Chapter 2 #2
It had taken Julia many months to imagine a shared life: one with room for a doctor and a detective.
Last June, she’d been on the brink of commitment.
She had appeared, uninvited, on his doorstep in Kent with an overnight case in her hand, only to find he’d decamped for the Continent.
He’d left without saying goodbye, knowing he’d likely be away for months.
His abrupt disappearance and weeks of silence confused her.
At other times, she felt angry. Was his regard so slight that he thought a few letters at lengthy intervals were sufficient?
He shared details of the chase but gave no hint of his feelings, no sign that he was impatient to be home.
Did I nearly make a fool of myself that day in Kent?
Still, Julia missed him. The rare leisure hours in her busy life seemed emptier than before. Were his? Julia sighed and turned away from the sea, the push and pull of her contradictory feelings as continual as the tides. She retraced her steps, her mind and heart as restless and unsettled as ever.
It had turned twilight by the time Julia and her grandfather arrived at their hotel.
“Well, well,” Dr. Lewis said as the carriage wheels crunched to a stop on the gravel. “Sir Charles Locock is on the porch with your aunt. I’m flattered by his alacrity. He said he’d visit tomorrow.”
Dr. Lewis handed Julia down and hailed his old friend.
Sir Charles rose stiffly from the bench, his expression grave as they shook hands. “Good evening, Andrew.”
“This is my granddaughter, Doctor Julia Lewis.”
The queen’s doctor bowed. “The very person I want to consult.”
A surprised Julia said, “Indeed, Sir Charles? I’m honored.”
The doctor drew together his bushy, white brows. A deep furrow creased the space between them, and his long, thin fingers worried his watch chain. “I sorely need your professional services … and your discretion.”
Two laughing young men burst through the hotel doors and stopped to light cigars. Andrew Lewis drew Sir Charles aside. “What is it, my friend?”
“The police found the body of a young woman at the Quarr Abbey ruins. She’d been missing since last evening.”
“Good heavens,” Dr. Lewis murmured.
Sir Charles rubbed his forehead. “A local doctor usually handles postmortems, but he’s on the other side of the island, assisting at a difficult birth.”
Julia said, “You want me to examine the body?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. My eyes are no longer up to the demands of a postmortem. I’d planned to ask your grandfather, but Lady Aldridge suggested you.”
“I explained you had retired, Andrew, but that Julia served as a medical examiner for Scotland Yard.”
The queen’s physician took Julia’s hand. “Will you come with me now?”
“Of course, Sir Charles. I’m at your service.”
“Thank you, Doctor. It’s a sensitive case. The victim’s name is Lizzie Dowling, and she was one of the queen’s household servants.”
At sunset, Susan Styles returned from her walk.
Two hours earlier, Sir Charles Locock had reappeared after his morning visit, carrying the news that Lizzie Dowling was dead.
Then he drove away, leaving behind shock, a tonic for the Princess of Wales, and Princess Louise in tears.
For the past six months, Lizzie had been the only servant in attendance on the independent but emotionally fragile Louise.
Susan had left the princesses resting before seeking the solitude of the outdoors and some fresh air.
I should go inside and find Princess Louise, Lady Styles thought. And Alix may be awake and wanting me. Susan had fallen into the habit of thinking of Princess Alexandra as “Alix,” the royal family’s pet name for the Princess of Wales.
Alix had a duo of young maids of honor whose duty was to attend royalty at any hour.
But Lady Styles was the lady-in-waiting who was her chief support.
At twenty-nine, she felt ancient next to the younger attendants who’d only recently left their governesses behind.
While Susan’s duties weren’t taxing, often, they felt unrelenting.
She looked up at the tower looming over the entryway and felt the three sides of the courtyard press in on her.
Susan thought, Another quarter of an hour.
She backed away and turned, her boots crunching on the pebbled drive.
Susan strode away rapidly until she reached the parterre’s flower beds.
There she slowed, trailing her hand, brushing the pink globes of the tall, massed amaranth, hearty survivors until the first frost. She walked on, entering the still-leafy glade at the south end of the house where a break in the trees opened a view across the emerald lawn that sloped to the sea.
The sinking light caught the distant water.
It glittered like a blue, undulating blanket flecked with diamonds.
Susan found her bench—she’d begun to think of it as hers—and thought, Other people’s houses.
