Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (27 page)

In any case, sanctioned or not, I was not going to stop investigating, and I doubted Gage would be so easily deterred either. The location of Miss Wallace’s corpse suggested one of two things. Either Will had been responsible for her disappearance and death or someone was trying to make it look like he was. And I was not going anywhere until I had the truth, whatever that might be, and no matter how painful. If he was innocent, I owed it to Will. But even if he wasn’t, I now owed it to Miss Wallace and all of the people who had loved her to bring her killer to justice.

About halfway back to Dalmay House, Miss Remmington’s sobs lessened and she began to take herself more in hand. She still sniffled into her handkerchief, but she no longer openly wept. “I introduced her to Lord Dalmay,” she gasped between hiccups.

“I know.”

Her eyes widened. “You knew?”

I nodded, but decided not to reveal my source. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

She frowned, considering her answer. “Because Michael Dalmay seemed so eager to protect his brother. I thought that was what he wished me to do.”

“Because you were worried we would think Lord Dalmay’s acquaintance with her would make him a suspect in her disappearance,” I clarified.

Her face crumpled. “And now he’s killed her, and it’s my fault.”

“Now see here,” I told her sternly, not needing her to presume anything, “we don’t know anything for certain. Mr. Gage and I are investigating the matter, and we plan to get to the bottom of it.”

“But she was found on this beach.”

“And she could have been deposited there by any number of means.”

Miss Remmington’s expression was dubious.

“There are a lot of factors to this investigation you are not privy to. We need to be certain we have the right culprit before any accusations are made.” Her gaze was flat and unreadable, and that made me uneasy, which forced me to press her. “Will you give us a chance to conclude our investigation before you decide who murdered your friend? Can you do that?”

“But you do believe she was murdered?” she asked anxiously.

I hesitated, wondering if I should have left room for doubt. “Yes,” I replied, unable to lie to her.

She sighed. “I suppose that’s better than that
stupid
constable who believed she was swept out to sea.” She glanced back at me and nodded. “All right. But do it quickly.” Her hands tightened into fists. “I want the man to pay.”

I resisted the urge to nudge the autocratic girl into the patch of bramble bushes on the right side of the path, but only just barely.

* * *

I
was seated in the drawing room reading a letter when Gage returned from the firth shore and stormed into the chamber in a towering fury. I watched as he paced up and down the floor and cursed Constable Paxton for a bloody fool, the many capes of his greatcoat snapping out behind him as he pivoted.

“I take it he refused your assistance.”

“The
idiot
actually threatened to have me brought up on charges for interfering with his investigation.”

I grimaced. “I guess he heard about our visit to Cramond yesterday.”

“Oh, yes. Some helpful biddy passed along that choice bit of information.” He whirled around on the heel of his boot and charged back across the room. “He refused to listen to any of our findings today or yesterday, even about the boat Craggy Donald saw moving away from the island. He said the man wasn’t to be trusted and we should just ignore whatever he told us.”

I scowled. “Did you ask him about the damage he did to Donald’s hut?”

“To be sure, but of course he denied it.”

“Of course.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “So he’s going to rule Miss Wallace’s death a drowning by misadventure?”

“Yes.” He paced the length of the room one more time before planting his hands on the back of a golden wingback chair and leaning over it toward me. It creaked beneath the force of his weight. “Can you believe that man actually accused me of being a ghoul when I suggested he have the local surgeon or someone from the Royal College perform an autopsy to discover if there was water in her lungs?”

I sighed. “I was afraid of that. People do have a fear of dissection. Many still believe it’s an unholy practice, that the soul can’t be resurrected if the body is desecrated.”

“Yes, well, while they worry about that, Miss Wallace’s murderer may very well go free.” He scraped a hand back through his golden hair and with a huff rounded the chair and dropped down onto its cushions. “So that avenue is closed to us, unless you want to go harass her father. I’m sure Mr. Paxton will have gotten there ahead of us, painting our suggestion in the worst possible light, but we could try. Though I loathe asking a grieving father to do such a thing.”

“No. Not when all we wish to discover is if there is water in his daughter’s lungs. We’re already relatively certain she didn’t drown.”

