Raven had to concede that he had a point. Gideon had always struck him as vain, callous and dissolute, but he was not stupid.
‘Who else stood to gain from your father’s death?’ he asked.
‘I do not know, and nor am I in any position to find out. That’s what I need you for.’
SEVENTEEN
aven was crossing the courtyard, eager to put the environs of the jail behind him, when his path was blocked by none other than James McLevy. One of his officers was pulling up the rear, his hand gripping the arm of a young woman clearly in their custody.
They all stopped at a signal from the detective, dashing Raven’s hopes of passing unrecognised, or at least ignored.
‘Dr Raven, what about ye?’
McLevy always seemed shorter in the flesh than he loomed in Raven’s memory. His intimidating presence did not derive from physical stature, nor entirely from his office. There was an unshakeable confidence and certainty about the man, a sense as he stood before you that no matter how hard you might push him, he would not, could not be moved. Raven had once heard him say that ‘a bold front is the best baton’.
‘This is one for you,’ the Ulsterman added, indicating their prisoner.
Raven did not follow.
‘The dead baby you found down in Leith,’ he explained.
‘I didn’t actually find it, I merely—’
‘Struthers said you attended the post-mortem. You’ll have seen the initials on the parcel paper the corpse was wrapped in. This one’s name is Mary Olsen, a prostitute. According to my man Wilkie here, she was an unwed mother: except that one day she had a little baby and then all of a sudden she didn’t.’
‘It’s not true!’ the young woman screamed at McLevy. ‘How many times do I need to say it before you’ll listen. I’m no whore, and my wee boy died of fever. He’s buried in Hope Park kirkyard. This bastard Wilkie is having his revenge because I refused him.’
‘We’ll find out the truth of it when we dig up that grave then, won’t we,’ McLevy told her.
The woman broke down at this announcement, doubled over as Wilkie dragged her away with rough hands.
McLevy’s knowing expression indicated that he believed her crushed by the inevitability of her lies being exposed. Raven suspected she was more likely disconsolate at the prospect of her lost child’s remains being disturbed. She had been arrested on the basis of two initials on a piece of paper – letters which could as easily be OW – and the word of a man who might very well be holding a grudge.
McLevy remained in the courtyard, the black shadow of the building stretching ever longer about both their feet. There was still light yet, but not for much longer.
‘What brings you here of an evening?’ McLevy asked.
‘Gideon Douglas,’ Raven stated.
McLevy’s eyes widened in surprise and amusement. ‘What have you to do with him?’
‘More than I would wish. We knew each other as medical students. He has appealed to me to find out who poisoned his father.’
McLevy let out a rumbling chuckle. ‘Aye, I suppose when you’re rich enough, you don’t merely plead your own innocence. You can pay someone else to create a bit of theatre: make it look like you sincerely believe it and there’s a secret to be found. You’re a fool if you make yourself his puppet.’
‘He isn’t paying me anything.’
‘Then you’re even more of a fool. You’re doing this because you believe him?’
‘I don’t have sufficient information to make a judgment either way.’
‘I do. Enough to see him swing.’
‘You had me all but hanged for Archie Banks,’ Raven reminded him. ‘Until you were shown that things are not always as simple as they appear.’
McLevy liked to boast that he always got his man, but it was more accurate to say he always got a man. Though his testimony and evidence invariably proved compelling to judges and juries, those who looked more carefully spotted that there were often steps missing in his logic. Raven was still chilled in the night by thoughts of how close he had come to the gibbet mere months ago, when McLevy fixed his sights upon him as a murderer. It had taken the professor’s intervention to demonstrate that the death concerned had not been by his hand, and indeed had not even been murder.
McLevy had been content to defer to a man of Simpson’s standing, aware that the professor was a useful ally. Raven enjoyed no such status, however, and had the strong impression that his exoneration was a mark in McLevy’s debit column: one that could only be redeemed when he nabbed him for something else.
‘The case against Gideon Douglas is entirely as simple as it appears. He’s a layabout who stands to gain untold riches from his father’s death.’
‘He maintains his father had enemies who were more powerful and more ruthless.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but did he have enemies who were more foolish or more desperate? He acted in anger and haste. According to Admiral Whitelaw, he was about to be shipped out at his father’s request and against Gideon’s wishes. The physical evidence shows that he poisoned his father’s supper with arsenic.’
‘Gideon studied medicine and knows that arsenic is easily detectable. He might have acted in haste, but he is not an idiot.’
McLevy gave that rumbling laugh again. ‘The jails are full of men who thought they were too clever to make a mistake. I would caution you not to waste your time.’ McLevy gripped Raven’s arm and leaned in close. ‘And I would doubly caution you not to waste mine either, Dr Raven. One of the wealthiest men in the country has just been murdered. People are expecting justice, and that is what Gideon will get, on the gallows.’
As Raven endured the fury of McLevy’s gaze, he asked himself why he would invite the ire of a man he so feared by advocating for one he despised. But it was also in those eyes that he saw the answer, and it was nothing to do with pleasing Eugenie. It was the man’s immoveable certainty that troubled him.
