Half a Mind TO Murder (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Mysteries Book 3) (13 page)

Alexandra felt a sudden empty chill, mingled with hot anger. She put her teacup on the table.
“Excuse me, Dr. Mortimer,” she said as she stood. Nicholas immediately stood as well. “I’m afraid I’m wasting the time of both of us. If you can have your carriage—”

“
Sit down, please, Dr. Gladstone.” Dr. Mortimer made no attempt to stand in deference to her gender.

“
Your accusations, sir, sound like nothing more than the superstitious talk I hear at home from—”

“
I said sit down, please, Dr. Gladstone.” His voice was forceful and commanding, rather like a parent scolding a naughty child. Alexandra, acutely aware of Nicholas looking at her, did not sit, but she stopped speaking and stared at Dr. Mortimer.

“
I am not accusing anyone, miss,” he said. “I am merely allowing myself to consider all possibilities. If you can keep an open mind, perhaps you can aid me in this.”

Alexandra
, who had always considered herself to be open-minded, felt chastised, and her face burned with embarrassment. She sat down again. “I apologize, sir. Of course I can keep an open mind.” Nicholas once again sat beside her, even closer this time. Was he being protective?

Dr. Mortimer ignored her apology and continued as if there had been no interruption.
“Tell me, please, if you will, why you think Lucas is not a worthy suspect.”

“
He’s very kind. Just not the sort. He cries when an animal dies.” Alexandra knew that fell short of being the kind of intelligent, analytical answer Dr. Mortimer was seeking. She was, in fact, beginning to feel like an imbecile herself.

“
Do you agree, Mr. Forsythe?” the doctor asked.

“
What? Agree? For the most part, yes.”

“
Um hum,” Dr. Mortimer said and turned his attention back to Alexandra. “And his mother? Just not the sort either, I suppose.”

“
No,” Alexandra said in what was almost a whisper.

“
It seems you feel some particular need to protect these two, Dr. Gladstone.”

Alexandra hesitated a moment, trying to collect herself.
“Life has not been easy for Gweneth Pendennis,” Alexandra said at length. “She has never been married. As I’m sure you can imagine, having a son out of wedlock has made her suspect of everything from madness to witchcraft, as well as immorality. And the fact that her son is an imbecile only adds to suspicion.” She hoped neither of the men noticed the slight tremble in her voice.

“
But you don’t believe she is guilty of any of those things,” Dr. Mortimer said.

“
Of course not.”

“
Not even immorality?”

“
Perhaps she made a mistake once, but I do not believe that necessarily constitutes a state of permanent immorality.” Alexandra felt as if her lungs could not take in enough air. “In any case immorality does not constitute insanity.”

“
And you, Mr. Forsythe?”

“
Oh, I quite agree.”

Dr. Mortimer was silent for a moment, stroking his beard again, thinking. He picked up his brandy snifter and stared at the
amber liquid in the bottom, then set it down without tasting it. “It would appear,” he said, breaking his silence at last, “that these murders are indeed the work of a homicidal maniac, just as Robert suggested.” He glanced up at Nicholas and Alexandra again. “There is an erroneous belief among the public, however, that a homicidal maniac is easily distinguished from a sane person. I must tell you that is not necessarily the case. I remember a similar case I read about that took place in Paris. A man horribly mutilated. The killer was never found. The reason, I believe, is because the police were looking for someone who was obviously insane. A maniac who commits this kind of crime could be a person you see every day in the most mundane and ordinary circumstances. But hidden in the brain,” he continued, “is the impulse to kill. It is the root of that impulse we must search for.”

“
You are referring to some malformation of the brain, perhaps?” Alexandra asked.

“
No, I am not,” Mortimer said, “I’m afraid it is much more complicated and…shall we say, more disconcerting than a physical abnormality.”

“
Disconcerting?” Alexandra asked. She was grateful that Nicholas was, so far, keeping his mouth closed.

