Paula Paul's Author Page

THE QUEEN’S CRIME
By
Paula Paul


Chapter 1
Alvina Elwold lay dead in the graveyard propped against the tombstone of a long forgotten Will Fagen, who had been dead almost three hundred years. His epitaph, bore a date of 1561 and read:

Here the bones of Will Fagen be.
His wish was to be buried at sea.

Alvina’s long grey hair was loosened from its bun and spread across the tombstone in a spider web effect that was unfitting for a decent woman as old as Alvina. She had lived more than two score and ten years.

The sprawl of her body was even more disgraceful. She lay with her legs splayed apart and her simple dress pulled up above her knees showing her oft-mended stockings. Later, when the village gossips spoke of the indecent display, they would sometimes mention as an afterthought that her throat was slit.

Dr. Alexandra Gladstone, the doctor in the village of Newton-Upon-Sea, was eventually called to examine the body, but not until it had been brought to the home of Percy Gibbs, the undertaker, by one of the men of the village. Constable Robert Snow had sent a messenger for her just as she was leaving for her morning rounds. She rode her mare, Lucy, the short distance from her home on the outskirts of Newton-Upon-Sea and was greeted by Percy as she entered.

“Ah yes, Dr. Gladstone. The constable alerted me that he’d sent someone to fetch you.” Percy spoke in his usual voice, as dark as the sea at midnight. His folded hands rested on his belly in a manner that could be thought of as pious. But that would be erroneous.

“It is Alvina Elwold, I’m told,” Alexandra said. “Her body found in the graveyard?”

Percy nodded, half closing his eyes as he did so, giving himself that half-dead look. “Found last night, but not brought to me until morning.”

“Why the delay?”

“It took awhile to find a way to transport her, I’m told.”

“I should have been called before the body was moved,” Alexandra said, removing her cape and gloves as she prepared to inspect the body. “I should have been called as soon as the body was found.”

“Would have made no difference. She’d still be just as dead. Death passes upon all, for that all have sinned.”

“It is important to see the body at the scene of death in order to be certain of the cause of death.”

“A slit throat. Plain as day.”

She gave him a surprised look. “Then why was I called?”

“You shall have to ask the constable that question. He’s in the back.” Percy took her arm and led her through a sitting room where a cheap painted cloth meant to resemble a tapestry hung on one wall. It was a garish rendering of Lazarus being raised from the dead.

“Poor woman might have expected this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There shall not be found among you anyone that useth divination,” he said, adding another dash of the salt of Holy Scripture to his pronouncement—an odd habit since he professed to be a nonbeliever.

“Good Lord! You’re surely not suggesting that she deserved to die because she claimed to be able to divine the future,” Alexandra said.

“And conjure up dead spirits,” Percy said in his morose voice. “I make no such claims, but others do as you well know. Others say it’s an evil practice, and it could well be there’s many a one who thought it a good thing to rid the world of such evil.”

Alexandra knew that he spoke the truth. Alvina was a new comer to Newton-Upon-Sea. She’d lived in the village no more than ten years. That alone was enough to make her suspect. To compound her disadvantage, she was known to tell fortunes with her Tarot cards and to be able to connect with spirits of the dead when she was sufficiently coerced and sufficiently paid by those who wished to speak to their departed loved ones. It was sign of the devil to be able to do such things, some said. Never mind that many of the same people who condemned her also used her services.

They stopped in front of the closed door that led to the back room where Percy did his work. He opened the door and stepped aside for Alexandra to enter. She saw the constable first. He stood over the body, one of his long, slender hands holding his chin as he studied the corpse. He glanced toward Alexandra and Percy when he sensed them enter the room.

“Dr. Gladstone,” he said with only the slightest nod of his head.

“Constable Snow,” she replied, and then added. “You sent for me.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I want your opinion on how long the victim has been dead.”

She nodded and approached the body, noticing first the deep gash at the throat as well as the coagulated blood. Rigor mortis was well established. She touched an arm with the tips of her fingers, feeling the cold, clammy skin and noting that the skin did not turn white when she applied pressure.

“How long has the body been in this room?” she asked.

“No more than an hour,” Snow replied.

“Then I would say death occurred no less than twelve hours ago, and perhaps as long as fifteen hours, given the cool temperature of the November night. The coolness would slow decomposition.”

