Then in one simple act, Martha revealed all.
She pulled back the bedclothes and climbed in, wrapping herself around Sarah like bindweed.
‘Sleep now,’ she said. ‘It will soon be over.’
Her voice was altered too: her accent no longer the gentle Edinburgh lilt, but a harsher register formed in the tenements of Glasgow.
Martha had not been wearing a mask. Martha was the mask.
‘There, now. Sleep now.’
Sarah lay helpless, the light of a single candle casting twisted shadows upon the wall. She would have been paralysed with fear, had she not been too weak to move anyway.
Mary was coiled about her bodily, but Sarah had been in her clutches for longer than that. She had drunk from glasses Mary had given her, taking them gratefully in her thirst. The pages of Christison flashed in her memory, another fragment: a fierce thirst was symptomatic of atropine. She had been poisoned.
The candle flickered and the shadows danced as a wind blew through the house, a summoned spirit rushing closer. Death was coming for her. She could sense it. She could hear it.
The witnesses to Mary’s other crimes had said the dying were assailed by phantoms, and there was one here now: a demon. A monster.
The last thing she saw was the creature’s horrifying visage before blackness came upon her.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
aven leapt from the curricle even before it had stopped, his feet splashing through the puddles on the wet flagstones in the rain-lashed darkness. McLevy was scrambling at his back as he barged inside and tore through the house. It was strangely cold within, the chill air in the hallway indicative that there was a door open elsewhere.
They both stopped at the entrance to Sarah’s bedroom, aghast at the scene which confronted them. The room was illuminated by a solitary candle, but it cast light enough to reveal that they were not the night’s first visitors.
‘God almighty,’ McLevy said. ‘Who did this to her?’
Raven turned on the gaslight and Sarah roused in the bed, responding to the intrusion. Before them Mary Dempster lay trussed on the floor, her hands and ankles bound behind her and tied together like she was an animal ready for the spit.
Her hair was black, as Raven remembered it, and a blonde wig was stuffed into her mouth. He recalled her grabbing at her head in the high wind, he had assumed to secure her hat. It had been to avoid revealing the true colour of her hair. He observed that the wig had been fixed in place by a length of ribbon, tied tightly around her head so that she couldn’t shout for help. Raven approved. A neighbour or passing stranger responding to her cries might have freed her, providing her with the chance to escape.
‘Raven,’ said Sarah urgently, trying to sit up. ‘She is … Martha is—’
‘I know,’ he told her, hurrying to her side.
McLevy knelt down next to Mary and pulled the gag from her mouth.
‘Oh, thank heavens you came,’ she said. ‘I was attacked by a madman. My name is Martha Dempster. I am a nurse, working here for Dr Raven.’
‘Martha Dempster is long since dead,’ Raven retorted. ‘You murdered her, along with her parents and her husband-to-be. You are discovered, Mary.’
He saw the briefest flicker of fear in her face at the use of her real name, before the mask came down again.
She was still insisting she was Martha Dempster as McLevy hauled her to her feet and bundled her towards the door.
Simpson appeared momentarily, and with him Findlay. The latter echoed McLevy’s query.
‘Who restrained her?’
‘I thought him a demon, but he was my saviour,’ said Sarah. ‘He hauled her off me and tied her up.’
Simpson looked quizzically to Raven for an explanation.
Raven kept his voice low, mindful that McLevy might still be in earshot.
‘I have friends in low places,’ he said.
Raven put a hand to Sarah’s forehead, feeling for fever and checking her pupils. All seemed normal, but that had been true of the other victims too.
‘What did she give you? Did you drink it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said weakly. ‘I drank but I thought it was water. It tasted of nothing.’
Sarah pointed to a bag sitting on the sideboard. ‘That is hers,’ she said.
Simpson opened it and began looking inside.
‘I think that she combines atropine with morphine,’ Sarah told them. ‘That is how she disguised her hand. Each compensates for the signs and symptoms of the other.’
