Chapter 13

 

Margaret had spent most of the morning in her father’s room helping their new nurse, Edith, get acquainted with Lord Marshall’s needs. “He likes two pillows,” she said, bringing a recently starched pillow to the head of the bed and gingerly placing it behind her father’s head and shoulders. She purposely looked at him while she hovered over him, but he didn’t even dart his eyes to her. Instead, he stared blankly at the opposite wall, focused on nothing in particular. She turned to Edith, who was standing on the other side of the room, cleaning up the water and toiletries they had used to give Lord Marshall his daily bath.

“He needs to be moved quite frequently,” Margaret reminded her.

“Of course, m’ lady.”

Edith was an older woman, who had started as a laundress at Guy’s Hospital as a young woman before becoming a nurse in her thirties. Nearing sixty now, she looked frail and tired, not the sort of person Margaret and Ainsley needed to assist their father, but Margaret was in no position to send her away.

“Sometimes he drools out the right side.”

“Yes, m’lady,” she said, walking toward Margaret.

“And sometimes he can get a little—”

A rap came at the door behind her. Aunt Louisa entered the room, a small card in her hand, and the open envelope it arrived in tucked behind it. “Seems we will have a visitor this afternoon,” she said, with a smile.

Margaret turned. “Yes?”

“Lord Benedict would like to come for a spell. He said he is most interested in sitting with Abraham for a while.”

Margaret could do little to hide her surprise. Lord Benedict had been there two days prior and had shown little interest in meeting with her father. “That’s interesting,”

Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw her father arch his back before hurling himself from the bed. A sound escaped him as he rolled, similar to the cry of a wounded animal.

“Father!” Margaret rushed to the opposite side of the bed just as Lord Marshall hit the floor with a pronounced thud. Even as Margaret held on to his shoulders, a feeble effort to calm him, he writhed and wriggled.

“Fetch Maxwell and Cutter! Hurry!”

Aunt Louisa fled the room as Edith and Margaret attempted to stop his outburst. Margaret focused on the protection of his head, which was dangerously close to being knocked against the wooden bedside table that held his lamp and books.

“Father, stop it! Just stop it!”

He kicked and bucked, trying to throw the women from him. Then all at once Edith was pulling at his arms, trying to lift him back into the bed on her own.

“What are you doing?” Margaret asked, trying to pull her father’s limbs away from her grasp.

“Be not alarmed,” the nurse said. “I’ve needed to do this many times before.” The woman’s words were stunted by the exertion of trying to calm Lord Marshall’s flailing and fighting against Margaret’s efforts to stop her. “I’ve dealt with many drunk men ’afore.”

“He’s not drunk,” Margaret said.

Cutter and Maxwell appeared one after the other and went straight to work. Knowing how the scene had played out before, Lord Marshall did not fight them as they took his arms and legs in hand and hoisted him back into the middle of the bed.

Margaret pulled herself up from the floor, and pushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes just as Aunt Louisa returned. The newfound silence of the room was in deep contrast to the chaos moments prior.

“Perhaps we should tell Lord Benedict your father is indisposed,” Aunt Louisa said from the doorway.

Margaret nodded, but was too out of breath to reply.

 

Half an hour passed and complete calm was restored. Lord Marshall was tucked tightly in his bed while Edith sat in the chair, a pair of knitting needles and yarn in her hands.

Margaret hesitated on the opposite side. She had been staring at her father for some minutes, almost daring him to look at her, wondering if he would apologize in some way for his outburst. He didn’t turn his head toward her and returned his gaze to the opposite wall.

“It’s all right, Miss Marshall,” Edith said, “I can see to him now.”

Margaret gave a hesitant nod before pressing down the folds of her skirt and leaving the room.

George and Hubert skirted by her on the stairs, leaving a rattled governess lumbering after them. “Boys! Boys!” Clutching the bannister firmly, the governess swung her free arm widely as she tried to catch up to them.

“Pardon me, miss,” she said as she bounded by.

From her place halfway down the staircase, Margaret saw them nearly plough into Maxwell, who had been making his way to answer the front door. Just shy of the door, Maxwell turned to face them. “For goodness’ sake,” he bellowed as he placed his hands on his hips.

The two young boys stopped suddenly and looked up at the rather tall butler.

“This isn’t a county fair. If that’s the way it is then get outside with ye.”

With wide swinging hand motions, he shooed the boys toward the back of the foyer and down the hall, their governess more than happy to escort them the rest of the way.

Margaret watched as Maxwell pulled down his jacket and adjusted his tie. “They keep us on our toes, yes?” she asked.

“Yes, they certainly do,” he said, ill-amused.

A second later Maxwell snapped open the door and revealed Winifred standing on the other side. She started at the abrupt opening. “Oh, I was beginning to think no one was coming.”

“Can I assist you?” Maxwell asked.

Before Winifred could reply Margaret was at his side. “Winifred, I’m delighted that you should stop by.”

Winifred suddenly looked regretful for having called.

“Is everything all right?” Margaret asked, pushing past the butler.