The constable nodded. “That would place the death in the early evening hours, around ten, perhaps. No later than midnight” He seemed to be speaking to himself more than to Alexandra. “Very well,” he added. “Thank you for coming. I know you were in the midst of your morning rounds.”

Alexandra was surprised that she was being dismissed so quickly. “May I examine the wound?” she asked.

Constable Snow nodded and stepped aside.

Alexandra first asked for water to clean the wound. Percy, who had been standing several feet away, complied immediately by bringing her a basin and a sponge then stepped back again, resuming his pious appearance with hands clasped in front and his eyes half closed. When Alexandra had cleaned the wound, she saw that it was a precise and even cut as if the blade had been quite sharp, as if the wielder of the blade had known precisely where the jugular vein was located and could make quick work of the deed.

Confirming that did not narrow the field of suspects, however. The men of the area around Newton-Upon-Sea were farmers accustomed to the quick and efficient slaughter of livestock or fisherman whose trade required the frequent use of a sharp knife. Their women were usually equally as adept with the same instruments.

“A very precise cut of the jugular vein,” she said to the constable as she moved away from the body.

Again his answer was no more than a nod. Alexandra was in no mood to linger for a conversation anyway. She was glad to leave the dead body and the mystery of who the killer might be to the constable and to return to her job of healing the living.

Within a few hours, she’d stopped by to see the few patients who required her visit and was back at her home. Artie and Rob, her two stable boys met her at the gate as soon as she returned and helped her dismount.

“So it was old lady Elwold what got her throat cut, was it?” Rob, the older of the two, said as he took the reigns to lead Lucy back to the stable.

“Miss Alvina Elwold,” Alexandra corrected him. “No need to speak disrespectfully of the dead.”

“ ‘Tis no disrespect to call her old lady, for that’s what she was,” Rob protested.

“Was she a demon?” Artie, the younger boy asked.

“Of course not,” Alexandra said, “and I won’t have you suggesting she was.”

“But she could speak to the dead, they say,” Artie said, his eyes wide.

Alexandra smiled and ruffled Artie’s mop of hair. It was impossible to stay angry with him. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Artie,” she said. “Let us just say that she wanted people to believe that.”

Rob laughed, a loud guffaw that was meant to sound manly. Artie wasn’t convinced. “I know some who say it really happened.” His wide blue eyes reflected his awe.

“I wager you even believe there’s mermaids out there looking for the likes of you to come sailin’ out,” Rob said with a laugh and motioning with his head toward the sea.

“All I can say is they’s some that says they’s seen ‘em out amongst the rocks just beyond the shore,” Artie said which made Rob laugh louder.

Alexandra let herself in the house she’d lived in all her life, using the surgery entrance. Her father, who had been the first Dr. Gladstone, had built the house with the surgery attached with a convenient entrance for patients. As Alexandra opened the door, she met Mrs. Pickwick who was just leaving.

“Dr. Gladstone!” she said as if she was surprised to see the doctor entering her own surgery.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pickwick. How are things at Montmarsh?” Mrs. Pickwick was the head cook at Montmarsh, the large country home of Nicholas Forsyth, Sixth Earl of Dunsford. At Montmarsh she was known simply as Cook.

Mrs. Pickwick rolled her eyes. “It’s not my place to complain, now is it? Even if it gets to the point that I need a physic to stop the headache brought on by the turmoil.”

“Turmoil?” Alexandra was at least mildly concerned. Mrs. Pickwick was not given to exaggeration and was not one to ask for medication often.

“Aye, there’s turmoil there is. Not so easy to please, that one.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pickwick. I hope Nancy was able to give you something for your headache.” She knew without asking Nancy, who served as her nurse and her maid of all work, that the remedy would be to bathe her forehead with spirits of vinegar and several drops of essence of peppermint by mouth.

“Nancy’s a good one, she is,” Mrs. Pickwick said. “But I fear it will take more than vinegar and peppermint this time. Her nibs is not the easy one to please.”

Alexandra gave Mrs. Pickwick a noncommittal nod, although she had no idea who “her nibs” was. She had never known of the earl to bring a woman to Montmarsh, and she was fairly certain he wasn’t on the premise anyway. Rather, he was in London where he maintained a law practice, in spite of his recent rise to the peerage.

