Chapter 4

Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;

 

Breakfast was somber with only the occasional clinking of silverware on porcelain shattering the silence. Ainsley watched as Margaret picked at her food, eating very little, but chose not to say anything. His father too, usually so assured and arrogant, seemed humbled by his wife's disappearance. He didn't even touch the morning's paper that had been positioned beside his place setting at the table.

When Lord Marshall cleared his throat he startled both Ainsley and Margaret. “Peter, do you intend to head to the hospital this morning?” he asked.

Ainsley gave a quick glance to Margaret, unsure of what exactly their father wanted to hear. It was no secret that his father despised his chosen profession. Ainsley was not in a mood to argue yet again. “Yes, Father,” Ainsley answered, somewhat defensively. “I will walk over after breakfast.”

Ainsley saw Margaret pull her hands from the table and place them on her lap. She looked to her plate. It seemed she too was preparing for a fierce argument.

“Won't you take a carriage?” Lord Marshall asked. He reached for his teacup with one hand, and pulled his paper closer to him with the other.

No argument? No appeal to remain with family on such a day? Both men had fought relentlessly for months regarding Ainsley's new position at the hospital. Had Lord Marshall finally conceded? Dumbfounded, Ainsley hesitated and stared at his father, who simply raised his eyebrows as he looked at him over the raised teacup.

“No, I prefer the walk,” was all Ainsley could muster.

Lord Marshall shrugged. “Very well.” He placed his teacup on its saucer and finally opened his newspaper.

Ainsley looked to his sister across the table. Swallowing, she shook her head bewildered. She hadn't expected that response either.

“Your brother Daniel has bought a house in town,” Lord Marshall continued, oblivious to his children's confusion. “You should stop by before you come home. Let him give you the grand tour. It's a lovely spot.”

“I had not realized he was surveying the market,” Ainsley answered.

“You've had other worries.” Lord Marshall gave a forced smile.

Billis approached the breakfast table and began taking away the dishes, passing them to the footman, Cutter, who waited behind him with a trolley. Cutter looked like a pickpocket in comparison to Billis' refined aura of dignity. “Thank you Billis.”

“Of course, my lord.” The butler gave a slight bow, and walked behind his master's chair to retrieve Ainsley's plate. Ainsley nodded in thanks.

“Your brother has been working hard.” Lord Marshall continued.

Ainsley saw a slight smile tickle the corner of his father's lips as he spoke.

“He has much to tell you.”

“Very well,” Ainsley agreed. “I will stop by this afternoon. What is the address?”

“Oh,” Lord Marshall snapped his fingers toward Billis and Cutter who had nearly exited the room. “Billis give Peter the address of Daniel's new house.”

Billis bowed at the waist again. “Right away, sir.”

Lord Marshall smiled, as if basking in the command he held over the household. “A good man, Billis is.”

Margaret nodded, giving Ainsley a smirk across the table. “Yes, Father he is.”

Their father said this often and none of the Marshall children had ever been allowed to disagree with him. Once, when Ainsley was young, he tried to have the butler fired for laughing at him. He was playing a very silly game of some sort and when Billis entered the room he chuckled at the boy's antics. Indignant as young, privileged children often are, Ainsley called for his immediate dismissal. Lord Marshall would not hear a word of it, and instructed Ainsley's nanny to give him a few switches once she had removed him to the nursery.

No one was allowed to disrespect Billis, at least not in front of Lord Marshall. The two men had been in each other’s lives since they were young adults. Over the years Billis had become less of a servant and more of a confidant. He had known all of the children since birth and watched over them as if they were his own. There was a genuine camaraderie there, between Billis and Lord Marshall. Of all the servants Lord Marshall trusted Billis the most.

“Absolutely, Father,” Ainsley agreed warmly, “We are lucky he has stayed with us all these years.”

In the hallway, as Ainsley put on his coat, Billis appeared with a folded piece of paper in his hand. “The address, sir.”

Ainsley smiled, taking the paper and placing it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Billis.”

“And where are you off to today, young Mister Marshall?” Billis asked as he straightened Peter’s coat.

“Why the hospital, of course.”

“The hospital? You are not ill are you, sir?”

Ainsley smiled. This had become a standard jest between the young man and family servant. Although not allowed to refer to Ainsley's occupation directly, they flirted with the idea and played it as an inside joke. “Not in the slightest.”

Billis opened the door and Ainsley walked through to the cold London street. Momentarily pausing on the stoop, he pulled his jacket in tighter around his torso and buttoned his collar against the December cold. A thin layer of snow dusted the scenery and trace amounts still cascaded from the clouds.

