Chapter 9 #2
The sharp barbs in Leaf’s cheerful tone weren’t lost on the doctor, who shook his head. “I assure you, my lady, that my reticence has nothing to do with any presumption of your delicacy. I am merely aware my noble patron would be displeased if he found out.”
“My father will only hear of this if you tell him, sir,” she said. “Nic won’t do so, and for all anyone who might be watching knows, we are still discussing the weather. What we are not doing is talking about whether you examined the body.”
Wry amusement crinkled the corners of the doctor’s eyes. “Then I am not telling you that I did, although only briefly. To ascertain for the death certificate that he was indeed dead.”
He was rewarded with a broad smile. “Thank you, Doctor. I do not suppose in the act of performing that brief examination you noted anything odd?”
“Odd, my lady? In truth, I cannot say I looked closely enough to notice anything. The man took his own life and there, I’m afraid, my duty as a doctor ended.”
“And how sure are you of that? It was a very strange and difficult place to choose such an act, don’t you think?”
Dr. Fanshaw’s jaw slackened, and for a moment he looked far more youthful than Nic had assumed. “Are you suggesting his life was ended by another’s hand?”
“No, not yet,” Nic said. “Let us say we are concerned it might be the case and would like you to tell us we’re wrong.”
“Another, rather more thorough examination of the body ought to help, don’t you think?” Leaf added.
The doctor licked his dry lips. “I… I suppose I could go and have another look. The servants carried him down into the crypt—to keep the body cool, you know, while his family is notified.”
“Excellent, then shall we go?”
“Of cou—wait, we?”
The Monterris family crypt was a broad, sprawling collection of underground rooms, many long collapsed or bricked up.
Built under the original castle to protect it from desecration in more turbulent times, it now acted as an eternal reminder of the sheer weight of Nic’s ancestors.
He didn’t often venture in there, the shiver that rippled through his skin as they descended the stairs not all due to the drop in temperature.
Leaf, walking before him, tightened her shawl around her shoulders. “I’m a little disappointed,” she said, looking around at the simple stonework. “I was expecting more skulls set into the walls and skeletons lying about.”
“You use your ancestors as decoration at Charborough House, do you?” Nic said.
“Sadly, we don’t have a crypt, but I consider this very poor form and can assure you I will be making changes once I’m mistress here.”
“Just tell me which duke’s bones you’d like to start with.”
Nic caught amusement flicker across the doctor’s face. “The problem with bones, of course, is that they all look alike,” the man murmured. And upon receiving a grin from Leaf, he reddened and gestured with his lantern toward a side room. “It’s, uh… he’s through there.”
Leaf led the way, only to halt abruptly beneath the arch.
“Oh. Nic, perhaps you shouldn’t—”
Her warning came too late to save him from the shock of finding not one but two bodies laid out on the heavy stone slabs. On the nearest, the pale, lifeless form of Rufus Gillingham, on the farthest, Rowerre’s much beloved features.
“Oh.”
He ought to have known his valet would be there, Nic’s heavy grief tinged now with shame that he hadn’t thought to come sooner.
Someone else had laid Rowerre’s body out neatly, had straightened his clothing and tidied his hair, only the discolouration on his face proof he wasn’t just sleeping. Nic swallowed a lump in his throat.
Leaf slid her hand into his and squeezed. “If you want to leave, you can. We—”
“No, that’s all right.” He squeezed back. “I’m… glad to see him. It was just unexpected.”
“Well, you take all the time you need; we can look at Gillingham.” Lifting her lantern, she stepped over to Gillingham’s body and leaned in. “He looks remarkably unchanged.”
“You’ve seen a lot of dead bodies?” Nic asked, finding he didn’t want to get any closer to the lifeless young man who had smiled at him so suggestively.
“None,” Leaf said. “But that’s why the doctor is here. Shall we, Doctor?”
“If you wish, my lady, though I admit this is starting to feel more like one of Mary Mallowan’s novels than I like.”
Leaf’s eyes brightened. “Oh, how famous! I didn’t realise you read them too. Most people I meet have never heard of her, and here you were all along. How do you find them?”
“I find them both extremely enjoyable and very informative, my lady. The Scarlet Widow in particular. I had never before thought about how much information could be found in a blood pattern.”
“Yes! That book was remarkable. And To Stage a Murder. I have never looked at a stagecoach quite the same again.”
For a few minutes they shared their love of Mary Mallowan books back and forth over Gillingham’s corpse, until Nic cleared his throat. “Perhaps this conversation could be continued after you’ve looked at the body?”
“Oh, of course!” Leaf gave a start. “I do love to find a fellow reader, but perhaps we should focus on this first, Doctor.”
“My apologies, yes. I suppose I will start with his hands and—”
But Leaf had already bent a closer look upon Gillingham’s face, and with a gentle touch to the dead man’s temple, she even turned his head. “What do you make of this?”
Joining them, Nic peered at what she had uncovered, only to pull away, unsettled by the sight of dark bruising on Gillingham’s scalp and the belated realisation he was staring at a corpse. The doctor didn’t have such squeamishness and brought his own lantern close.
“Blood does have a tendency to pool in the lower parts of the body after death, and he has been lying here since last night.”
“This isn’t the lowest point, though, and there is a gash here, look.”
The doctor did look, shifting his head close to hers. “Perhaps he hit his head while on the ladder.”
“Yes, but if it occurred right before death, it shouldn’t bruise, is that not right?”
Dr. Fanshaw looked uneasy. “That is indeed a current theory, but it hasn’t been definitively determined by—”
“And what do you make of his neck, Doctor? Is this more or less bruising than you would usually see on someone who has been hung?”
“You must know I do not often see victims of hangings in my line of work—a lot more nervous complaints and bouts of gout!—but the damage does seem mild.”
They went on talking so, slowly walking the length of the body, but Nic found his attention slipping.
Leaving them to it, he moved to Rowerre’s side and let the talk of bruising and undamaged fingernails become so much noise behind him.
After all, this was where it had started—someone pushing his valet down the stairs.
Of course it could have been an accident, yet as Nic stood there beside him, he realised he didn’t want that to be true.
He wanted Rowerre’s death to make sense. Wanted someone to blame.
His father had called Rowerre just a valet, but to Nic he’d never been just anything. It had always been Rowerre who had comforted, Rowerre who had helped, Rowerre who had mitigated the loneliness of growing up in an emotional desert. And now Nic could never thank him.
Some time later, Leaf laid a gentle hand on his arm, bringing him back into the present. “Nic?”
“Yes? Sorry, my thoughts wandered.” He touched the corner of his eye, dabbing away a tear. “Have you come to any conclusions?”
“No definitive conclusions, my lord,” the doctor said. “Though Lady Leaf has a very good eye for details and an impressive knowledge.”
Nic knew avoidance when he heard it and folded his arms. “Did he kill himself or not, Doctor?”
“I…” The man huffed out a heavy sigh. “It is impossible to prove for sure, but no. In my professional opinion, Mr. Gillingham was hung while unconscious or, perhaps, while already dead.”
The man’s words slowly seeped into Nic’s understanding, turning his stomach. “Hung while dead?”
“You can as easily hang a corpse as a man, my lord. I wish I had better news, but I’m afraid we may indeed be locked in with a murderer.”