Chapter 7

The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;

 

By the time Ainsley arrived at Ms. Bell's boarding house the next morning, Inspector Simms was already waiting for him on the front stoop. Ainsley noticed his brown tweed jacket was buttoned to his chin and his shoulders were hunched defensively against the cold. The skies were a dark shade of grey, with heavy clouds closing in, a tell- tale sign of rain, or perhaps snow, making Ainsley wish he had brought his umbrella.

“I thought perhaps you had decided not to indulge me,” Simms admitted as Ainsley drew close. He offered his hand in greeting. Shaking it, Ainsley glanced up to the front facade of the four storey brick building.

“I doubt my presence is required,” Ainsley said, scanning the five small windows of each floor. The building could be considered derelict if it weren't for the handful of people loitering on the front stoop.

Simms turned and headed for the entrance, entreating Ainsley to follow him. “I'm afraid Ms. Bell is anxious for us to be finished with the room,” Simms explained.

“She’s loosing revenue, I imagine,” Ainsley answered.

The entranceway was decorated with a dingy, worn red carpet, and a rickety side table. In an adjoining room Ainsley could see a single green velvet chair with its arms stained to nearly black and the gold paint that had once adorned the wooden arms and legs chipped and made dull. The smell of the building hit Ainsley more squarely as they approached the stairway that would take them up to the higher floors. It was a smell of mold and urine, old urine which seemed to have seeped into the carpeting and the wood planks beneath it.

Simms must have noticed the look on Ainsley's face. “Far cry from Belgrave Square, isn't it?”

Ainsley did not know what to say. The smell was too overwhelming.

“It gets better on the second floor.”

Ms. Bell approached them from a room in the back, which Ainsley assumed was the kitchen, his assumption was further supported by the towel she held in her hand. “Back again are ya’?” she asked in a near snarl. “I told ya’ I have no patience for investigations.”

“A woman died, Ms. Bell,” Ainsley retorted in near frustration. He wondered if Simms, and other constables like him, always received such terse receptions.

“Ain't no matter to me,” Ms. Bell answered without bothering to look Ainsley in the eye. “I ain't the one who killed 'er.”

“We will be out of here by the end of the day,” Simms said, cutting off her words. He pointed up the stairs and motioned for Ainsley to follow him.

At the bottom of the stairs they could hear Ms. Bell calling after them. “I need my daughter to get in there to clean.”

“She'll need ten daughters to clean what awaits her in there,” Simms muttered to Ainsley as they walked up the stairs.

“Is it that bad, Inspector Simms?” Ainsley asked, glancing to the crumbling wallpaper that peeled from the plaster in strips, revealing circles of mildew beneath.

“The boarding house, or the room?” Simms asked, only half-jokingly. He stopped at a closed door not far from the top of the stairs. He pulled a set of keys from his trouser pocket and slipped one into the keyhole above the iron door knob.

“She had enough funds for a private room?” Ainsley asked knowing boarding houses such as these rarely housed private accommodations.

Simms nodded. “Aye, most are glad to share a cot with a stranger.”

As Simms turned the key, Ainsley glanced down the hall to the faces that peered out from the other doors. He tilted his head in their direction. “Have you questioned them all?” he asked.

Simms followed Ainsley's gaze. “No one saw or heard anything, but I plan to question them again.” Simms pushed the door open.

With the detective propping the door open, Ainsley stepped inside, aware of a quagmire of glass strewn on the dark red carpet.

Once inside Ainsley realized the glass was actually shards of a mirror, some facing the floor, but most reflecting his own disjointed image back at him. Ainsley looked farther into the room, looking for the source, a broken vanity mirror or standing mirror but saw nothing. Instead he saw a single narrow metal bed, with scarcely enough room on either side to walk. A single lamp, white and plain, sat on a small table beside the bed, untouched.

A squishing sound came from beneath his boot and when he looked he realized the dark red carpet beneath the shards of glass was actually blood. He followed the trail that led him around the bed to the headboard. As Ainsley drew near he saw the hurricane glass from the lamp had been broken, a large chunk missing from the side while the majority remained intact despite a long crack.

There was no bureau, no wardrobe, only the bed, the small table and the lamp. An embroidered Bible verse, framed on the wall, dangled by its corner and looked as if it would drop to the floor at any moment. Ainsley turned his attention to the bed, neatly made save for a large stain of blood, now brown, dried and crusty against the gaudy floral pattern of the thin blanket. And then he noticed another, smaller stain on the bedclothes closer to the foot of the bed, but not as dark and not as widespread as the other.

There were wrinkles too in the cloth, though the smooth position of the linens gave no indication of how the bed clothes had been when the girl was stabbed. Simms remained at the door, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes watching Ainsley as he leaned in to look at the blood.

“Your officers tidied the crime scene,” Ainsley said at last, pulling his eyes from the bed and looking squarely at the detective.

“No,” Simms answered.

“Where was the body located then?” Ainsley asked, disbelieving the detective's response.

Simms pointed to the middle of the bed. “She was in her night shift, under the covers, as if she had been sleeping.”

Ainsley looked to where Simms pointed and stared. The bloodstain was not where the wound had been. She had been found in the bed but the majority of the blood on the carpet. Ainsley pulled back the blanket and looked at the underside and spotted another smaller, less noticeable stain close to where the doctor estimated her stomach would have touched the underside.

“Your officers did not touch her?” Ainsley asked, doubtful. “I only ask to be certain,” he explained, not wanting to show any doubt for Simms abilities, since he had just met the man and Simms was still in charge of the investigation of his mother's disappearance.

“She was not moved.”

Ainsley pointed to the lamp. “But the lamp was.”

Simms raised an eyebrow.