His usual walk to work was short and that day it felt even shorter. Each female with chestnut hair reminded him of his mother. A governess holding the hand of a small child. The wife of a cobbler sweeping the front pavement to their storefront. A genteel lady walking arm in arm with a man in a beaver top hat. None of them were her, of course. Ainsley doubted his mother would remain so close to home, knowing everyone would be looking for her. If she had run away he knew she'd be far away in Brighton or Bristol, and not flaunting her new life for all of London to see. She was reckless, childish even, but not stupid. Knowing this did not stop his mind from filling in the details, and conjuring her everywhere he went.

Truth be told, he was worried for her. Worried for their family as a whole. His father was behaving strangely, far too accommodating and far less confrontational than Ainsley was used to. It felt as if a lot had changed during the time that he was away and as much as Ainsley complained about the way his father lorded over everyone and the way his parents always seemed to be at odds, he missed the predictability of it.

St. Thomas’ Hospital was brisk with activity by the time he arrived. He slipped by a huddle of nurses at the main doors who were no doubt taking the chance to imbibe a hidden drink or smoke a communal cigarette before heading out to mop up vomit or redress festering wounds. He did not envy their jobs and it was clear why no respectable girl stepped forward to fill them. They were often reformed prostitutes and show girls. Very rarely did he meet one whom he did not suspect to have some sordid past.

Some watched him as he passed. He could sense their eyes following him and when he tipped his hat in greeting one seemed to swoon.

“What do ya ‘tink?” he heard another sneer. “Ya ‘tink he's gonna pay any mind ta ye?”

Ainsley did not turn to see who it was who had spoken but he heard nothing more as he walked through the hospital doors.

He was met by the unmistakable smell of decay and rot. In a distant room he could hear a man wailing, no doubt in agony over losing a limb or a finger or perhaps two. Or it might be gangrene seeping through his appendages, and oozing from a wound. Ainsley wondered how long it would take before someone doused the patient with laudanum just so the other patients could rest in relative peace. He headed for the main stairwell and stopped when he saw his school chum, Jonas Davies walking towards him. Jonas was a surgeon as well but the last thing Ainsley heard was that Jonas had been relieved of his position at the university.

“Jonas?” Ainsley said as soon as he saw him.

Jonas was heading his way surveying a stack of papers he held in his hands. When he looked up, he seemed much less surprised to see Ainsley than Ainsley had been to see him. “Good morning, Peter,” he said, a smile touching the corners of his lips.

“What are you doing here?” Ainsley asked.

“I'm working under Dr. Lehmann, assisting him in surgery.” Jonas seemed to beam as he spoke.

In the few days since he had last seen him, Jonas had secured a job with one of the hospitals most celebrated surgeons, and Ainsley had no doubt Jonas would quickly be one himself.

“Dr. Lehmann?” Ainsley could not hide his surprise.

Dr. Lehmann was a revered surgeon, nearly the top in London, which was amusing since he was an immigrant from Germany. Despite living in England for more than twenty years, he still held a thick German accent, a condition that annoyed doctors and patients alike who could not understand some of the things he said. His talent redeemed him though and had rapidly elevated him to his spot as head of surgery.

Ainsley had once envisioned himself as the surgeon's assistant and then full-fledged surgeon but his own methodology was far too slow. A surgeon needed to be quick, even at the cost of accuracy, both things Ainsley could not do. He was accurate to a fault and painfully slow, and that was why the morgue suited him best.

“We happened upon each other yesterday,” Jonas explained, “when he was signaling a cab and I offered him mine. He remembered me from the reception at the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons held a few months back.”

Ainsley nodded, remembering the night and how he glowed arrogantly amongst his fellow graduates who had yet to secure such a stable position as he. Perhaps he had always felt it would be that way, him rising to the top so easily, his parent’s money and the confidence it gave him opening doors that would forever be closed to the other boys raised to be tradesmen.

Ainsley was unable to hide his discomfort at the idea that Jonas’ career could one day eclipse his own, and he scowled at the sheer luck that had found his friend. Jonas on the other hand seemed to relish the thought that he could be in a far superior position to Ainsley's before long. Their friendly competition from school had followed them into adulthood, only perhaps it wasn't so friendly anymore.

“And so he hired you?” Ainsley's mind was reeling and he could not hide his shock. “Hiring an assistant sight unseen?”

“Don't be so arrogant,” Jonas said sharply. “You are not the only one who comes highly recommended.”