He nodded and leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees, staring down at his feet. His hands were spread wide and he kept bouncing the fingertips of one hand off the other in nervous agitation. When he noticed me watching him he nodded to the paper in my lap. “You were reading when I came in.”

I lifted the letter. “It’s from Philip.”

Gage sat straighter in interest.

I opened the sheet of foolscap to look down at the handwriting. “He spoke to Dr. Renshaw, Sir Anthony’s former assistant,” I reminded him.

“What did he say?” From the look in his eyes I knew that wasn’t all he wanted to ask, but he stuck to what was most important. I would have disappointed him on the other anyway, because Philip had said nothing of the man—or whether he had been rough with him—other than to relay his words about Dr. Sloane.

“Apparently he’s familiar with Dr. Sloane’s work.” I arched my eyebrows.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not. He says that Dr. Sloane likes to collect oddities—people with interesting mental afflictions.” I glanced back at the letter, reading from Philip’s notes. “He was dismissed from his position at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and he received disciplinary sanctions from the Royal College of Surgeons because of a series of unorthodox experiments he performed on several of his patients.” I lifted my gaze to meet Gage’s. “Including his daughter.”

He stiffened in surprise. “His daughter?”

I nodded, having felt the same shock upon reading the words. “Apparently she suffered from uncontrollable manias and melancholia, and his experiments began as a way to find a treatment for her.”

“Where is she now?”

I hesitated, feeling a pulse of horror at the whole situation. “She killed herself.”

Gage sank back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, looking as stunned as I felt.

“That’s what prompted the investigation into his experiments in the first place.”

“His own daughter?” he muttered, staring unseeing at the muted morning sunlight shining through the windows to his right. “What was he doing to her?”

I shook my head, wondering the same thing.

“Did Cromarty confirm these statements?”

“Yes. Though he had to exert his position and authority to do so.” It made sense that the Royal College would not want word of one of its members’ radical actions made public to taint their reputation more than it already was by Dr. Knox’s part in the infamous Burke and Hare case. Dr. Knox had purchased the bodies of the victims Burke and Hare had murdered, believing they were robbed from graves like most of the bodies he procured for dissection. Or so he said. Public opinion had recently turned against the anatomist and lecturer at the Royal College, blaming him for providing incentive for the killings, at the very least.

Of course, Dr. Sloane’s sanctions must have occurred years ago, prior to the Burke and Hare scandal, otherwise Dr. Sloane wouldn’t have been conducting his experiments in a lunatic asylum on remote Inchkeith Island instead of in Edinburgh. Unless he had been doing both.

I shivered at the thought.

In any case, while I could understand the Royal College’s desire to keep his actions quiet, I heartily disagreed with them. The man’s perfidy should have been made known to the public to protect families from unwittingly consigning their loved ones to Dr. Sloane’s care. Families like the Dalmays. Although I still could not comprehend the old Lord Dalmay’s decision to confine his son to an institution like the Larkspur Retreat, I wanted to believe he would never have given him over to Dr. Sloane’s care if he’d known about the man’s unorthodox experiments and the reprimand he’d received from the Royal College.

“Does he mention what these experiments were?” Gage asked.

“No. But I think we can only assume that some of Will’s drawings depict them.” And the idea that he might have done these same things to his daughter, his own flesh and blood, made me sick to my stomach. I could tell Gage’s thoughts had followed the same path, for his brow furrowed in concern.

“Perhaps it is these experiments, and not the identity of the girl he claims Dalmay murdered, that Dr. Sloane is so eager to keep secret. After all, the man was already sanctioned once for his actions. And quite possibly lost his daughter because of them, though I suppose there’s no proof. He could easily have blamed her death on her melancholia. But, either way, it would explain the tight security at Larkspur, and why Michael was never allowed past Dr. Sloane’s office.”

I nodded, worrying my lip. “Both possibilities give him reason enough to want to see William silenced and returned to his care.” I studied Gage, who was rubbing his hand over his brow in deep thought. “Do you think it’s possible that’s what is happening here? That Dr. Sloane is somehow manipulating events in order to discredit William and see him brought back to his asylum, whether by frightening Michael into recommitting him or dragging the authorities into it?” The idea seemed ludicrous, but without blaming William the list of other suspects was quite short.

