Charlotte’s routine remained predictable for the next few days. Dirk guarded her during the day until John was able to join her in the evenings. She had not received any further messages or threats. She hadn’t noticed if she was being followed by her American assailant, but her reliance on Dirk made her less observant. He’d not said anything, though, so her thoughts were free to wander.
Wander they did. Back and forth over the conversation with Amelie and Eva, wondering if she’d been foolish enough to begin developing feelings for her friend. John was on her mind constantly, and her heart beat faster each time she saw him.
She could feel it thumping as she sat with John in his carriage as they traveled to visit Dr. Neville at St. Vincent’s morgue, where her mother had been taken after her death. The silence in the carriage was comfortable, if charged. Charlotte felt something in the air with him, something that seemed to have been building from the time in the Fulbrights’ library.
She sat across from John—ever the gentleman, he’d taken the seat facing backward—but she wished they were side by side. She had only herself to blame for her speeding heart. He lived in the bedroom next to hers, now, so she saw him consistently, even if it was a mockery of an intimate relationship. They did not truly live together.
Still, she felt oddly vulnerable, like she was exposing a raw nerve. She’d seen that oftentimes patients fancied themselves in love with their doctors or nurses—perhaps that was the reason for her heightened awareness of him. He was the doctor to her dilemma, helping her find answers to questions. She’d do well to avoid casting him in the “rescuer” light; however, he was, literally, her rescuer.
But the night of the Fulbrights’ ball . . . There was nothing to rescue then; in fact, he’d been the patient . . .
There was no hope for it, and no denying the expression in his eyes the night they’d discussed the police records in the first-floor common area. When he’d kissed her hand. Or rather, when he had caressed it with his lips. The warmth of his touch had shot straight to her core, and she’d been amazed to feel the quite clichéd weakness in the knees. She’d always thought such things were ridiculous, that she’d never “melt” or “swoon.” Those words belonged in Amelie’s vocabulary, not Charlotte’s.
“What are you thinking, Miss Duvall?” John’s face was in the shadows, but she saw his half smile.
“I am thinking I am fortunate to have such a well-connected friend.” It was a partially honest admission. He was well connected, even if she’d only thought of it in that very moment.
“Your face suggests you seem rather perturbed.”
“Does it? I suppose that must be my natural state.”
He tipped his head back and laughed.
She smiled despite herself. “What on earth is so funny about that?”
“The absurdity of it. Your natural state as long as I’ve known you is curiosity. Excitement. You radiate energy. ‘Perturbed’ is not your regular state of mind. Of course, I may be misinterpreting you entirely.”
“I’ve felt differing levels of perturbation since returning from the United States.” She frowned. “My course was set during those years, with no question as to what would come tomorrow, or next week, or next month. I now have everything I’ve wanted for a long time, but my life is . . . unsettled.”
“Understandable, given the questions you’re trying to answer.” He lifted the police file he’d brought along.
“Yes.”
“Is there something else?”
Oh yes, you wretched man, there is definitely something else. “No, just adjusting to being home.”
“Will you return to America?” His voice was carefully casual.
Would you mind? Would you miss me? “I was considering it. I had planned to remain at least six months at St. Anne’s clinic in New York. It’s similar to Delaney but focuses exclusively on women and children, which I enjoyed. I loved the challenge and loved working with my colleagues—all women. But then my father’s letter arrived, and I came home and suddenly the notion of returning sounds . . . less appealing.” She scowled. “Not to mention the fact that I’ll not give my attacker the satisfaction of believing he drove me away. At least, if I’m ever unemployed here, I have family to rely on, much as I detest the thought of asking for help.”
“Surely you had friends in America who would have helped.”
She nodded. “I did, but would you wish to rely on friends for shelter and resources, all the while not knowing if another position would come along?”
“I would not.” He paused. “I wouldn’t want to rely on family either, but yours is much more gracious than mine.”