“Oh yes, her nibs is there,” Mrs. Pickwick said when she saw that Alexandra was not going to pry. “The earl’s mother in residence, she is. And with a guest I dare say is even more demanding than the Lady Forsythe herself. And one I dare not make a mistake with, I might add.”

Alexandra gave her what she hoped was a comforting pat on the arm. “If the vinegar spirits and peppermint don’t give you relief, please send for me. Or come back here if you prefer,” she added, thinking Mrs. Pickwick might want an excuse to escape the troublesome guests at Montmarsh for a while. Alexandra had never met the earl’s mother. Since she was a countess in her own right, she had her own even larger country house elsewhere and had apparently never found a need to visit Montmarsh. By several relationships and birthrights, the family seemed to be connected in a complicated way to most of the empire’s aristocracy and had access to the grandest of estates.

Mrs. Pickwick breathed a heavy sigh and left the surgery shaking her head. As Alexandra stepped inside, she saw Nancy putting away vials of medication.

“Ah, you’re back,” Nancy said when she saw Alexandra. “And was Alvina dead of a slit throat as they say?”

“By all appearances.” Alexandra knew Nancy had undoubtedly overheard the constable’s messenger say as much when he came to fetch her to view the body. “I suppose the whole of Newton knows the story by now.”

Nancy shrugged. “Couldn’t say, what with me being stuck here in the surgery seeing nothing but quincied throats and a few knees swole with rheumatism and hearing no more than coughs and moans.” Nancy was busy with a tea cozy as she spoke.

Alexandra smiled to herself as she poured water in a basin to wash her hands in preparation for the next patient. Nancy might pretend not to hear or see anything beyond the patients illnesses, but she was, in truth, very adept at picking up on all of the village gossip.

“Not too busy while I was gone, then,” Alexandra said, tying a long white apron around her dress. “Who besides Mrs. Pickwick?”

“Nell Stillwell claimed she had aches all over, but I found nothing wrong with her. Then there was Mr.Taylor with his usual complaint, and Young Beaty stopped by to ask you to bring a plaster to his father for his pleurisy before night falls.” John Beaty, though he was past fifty, was still known in the village as Young Beaty because his father, who was well into his seventies, was Old Beaty.

“Of course.” She accepted the cup of tea Nancy had poured. When Nancy had poured her own cup, she sat down at the small table in the surgery with Alexandra. The relationship between the two of them was more relaxed than most mistresses and hired girl. Nancy had been Alexandra’s companion since childhood when Nancy’s mother was the old doctor’s maid of all work and surgery nurse. They had even shared the same tutor for their school work since, being female, neither was allowed to go to school.

“If truth be told, I say ‘tis Young Beaty who’s in need of your services as much as his father,” Nancy said.

“You believe he’s ill?”

“He’s of a poor color and his hands trembled. Was distracted, too. If he’s not coming down with a complaint of some sort, then he’s carrying a heavy weight on his soul.”

“If he’s sick of body, perhaps he’ll send for me or else show up at the surgery door. If it’s his soul that’s troubling him, we shall have to trust he’ll go to the vicar,” Alexandra said.

“He’s the one who brought Alvina in to Percy Gibbs. Brought her in his wagon. And he’s the one who notified the constable.”

“Did he indeed?” Alexandra said, not at all surprised that Nancy had garnered this tidbit of information. “And I suppose he was the one who found her in the graveyard as well.”

“Oh no,” Nancy said. “That would be young Lucas. The poor half-wit has a habit of wandering around at night, you know. Young Beaty said Lucas came running to fetch him. Showed up at his door as white as a dead man and as frightened as if the dead had spoken to him.”

“Poor Lucas. I can well imagine he was frightened.”

“If you ask me, Young Beaty was just as frightened.” Nancy was busy placing the tea cups on a tray to be carried to the kitchen. “There was more he wanted to tell, I’m sure of it. I just couldn’t get it out of him.”

Alexandra smiled to herself once again, knowing that Nancy had no doubt done her best to get Young Beaty to talk more.