“Perhaps,” he replied, sounding unconvinced.

I could tell he was trying to consider other options for my sake, and I appreciated it. But by the very fact that he needed to try, I knew the circle of blame was tightening around Will. There were just too many facts that pointed to him. Too many things we would be forced to overlook if we were to attempt to shift the blame elsewhere. If William were not who he was, if neither of us cared for him, I knew we would already be interrogating him and demanding an explanation.

“It’s time to talk to Will,” I declared, knowing I needed to be the one to say it.

Gage nodded slowly.

“No more handling him with kid gloves. We need answers. Mr. Wallace deserves to know what happened to his daughter so she can rest in peace.”

I turned away, unable to bear the compassion in Gage’s eyes. I might have been determined to get answers, but I was not looking forward to hearing them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

O
nce we had explained the morning’s discoveries to Michael and our renewed intentions to question his brother, he insisted on joining us, first and foremost to inform him of Miss Wallace’s death. He asserted that if his brother had not harmed her—as he said he believed, though his eyes belied him—then Will would need his support. We could not force him to leave the matter to us—Will was
his
brother, after all—and I thought his refusal to abandon him somewhat admirable, under the circumstances.

However, Michael’s confident words did not translate to his behavior. He was so jumpy and anxious I was afraid his emotions would be conveyed to William. In an effort both to better control the situation and to relieve him of the weight of such an onerous duty, Gage offered to do the talking. After all, he was far more accustomed to such charged situations than Michael or I, and quite skilled at putting people at ease in order to question them. But Michael insisted he would do it. That Will was his brother, and he needed to be the one to speak to him.

So when we entered Will’s bedchamber, finding him seated by the same window Gage and I had found him gazing out before, it was Michael and I who took the seats next to him while Gage and Mac stood by the door. His bright smile at our arrival quickly faded at the look on his brother’s face and he waited in quiet anticipation for whatever Michael had come to say.

“I’m afraid we have something sad to share.” Michael swallowed, but his voice still wavered on his next sentence. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but . . .”

Unable to resist doing so, and despite my doubts about him, I reached forward to take Will’s hand. He grasped mine back, but he never removed his eyes from his brother’s.

Michael swallowed again before rasping, “Mary Wallace is dead.”

Will’s entire body stiffened and he gripped my hand tighter, but other than that there was no discernible reaction. He just stared at his brother as if he hadn’t spoken, as if he couldn’t hear him.

When a moment of tense silence had passed without anyone moving, or hardly daring to breathe, Michael shifted in his seat. “Will, did you hear me? Do you understand?”

His gaze flickered, allowing just a glimpse of the raw pain he had locked behind his eyes. I wasn’t sure if anyone but me had seen it—Gage and Mac being too far away and Michael being too wrapped up in his own worries—but it tightened something, a vise, around my chest and squeezed the air from my lungs.

“How?” he said, his voice void of emotion.

Michael glanced at me in uncertainty. “Well, we don’t know yet. The constable thinks she drowned.”

Will’s eyes swung to mine, and I struggled to keep my emotions in check under his penetrating gaze. “But you don’t.”

It was a statement, not a question, and I found I didn’t want to lie to him. “No.”

“How?” he repeated in the same emotionless voice, but with a shade more force.

“I . . . I’m not certain. But there were too many other . . . markings. And the drowning just doesn’t make sense.”

Something in his face changed—a tightening of his brow, a flattening of his lips. “You’ve seen her, then?”

I realized what I’d said and nodded.

Michael cleared his throat uneasily. “Will, there are some questions I need to ask you.” His words were halting. “You obviously knew Miss Wallace. Did you . . .”

“What markings?” Will asked me, ignoring his brother.

Michael’s words stumbled to a stop and his brow furrowed in concern. I could see Gage shift, out of the corner of my eye, and I knew he was hesitant to reveal such details to the man who was our chief suspect. But Will just waited patiently, watching me with those pained eyes. I could see more hurt in them with each passing second.

“She’d been bound,” I replied, my voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. “And there were . . . bruises, many bruises.” I couldn’t reveal those details. It was too much to put into words.

Will seemed to understand them anyway, for his grip tightened so hard on my hand that I worried he might break it. His breathing became labored and his eyes unfocused. I shifted forward in my seat, trying to soothe him.