“Psh,” she said with a hand wave. “Not my brothers, certainly, but I could go to my cousins or Sally with less mortification. I’ll soon be eligible for the trust that had been set up for me after my mother died, and my portion of my father’s estate will also provide a nice cushion.”
“Enough to return to the States if you choose.” His tone was mild, and she couldn’t read beyond it.
“Are you trying to convince me to leave, Director Ellis?”
“Far from it. I do not wish you to leave ever again. I would not be a good friend, however, if I didn’t support your dreams.”
She sighed. “I am living my dream. At least a variation of it, brutal assaults notwithstanding.” She smiled. “Besides, a girl could do far worse than enjoy the company of a handsome gentleman.” She tilted her head, adding, “Even if it means making a visit to a morgue.”
“I can think of nobody with whom I would rather visit a morgue.” His smile was subtle, just like everything else about him. He was understated, dry with his humor, and even now when he seemed to be intensifying their relationship, she was hard-pressed to put her finger exactly on what had changed. The way he looked at her, the affection in his tone—he seemed somehow different, but she struggled to explain to herself why she felt their friendship had shifted.
Charlotte didn’t care for puzzles or riddles. She was impatient. Seeking to distract herself from the enigma seated across from her, she focused instead on her other problem. Regrettably, the other problem was more frustrating. With the former, if she truly wanted to know, she could ask John directly if his feelings for her extended beyond friendship. She could not, however, easily learn who had murdered her mother, or why.
She rubbed her temples and exhaled, suddenly feeling the strains of the day. Her muscles were tense, and though her bruises were fading, her wrist ached only occasionally. The cuts were nearly all healed, but she felt exhausted emotionally.
She looked out the carriage window at the steadily falling rain. The dark night hid layers of soot, mud, and dirt that covered the streets and pathways during daylight hours. If she were the pretending sort, she could imagine a world that was pristine and without blemish, simply sleeping in the cozy arms of darkness.
But pretending had never been Charlotte’s strong suit. When her brothers had allowed her to play pirates with them, she’d been disappointed to realize they used wooden sticks instead of a sword and cutlass. Their responses had been little short of derision, which made no sense to her. “It’s not as though I’ll actually run you through,” she’d said, at which point her brother Stephen had handed her a small, unimpressive tree branch and told her to keep her mouth shut if she wanted to play with them.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of St. Vincent’s, and John held her hand as she stepped from the carriage. He popped open an umbrella to shelter them, and they quickly made their way inside the old building of brick and arched stone.
“You did say he’s available?” Charlotte said as John closed the umbrella, shaking the water droplets from it. “It is after working hours.”
“I sent word earlier, and he answered that he’ll be here late into the evening.” He smiled. “The man is ancient as a fossil, but he’ll probably die while conducting an autopsy, scalpel in hand.”
“Convenient.” Charlotte laughed. “They’ll not have far to carry him.” As they made their way to his office next to the morgue, she added, “Ancient as a fossil . . . I shall remember that one.”
“First heard the phrase used by Winston,” John said as they neared the office door. “In fact—”
“Who is this ‘ancient as a fossil’ fellow?” The grizzled voice came from within the office, and Dr. Neville appeared with his white hair and bushy eyebrows.
John chuckled. “Someone much, much older than you, good sir.”
Dr. Neville looked Charlotte from head to toe, then smiled at her, holding out both hands. He didn’t seem surprised by her bruises or scrapes, and she wondered if John had warned him earlier.
She clasped his hands and kissed his cheek, fighting a sting in her eyes. Meeting this man had sent her on a trajectory she’d never imagined possible.
“Officially a doctor, are you?” Neville asked, grasping his signature cane and making his way around his desk. He gestured for them to sit opposite, and they obeyed.
“Officially.” Charlotte smiled.
The old man nodded once, briskly. “As I knew you would, even though you crossed the pond to do it.” He gave her a flat look, and she stifled a laugh.
“I needed more schooling, if only to prove myself,” she said. “You know what doctors are like.”