Ainsleys shrugged, preparing to apologize but nothing came. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Apology accepted,” Jonas said, presuming the words that failed his friend. “Your mother, has she returned yet?” he asked, wisely changing the subject.

“No,” Ainsley answered. “How did you know she was missing?”

“An inspector showed up at my door last night. He asked about my affiliations with your family.” Jonas's face turned solemn. “Wondered how someone in my trade could associate with an Earl's family.” Jonas slipped a hand into his pocket, coyly touching the corner of his mouth with his tongue. He was trying to make it seem like he was unaffected by the insinuation, Ainsley realized. “He wanted to know the circumstances by which we met.”

Ainsley swallowed nervously. He had been successful in keeping his two lives separate for nearly four years, acting the part of gentleman's son or acclaimed morgue surgeon as circumstances dictated. Jonas was his only bridge between the two lives he led and he realized for the first time that his mother's disappearance could be the undoing of it all.

Ainsley looked about the hospital hall, noticing a porter at the farthest end sitting at a small desk and one nurse just beside him. Neither one was close enough to hear their conversation. “And what did you tell him?” he asked, turning his attention back to Jonas.

“I told him it was doctor patient privilege and left it at that.”

“Did he ask anything else?” Ainsley could feel his mouth go dry.

“He asked about Margaret, and I said she had come to me, knowing I was your friend, and asked for my help—”

“Which you were more than happy to oblige,” Ainsley inserted.

Jonas pressed his lips together and tilted his head slightly to the side. “I did it out of concern for your family, Peter. My feelings for Margaret came after.”

Ainsley nodded. “Of course,” he said.

“I am only telling you this so you are aware. He is suspicious of your family. He said he believed Margaret to be holding back something and—”

“Jonas, you did not tell him what happened in Tunbridge Wells, about mother...did you?” Ainsley pointed a ridged finger at his friend. His temper surprising even him.

“No, of course not,” Jonas hissed in return.

Ainsley lowered his hand and glanced around them again. The hall was becoming busy with people and they would need to be more guarded.

“Peter, I am well aware of the possible scandal,” Jonas whispered. “I may be a commoner but I know what this would do to you, to all of you.”

“We are counting on your discretion,” Ainsley said, with a forced smiled. He waved to a porter who worked in the morgue with him as he passed them. As he turned back to Jonas he saw Dr. Crawford, with his disapproving superior walk, come through the double doors. Ainsley gave Jonas a reassuring pat on the upper arm. “Thank you, my friend. I knew we could.” Ainsley began to walk away, heading away from Dr. Crawford.

“Peter, we should talk,” Jonas called to his friend as he walked away.

Ainsley turned but continued to walk backwards. “We will. Come by the morgue sometime.”

Ainsley slipped down the back stairs, hoping Crawford had not seen him. He could not avoid him for the rest of the day but he certainly did not want his friend to be witness to the inevitable reprimand.

The stairway grew dark as he descended, and there was a marked chill in the air though the smell remained the same. The morgue and accompanying offices were tucked away at the back of the hospital, making sure to be far enough removed from visiting family members and female nurses. Only surgeons, medical students, male porters and families of the deceased were allowed so far back.

Ainsley passed the porter's reception table that regulated admittance, tapping a knuckle on the desk as he passed. The porter, Frisker, looked up and his gaze followed Ainsley as he walked by.

“Good day, Dr. Ainsley,” he called after him.

“Good morning Frisker.” Ainsley had heard the scraping of the dry wooden chair on the floor and knew the porter had stood and was now shadowing him down the hall.

“Anyone wake up while I was gone?” Ainsley asked, knowing Frisker to be a serious fellow and not at all inclined to jovial speech.

“No sir,” he answered with due seriousness. Frisker was a coloured man who spoke in an indistinguishable accent that Ainsley imagined to be from Barbados or somewhere else in the West Indies. He walked one pace behind Ainsley as he made his way toward the morgue examination room.

Ainsley paused at the doors, turning slightly to face him. “Can you tell Dr. Crawford that I do not wish to be disturbed?”

Frisker nodded. “If you think he will listen, sir.”

“It's worth a shot.”

“Shall I take your jacket and hat, sir?” Frisker asked, offering both hands.

Ainsley nodded. He slipped his arms from his jacket sleeves and allowed Frisker to take it by the collar before he tipped his hat from his head. “You are a fine dresser, if you don't mind me saying sir.”

Ainsley nodded his thanks and pushed through the extra wide door into his work area.