“
It is my belief,” Dr. Mortimer said, “that a homicidal maniac can be made by his environment. Such a person, as I suggested, appears to be sane, and it is precisely that very fact that is so disconcerting to most people.”

“
Please explain,” Alexandra said.

“
My dear, it is certainly upsetting, if not absolutely frightening to most people, that a person who appears to be as sane as they are, is able to commit such heinous crimes. It makes us feel vulnerable, not just to the murderer, but to our own natures.”

“
A sane person doesn’t kill people randomly.” Alexandra’s voice was insistent.

“
Oh, it isn’t random at all. Each killing is done for a very specific reason—the same reason in both of the Newton cases, I dare say.”

“
The same reason?” It was Nicholas who spoke, in a voice that was vaguely intimidating. Obviously he had kept quiet as long as he could. “Isn’t it rather a big step to assume that both victims were in some way guilty of the same offense against the killer?”

“
Indeed it would be,” Mortimer said, “but the killer most likely is not concerned with the guilt of each victim. She most likely sees them only as the embodiment of what she fears or hates.”

“
She?” Alexandra said. “Are you still insisting Gweneth is the killer?”

“
Ah, there is your protective nature showing itself again,” Dr. Mortimer said. Alexandra thought she detected the slightest hint of a condescending smile on his lips. “Let us indulge in an exercise of the intellect and consider Gweneth for a moment.” He stood, paced to the fireplace, and rested his arm on the mantel, stroking his beard for a moment yet again. “First, let us look at the victims. What traits do they have in common?”

“
They are both male,” Nicholas said.

“
Indeed. Anything else?”

Alexandra was momentarily too angry with Nicholas for bullying his
way in to respond. She tried to glare at him, but he was, or at least pretended to be, oblivious of it.

“
Anything else?” Dr. Mortimer said again.

Alexandra realized that Nicholas was silent because he had just given away the extent of his knowledge.
“They are both of the approximate same age,” she said, not sure where this was leading.

“
Ah,” Dr. Mortimer said. “How old?”

Nicholas looked at her as expectantly as Dr. Mortimer, waiting for her answer.
“Middle-aged,” she said, still not following his logic.

Dr.
Mortimer paced back to his chair, but he remained standing and turned to the two of them again. “Let us continue this intellectual exercise. Let us say that the father of Gweneth’s son was approximately the age of the victims. Let us assume, for the sake of the exercise, that she had a reason to hate this man.”

“
Perhaps she blames him for siring an imbecile on her,” Nicholas said, getting into the game again.

“
Very good,” Dr. Mortimer said.

“
Or she was angry because he didn’t want the child,” Alexandra said, aware that she was visibly shaking.

Dr. Mortimer nodded.

“Or,” Nicholas added, once again in his barrister’s voice. “He forced himself on her. Raped her. Hurt her badly. And repeatedly.”

“
Excellent!” Dr. Mortimer said with enthusiasm. “It is my belief that if such violence is perpetrated on a person repeatedly, and especially during childhood, then something goes awry in the person’s mind, or soul if you will, and he or she becomes obsessed with correcting or righting the wrong, or with gaining revenge. I also believe the maniacal killer may often enjoy the power of being able to manipulate the public and becomes upset if someone else is blamed for the crimes. It’s as if they enjoy the notoriety, even anonymously. I also have concluded from studying other cases, that the maniacal killer will break the pattern and kill outside of his chosen pattern, only if he thinks someone is coming close to uncovering the truth.”

“
That is very interesting, Dr. Mortimer, but most of what you described about Gweneth is pure speculation,” Alexandra said.

Dr. Mortimer nodded.
“Indeed it is. As I said, it was a mental exercise. I used the scenario merely to illustrate how a so-called homicidal manic may act. We could, of course, choose another suspect. Perhaps your nurse. Nancy, is it? Or the one you call Polly?”