“Psh. As I’ve always maintained, a village midwife has more practical medical information in her brain than I’ll ever acquire.” He opened a file on his desk and placed his spectacles on his nose. “You’re here about your mother.” He looked up at Charlotte, and she was alarmed to see sympathy in his eyes. She couldn’t have that—it would be her undoing.
“Yes.” She nodded and sat up straight, hoping to appear professional and unaffected. “I have some questions about the nature of her accident.”
He nodded with a grunt, then looked at the file, lifting smaller papers she recognized as photographs.
She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips, and she gripped the arm of her chair. “You have . . . It was so long ago . . .” She struggled to swallow with a dry mouth. “You have photographs?”
Neville tilted the papers toward his chest. “Dear girl, I am sorry. I ought to have thought.” He shook his head. “You need some tea.” He glanced to a sideboard where his assistants kept a pot perpetually warmed.
John got up and poured a cup for each of them as Neville explained the photos.
“We had only just considered the benefit of autopsy photos a few years before your mother’s death. She was one of the first.” He paused to sip his tea once John set it down before him. The poor doctor probably needed it more than she did.
She took a bracing drink from her own cup and managed a smile. “Please, forgive me. I was caught by surprise, that is all. I’ve only seen her likeness in a small daguerreotype and a portrait painted just after my parents’ wedding. I never imagined there might be these . . .” She pointed at the photos that Neville had pressed against his jacket.
“I recognized you, you know,” Neville said, his voice gravelly. “The first time I saw you. It was the hair, you see, but I couldn’t recall until later, much later, and by then it hardly seemed appropriate to tell you . . . Well, you understand.”
She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I’ve seen your work, and the reverence with which you conduct it. I’m glad to know you were the last to see to her well-being.” A tear formed and slipped free. Drat everything under the sun. “I was very young when she died, so my memories are few. I will not become a sobbing mess, I give you my word,” she said as she quickly wiped away the tear.
In her periphery, she saw John extending a handkerchief, and she slapped his hand away. She thought he might have chuckled, but the offensive fabric disappeared.
“Why are you asking questions about this now?” Neville asked. He took another sip of tea, watching her expectantly.
“I’ve heard conflicting reports about her death.” Charlotte shook her head. “I am simply looking for the truth.”
“What do you hope will come of it? Justice, if warranted?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I must know. I’ll cross further bridges when I reach them.”
He nodded, seeming satisfied. “If your supposition is that her accident was no accident, then I say you would be correct.”
Charlotte felt the breath leave her lungs, stunned to be receiving confirmation of what her father had suggested.
John leaned forward and tapped on the documents sitting in the open file. “We’ve read the police reports. They mentioned a head wound in addition to the drowning. What can you tell us about that?”
Neville finished the remainder of his tea. “According to the constable, Mrs. Duvall went into the water immediately, and there was, indeed, river water in her lungs. In my professional opinion, the head injury seemed the obvious cause of death, but authorities insisted on ‘accidental drowning.’”
John frowned. “You said, authorities—plural. Were you visited by someone other than the constable?”
Neville nodded and thumbed through some papers in the file. “My personal notes, which I keep in addition to official records,” he explained, selecting a sheet. He squinted at the document. “Apologies. My script has deteriorated with time, and I was never exceptional to begin with.”
John took the paper and angled it so Charlotte could see.
“Visits from”—Charlotte read aloud—“Lord Worthingstone. Mr. Finebough.” She blinked again, trying to decipher the hastily scrawled notes. “This here”—she pointed—“must be Mr. Paddleton.”
John glanced at Charlotte, his face unreadable.
Neville handed over another paper. “Additional visits from the captain of the boat and two of her crew. And lastly, the Thames Division chief inspector. I know the captain was concerned about insurance matters and potential liability. Everyone else, if memory serves, came to see what I could tell them about Mrs. Duvall’s cause of death.”