“Pickwick herself said she thought Young Beaty was troubled. She came in just as he was leaving. ‘Tis wife trouble in her estimation, but I don’t think so, myself,” Nancy said. “’Twas finding the body of poor Alvina that has him troubled, I say. Pickwick would have none of that. Didn’t want to talk about Alvina. Kept trying to change the subject. A person would think Pickwick killed the poor woman herself, the way she was acting so skittish about it.” Nancy used her right hip and shoulder to push the door open since she was carrying the tray. She was gone before Alexandra could remark on the scandalous thought that Mrs. Pickwick could be guilty of anything criminal.

There was little time to think more about Mrs. Pickwick or Alvina or anyone else since another patient came to the surgery door wanting an infected splinter extracted from his thumb. A steady stream of patients kept Alexandra occupied until five o’clock, her normal time to close the surgery for the day. Nancy, as always, worked by her side, helping with the patients.

“I’ll have the boys saddle Lucy again so I can take old Beaty his tar plaster for his rheumatism,” Alexandra said to Nancy as she locked the door.

“Mind you don’t stay too long,” Nancy said. “I’ll have dinner ready in an hour, and you won’t want it cold.” Alexandra considered Nancy’s culinary skills adequate but uninspired. Still, it was best not to raise her ire by not appearing eager to eat what she prepared.

“I’ll be home as soon as possible.” As she spoke, Zack, her large black and white Newfoundland dog rose from his resting place by the hearth, allowing his long tail to wiggle his entire behind as if he were still a puppy rising to greet her. She ruffled Zack’s neck and saw the unspoken question in his eyes. “Yes, you can come with me,” she said to the dog. He was accustomed to following her on her morning rounds, but he had missed the privilege today because of her call to the undertaker’s.

Zack, as usual, waited outside when Young Beaty ushered her inside to see his father. Young Beaty’s greeting was little more than a distracted grunt, as he led Alexandra through the immaculately kept parlor and upstairs to his father’s bedroom. Young Beaty’s demeanor made Alexandra suspect Nancy and Mrs. Pickwick could be right about his being troubled. He was usually cordial and affable. He opened the door to his father’s bedroom and left Alexandra with him without another word.

“Ah, Dr. Gladstone, ye’s here at last,” Old Beaty said when he saw her. He was sitting in a chair next to the fireplace, his legs covered with a blanket and another around his shoulders. “They’s a damp spell coming, I tell you that. ’Tis me shoulder tells me so. And me knees, if truth be told. Ye brought the plaster for the shoulder, did ye? And a tonic for the knees?”

“You know the weather like any good oyster man,” Alexandra said, referring to Old Beaty’s past profession. “And yes, I brought the plaster. And a tonic for your knees,” she added.

When she’d applied the plaster to his shoulder and given him a few ounces of the whisky he referred to as tonic, she left him with an admonition to stay warm and her usual warning that he should make the whisky last for at least a week. He was still protesting that she’d hardly given him enough for one toddy when she bade him good bye and left his room.

Young Beaty was nowhere in sight, but his wife, Wilma, emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Dr. Gladstone. I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.” She spoke in a whisper.

“Are you ill, Wilma?”

“No, no, ‘tisn’t me. ‘Tis me husband.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure Young Beaty wasn’t listening . “That woman he brought to the undertaker? She must have put a spell on ‘im. Even though she was dead, I say. He ain’t been right since—“

“It ain’t old Miss Alvina what’s got me.” It was Young Beaty interrupting her as he entered the small parlor. “’Twas something else.”

Alexandra waited for him to say more. He waited several long seconds before he spoke again. Reluctantly, it seemed.

“I knows who done the killin’.”

Wilma sucked in her breath as if she’d known what her husband would say. “Husband, you mustn’t—“

“No, no, I has to tell somebody. It wasn’t in me to tell the constable, but I can trust the doctor. Just like I could trust her father before her.’

“Mr. Beaty,” Alexandra said in as gentle a voice as possible. “If you know who killed the poor woman, you must tell Constable Snow.”

“No!” he protested louder this time. “How can I tell him it was the queen herself what killed her.”

“The queen?” Alexandra wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. “You must be mistaken.”

“I seen her leaving the grave where Alvina lay sprawled with her throat cut. Lucas seen her, too, before he comes to get me. She was still there when I got there. Just leaving, I tell ye, and Alvina’s body still warm.”

“But Mr. Beaty—“

“’Twas her Majesty Queen Victoria herself killed that woman.”