Despite that, the wider view had not substantially changed. There were certain things that she would have to acknowledge were beyond her control, and perhaps admitting to that would ease her mind. Sometimes it was important to know when a battle was lost. It helped to minimise the casualties. Fight the fights that are worth fighting. Fight the fights that you have at least some prospect of winning.
‘Yes, but there is one difference that cannot be ignored,’ she replied. ‘I am a woman. I will never be accepted into the ranks of men. Even if I possessed the requisite qualifications, which at this time I do not, I would not be allowed to study medicine. I cannot be one of your students.’
Dr Simpson sat back in his seat.
For once, he did not have an answer.
TWENTY-FIVE
aven stood for a moment before the front door of Crossford House, wondering whether to ring, before deciding it would be better simply to let himself in. His experience of hospitals had taught him that if you appeared confident and intent upon your purpose, people would assume you had a right to be there. It was better to ask forgiveness than permission.
He opened the door and passed through the vestibule into the entrance hall, finding himself once again beneath the vaulted gallery with its glass cupola fifty feet above. The sense of scale was dizzying, the artistry breathtaking, the pillars intricately carved with creeping vines, leaves and flowers. Birds and creatures both natural and fabled peeped out from tiny nooks.
On his previous visit his thoughts had been on other things, but returning here it struck Raven that this was the house in which Gideon had grown up. He glimpsed how such a magnificent environment might inculcate a sense of one’s worth and importance relative to everyone else. But equally, recalling what he had witnessed, he understood the burden of expectation that must come with it.
He heard footsteps upon the tiles and saw a figure striding towards him down a wood-panelled corridor. Raven recognised him as the man who had been serving drinks to Sir Ainsley, and to Sir Ainsley only.
As he looked at Raven there was a flicker of recognition on the man’s face, but evidently not enough to place him.
‘Are you with Mr Dymock?’ he asked.
Raven seized the opportunity. ‘Indeed,’ he responded with a stiff, officious expression. ‘You were Sir Ainsley’s butler?’
The man gave a curt nod. ‘I am Wilson. You will find Mr Dymock in Sir Ainsley’s study, down there and to the right. Do you require me to escort you?’
‘I will find it,’ Raven assured him, wishing leave to explore on his own. ‘I have visited before.’
Wilson seemed relieved. He had the air of someone with other things to be getting on with, even though he no longer had his master to work for. Raven wondered whether such a man served the house as much as its owner.
Raven found himself in a corridor he recognised. Eugenie had led him along it, though they had entered by a different route. He allowed himself a pleasant moment to consider how this place might now hold significance in his own personal history. Would it be a tale he shared with his children, of how he asked their mother to marry him? In a secret passage, no less, normally the preserve of discreet and furtive household staff.
As though summoned by his own memory, a housemaid walked towards him, her head bowed as she approached. It might have been the one who had emerged from the secret passage that night, though he had barely glimpsed her so could not be sure.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, to arrest her from hurrying past.
She looked like a frightened mouse, not expecting to be accosted by a visitor.
‘Please don’t be alarmed. I am Dr Raven, an associate of Sir Ainsley’s physician, Dr Todd. We are attempting to ascertain the precise details of his demise.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir,’ she said. Her eyes flitted about, reluctant to meet his. Raven wondered whether she was unsure of the appropriate response or merely intimidated. ‘He was dead when Wilson came to bring him his breakfast.’
‘And what of his supper? I gather the plates and bedpan were cleared away. Did anything seem amiss?’
‘I wouldn’t have known what to look for, sir.’
‘So you were the one who cleared them?’
She looked suddenly pallid at what she had unwittingly disclosed.
‘Dr Todd felt these things were cleared away a little hastily,’ Raven said. ‘Did someone order it? You can tell me, it’s all right.’
‘It’s my job, sir. To clear away the dishes and the bedpan.’
‘Do you happen to know what he ate?’
‘I can’t recall. You’d have to ask the cook.’
‘What of the contents of the bedpan? Was there vomitus?’
She was starting to look teary, afraid. He found himself wishing Sarah were here, the thought popping up before his pride could suppress it. It was true, though. She would know how to talk to the girl.
‘You must excuse me, sir,’ she said, hurrying away. ‘I have duties to attend.’
Raven knocked on the door of the study and strode inside without waiting for reply. Dymock was standing behind a large mahogany desk, upon which sat reams of paper and piles of ledgers: a prominent man’s life reduced to mere numbers.