“Will. Will, look at me,” I told him, pressing my other hand to his shoulder and then reaching up to cup his cheek. He closed his eyes and shook his head, almost violently. I pulled my hand back and Michael leaned forward.

“William. It’s all right,” he urged, but his voice was anything but comforting.

Will’s hold on my hand was now becoming too much and I tried to pull it away from him, but he wouldn’t release it. I wasn’t sure if he was even aware he was holding it.

I sucked in a sharp breath at the pain. “Will, you have to let go of my hand.” My voice shook. “Will, you’re hurting me.”

Gage and Mac entered the scene then, Mac holding Will back in his chair, while Gage tried to pry Will’s fingers loose from mine. There was a tussle and Will shouted. He jolted forward in his chair when Gage managed to remove his hand from mine, but his other hand shot out to wrap around my arm.

“Did they bleed her?” he demanded, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wide, ordering me to tell him what he wanted to know. The others struggled with him to remove his hold on me and the muscles in his neck stood out from the strain it took to maintain his grip. “Tell me! Did they bleed her?”

I blinked wide eyes at him and gasped. “Yes.”

His face slackened in pain, and he released me so abruptly that I fell backward into my chair. Gage lifted me from it and pulled me toward the door before I could say a word, even though Will had gone ominously still and silent. All I could see moving was the rise and fall of his chest as he fought for breath.

Gage urged me into the parlor, blocking my sight of Will, and turned me into the shelter of his arms. I could feel that I was trembling, but I thought it was more from shock than fear. I had never expected to see Will behave in such a manner. I had known it was possible—Michael and Philip and Gage had all warned me of it—but being told something could happen and actually experiencing it were two different things. I inhaled, trying to pull in as much of Gage’s comforting scent as I could, and held it before releasing it on a shuddering breath.

When the worst of my trembling had stopped, Gage loosened his embrace to look down into my face. “Are you all right?”

I nodded absently, rubbing the spot on my arm where Will had grabbed hold of me.

“Are you hurt?” He lifted my hand, running his fingers gently over the bones. The calluses on his fingers rasped over my skin.

“Just bruised, I think.”

I watched his fingers, flinching when he hit a tender spot near my little finger.

“Maybe we should ask Dr. Winslow to take a look at it, just to be sure.”

I began to argue, but then realized it was my right hand we were talking about, my painting hand, and nodded in acceptance. Surely Will hadn’t done any permanent injury to it—my stomach clenched at the thought.

Gage must have read the worry in my eyes, for he pulled me close again.

“Kiera, I’m so sorry,” Michael exclaimed as he emerged from Will’s bedchamber. His expression was agonized. “Had I known he would react that way, I never would have told him about Miss Wallace with you so close to him.”

“I thought you said he hadn’t attacked anyone in months,” Gage snapped before I could respond.

“He . . . he hasn’t,” Michael stammered.

“Damn it, man! He nearly broke her hand.”

“Please!” I interjected, having never seen Gage so upset or Michael so distressed. “I’m unharmed. I . . . I don’t think there’s any lasting damage.” I pressed the other hand to Michael’s arm. “How’s Will?”

Gage scowled at me. I didn’t know whether that was because I’d halted his tirade or because he couldn’t understand why I was asking about the man who’d just injured me. Perhaps both.

Michael seemed just as taken aback. “He’s . . . he’s quiet. He’s not responding to our questions.”

“Is he about to have another one of his episodes?”

He thought about it and then shook his head. “No. This is different. I think he’s aware we’re there, he’s just unable . . .” he hesitated “. . . or unwilling to respond.”

I crossed my arms over my stomach, thinking back on Will’s reaction to Mary Wallace’s death. I had seen so much pain in his eyes, so much anguish. And, yet, he had
hurt
me. I wanted to shake that aside and focus on his emotion, but I couldn’t. Not while my hand still ached and my insides quavered.

“Well, which do you think it is?” Gage demanded of Michael, his voice rising again with his temper. “Is he unable or unwilling?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Because if he’s unable, that’s one thing, but unwilling . . .” He stepped forward to crowd Michael, towering over him by a good six inches. “You do realize he’s the main suspect in Miss Wallace’s murder, and with that, the murder of that girl in the asylum is looking more likely. And if he’s refusing to answer questions and hindering our investigation, that makes him even more suspicious.”