“Why did they not just ask the authorities handling the case?” Charlotte mused.
“Exactly.” Neville rapped his knuckles on the desk. “As she was a Hampton, I assumed she was a person of influence with many friends.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and quietly exhaled. “May I ask about the head wound?” When he hesitated, she said, “I am a doctor, a professional.”
Neville selected one of the pictures and gave it to her. The image showed the back of a woman’s head with masses of curly hair pushed aside to reveal a deep gash surrounded by a darker shadow, undoubtedly blood.
Neville handed her a magnifying glass, and when she looked at him in question, he nodded toward the image. “Tell me what you see.”
An odd sense of nostalgia washed over her. He had asked her that very question many times in the months during her initial year of medical school when she’d studied in London. He’d claimed she could learn much from a dead body as well as a living one, perhaps more.
Charlotte frowned and held the glass to the picture of the wound. “I see blunt impact, cracked skull, and . . .” She squinted and angled the picture toward the light. “And an extremely deep wound that penetrates the skull itself.” She looked to Neville for confirmation.
He nodded. “As though someone had carved out a circular opening. Also notice the jagged breaks below the main wound, as though the object entered and then was forcibly removed. Additionally, consider this.” He handed her another photograph.
This one showed several large bruises on her mother’s back. “Whatever hit her head also caused these? They bring to mind a medieval torture device.” She frowned. “It makes no sense.”
“They look more like handprints to me.” He pointed. “Do you see? I made note of it in my findings. I believe the bruising darkened after death, as though she received the impact just before she died. More than twelve hours had passed before she was brought here. This photo shows additional bruising on her thigh, possibly as a result of contact with the boat before entering the water.”
Charlotte nodded. “Do you have any idea what would have caused this wound to the skull?”
“Something conical in shape. You can see how the wound narrows as it penetrates the skull. It is not entirely smooth, either. We would be looking for something oddly shaped but sharp enough to penetrate the skin and cut through nearly to the brain.”
Silence settled over the room, and Charlotte’s head swam with more questions.
Neville quietly cleared his throat and asked, “My dear, would you care to see the picture of your mother’s face? There are no injuries on it.”
She stared at him for a long moment. She’d not hesitated to see the picture of the injury but looking at her mother’s dead face was a different matter altogether. She finally nodded.
He handed her the picture, and she took it with a hand that shook, much to her disappointment. Pull yourself together. It is only a photograph . . .
When she finally looked at it, she saw a mirror image of herself. A flood of emotion rose up in her, and she was unable to stop the flow of tears that gathered and then fell down her face. She covered her mouth, but a quiet sound escaped anyway.
Neville extended his hand to take back the photograph, but she shook her head. “No,” she whispered, “I am fine. I just . . .” She looked at the picture through blurry eyes. “My mother.”
Sweet mercy, Mama, I miss you so. Why . . . why . . .
This time when John offered his handkerchief, Charlotte took it and wiped her eyes. She sniffed and tilted the photo to him and said, “This is my mother.” Her tears kept flowing, blurring her vision.
He nodded, his face reflecting her emotion. “She was beautiful,” he said, looking at the picture and placing a hand on her back.
She nearly laughed at the absurdity of it—oohing and aahing over an autopsy photo. Katherine Hampton Duvall had been beautiful, though, and Charlotte admitted it without hesitation.
“She loved me,” she said unsteadily. “I remember that much.”
“Of course she did,” Neville said, clearing his throat and surreptitiously wiping an eye while mumbling something about a speck of dust. “She would never have left you, given the choice.” He gathered the papers and stacked them together.
Charlotte traced her fingertip along her mother’s collarbone, where the Y incision had been carefully stitched by the man who now sat with her, the man who had inspired her interest in medicine. It was an odd connection, but she liked it.
“Thank you,” she said and handed the photograph back to him where he placed it atop the documents with the other one.
“I would never ask if we could remove official documents from the coroner’s office, but . . .” John began.