There were pictures on the walls, two of which caught Raven’s attention. One was an image of somewhere verdant and exotic: the sun beginning to set upon a sandy shore, the vegetation lush and the sea a shade of blue Raven had never witnessed. He suspected this was Tobago, where Sir Ainsley had his plantation. The other was a painting of a tall gentleman with a posture and profile almost identical to Sir Ainsley’s: Gideon’s grandfather, presumably. He was depicted standing with a black child at his side, a proprietorial hand upon the boy’s head.
Dymock stared at Raven with a look of confusion similar to that of young Matthew Bettencourt outside. Unlike the baby, his expression ultimately resolved into bemusement. Charles Dymock was even more ruddy-faced than he had been at the party and was sweating slightly given the stuffiness of the small office and the heavy wool of his waistcoat and jacket.
‘Mr Dymock,’ Raven greeted him, trying to project that sense of entitled confidence that seemed to work so well for others. He strongly doubted that the man would remember him.
‘Indeed,’ the lawyer grunted. He did not extend a hand along with the introduction. ‘Who might you be?’
‘Dr Will Raven. Assistant to Professor James Young Simpson.’
Dymock narrowed his eyes, trying to place him, but there was no hint of recognition. Raven was insufficiently important to have made much of an impression.
‘I am investigating the circumstances of Sir Ainsley’s death.’
‘I thought that was James McLevy’s remit. And I thought he had found all that he required.’
Dymock sounded as though any complication to this would be as welcome as a hungry pauper at his dinner table.
Raven paused a moment to consider his answer.
‘Mr McLevy and I are working in tandem. It is incumbent upon the investigation to explore all possibilities so that we may be sure we have reached the correct conclusion. Indeed, I have come here direct from the police office after poring over the results of Dr Struthers’ post-mortem examination.’
Raven derived some comfort from the fact that what he said was not entirely false, but that would not spare him from McLevy’s wrath should he learn of it.
‘I was under the impression there was nothing further to establish,’ Dymock said. ‘Arsenic was found, was it not? Gideon Douglas poisoned his father in accelerated pursuit of his inheritance.’
‘I spoke to Gideon in Calton Jail two days ago. He has a rather different perspective on the matter.’
Dymock scoffed. ‘Aye, I’ll bet he does.’
Raven glanced around, making a show of taking in the documents and the paintings.
‘You know the family well?’
‘I served Sir Ainsley for more than twenty years.’
Rav
en injected some regret into his tone. ‘I am given to believe that Gideon and his father did not have a harmonious relationship. This outcome would not have surprised you, then.’
‘As soon as I heard it was poison, I had no question as to who the culprit would be. The boy was always a wastrel. Irresponsible. A roué. Getting himself in trouble, getting . . . other people in trouble. That’s why he was packed off to Tobago.’
Raven noted the pause, the course correction mid-sentence.
‘As Gideon tells it, his father asked him to go to Tobago because he needed someone whom he trusted to oversee the plantation’s recovery following storm damage. He said he was turning the place’s fortunes around when his father summoned him home again.’
Dymock’s face twisted into a snarl of derision. ‘Sir Ainsley summoned him home again because of his incompetence. He had hoped that giving Gideon some responsibility might make him rise to the challenge. But instead his indolence, drunkenness and other familiar appetites prevailed.’
Dymock sighed, a grave expression upon his face. ‘It is as well for everyone that he will not inherit now, for he would be the ruin of all this, just as he has been the ruin of everything else he has touched.’
He spoke with a certainty that Raven thought premature and wondered what underpinned it.
‘He will not inherit if he is convicted,’ Raven clarified. ‘Though it would be the least of his worries at that point.’
‘He would not need to hang to lose his inheritance. A reasonable suspicion of the heir’s involvement in his father’s death is grounds for what is known as “a corruption of blood”. Not only is the tainted heir disinherited, but none of his issue would ever inherit either. His entire bloodline becomes forfeit, though that is moot in Gideon’s case, for he has not married.’ Dymock indicated the mess of documentation spread about the desk. ‘It is in anticipation of such an outcome that I am forced to wrestle with all of this now.’
‘Who would the inheritance then pass to?’
‘There is normally a division between the heritable property, being the house and business holdings, and the moveable property, being Sir Ainsley’s liquid assets. The firstborn male heir receives the heritable assets while the moveable assets are divided in three. A third is to be disposed according to the dead man’s bequest: in Sir Ainsley’s case primarily certain hospitals, the Church and the construction of a monument. A third goes to the widow and a third is further divided between the other children. It is simplified in this instance because there is no widow, so two-thirds of the moveable assets pass to Mrs Bettencourt. Or would do so, ordinarily.’
