Free Symptoms of Death (Dr. Alexandra Gladstone Book 1) by Paula Paul

strain—”
    “You think I ’ve grown daft, but I know what I hear, and I know what I see.” Mrs. Pickwick’s eyes were large and frightened. “And see him I did. Wearing his tweeds. And that brown jacket he always wears in the country. Saw him this morning, I did, when I went up to fire the ovens.”
    There ’s more than one corpse that walks among the living . Alexandra shivered as she remembered Old Beaty’s words.
    “I have gone ’round the bend, haven’t I? I’ll end my days in the asylum.” She was wailing again.
    Alexandra once again forced herself to speak with calm. “You haven ’t gone around the bend; you’ve simply been under a great deal of strain.”
    Mrs. Pickwick only shook her head and cried harder.
    “Please, Mrs. Pickwick, calm yourself. Hallucinations under these circumstances are not uncommon. People often think they see the deceased, or hear them speak.”
    Mrs. Pickwick stopped crying long enough to look at her. “They do?”
    “Of course. You mustn’t let it frighten you. It will pass.” She took the vial of laudanum out of her bag. “I’m going to leave this with you. Take a few drops in water now, and another few drops this evening before you go to bed. It will help you rest, but you must be careful. My late father had begun to believe the opium in it is addictive. There’s no proof, mind you, but it’s best not to take chances.”
    “I ’m not one to take chances, Dr. Gladstone, I’ll tell you that.” Mrs. Pickwick’s voice was strained, but she was trying to calm herself.
    Alexandra gave her a smile and a pat on the arm. “Send for me if you need anything more. ” She started to take her leave, feeling uneasy. What she had told her patient wasn’t entirely the truth. While it was somewhat common for a person to believe he or she had seen the deceased, it was almost always a loved one they saw. A symptom of grief. And Mrs. Pickwick’s grief was clearly for Elsie, not Lord Dunsford.
    Just as she reached the door, Mrs. Pickwick called out to her. “Dr. Gladstone, there is one thing you must do for me.” Alexandra turned around to face her. “You ’ve got to find Elsie before it’s too late.”
    “Mrs. Pickwick—”
    “No! Hear me out.” There was desperation in her voice. “You’ve got to find her before they hang her for something I know in my heart she could never do. You must help her, Dr. Gladstone. Please! Please!” She was on the verge of hysterics. “You must help the poor lass. It’s what your father would have done.”
    “Please try to rest.” Alexandra spoke quietly, then left the room and climbed the stairs, feeling drained of all her energy. She did not know Hester Pickwick terribly well, but she had treated her once or twice for small things—a superficial burn she ’d gotten during the course of her cooking or, occasionally a case of grippe. It was enough for Alexandra to form an opinion that she was a woman possessed of a great deal of common sense and practical knowledge, not one given to hallucinations or hysteria. Yet, her fervor about wanting Alexandra to find Elsie had certainly bordered on the hysterical, which possibly, but not likely, could give rise to the hallucinations. Whatever was going on, the woman was truly worried about Elsie and was convinced she had not killed Lord Dunsford.
    On the other hand, Nell Stillwell and much of the rest of the town, as well as the guests at Montmarsh, seemed convinced that Elsie was guilty.
    When Alexandra reached the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath, deciding she needed a few minutes alone to clear her head and collect her thoughts before she began her rounds and opened the surgery. She stepped outside, using the servants’ entrance and was about to ask for the carriage to take her home again. She stopped, however, long before she reached the stables.
    Constable Snow was standing just outside the paddock gate speaking with Jamie. She turned away, not wanting to talk to the