“
Must it be a woman?” Alexandra was growing more and more unsettled.

“
Of course not. We could use any man you suggest as the suspect and repeat the exercise. You must understand, of course, that these recent murders may not be the first ones the killer has committed, and I will tell you most assuredly, they will not be the last unless you apprehend him or her soon. And remember this, the only other reason the murderer may have to kill is if she thinks you are coming close to unmasking her.”

Alexandra stiffened.
“Or him.” There was an unpleasant edge to her voice, and she was aware of Nicholas’s hand covering hers.

“
You’ve been very kind and very helpful, Dr. Mortimer,” Nicholas said, helping Alexandra to her feet. “But we really must be going. It’s quite late, and I’m afraid we’ve disturbed you too long.” He was leading her firmly toward the door, and Alexandra was chagrined to realize he was hurrying her away before she embarrassed both of them.

Chapter
Twelve

Alexandra was very much aware of Nicholas sitting across from her as they rode together in his carriage toward Kensington. She was even more aware of the silence between them, so thick it seemed to have
curdled. She found it impossible to speak, however, since she was angry with both him and herself. She was angry with him for intruding on her private affairs that had brought her to see Dr. Mortimer and angry with herself, as well as embarrassed, for her bad behavior, which made her appear not only petulant, but, she feared, unintelligent.

Finally, it was Nicholas who broke the heavy silence.
“I say, you’re rather quiet tonight, aren’t you?”

“
Am I?” She could not yet quell her petulance.

Nicholas frowned at her.
“I should think you’d want to discuss the case in light of all that Dr. Mortimer said.”

“
The case, Mr. Forsythe, is not your concern.”

He raised an eyebrow.
“Still peevish, I see.”

She had just turned her face toward the curtain, open to the gathering lamplight of the city, but quickly returned her gaze to him.
“I beg your pardon.”

“
Of course you’re angry with me for asserting myself and showing up uninvited. I expected it, but I should have thought you’d have gotten past that by now.”

“
It seems to be your habit, Mr. Forsythe, to assert yourself at all times where and when you will, in the belief that anyone who is annoyed will get past it, eventually. Rather bad behavior, I should say.” Once again she tried to turn her face to the open window curtain.

“
Speaking of bad behavior—”

She returned her gaze to him so suddenly and with such intensity that it appeared to startle him, causing him to stop in mid-sentence.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she said, aware that her cheeks were blazing with embarrassment and emotion. “That I behaved badly as well. There is something you don’t understand…that I can’t…” She lowered her eyes, knowing she was being foolishly defensive. “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t embarrass—”

“
I was going to say, speaking of bad behavior, I’m afraid my behavior as a host at luncheon with you and Miss Nightingale was less than stellar.”

She found she couldn
’t speak. She could only look at him in silence.

“
You didn’t embarrass me,” he added quietly. “Or anyone else.”

Except myself, she wanted to say, but still she could not speak.

Nicholas, too, was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “Perhaps a nice dinner would relax both of us. I know a wonderful place where… A light dinner, I mean. I know your custom is to avoid a heavy meal in the evening, so perhaps—”

“
I should be happy to have dinner with you, Mr. Forsythe,” Alexandra said. She had found his eagerness to put her at ease disarming. The least she could do was show some civility and accept his invitation.

Nicholas smiled and glanced quickly behind the curtain.
“We’re almost home. If you’d like a moment to change, I can meet you downstairs in half an hour.”

She returned his smile, then allowed him to help her out of the
carriage. He had a way of making her relax. If there was harm in that, it would be her own fault. Experience had taught her that.

She was grateful for the half hour he
’d suggested before they meet downstairs. It would give her time to collect herself, to try to come to terms with her own childish behavior. She had no intention of changing clothes and preening in front of a mirror. There was nothing wrong with the linen dress she was wearing. The only thing she would concede was to splash some of the water from the pitcher on the washstand on her face.