‘How fiendishly clever,’ said Simpson. ‘Or cleverly fiendish. But it appears she has given you neither. There are vials here but they are mostly full.’
Raven knew Mary might have believed Sarah did not need her help in dying. He had confessed his fears to that effect to the professor on the ride here. Perhaps as a result of this she had been tentative in her dosing or had been interrupted before she could administer the lethal draught.
‘Let me examine you,’ Simpson said.
While the professor pulled away the bedclothes to look at the wound, Sarah gazed at Raven, her eyes filling. She said but one word.
‘Archie.’
Raven nodded solemnly. ‘He went peacefully, without pain.’
There remained an expectant look in her eyes. He understood what else she still wished to know.
‘And without learning about his child.’
Sarah closed her eyes, the tears spilling down her cheeks, but Raven could tell she had found solace in what he had told her. She reached out her hand and fastened it about his.
‘I owe you my life.’
‘By my accounting that would make us even,’ he told her, though he still feared she might have thanked him too soon.
Simpson looked carefully at the line of stitching, a frown upon his lips. As Raven had warned, there was no pus to be seen, and Simpson appeared perplexed by it, which Raven took to be a bad sign. He was wrong, though.
‘Dr Raven, I believe there is no pus emerging not because it has accumulated elsewhere, but because there is no inflammation. I don’t know whether it is down to luck or judgment, but I would aver that Sarah looks set fair to make a full recovery.’
Raven looked back and forth from Sarah’s relieved expression to the wound, barely daring to believe the professor must be right.
‘I used chlorinated water to ensure everything was scrupulously clean and I remembered what you had said about Lizars, how he had successfully carried out several ovariotomies.’
‘Then presumably you also remembered that he incurred the lifelong disdain of his surgical peers.’
‘There was something altogether more valuable at stake than mere reputation.’
Simpson nodded sagely. ‘Yours was a courageous and skilful course of action,’ he said, ‘but one I would nonetheless advise we remain discreet about.’
‘I understand,’ said Raven.
Simpson turned his attention back to Sarah.
‘And how are you feeling now? All this excitement is hardly conducive to recovery.’
‘Better than I was,’ she replied. ‘And better than Mary believed, evidently. She seemed to think that I was dying.’
‘I am pleased to say that she was wrong,’ Simpson replied.
Sarah shook her head and endeavoured to sit up. Raven moved to intervene, but she warded him off.
‘You miss my meaning, Doctor. I must elaborate. She climbed into bed with me. She wanted to hold me as I died. A nurse at the Infirmary gave me a similar account, though Mary was interrupted that night too, else her victim would not have lived to tell the tale.’
‘She held you to comfort you?’ Simpson asked doubtfully.
‘Not to comfort me, but to gratify herself. She seemed … excited, in a particular way.’
Simpson’s mouth fell open. There was no question but that he understood the way Sarah meant.
‘I think that death pleasures her,’ Sarah went on. ‘As though death itself were her lover.’
>
Raven could not recall ever seeing Simpson truly shocked before, but there was a look of appalled bewilderment upon his face. He was scarcely less horrified himself.
‘It is a manner of perversity the like of which I cannot comprehend,’ Raven said.
‘Nor I,’ Sarah agreed, ‘but I am certain that is what she was doing.’
Simpson shook his head gravely.
‘We cannot comprehend it because we are not equipped to do so. She must be delivered into the hands of someone who is.’
‘And by that,’ said Raven, ‘I trust you do not mean McLevy.’
SEVENTY-EIGHT
aven hammered at the door a second time, his thumps reverberating all the way across Castle Street and back again.
‘I hope your treatment of that door is not a precursor to your intended treatment of Mr Quinton’s face,’ said Simpson. ‘For if I fear you cannot contain yourself, I will be forced to send you back around the corner to Queen Street.’