“He might just be incapable of answering now,” Michael argued, trying to stand up to Gage, but his voice continued to waver. “He clearly cared for Miss Wallace.”

“And he doesn’t care for Kiera?” Gage shouted. “His affection is not a mitigating factor. He crushed her hand.”

“He didna ken what he was doin’,” Mac argued.

We all glanced up in surprise to see him standing outside Will’s bedchamber door.

“He wouldn’t ever hurt her ladyship.” He shook his head. “No’ on purpose.”

“How can you say that? He just did,” Gage snapped.

“Wait,” I interrupted, pressing a restraining hand to his arm. “Mac, what do you mean he didn’t know what he was doing?”

The older man frowned, his scraggly brows lowered over troubled eyes. “’Twas the injuries ye were describin’. The bruises and bindings. It’s like at the asylum. They treated ’em like bloody animals. Ye’ve seen his drawings.”

“And they bled her,” I murmured, thinking of the image of the man with blood running down his arms still inscribed on Will’s bedchamber wall. I had connected Mary’s wounds to it the first time I saw them, but had overlooked the implication.

I glanced up at Mac and he nodded in confirmation. “Aye.”

“So you don’t think he realized he was hurting me?” I asked, moving a step closer to the cantankerous manservant.

Mac shook his head.

I heard Gage open his mouth to argue, but held up my hand to forestall him. “But he did.”

Something in Mac’s gaze shifted at these words and I moved a step closer to look up into his face.

“He did hurt me.” I let the full pain and shock of that realization show in my face. “I never wanted to believe that he could, but . . .” I gestured weakly with my bruised hand.

Mac’s eyes dropped from mine, and I knew he understood what I was trying to say.

“I want to help him,” I told him. “I want William to be better. But if he harmed Miss Wallace, if he killed her, whether or not it was an accident, we are not helping him by leaving him free to potentially hurt other people.”

His anger sparked again. “But that Dr. Sloane . . .”

“Not Dr. Sloane,” I said, shaking my head. “Not Larkspur Retreat. But there are more humane asylums. Places where you can visit the patients to be certain they are being well cared for. And if that is where Will needs to go, we’re not helping him by lying to keep him with us.”

I waited a moment to allow my words to sink in. “Mac, we need the truth.”

I had not thought it possible for Mac’s perpetually grim face to fall even more, but it did. And its bleakness touched me.

“Aye. I’ll tell ye.”

I glanced at Gage, whose temper had cooled considerably in the face of the man’s willing cooperation. “How is it that Lord Dalmay is able to escape his chambers whenever he wishes?” His voice had an edge to it, telling me he was keeping himself tightly restrained. “Is it through the servants’ stairs?”

Mac’s gaze darted to Michael, who looked unhappy. “Aye. When he first came back to us, I noticed that Cap’n Dalmay didna like feelin’ trapped, as he had been at the asylum. It made him upset. So I thought it would do no harm to let him think he could escape. And I always followed him when he did.” He scowled. “But then there were a couple o’ times when he got by me wi’oot me bein’ aware. Oh, we found ’im right quick, but it bothered me that he’d gotten to be so cunning. So I started lockin’ the door again when I wasna on duty. I was worrit he’d do himsel’ harm.”

“We found it unlocked last night.” Michael’s voice snapped like a whip. “Was that you?”

He had the grace to look abashed, which gave the manservant a rather hangdog look. “Aye.”

“What of the boat?” Gage asked.

“What boat?”

“The one stored in the ruins at Banbogle Castle.” He nodded toward me. “Lady Darby saw it there yesterday afternoon.”

Mac’s grizzled brow ruffled in confusion. “I’ve ne’er seen a boat there.”

“You didn’t notice the boat inside the crumbled section of the wall?” I asked.

“Nay. Are ye sure it was a boat?”

I considered the matter, wondering if I’d been seeing things. It had been tucked in the shadows and I hadn’t gone any closer to be sure. “Yes. There was a boat,” I stated, not willing to be swayed on this.