“Yes, of course.” Winifred glanced down toward her house and pressed her lips together.

“Thank you, Maxwell. I’ll take it from here.”

Maxwell bowed slightly and left them both standing on the portico.

“Has something happened?” Margaret asked.

“It’s Mother. She’s in such a state. She bid me come for you,” Winifred explained. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.” The woman spoke so quickly Margaret could feel the panic radiating from her words.

Margaret purposely took a breath to coax Winifred to do the same. “Tell me what it is,” Margaret said.

“We found something and we don’t know what it means. We didn’t realize it was there until just this morning. Please don’t think awful of us, Margaret. We had nothing to do with that man’s death.”

“Of course not,” Margaret said, softly. She pulled at Winifred’s hand and led her down the few steps to the pavement. “Come now. Let us see what can be done.”

Margaret was led through the dark hall of the house and into the back garden. Just outside the back door, Mrs. Talbot stood dabbing her nose with a lace handkerchief. A female servant stood close at hand consoling her.

“It’s just over here,” Winifred said.

“Oh, don’t look, Margaret,” Mrs. Talbot pleaded between sobs. “It’s too ghastly. I’ve already summoned the police. They should be here shortly.” She raised her handkerchief again and hid her face.

Margaret turned to Winifred, who looked cautiously at her mother before pulling Margaret toward the back of the garden. They circled an ancient yew tree that shaded much of the yard and stopped at the ivy-covered gate that led into a rear alley. The iron hinges groaned as Winifred pulled the gate toward them, standing carefully to one side so Margaret could see.

Behind the gate on the cobbles was a rather large pool of blood, congealed and solidified. As the gate swung further in Margaret could see blood had also trickled over the wood panels that made up the gate.

“Merciful heavens,” Margaret said in a near whisper.

“We did not see it until this morning,” Winifred said, almost apologetically. “I nearly stepped in it myself.”

Margaret inched closer. She could see faint footprints in the blood and then immediately around the area. She hiked up her skirt to walk around the discovery and made her way into the alley. It was a narrow passageway that ran parallel to the houses on both sides. Other gateways were visible all along the block. There were a few more footprints in the passageway that led out to where the lane connected with the street.

“Do you think this has to do with that man?” Winifred asked from the other side of the gate.

Margaret’s heart sank at the thought of it. “I’m afraid so.” She pulled out a plain white handkerchief she had under the hem of her bodice and unfolded it. Winifred stepped closer as Margaret laid the fabric on one of the bloody footprints with the crispest outline.

“What are you doing?” Winifred asked.

Gingerly, Margaret pressed the cloth into the blood, taking extra care not to shift it side to side. When she plied the handkerchief from the ground a marking had transferred to the cloth, faint but clear enough to see with the naked eye.

“What do you plan to do with it?” Winifred asked.

“If this is where the man met his end, then it’s likely this is the killer’s footprint,” Margaret said, holding the handkerchief flat on her upturned palm.

“Don’t show Mother,” Winifred cautioned.

Margaret took great care to fold the clean edges around the print in such a way as to preserve the marking. She held the squared handkerchief in her hand as they made their way back into the Talbot’s garden.

Mrs. Talbot still stood at the back door, sobbing into her handkerchief.

“Do you wish you had heeded my advice?” she asked, looking at the pair of young women as one would look at chastised children.

Margaret and Winifred exchanged glances before nodding in unison. In cases such as these it was much better to agree than force an argument.

“I think I may faint,” Mrs. Talbot said suddenly, placing a hand on her stomach. “Fetch some tea,” she said to the maid beside her. Mrs. Talbot showed Margaret into the drawing room. Each took a seat, but they all looked expectantly out the large window, none of them able to take their eyes from the back gate.

“How was the discovery made?” Margaret asked.

“Winifred heard some cats in the back lane,” Mrs. Talbot said.

“They made such an awful racket this morning. I could hear it from the window in my room,” Winifred explained. “I wanted to make sure neither of them was badly hurt.”

Mrs. Talbot huffed then, rolling her eyes at her stepdaughter’s concern. “I can’t stand the beasts,” she said.

“Mother doesn’t care for cats,” Winifred said, lowering her voice.

“Filthy creatures.” Mrs. Talbot crinkled her nose and shook her head.

The maid entered the room and placed a tray on the table in front of them. One by one, she prepared a cup of tea for each of the women before Mrs. Talbot dismissed her.

“Do you think the blood is from that man?” Winifred pointed to the front of the house.

“Yes,” Margaret said slowly. “It most certainly is human, as I believe there is too much to be feline.”

Winifred blanched at this remark. Mrs. Talbot merely closed her eyes. “I do not understand how you can speak of these things so casually,” she said.

Margaret faltered. She couldn’t confess that these types of things were a regular occurrence for her and her brother. “I’ve been reading a lot of newspaper serials lately,” she said, “and a book on Florence Nightingale.”

The mother-daughter pair seemed assured by this explanation.

“I knew there was a reason I told Winifred to fetch you,” Mrs. Talbot said, offering a comforting smile. “You are so bright, my dear.”