“The lamp was knocked over,” Ainsley explained. “It looks intact but the glass has a large piece missing, the kerosene is also spilt.” Ainsley ran his hand along the wallpaper behind the bedside table and showed Simms the oil that slid over his fingertips. “The lamp was knocked over.”

Following the trail of blood with his eyes, Ainsley pointed to the foot of the bed. “Stabbed there, she stepped around, maybe to get away from someone there.” Ainsley pointed to where Simms stood. Ainsley placed himself at the side of the bed. “She collapsed here. Someone moved her into the bed.”

Simms smiled and nodded. “What do you think then, Ainsley?” he asked. “What was used to kill her?”

Ainsley turned from him, glancing over the room.

“A knife?” Simms asked.

“Possibly,” Ainsley answered rubbing his hand on his chin, “But doubtful.” Ainsley walked to the foot of the bed, back to the shards of mirror that lay on the carpet. A shattered image stared back at him as he leaned over.

“Glass then?”

Ainsley reached for a piece, but said nothing, not wanting to commit to any conclusion. The mirror was a mass of jagged triangles, splintered from one clear point. Crouching, Ainsley held the largest piece in his forefinger and thumb, turning it over. If a piece of a mirror was the murder weapon, how had the murderer not harmed themselves? Each piece was broken or exposed on all sides. The force needed to puncture the skin and the stomach would have severely damaged the hand of the person holding it, even if gloves had been worn.

Ainsley glanced around the walls of the room looking for a bare nail or discoloured patch of wallpaper where the mirror might have fallen from.

“What is this from?” he asked, looking up to Simms.

A smudge dotted the edge of the broken shard and Ainsley tilted it toward the light to see what it was. He had hoped it was a drop of blood but it wasn't. Its colour was not much different from that of the mirror but what it was exactly the doctor could not tell.

“Dr. Ainsley?”

Ainsley looked up to Simms. “I'm going to take these,” he said. He did not wait for Simms to agree. Pulling his handkerchief from his breast pocket Ainsley laid the white square of fabric out over the carpet. Gingerly, he placed all of the pieces in his handkerchief and folded the edges carefully so he could safely place them in his pocket.

When he stood up he noticed Simms looking at him doubtfully.

“I am going to compare them to her wound,” Ainsley explained. “I am not convinced, however. None of these have a speck of blood on them.”

“Perhaps he threw that piece away,” the Inspector offered. “I'll check the laneways.”

Simms wrote something on his notepad before tucking it in its usual spot, his inside breast pocket. “I still need to interview her neighbours,” he said, indicating the other rooms. “Care to join me?”

Ainsley gave a smirk. “With that, you are on your own. I prefer the dead. Everything becomes much easier that way.”

Slipping the wrapped bundle of glass shards into his pocket, Ainsley rose from his crouched position and noticed a bemused smile on the detective's face. The pair met each other's eyes but no one spoke for a moment, not until Ainsley let out a deep exhale of breath. “What?”

Simms shrugged, pouting his lips as he did so. “Seems odd, that's all.”

“What's odd?”

The detective hesitated, perhaps wondering how to phrase his observation. “I would have thought a man like you would prefer the living.” Simms' offering was carefully phrased, as if expecting the subject to drop shortly thereafter.

“A man like me?” Ainsley could not help but laugh. “What sort of man do you peg me as?”

“You are the son of an Earl. You grew up in the upper crust of society, second son and heir to one of the most powerful families in the empire.” Simms must have seen the disdain on Ainsley's face as he spoke. “If you don't want that lifestyle, I'd gladly change places with you. I'd rather attend balls, garden parties and picnics. It's a might bit better than this.”

Ainsley watched Simms glance around the room, before pulling his brown tweed waistcoat together and buttoning it at the front. “You think I'm spoiled,” Ainsley finally said shifting his weight to one leg and placing a hand in his pants pocket.

“No,” Simms answered unconvincingly.

“Of course.” Ainsley's smile became indignant. “Everyone with money hasn’t a care, is that it?” The young doctor wondered if the detective picked up his sarcasm. “You have seen my family, you met my father. You know what he is like. His money gives him reason to believe he can own anything he wants, including his wife and children.”

“And how many in this city have no fathers to tell them where to go and what to do. Many an orphan would be blessed to have but one of your parents.”

“And I have both?” Ainsley knew he was behaving self righteously but in that moment he felt justified. His mother was missing, and she was the better half of his parentage. As far as he knew, he might already be an orphan if anything had befallen her. He ran his hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face and let out a long breath in an effort to return his rapid heartbeat back to normal. “I have to ask, Inspector, do you find my father's story suspect? Is he under suspicion?”

Simms hesitated but before he could speak Ainsley interrupted.

“Because if he isn't, he should be.”

“Your sister says they had a loving marriage.”

Ainsley laughed. “She is protecting him. I thought you were trained to detect that.”

“I am,” Simms answered, his smile hardening. “I have no reason to suspect your father is involved. Your family's servants confirm he was at home the day Lady Marshall left and went missing. In fact he was in his study while she boarded her carriage.”

“Was it our family's carriage?” Ainsley asked, suddenly aware of a possible lead.

Simms shook his head and sighed. “No, she hired a coach.”

Ainsley curled his hands into fists at his side. He wondered if all of Simm’s work was just as frustrating. “There must be hundreds in London. How can we track down one driver?”

Simms nodded. “Impossible.”

The change in Ainsley's mood was palpable. It was becoming hard to find hope when every way Ainsley turned he saw a dead end.

After a moment of avoiding Ainsley's gaze, Simms spoke. “We will find her,” he said. “I am meeting with your brother this afternoon and I am confident we will find her.”