It was entirely possible McLevy was right. Raven knew better than anyone what a rash individual might do when he was consumed by rage. But if there was more to this, he could be sure McLevy would make no effort to find it. Gideon’s arrogance stemmed from never having faced the consequences of his failings, but if he was innocent he did not deserve to die.
EIGHTEEN
he next morning, Sarah entered the dining room to find Raven already sitting at the table scribbling in his notebook. She had not seen him since her retreat to her room last night. She had skipped breakfast so as not to have to face him in front of everyone else, but she knew she could not put it off for ever.
He did not look up, either because he had not heard her come in or because he was ignoring her.
Part of her wanted to leave him undisturbed, to just stand quietly and watch him. Part of her wanted to throw the ledger she was carrying at his head. She noticed that his hair was longer than it had been before she left, curling a little around his ears. His jacket seemed a little too tight, the material strained across his broad back. There were a few stray threads hanging from the shoulder seams. He needed someone to take care of him. She had thought for a time that role might fall to her. But she had been usurped.
She sighed, approaching the table and throwing the ledger down with a little more force than she intended. It shook the inkpot and the glass of water by Raven’s right hand. He finally looked up at her, a little warily.
‘Is there much today?’ he asked, referring to the mail that they were about to sift through. During the summer months, when there were no lectures to be given at the university, they had fallen into the habit of discussing medical correspondence before lunch. It had been Sarah’s idea, an attempt to impose order onto chaos and ensure that nothing was missed. This was particularly important given Dr Simpson’s imminent departure to London. No patient should be kept waiting, she had said, alluding to the professor’s tendency to make appointments and then fail to keep them.
‘The usual.’ A terse reply. She was finding it difficult to k
eep a certain tetchiness from her voice.
Raven put his pen down. ‘How was your trip? You haven’t told me much about it.’
‘Opportunities for conversation have been limited,’ she said. The formality of this response sounded wrong to her own ears. Raven gave her a quizzical look.
‘Are you angry with me, Sarah?’
‘Angry? Why would I be angry?’
‘I realise that you have returned from Europe to find circumstances somewhat changed.’
‘I assume by circumstances you mean your sudden engagement. You didn’t need to wait for me to leave to start courting.’
Raven cleared his throat. ‘It started before you left.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘In the earliest stages I wasn’t sure there was anything to tell, but in truth—’
‘Of course. It was private. Why would you tell me?’
‘Why should it bother you that I did not?’
‘It bothers me that I had barely stepped over the threshold on my return from Europe when I found out that you were engaged.’
‘I had barely stepped over the same threshold upon my return from Europe when I found you were wed.’
Sarah had no reply to this.
‘Who is she, this Eugenie?’ she asked, her tone a little milder.
‘The daughter of Dr Cameron Todd.’
‘I have heard of him. Physician with a large practice. Good for you. She will require minimal training. Probably already well-versed in the duties expected of her as a doctor’s wife.’
‘You make that sound like a condemnation,’ Raven said. ‘Was that not what you once wished for yourself, when you married Archie?’
His comment felt pointed, intended to injure. But perhaps it was merely her own sensitivity at work. She reminded herself that she didn’t know what she wanted any more.
She was saved from further chastisement by the entrance of the professor bearing his post-clinic cup of tea, followed by Jarvis carrying a silver platter piled high with letters and telegrams. Sarah opened the leather-bound ledger and dipped her pen in the inkpot, ready to begin. Dr Simpson assumed his place at the top of the table and took a sip of his tea. He looked at them both, one and then the other, as though sensing something was amiss. A frown creased his brow briefly then he nodded to Raven, who took the first letter from the top of the pile.
‘From the doctor treating Lady John Russell, requesting advice regarding a female complaint,’ Raven said.
Dr Simpson indicated that the letter should be passed over so that he could read it himself. Raven and Sarah exchanged a look. It said something about Dr Simpson’s reputation that a letter regarding the health of the prime minister’s wife was a routine matter. Sarah wrote the name in the book, a reminder to ask later if an appointment should be scheduled. Perhaps this would be one of the patients he saw when he went to London.
Dr Simpson read the letter in silence then folded it up and put it in his pocket. Sarah frowned at the sight. The doctor’s pockets were a realm far beyond her control, a repository for all manner of things put there on a whim and frequently forgotten. She would have to hope that the status of the patient ensured that the letter would be retrieved at some juncture and then suitably acted upon.
Raven picked up another letter from the pile. He scanned it quickly then snorted. ‘This one comes with a request,’ he said. ‘This patient would like you to send some more of the white powder you gave him last time. It was in a big, wide-mouthed bottle and you emptied it out onto a sheet of paper.’
‘Any other clues?’ Dr Simpson asked. ‘Nature of the complaint being treated perhaps?’
Raven shook his head. ‘I’ll write back with a request for more details.’
Several more letters were dealt with in quick succession and appointments made, one for a Lady Furness who would be at the Caledonian Hotel just before Dr Simpson left for London. Sarah noted the dates down in her ledger.
Raven reached for another. The quality of the paper suggested an aristocratic source. Sarah recognised the handwriting.
‘It’s from Lady Mackenzie,’ she said as Raven opened it.