‘It is more of a proxy than a precursor,’ Raven assured him. ‘Every blow I deliver to his door is one fewer I will be inclined to visit upon his person.’
Raven had insisted on accompanying the professor because Quinton’s ruthlessness in other matters meant he could not be sure what more the man might be capable of. He suspected Simpson had similar concerns, which was why he had acquiesced to Raven’s suggestion.
They both stood back and waited, listening out for footsteps within. Still no such sound was forthcoming.
Raven raised his arm a third time. A look from Simpson stayed his hand. Then Simpson simply opened the door, which was not locked, and led Raven inside, unbidden. This act of impolite transgression was in its own way a sign of a greater rage on the part of the professor than Raven had thus far displayed.
They proceeded down the long hall and into the drawing room, where they found Mrs Quinton seated by the fire. The baby was on this occasion asleep in a cot, one of only two items of furniture in the room. Flint’s big pay-day had evidently not yet arrived, or if it had, no dividend had been passed down. The place was still utterly denuded.
Mary Quinton got up in fright and alarm, standing with her arms folded.
‘Dr Simpson.’
The professor gazed towards the cradle. ‘Remarkable the bairn could sleep through all that hammering, is it not? Or perhaps the sound does not carry inside as I imagined it would, for surely your not hearing it could be the only explanation for why you would not respond.’
She stared guiltily at the floor.
‘Where is your husband, Mrs Quinton?’
Mrs Quinton resembled a startled field mouse, her eyes gazing involuntarily upwards, as though seeking intercession from the Almighty.
‘I do not know. He went out some time ago.’
‘And when do you expect he will return?’
Again, the look of being cornered and afraid. Raven recalled she was neither a practised nor adept liar.
‘I do not know.’
Once more her eyes flitted briefly up, this time towards the far corner of the room, where the door to the press was situated.
‘It is imperative that we speak to him,’ insisted Simpson.
‘He is not here,’ she repeated.
Raven had seen enough. He put a hand on the professor’s arm.
‘Let us away, Dr Simpson. I think I know where he might be. There is a place near Lady Lawson Wynd.’
Simpson gave him a sceptical look, which Raven answered with a subtle nod of assurance.
They exited forthwith, walking down the hall to the front door, which Raven opened and closed again heavily, though they remained within. Raven put a finger to his lips and bade Simpson remain quietly where he was. Then, a few moments later, they heard Mrs Quinton speak.
‘You can come out now, they’ve gone.’
Raven moved briskly and on light feet, covering the distance to the drawing room in a trice. He interrupted Quinton climbing down from a low shelf in the press where he had been hiding.
Quinton took fright at the sight of the intrusion and lost his footing. He half slid, half fell to the floor, where he cowered as Raven stood above him.
‘Please do not strike me. I have injured my ankle.’
‘You would have happily seen me hang, you supercilious turd. Sarah too, simply to protect yourself and hide your thievery.’
Simpson entered, wearing a look of concern at the scene confronting him, but there was no need for him to be afraid of Raven’s intentions. What Raven had learned from Sarah was that the devil in him was an ally, and he was its master if he could decide for himself when to unleash it. That way, he controlled it, it did not control him. On this occasion the devil did not even come close to the surface. The sight of Mr Quinton cringing and snivelling was simply too pathetic to summon it.
‘I am deeply sorry. I was in a state of desperation and was rendered insensible by my shame. I did not want Dr Simpson to learn of my predicament, and even less what I had done as a result.’
‘You lied to the police and had them accuse Dr Raven of murder. Direct your apologies to him.’
‘I did not lie. I merely raised my suspicions, as he and Mrs Banks seemed unseemly close.’
‘You lied by omission,’ Simpson reminded him. ‘You knew Archie had taken a bottle of chloroform for himself.’
‘I was confused. I am indeed truly sorry.’
He clasped his hands together and looked up at them in supplication. There were tears in his eyes, though not of contrition, Raven suspected: merely self-pity.
