he’s
certainly not the father.”

His eyes seemed to laugh at me. “I see that you understand how the anatomy of that
process works.”

My cheeks heated. I may have been forced to watch my late husband dissect bodies,
but this was swiftly becoming the most intimate conversation I had ever conducted
with a man. And I didn’t like how easily Gage unnerved me. “Yes,” I retorted. “Should
I pretend otherwise?”

“No.”

I could definitely hear the grin in his voice now and was not about to stick around
to hear what else he had to say. Gage was gentlemanly enough to stand and step into
the aisle to allow me to pass. However, he was not gentlemanly enough to keep his
mouth shut as I slid by.

“Coward,” he whispered.

I did not dignify that with a response, but instead raised my chin and marched down
the aisle toward the door.

Somehow having to stand and wait for him to remove the crossbar stole a bit of the
thunder from my actions. Gage winked, obviously finding my indignation amusing. I
arched an imperious eyebrow but managed to hold my tongue. Even when he swept open
the door and bowed like a ridiculous courtier.

I rolled my eyes and strode through the doorway, only to have my dramatic exit ruined
yet again. This time by a hard object crashing down on my head.

CHAPTER FIVE

F
ortunately, the blow was not hard enough to knock me unconscious. It was, however,
hard enough to knock me to the floor and blur my vision. I pressed my hand to the
back of my head and tried to rise to my feet, but the pounding in my skull made it
difficult to push myself upright. I could hear Gage skirmishing with the culprit,
and I worried he might need my help. Someone yelped and howled. I looked up and tried
to focus on the man cowering away from Gage as he dragged him back down the hall toward
me and shoved him against the wall.

Gage pulled the pistol from the waistband of his trousers and pointed it at the man.
Then he slowly backed toward me, kicking what looked to be a pewter candlestick with
his heel. It clattered and rolled across the stone floor. All the while, his eyes
remained trained on the perpetrator. “Lady Darby? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” I moaned. I pushed against the floor again, trying to sit up.

Gage moved closer and knelt on one knee to assist me. “Perhaps you should lie down,”
he suggested.

I started to shake my head and then realized what a terrible idea that would be. “No,
I’m fine,” I protested. “I’m not bleeding.” At least, I didn’t think I was. “I just
need to sit against this wall for a moment.”

Even through the haze of my injury, I sensed the worry and disapproval vibrating through
his frame, but he couldn’t afford to take his attention off the man in the shadows
across the hall long enough to express it. Once I was seated upright, blinking as
I cradled my spinning head, Gage retrieved the lantern from where he had set it just
inside the chapel door. The culprit recoiled from the light but did not try to move.

“Lord Westlock?” I gasped in confusion. The silver-haired gentleman was normally so
gentle and congenial; I couldn’t believe he’d just attacked me. His wife was the harridan.

“Would you care to explain your presence here, and why you just assaulted Lady Darby?”
Gage asked the baron in a firm voice. He set the lantern on the floor and kept his
pistol trained on the gentleman.

Lord Westlock instantly appeared contrite. Whether that was in truth or only a pretense,
I could not tell. Not with my head still reeling from the blow, as well as the revelation
of my attacker.

“Lady Darby, I’m sorry for that. It’s just that . . . my wife and her friends were
so certain you murdered Lady Godwin.” He glanced down at his lap, where he was cradling
his arm. “I watched you descend the stairs and turn down the corridor toward the chapel
where Lord Cromarty said they laid out her body, and I . . .” He swallowed. “Well,
I worried my wife might be right. So I followed the light of your lantern.” He glanced
at Gage sheepishly. “I didn’t know Mr. Gage was with you.”

I felt a flush burn my cheeks.

“And what did you expect to find, my lord?” Gage asked. Lord Westlock shifted uncomfortably.
“Lady Darby further molesting the body?”

“Well, I thought if I caught her at it . . . I mean, after the inquiries a year ago,”
he stammered. He pressed his lips together and leaned toward Mr. Gage with a look
of pleading. “She’s not natural,” he whispered.

I’d heard the accusation so many times during the inquiries following Sir Anthony’s
death, and again during the past few days of the house party, that perhaps I should
have become inured to the insult, but I wasn’t. And I suspected I never would be.
It pinched in my chest like a splinter.

“Sir Anthony and I were close acquaintances,” Lord Westlock told Gage, something I
did not know. “We were members of the same club, enjoyed the same port,” he explained,
as if that was all it took for two men to be considered friends. “I happened upon
him there one evening a few weeks before his death. He seemed rather smug about something,
and when I asked him about it, he told me how pleased he was by how cold and detached
his wife was.” I stiffened. “Bragged about it, he did.”