She was blotting the water off with one of the finely embroidered linen towels the maid had provided when she caught sight of the green satin faille gown she
’d spied earlier, when she’d pulled her light linen suit from her trunk. She’d been annoyed at first that Nancy had been foolish enough to pack it, but this time she couldn’t resist a closer look. After all, the fabric did have an uncommon richness to it, rather like the inviting depths of a shady forest. She allowed her fingertips the slightest touch of a sleeve, and they were met with a cool seductive feel of satin. The sensation radiated up her arm and made her shiver. She stroked the fabric with her entire palm, and then, in spite of herself, she slowly pulled the dress from where it nested in the trunk and held it in front of her as she gazed at herself in the mirror.

The woman whose reflection she saw surprised her. She had never noticed that her eyes were quite so large and round and
reflected the color of the dress, nor that her skin was a paler shade of the ecru lace, nor that the two colors together gave her auburn hair a glint of fire. Turning away from the mirror, she tossed the dress back to the trunk where it settled with a swish, half in and half out of the trunk. She was about to leave the room, prepared to wait in the drawing room for the rest of the half hour they’d agreed upon when the dress caught her attention again. She stared at it for several seconds before she began frantically unbuttoning the jacket of her linen suit. She flung it aside and stepped out of her skirt and had just pulled the lovely green frock over her head when there was a knock at the door and Broomsfield stuck her head inside.

“
Oh, miss. Why didn’t you call? Here, let me help you with that,” she said hurrying to smooth the skirt of the dress and to button the tiny buttons in the back. Before Alexandra could protest, Broomsfield had led her to the dressing table and forced her into the chair with a gentle shove. Her fingers flew about her head at what seemed to be blinding speed before she stood back and held the end of the brush to her chin in a pensive pose. “There we are.” she said.

Alexandra was stunned. Her hair had been pulled up and then allowed to fall in a cascade
of curls at the back of her head in a style far more worldly than she’d ever worn. Not even Nancy had ever wrought such work.

“
You don’t like it.” The maid looked as if she might burst into tears.

“
Of course I like it,” Alexandra said quickly. “It’s…it’s lovely, really. I’ve never…well, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Broomsfield
’s expression changed to one of giddy relief. “It is lovely, isn’t it? Master Forsythe will find you irresistible, I’m…” Her eyes widened for a moment as if she was surprised at her own breach of propriety, then she looked down at her hands, which were clasped in front of her.

Alexandra stood and turned to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you, Broomsfield. You have quite literally transformed me.” Her words brought a timid smile from the maid, and she followed Alexandra out of her room, fussing with the drape and folds of the rustling green skirt all the way to the top landing.

Nicholas was waiting in the front hall, seated beneath one of the portraits of an auste
re military figure from another century. He stood as soon as he saw her and didn’t take his eyes from her as she descended all the way to the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve never seen you so…lovely,” he said, as if he wasn’t sure of the word. “May I?” He took the light shawl she carried on her arm and placed it around her shoulders, then offered her his arm.

He was dressed impeccably in trousers and matching coat of fine black wool. His white shirt smelled of starch with a hint of musk. The whiteness o
f it provided an intriguing contrast with the swarthy skin of his face and the intense blue of his eyes.

It was a short drive to the crowded restaurant Nicholas had chosen, and when they were led to their table by the maitre d
’, she was aware of dozens of eyes following them. In spite of a new measure of self-confidence the dress had given her, she had no doubt that Nicholas was more likely the focus of their gazes, since he was undoubtedly well known by most of them, judging by the nods and murmured greetings he returned as they made their way to their table.

Nicholas ordered wine as soon as they were seated. Alexandra was glad to be handed a menu—anything to divert her mind from
the eyes she still felt upon her back where the dress dipped to a V deep enough to reveal most of her shoulders. The menu was in French and written in an elaborately swirling cursive that, to Alexandra, seemed affected.