The bodies laid out on the tables were different than the ones there when he left. Those bodies had by now been processed and released by other surgeons in his absence. This new stock of corpses, covered by thin sheets of off-white and stained cloth, was lined up systematically, parallel to each other in a specific order. A single sheet of paper sat beneath the heel of each dead body, identifying them.

Ainsley sighed as he walked down the aisle between the bodies. London never seemed to have a shortage of them and he could rest assured that he would always have employment. He went straight for his workspace at the back wall where large windows, though slightly grimy from the soot and dust of the city, illuminated his space. He stopped briefly to examine his tools, saws, forceps, clamps and scalpels, seeing they were clean and placed where they should be. Being there made him eager to return to work, to busy himself so he didn't have to think about home or his mother.

He reached for his leather apron, hanging from a hook next to the window, and turned just as the door in the adjoining room opened. He craned his neck and his eyes strained to see past the bright light above him to the dim light beyond. He saw Frisker and another porter bringing in a stretcher. They weaved, almost effortlessly, through the maze of bodies and stopped in front of him. Two others entered the room but Ainsley did not notice. He saw the stretcher, a thin sheet over another body and an unmistakable, fresh blood stain on the sheet just above what would be the mid-section of the body.

The two porters hoisted the stretcher onto the table. Frisker gave Ainsley an apologetic look and retreated with the other porter without a word. Ainsley saw Crawford then, and he understood Frisker's silent apology.

“Dr. Ainsley, this is an important case,” Dr. Crawford said authoritatively.

“Aren't they all, Dr. Crawford?” Ainsley asked, his tone showing he was more annoyed than usual. Ainsley was not at all interested in getting into details about his trip to the north and the murders he had witnessed there. Ainsley looked to the dark figure behind the senior doctor and recognized Inspector Simms instantly. Ainsley's mouth immediately grew dry and his hands began to shake. Ainsley shifted slightly away in an effort to compose himself and worried that Inspector Simms had recognized him as Peter Marshall.

Dr. Crawford either did not notice, or he decided to ignore Ainsley's strange behaviour. “This here is believed to be Lady Charlotte Marshall, wife to house representative Lord Abraham Marshall.”

Ainsley turned, not caring whether the Inspector recognized him. He stared at the sheet covered body and the reddish-brown blotch that stained its midsection.

“It cannot be,” Ainsley said quietly.

“Oh yeah?” Dr. Crawford sneered, “And how would you know?” He slapped some sheets of papers onto Ainsley's chest.

Ainsley grasped for them before they all cascaded to the floor but his grip was loose.

“Take care with her Ainsley and tell this man, Inspector Simms, all you find.”

Ainsley swallowed hard and tried to hide a shiver that traced up his spine.

Dr. Crawford glanced to the body in front of them and crossed himself with his hand. When he turned to leave the room he called out over his shoulder. “Dr. Ainsley is my best man, Inspector. She is in good hands.”

Ainsley struggled for air and used the edge of the examination table to hold himself up.

“Are you going to be all right, doctor?” Inspector Simms asked stepping forward. He held his hands together in front of him.

Ainsley nodded. “Just give me a moment,” he said, unsure. Even in that dim light Simms should have recognized him.

“Perhaps we should arrange for another doctor to examine the body,” Inspector Simms continued, “considering your relationship to the deceased.”

Ainsley looked up slowly.

“I had wondered why Dr. Jonas was described as a good friend. Now I see.” Inspector Simms walked around the examination table and surveyed the arrangement of tools with a self-satisfied grin. “What an odd profession for someone of your station.”

Ainsley did not move as Inspector Simms took in his array of tools and workspace. Ainsley simply stared at the covered body in front of him, not willing to believe it could be the body of his mother. “Where did you find her?” Ainsley asked, almost choking on his words.

“In a rooming house. The matron said she had arrived with a man a few days before and no one had seen her go in or out of her room for a couple of days.” Inspector Simms spoke matter of factly, but then, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, he softened his tone. “They checked in the day your mother was supposed to be travelling back to Tunbridge Wells.”

Ainsley nodded at all of this. “How did she die?”

Inspector Simms came to the foot of the table and looked to Ainsley. “Stab wound to the stomach.”

It took a moment for Ainsley to steel himself against the horror that struck him. The image of his mother dying alone in a letted room, no doubt bleeding for some time, writhing in pain, before finally succumbing, seemed almost too much to bear. His sorrow was diluted by his love for his profession and his ability to shut off all emotion as he worked on body after body throughout his daily life. Ainsley reached for the cloth, preparing to pull it down.