Dr Simpson and Raven groaned in unison. Lady Mackenzie was a frequent correspondent, writing at regular intervals to complain about Simpson’s reluctance to visit her.
‘What does she say?’ Dr Simpson asked.
‘She starts by stating that she is still awaiting a reply to a letter sent two and a half months ago. Your response to a previous query as to whether she should use mustard baths or leeches to relieve back pain was somewhat cryptic. “Three baths, three leeches” was all that it suggested and was furthermore sent to the wrong address. She states that she has continued to take mustard baths three times per week and wonders if she should persist. In addition, her son Harry has begun complaining of queer sensations and you are requested to attend. She has moved him south to the milder air of Bridge of Allan and can see no geographical impediment to your coming.’
Sarah sat with her pen poised, waiting for Simpson’s response. He considered for a moment.
‘Dr Raven and I will head up there at the end of the week.’ He held up a hand to stem Sarah’s protestations. ‘I can fit it in before London. A visit will be just the thing to appease her and we’ll see if we can’t cure poor Henry of his queer sensations at the same time.’
Raven looked like he was about to protest too but any argument against such a journey was forestalled by a knock at the door. Jarvis entered, carrying a small wooden crate.
‘This has just been delivered,’ he said. He placed the box on the table beside Sarah and left the room.
Sarah took a look at it. ‘It’s from Dundee.’
Simpson glanced up from the letter he was reading, having helped himself from the pile.
‘Oh, I know what this will be.’ He got up from his chair, leaned over to grab the box and then recoiled, shaking his hand.
‘What happened?’ Raven asked, concerned.
‘Just a splinter. A skelf.’ He showed them his hand and laughed. ‘I think I’ll live.’
‘Shall I open it?’ Sarah asked.
‘Please do.’
She prised the lid off with a letter opener and looked inside.
‘It’s a pelvis,’ she said. ‘Someone has sent you a pelvis. Through the post.’
‘It will be from Dr Nimmo,’ Dr Simpson stated, completely unperturbed. ‘An obstetric case he presented at the Medico-Chirurgical Society not so long ago.’
Raven lifted it out of the box and placed it on the table.
‘Mollities ossium. Adult rickets.’
‘Surely the dining room table is no place for such a thing,’ Sarah suggested, a little alarmed at the sight of it. Raven seemed surprised at her vehemence. She wondered about it herself. She was certainly no stranger to anatomical specimens.
Raven began to explain the interesting features it displayed, as though trying to justify its presence on the table.
‘This is an extreme example of the condition and will be useful for teaching. See how contracted the pelvic aperture is?’
‘How on earth did they deliver a baby through there?’ Sarah asked.
‘They didn’t,’ Dr Simpson said. ‘If I recall the details correctly, the patient was a forty-three-year-old woman in her fourth pregnancy. Visibly deformed. “Decrepit” was the word Dr Nimmo used.’
Sarah stared at the specimen, finding it difficult to equate the jumble of bones in front of her as belonging to a living, breathing person, decrepit or not.
‘On examination, the sacrum and the rami of the pubis were so approximated that a finger could scarcely be introduced between them. There was no possibility of delivery by that route.’
‘They delivered by Caesarean section?’ Sarah suggested.
‘That is correct.’ Dr Simpson looked at her and smiled.
This would normally have pleased her – getting something right, demonstrating her knowledge and understanding – but today s
he felt nothing. Grafenberg had left her hollow.
‘It didn’t work, did it?’ she stated, indicating the bones sitting in front of her.
‘The child lives,’ Dr Simpson said gently. ‘That is something. And it was the only chance for her too. Unfortunately, the initial incision cut through part of the placenta. There was considerable haemorrhage.’
They all stared in silence at the bony remains of the person they were discussing.
‘She was given chloroform. That, at least, would have eliminated any suffering at the end.’
Sarah realised that she had placed her hands over her abdomen, where her own, well-healed scar was a constant reminder of how close to death she had come herself. She felt suddenly hot, perspiration beading along her hairline.
‘Excuse me,’ she said and left the room without further explanation.
She stood in the hallway, breathing in the slightly cooler air.
‘Sarah?’
Raven was standing beside her.
‘I’m alright,’ she said. ‘Or I will be.’
She moved away from him and sat down on the stairs.
‘It just felt wrong to be staring at those bones while hearing about the woman they belonged to. How do you manage to remain so detached?’
She realised that her tone sounded harsh, accusatory.
‘You learn to be,’ Raven answered softly. For some reason this annoyed her. As though he felt he had to coddle her in some way.
‘Can anyone learn to be so? Could I? Although I suppose the real question is, do I want that for myself? Do I want to become hardened to the distress of others?’
Raven looked a little injured. ‘I do not consider that I am impervious to the suffering of others. Although I would argue that a certain detachment is necessary. You have to learn to suppress your own emotions in order to do what must be done in a crisis. But that does not mean that there is no room for feeling.’
He moved towards her, but she did not want him to comfort or console her.
‘I need some air,’ she said, brushing past him.
She was out of the door and a good way along Queen Street before she realised that she was without coat or hat. She continued anyway. What did she care what anyone thought of her now?
A Corruption of Blood Page 10