“So don’t ask.” Neville pushed the file toward them and said, “I must ring for that night attendant. He’s not been in here with a fresh pot of tea for over an hour.”
John’s lips twitched, and as Neville stepped into the hall, he deftly swept the file into his larger one containing information on her mother’s case.
“Shouldn’t those documents have already been included in the police report?” Charlotte asked.
“Not necessarily his private notes.” John shot her a grin. “How odd that they got mixed into these other papers.”
“Will you get into trouble?” Charlotte asked, surprising herself as soon as the question left her mouth.
John looked at her with one brow definitively raised and a half smile on his lips. “You? The filly who kicks against the paddock gate?”
She narrowed her eyes at him as they moved to leave the room. “Kick against your . . .” she muttered.
She heard him chuckle close behind, and he put a hand on her back as they bid farewell to Dr. Neville.
“You will keep me informed of any developments,” the old man said, nodding at Charlotte.
“Of course. And thank you.” She kissed his cheek.
“I am proud of you,” he whispered gruffly, squeezing her hands. “You’re a credit to us all.”
“Oh no, you’ll have me going again,” Charlotte said, feeling tears in her eyes. She grasped him in a quick, tight embrace. “I shall visit soon.”
John clasped Neville’s hand. “Many thanks, sir.”
Neville nodded. “Along with you both. I have work to do.”
They made their way through the empty halls to the entrance, the sound of rain pattering on the roof louder here than it had been in Dr. Neville’s office.
John retrieved the umbrella from the stand where he’d left it as Charlotte cracked open the door. A strong gust of wind pushed the door back, catching her off guard. She slipped back, but John was behind her, and his arms quickly encircled her.
She wondered if he could feel how fast her heart started beating at his touch.
He handed her the files, which she clutched to her chest, then pushed the door open, muttering, “Thanks be to Samuel Fox and his lightweight steel-ribbed frame,” as he opened the umbrella against the storm.
Charlotte couldn’t begrudge the rain as it forced John to wrap his arm tightly around her while they made their way to his waiting carriage. She lifted her skirts, trying and mostly failing to keep them from getting splashed in puddles that quickly filled the street.
“Where is the driver?” she asked as they neared the conveyance. The driver’s seat was covered but still thoroughly wet.
“He usually finds a pub while I’m occupied, but I don’t see one close by.”
He opened the carriage door, and Charlotte saw the driver slip a flask into his jacket.
“Beggin’ yer pardon,” he said and scrambled for the door.
“Not to fret, Fitzhume,” John said. “In fact, here—anchor it to the front if you can.” He handed the young man the umbrella and ushered Charlotte inside.
John sat next to Charlotte and closed the door firmly. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he hugged her close. “Are you well?”
She wiped at a few raindrops that had fallen on her neck and shoulders. “I’ll dry eventually, no harm done.” He was warm and deliciously close, and she hoped very much he would stay where he was.
“I was not speaking of the weather.”
“Ah.” She did not want to discuss the fact that she’d cried in front of him, did not want to even think about it. She nodded and said, “I’m well enough. Thank you for arranging this meeting with Dr. Neville.” She looked up at him, at his face which was quite close to hers, and wondered what he would think if she touched her lips to his.
Before she could give into the temptation, she turned her head and instead nestled comfortably against his side. He was merely acting as any supportive friend would. As a brother would. The thought nearly made her laugh when she thought of her own brothers and how different they were from solid, kind, and caring John.
Not a brother, then. But a very good friend. Until he said otherwise, expressed more of whatever he might be feeling, he would remain simply that, and she would behave accordingly. She wasn’t about to ruin her friendship with John because she suddenly found him the most alluring man in the world.
Glad that the shadows in the carriage hid the heat she felt climbing into her cheeks, she turned toward the window as the carriage moved slowly through the streets. It had been a very long day, and she would need to be up with the sun for work. Allowing herself the luxury of relaxing against the solid, strong person at her side, she closed her eyes and sighed.