‘I could have you tossed in jail,’ the professor told him.
Raven saw the instant change in Quinton’s expression as the significance of Dr Simpson’s words sunk in, the clockwork in motion behind his eyes. Simpson could have him thrown in jail, but by implication did not intend to.
Quinton ceased cowering and drew himself to his feet. His ankle injury seemed miraculously healed. He kept a wary eye on Raven, who despite his previous reflections couldn’t help but wish Quinton would attack him and thus give him reason to retaliate.
‘As Dr Raven might have explained, we were badly deceived when we came here,’ Quinton said. ‘My so-called friend left us more debts than prospects. And I would remind you that I declined other employment opportunities to come here and take up a post with you, Dr Simpson.’
His wife took her place beside him.
‘Furthermore, we took on the added responsibility of Rochester here,’ she added. ‘As an obligation to yourself and Mrs Simpson.’
‘Yes,’ Quinton went on. ‘If you wish the child to be raised properly, it would not do for him to grow up in a household empty of furniture and besieged by creditors.’
They both looked expectantly at Simpson, who nodded solemnly.
‘Quite,’ he said, a calm warmth to his face, met by relief on those of the Quintons.
‘Dr Raven did say that you would be both generous and understanding,’ Quinton simpered.
Undeservedly so in this case, Raven thought.
‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ said the professor. ‘Under the circumstances, I feel it my duty to provide you with appropriate financial assistance in order to get yourselves out of this situation.’
Raven had to rein in his instincts. He had long since learned how boundless Simpson’s compassion could be, but in this instance it seemed almost unseemly given what this man had done, and to both of them.
Simpson reached into his pocket and produced his wallet, Quinton drawing closer, eager and expectant.
The professor drew out a five-pound note and handed it over.
‘I think this ought to be adequate.’
Quinton held up the note as though it were a filthy rag found upon a midden.
‘Five pounds? How on earth do you propose we extricate ourselves from our debts with this?’
‘It should be adequate to pay for travel back to Oxford, thereby ensuring that I never have to set eyes upon you again. It’s that or Calton Jail. And
on the basis of the evidence before me, only the latter deserves its reputation.’
SEVENTY-NINE
t was a source of pleasure for Sarah simply to walk so far, after being confined first to bed, then to home, and then only incrementally able to venture any distance. The dull weight in her legs was a mere precursor of how she would feel tomorrow, but she welcomed the coming ache amidst her profound gratitude for the restoration of something she had previously taken for granted.
This trip to Warriston Cemetery was not merely the occasion of a brisk stroll, but something of a pilgrimage, a worthwhile diversion on her way to another piece of business she wished to attend to that day.
She had visited Archie’s grave first, and now she was standing over that of Mrs Glassford. She clutched a small bunch of daffodils she had picked on the walk here.
Sarah crouched to place them carefully against the marker. She had been concerned that they would look scruffy, but in the event, they appeared to be the first flowers laid upon this plot. It served as a reminder that Mrs Glassford had not only lost her husband but was also estranged from her family.
Was a lonely death the price a woman paid for not accepting the roles that men allocated her? For seeking autonomy, independence and a purpose beyond that of wife and mother? If so, then such women were unblessed martyrs. She deserved not a modest headstone but a mausoleum.
Sarah felt a slight twinge as she stood up again, her hand going involuntarily to the site of her scar. She recalled her introduction to Mrs Glassford, presenting at Queen Street with an apparent pregnancy that bore not new life but her own death.
Sarah’s thoughts turned to her own doomed pregnancy, lodged in the wrong place. She should have died too, she knew. All those days she had spent wondering how long Archie had left, oblivious that inside her, the clock was ticking down to her own quite unexpected end. Though she had lost Archie and lost the child, she knew that every day from this one was time she was not supposed to have. She owed it to Mrs Glassford, to Archie, and to herself, that she should make of it everything that she possibly could.
The Art of Dying Page 33