Gage glanced back at me, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“I asked him why he would be so proud of that fact.” The baron’s eyes flitted toward
me uncomfortably. “Thought maybe he had a lovely bit o’ muslin on the side and his
wife was indifferent to it. But then he said something about her being a scary good
surgeon if only she’d been born a male. Said she had the keenest eye. And that either
she had more steel in her spine than the average surgical student or she actually
enjoyed the sight of death.”

My stomach cramped painfully at the comment. I suspected that if I hadn’t already
emptied my stomach all over the chapel cellar floor, I would have vomited.

“Are you saying that Sir Anthony actually admitted to you that his wife took part
in his dissections?” Gage asked incredulously.

Lord Westlock’s gaze darted to mine and then back to Gage. “Well, I didn’t take him
seriously at the time. He was rather deep in his cups. I thought maybe he was speaking
in metaphors.”

Gage’s hardened gaze searched mine out, and I struggled to meet it. I couldn’t believe
Sir Anthony had actually bragged about the emotional detachment and stoicism he had
forced upon me. Hadn’t he seen the torment beneath my feigned reserve? Or had he just
not cared? A familiar ache started in my chest upon realizing I already knew it was
the latter. He hadn’t cared. He had been selfish and cruel, and as long as he got
what he wanted from me, that was all that mattered. It was no wonder I’d buried myself
in my art. It was all that kept me sane.

I glared at Gage, daring him to believe the damning character reference Lord Westlock
had relayed about me. He certainly wouldn’t be the first to believe the worst of me,
and I was sure he wouldn’t be the last.

My head pounded furiously, and I dropped my gaze, too distracted by the pain to continue
this ridiculous standoff. If Gage was stupid enough to take my late husband’s words
as fact, then he was an even bigger fool than I had initially believed.

I heard him shift and sigh in annoyance. “So you’re telling me you had nothing to
do with Lady Godwin’s murder?” he asked, continuing his questioning of Lord Westlock.
“You weren’t following us to hinder my investigation?”

The baron’s eyes widened in horror. “No! I would never . . .” he spluttered. “Why,
I was with Lord Darlington in the billiards room after dinner, when the body was found.
You can ask him.”

Gage slowly lowered his gun. “You can be certain I will.”

Lord Westlock huffed in indignation, but his ire was tempered by the wariness in his
gaze. He was clearly aware that Gage held all the power in their current situation.

Gage’s eyes crinkled in concern as he knelt down beside where I slumped against the
wall, but there was also a wintriness that had not been there before we left the chapel.
I closed my eyes and allowed him to lightly touch the back of my head, trying not
to feel betrayed by the evidence of his renewed suspicion of me.

“Well, you definitely have a sizable lump, but you were right. I don’t think it’s
bleeding. It appears you have a hard head, Lady Darby. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised
by that.”

I blinked open my eyes to see his grim smile.

“Do you think you can walk?”

“Yes.”

He helped me to my feet and wrapped an arm around my waist for support. I would have
pulled away if I thought I could have made it on my own. Then he tucked his pistol
back into his waistband and reached for the lantern. “Lord Westlock, if you please.”
Gage nodded down the hall, indicating that the baron should walk in front of us.

Lord Westlock climbed to his feet, cradling his left arm in front of him. “What were
you two doing in the chapel at this hour of night anyway?”

I stiffened, wondering what Gage would tell him.

He narrowed his eyes and his voice turned hard. “Lord Cromarty explained that I would
be conducting an inquiry. My methods are my own.”

“But surely the other guests would not approve of Lady Darby assisting you.”

“Then they don’t need to know she’s assisting me, do they?” The dangerous look in
Gage’s eye, though it wasn’t focused on me, was enough to make the breath stutter
in my chest. It appeared to have the same effect on Lord Westlock, who swallowed and
nodded.

“Then, if you would.” Gage nodded in front of us once again, urging the baron to move
forward.

I leaned against Gage’s frame as we slowly made our way back toward the main hall
block of the castle. My thoughts were still a bit scattered from the blow, and now
they were stunned by Mr. Gage’s unexpected defense. I realized his shielding of my
involvement probably had far more to do with protecting his investigation than me,
but it astounded me nonetheless. It had been so long since anyone but my family had
shielded me from even the smallest hurts that I had learned not to expect it. Maybe
Lord Westlock’s words had not done as much harm as I’d worried.

