CHAPTER FOUR

Somehow 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.