“
May I suggest the veal?” Nicholas said, leaning toward her. “It’s cooked with onions and tomatoes and garlic and covered with mushrooms.”

She recognized it as his attempt to save her an embarrassment if she couldn
’t read the menu. In spite of the fact that she knew good manners would require her to accept his suggestion, she was not fond of veal. And in spite of the fact that she knew she was showing off, she told him, in French, that she preferred
le
poisson cocote
.

He laughed.
“There is, as always, more to you than meets the eye,” he said.

“
Not at all,” she said, with a little laugh of her own. “I’m simply being arrogant and vaunting.”

“
It’s good to see you relaxed. It was obvious Dr. Mortimer’s hypothesis about Mrs. Pendennis made you uncomfortable,” Nicholas said.

“
It’s Miss Pendennis, not Mrs.,” Alexandra said, growing serious again. “And yes, the hypothesis was disturbing, and my behavior, I’m afraid, embarrassing.”

“
I can understand how it would feel to face even the suggestion of a friend’s guilt in those circumstances.”

She didn
’t tell him that Gweneth Pendennis was not really what one would call a friend, but that she felt a kinship with her that was more profound than mere friendship. There was no need in complicating what was supposed to be a relaxing evening. Instead she smiled benignly as he tasted the wine the steward had brought and nodded his approval. When the wine was poured, Nicholas raised his glass. “To your career, Dr. Gladstone,” he said.

Alexandra picked up her own glass and touched his before she tasted the wine. It was feathery dry on her tongue.
“I’m afraid I’ve never had anyone toast my career before,” she said.

“
And why not? It’s what drives you. It’s the center of your life, is it not?”

She looked at him a moment before she answered. She was accustomed to veiled remarks about the importance she attached to her career, spoken as a transparent cover to disapproval—a rebuke that a husband and children were not the center of her life, as should be the case for every woman. Yet, she could not detect the sarcasm in Nicholas.

“
Yes,” she said at length. “It is the center of my life.”

“
It’s the people…your patients… No, they’re not just your patients, they’re your friends, who make it important to you. That’s why you’re so concerned by these recent events.” He looked at her as if she were some particularly arcane puzzle he’d been given to solve.

“
These recent events, as you call them, are unspeakably horrific, Mr. Forsythe. They would be cause for anyone’s concern.”

“
Indeed,” he said, setting his own glass aside. “And you are afraid. In more ways than one.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
Dare I speculate that you’re afraid you know who the killer is? And that’s what is distressing you?”

She looked at him, partly surprised and partly relieved that this time he was not nearly as perceptive as usual.
“If you’re thinking I believe Gweneth Pendennis is guilty, then you are most certainly wrong, although I can understand how you might misinterpret my protectiveness toward her. It’s just that the circumstances in which she finds herself have caused her a great deal of pain, and I wish to protect her from more.”

“
Even if she’s guilty?”

“
She is not guilty.”

“
You are certain?”

She hesitated to speak. She had inadvertently led herself into a quagmire again, and she wanted desperately to move away from the subject of Gweneth Pendennis. She could not allow him to guess that she f
elt a kinship with the woman because of her own past. How could she ever tell him that she had found herself pregnant at the age of nineteen and that she would have suffered the same shame as Gweneth had she not miscarried? How could she bear to live again the shock and then despair she’d felt by telling him that the man she loved had told her he could not marry her, and that he would not acknowledge the child. How could she speak aloud the hurt and grief that had caused her, or worse, the guilt she’d felt for being secretly glad to have lost the child a few weeks later?

“
Forgive me, Dr. Gladstone. I see that I’ve upset you.”

She had been looking away, staring at nothing, but his remark brought her gaze quickly back to him. She saw the way he studied her—cur
ious, questioning, perhaps even suspicious. “It’s a troubling situation,” she said. “Frightening even.”

“
Of course,” he said. “Perhaps we should talk of something else.”