The grander they were, the less they felt like home.
Marlborough House in London, Sandringham, the country estate of the Prince and Princess of Wales, visits to the queen’s palaces and castles: Susan lived her life in a succession of apartments and rooms, none of them hers.
Still, it was the lot of a lady-in-waiting, and she was honest enough to admit her luck.
Her husband’s death nearly three years earlier had left her a young widow with limited means.
His cousin inherited the title, the estate, and the town house in London.
Susan was grateful for the royal accommodations during two three-month assignments each year and the 300 pounds she earned for “waiting” on the princess.
It spared her the indignity of living year-round in her childhood home by her brother’s “grace and favor.” She knew her sister-in-law didn’t welcome the intrusion.
Susan readily agreed to Alix’s request that she extend her waiting by another three months to the end of January. She was grateful for the extra money.
Susan looked at the cedar of Lebanon tree at the grove’s edge and envied its rootedness.
I must get up, she thought, forcing herself to her feet, feeling twice her age. Two days hence, she would attend the inquest into Lizzy’s death at the request of the Princess of Wales.
Susan headed back to the house, thinking, Other people’s houses. Other people’s tragedies … and secrets.
Julia’s carriage slowed and stopped at the corner of Birmingham and Mill Streets. The police station’s blue lantern illuminated a trim man in a Wellington hat pacing in front of the doorway.
Marching guard, Julia thought. She asked Sir Charles, “Is the coroner expecting a female doctor?”
“I sent a note informing Mister Milgram that your grandfather was unavailable, but Doctor Julia Lewis had offered her services and would perform the autopsy.”
“Hmm … a Hobson’s choice,” Julia said, smiling. “Take her or take her.”
Sir Charles chuckled and took her arm. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
The queen’s physician performed the pleasantries. Mr. Milgram’s granite face cracked into a scowl at the end of the introduction. “I think this is highly irregular, Sir Charles. And a grave error.”
“What is?”
He jerked his head at Julia. “The autopsy results will be scrutinized by the palace, the government, the press. By everyone. Having some … some chit of a girl perform the procedure is a mistake.”
“Milgram, I call that damned offensive and—”
Julia touched the doctor’s arm. “I’ve weathered insults far worse than ‘chit.’ Mister Milgram, you’ll find me on the medical register. I’ve lost count of the number of autopsies I’ve performed, and I’ve never had my findings questioned. Doubtless, Scotland Yard can supply the exact figures.”
Milgram glared. Then he dropped his crossed arms and tipped his head at the door. “This way, madam.”
“You have everything Doctor Lewis will need?” Sir Charles said. The coroner nodded. “Then I’ll leave her to get on with it.”
Milgram blinked behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. “You’re not staying to supervise, Sir Charles?”
“No need. Good evening to you.” He walked off, leaving the coroner hesitating at the entrance.
“Come along, Mister Milgram,” Julia said, opening the door. “I’m not a dose of castor oil. I know my job and will be easy to swallow. I promise.”
Julia’s first glimpse of the body jolted her.
The girl’s auburn hair, the spray of light freckles across her cheeks, her death by drowning reminded her of Helen, her medical school classmate.
Julia still struggled with her failure to prevent her friend’s suicide.
But she no longer dreamed about it; those nightmares had faded, even though the memories hadn’t.
Julia had found a measure of peace, accepting that Helen would always be a part of her and her death a deep regret.
At the autopsy’s end, the doctor took a last look at Elizabeth Dowling.
Lizzy. Underneath her pallor and blue-tinged lips, Julia glimpsed the lovely young woman she’d been.
She drew the sheet over the girl’s face.
Julia hated that moment more than any other in the postmortem process.
The Y-incision from collarbone to pelvis, the removal and examination of internal organs: those gruesome procedures were part of her medical training.
But the act of covering Lizzie’s face—of shrouding a young woman who might have been sleeping but would never wake—filled her with sadness and pity.
Julia washed her hands at the sink, lowered the flames on the two hanging lamps, and closed the door quietly behind her.
Mr. Milgram and Chief Constable Phillips of the Cowes Constabulary awaited her preliminary report.
Phillips was a big, bluff, square-chinned man with a thick crop of steel-gray hair and a walrus mustache.
Julia judged him to be closer to retirement than the beginning of his career.