Gairloch was silent except for the shuffle of our footfalls and the creak of the lantern.
It was our only source of light until we rounded the corner of the central corridor.
There, candles had been set into stone recesses spaced evenly down the hall and up
the grand staircase. When we reached the stairs, Gage paused so that I could gather
up my skirts, an action that seemed to take considerably more effort than usual. Lord
Westlock had nearly reached the first landing before he realized we were not behind
him. He turned in query.

“Go to bed,” Gage told him with the same hard look in his eye. “And keep tonight’s
events to yourself. Should I hear you’ve revealed my or Lady Darby’s actions, I shall
be forced to charge you with impeding my investigation.”

Lord Westlock nodded and turned to scurry up the stairs like a rat escaping to his
hole.

“Can you really do that?” I questioned Gage.

He supported my arm as we took the first step. “No. But I can ask Lord Cromarty to
confine him to his room for the duration of his stay if he continues to get in the
way.”

I figured that would be a terrible enough threat for a man like Lord Westlock, who
greatly enjoyed hunting, shooting, riding, and any number of other outdoor pursuits.

Climbing the stairs turned out to be more difficult than I anticipated. By the time
we reached the first landing, I needed to pause to regain control of my faculties.
My head was throbbing harder, and I had begun to feel dizzy and, consequently, nauseated.
Gage seemed to be aware of this without my having to tell him, for he patiently waited
for me to signal that I was ready to continue.

I took a deep breath and swallowed. “All right.”

I could feel I was leaning more and more on him with each step, depending on his strength
to make it to the top. When we reached the second landing, I sensed he wanted to offer
further assistance, but I refused to even contemplate being carried. He had already
done more than enough for me that night, including caring for me when I became sick
in the cellar and rescuing me from an attacker. My pride would not allow him to carry
me as well. Not if there was even a slight chance I could make it on my own. Marshaling
my determination, I ascended the third flight and directed him toward my room with
only a small wobble in my voice.

We moved slowly, though I felt the need to rush until we reached the family wing.
There I could relax, knowing the only people who might catch us in the hallway together
at such a late hour were my sister and her husband, and Philip’s aunt and cousins.
Gage opened the door for me when we reached my room and escorted me inside. I had
sent my maid Lucy to bed hours before, but I figured I could manage without her, even
with an aching head.

“Thank you,” I said, turning to bid him good night. However, he had already followed
me inside and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing?” I asked in puzzlement.
“You can’t be in here.”

“Someone needs to examine that wound more closely,” he proclaimed, moving toward the
fire. “And someone needs to sit with you for a time to ensure your injury is not more
serious than it seems.” He bent to stoke the flames in the fireplace higher. “As I
see it, you have three options. You can ring for your maid and I shall give her instructions
on what to look for, you can wake your sister, or you can allow me to assist you.”

I scowled, disliking the autocratic tone of his voice almost more than the words coming
out of his mouth. I certainly wasn’t going to wake Alana. My sister had enough to
worry about without my adding to it. If I rang for Lucy, it would only wake Alana’s
maid as well, and it was only a matter of time before my sister showed up at my door.
Not to mention the issue of the entire staff knowing I had been attacked, and that
Mr. Gage had been in my room. I sighed, realizing I really only had one option.

“Fine,” I huffed, sitting in one of the deep blue chairs positioned before the hearth.
I winced, having sat too quickly and jarred my head.

Gage moved to stand behind me, and I felt my scalp prickle as he reached up to touch
my head. I breathed in deeply and held myself very still. Something snagged on a tendril
of my hair, and I realized he was pulling hairpins from the loose bun fastened at
the back of my head just below the bump.

“I can’t see the wound properly with all this hair in the way,” he complained. “Help
me take out these pins.”

I could almost imagine him frowning down at the coil of my deep chestnut tresses.
I reached back to assist him, bumping his hand. He pulled back, but not before I felt
the rough calluses on his palm. I wondered where he’d gotten them. Most gentlemen’s
hands were smoother than my own, as mine were chapped from the paint, linseed oil,
and turpentine I used to create my artwork.

“Talented as I am, it will probably go faster if I just let you do it,” he jested
in a tight voice, taking a step back from the chair to give me space to work.

My skin flushed at the reminder that what I was doing was normally associated with
a far more carnal activity than examining a wound. The only men who had ever seen
my hair down were my husband, father, brother, and perhaps Philip. I wasn’t certain
how I felt adding Mr. Gage to that list.