Inspector Simms grabbed his wrist and stopped him. “Perhaps we should have someone else do this,” he said looking Ainsley squarely in the eye.

“Who better to do it?” Ainsley asked.

Once Simms released his wrist, Ainsley pulled down the sheet to the woman's shoulders. He bowed his head and once again braced himself on the edge of the table. The silent tears came like waves, uncontrolled and unending as he hid his face from view. With the back of his hand to his mouth, Ainsley cried all the tears he had held back the night before and all the tears he had wanted to cry while on his way home. He did not care that Inspector Simms saw him. He wept for his mother and the fact that this woman who lay dead in front of him was not her.

Inspector Simms moved to cover the body but Ainsley raised a hand to stop him.

“It's not her,” Ainsley said in a gasp. “It's not her.” He breathed in deeply pushing the tears back and composing himself.

Inspector Simms looked to the body, almost in doubt of what Ainsley had told him. “She fits the description.” He said reaching for his notepad in his inside pocket.

“I agree, but it is not her.” Ainsley looked over the woman's features once more. The woman in front of him did have brown hair, though it was not as thick and wavy as his mother's was. Her skin was not nearly as pale, and he also noticed, now that he was able to see without fear, that this woman was much shorter, slimmer and younger than his mother. In all other respects it did indeed look like Charlotte Marshall. He knew it was not his mother but anyone who did not know her would not see those differences as easily.

Inspector Simms let out a long breath and replaced his notepad to his inside pocket. “Your being here has saved me the embarrassment of contacting your family.”

Ainsley said nothing at this. His torment had saved his family from the same.

The detective looked at the dead woman contemplatively. “If you don't mind making her a priority, I would be much obliged. We have no idea who this woman is.”

Ainsley nodded. “Absolutely.”

Simms shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Such a shame.”

He turned to leave but Ainsley called him back. “Inspector Simms, you won't tell anyone, will you?”

Ainsley watched as the detective stared. “We should share drinks,” he said, neither confirming nor allaying Ainsley's biggest fear. The detective was gone a few moments later, the door closing loudly as he left.

 

Her body was not quite as bloody as he was used to. When Ainsley opened her, she was pink but not red, as she ought to have been. He examined her wound first, noting the depth and type of cut that was made. It was a single thrust he determined, and he imagined, as he looked over her, that the assailant had pulled away suddenly. He either wanted to watch her flail or he was surprised at his actions.

When Ainsley cut into her skin and then pulled back the layers of muscle he saw that her stomach was punctured and had bled out slowly. Ainsley silently wished he could have visited her at the site of death. He could have seen where she fell and how. He could have judged, by the amount of blood on the floor, how long she had lingered before dying.

She was cold, and no longer stiff. She would have died the evening before, or perhaps prior, given those clues. Ainsley could not help identify who she was though, that was Simms’ job. He would tell the detective that the woman was over twenty, perhaps twenty-five. Within a few moments he could determine if she had ever bore a child, but not whether that child was still living, or in her care.

When his examination was done, he replaced all of her organs and sewed her up as best he could using a thick, black thread. Just as he tied off the last stitch Frisker walked in, his arms loaded with folded, cleaned sheets. They were still near grey with yellow circular blotches showing on the folds. Frisker nodded slightly, acknowledging the doctor before walking past him and placing the sheets in a nearby cupboard.

“I am just about done,” Ainsley said over his shoulder to the porter.

Ainsley stood at the white porcelain sink near the cupboard and turned on the water. He washed his hands, scrubbing up and down his arms all the way to his elbows. Then he grabbed the small square of soap, made by one of the nurses upstairs looking for some extra money to her regular wages.

“Would you rather I washed the body, sir?” Frisker asked, his head bent low as he spoke. “Save you the trouble.”

Ainsley smiled. “Thank you, Frisker. You can help me bring over another one. Let's see if I can make Dr. Crawford not hate me so much.”

Ainsley walked back toward the body and pulled the sheet from her feet to just below her chin.

“Oh no sir,” Frisker said approaching the examination table. “He does not hate you sir. Every day while you were gone he asked if you had returned.”

Ainsley let out a slight laugh. “Angered with me no doubt.”

“No, anxious for you to return. He said you are his best surgeon.”

Ainsley stopped and stared at the old porter. “He said that?”

Frisker nodded.

“Well, I'll be....” Ainsley's mouth contorted into a smile. “Thank you, Frisker. You have made my day.”