Dymock bore a look of frustration, the cause of which was not apparent.
‘With Gideon corrupt, the law dictates that the heritable property should pass instead to the next male heir in the bloodline, which is young Matthew Bettencourt, Amelia’s son.’
‘And why wouldn’t it in this case?’
‘Mrs Bettencourt does not wish it. She stood before me not half an hour ago and indicated that she intends to refuse the inheritance on her son’s behalf, as well as renouncing her own.’
Raven thought of her odd smile, her resolute manner.
Not exactly.
‘Why would she do that?’
‘I cannot begin to fathom it,’ Dymock replied, sounding as though she had done it purely to complicate his task. ‘Relations with her father have been strained at best since her mother died. Families can be baffling; rich families inexplicable.’
‘But that she would give up so much wealth,’ Raven pondered.
‘She does not do it lightly, but she said she has seen what wealth can bring, and it is not always happiness. There is a weight of responsibility that she does not wish for her son.’
Raven thought of the entrance hall downstairs, the grandeur emblematic of the burden of expectation under which Gideon had twisted and buckled. He wondered what more Amelia had seen to make her wish to protect her child at such material cost.
Dymock did not seem about to volunteer it, so Raven pressed the obvious question.
‘In that case, who would the inheritance pass to?’
‘The next eligible male heir is Edward Hamilton.’
‘Teddy?’ Raven pictured the passionate and frustrated young man who had appealed in vain for Simpson’s assistance in his argument with Sir Ainsley over the Poor Law and the rights of unmarried mothers.
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve met him. I think it is fair to say that he and his uncle were not of a mind on certain political matters. Sir Ainsley’s proposed ordinance regarding contagious diseases seemed to be particularly contentious.’
Dymock paused at the mention of this, suddenly wary.
Raven recalled the aftermath of the discussion, Simpson saying how he suspected Austin Mansfield had been bought, and that he wouldn’t have been the first. Raven wondered whether, as his lawyer, Dymock had played a role in such purchases.
‘I gather Sir Ainsley’s ordinance was initially opposed by none other than the provost,’ Raven continued, ‘but that he had subsequently changed his mind on the matter. I wonder what changes Teddy might effect if he is able to wield the same level of influence. Wouldn’t that have Sir Ainsley turning in his grave?’
‘You are not suggesting Mr Hamilton could have had a hand in this?’
‘Dr Todd did ask me who most stood to gain from Sir Ainsley’s death. Gideon suggested he was not his father’s only enemy, and far from the most ruthless.’
Dymock was now verging on anger. His face became redder, beads of sweat speckling his forehead.
‘Do not dare to speak of such things beneath Sir Ainsley’s own roof,’ he warned, almost spitting the words. ‘This tragedy has brought not only hurt and loss, but unearned ignominy upon his name. There are many who will not overlook it should you make things worse by bandying about unfounded suspicion and innuendo. I cannot imagine James McLevy, for one, would countenance such conduct. What exactly is your relationship with him, again?’
The name of his bête noir having been thus invoked, it struck Raven as a prudent moment to take his leave.
TWENTY-SIX
Grafenberg, ten days earlier
arah stood in the doorway, watching as the young girl traversed the floor and approached a small group gathered in one corner. The space was vast, its dimensions more in keeping with a ballroom than a drawing room. It was painted in bright colours and hung with glass chandeliers, giving the impression of being part of a grand hotel rather than a sanatorium.
The girl delivered her card, the group breaking up to reveal the seated woman around whom they had been congregating: the famous Dr Blackwell. A bandage covered her left eye, announcing her reason for being there. She read the card – not blind, then – and spoke to a man seated next to her. They both rose and crossed the room towards Sarah, Dr Blackwell leading the gentleman by his hand.
‘Miss Fisher? This is my good friend Mr Glynn, a fellow American. We are about to have tea. Would you care to join us?’
Sarah followed Dr Blackwell and her friend into an adjacent room filled with long tables bearing earthenware jugs of milk and plates of coarse-looking brown bread and butter. They sat at the end of a table, a short distance from an animated group talking loudly in another language that Sarah could not understand. German, perhaps.
Dr Blackwell cut a piece of bread for her companion and poured him a glass of milk.
‘We have formed our own little set, our own little genus, haven’t we, Glynn. Sight-impaired Americans.’
‘Blind Yankees,’ Mr Glynn replied, smiling.
‘Speak for yourself, young man. I can still see. For now, anyway.’
Dr Blackwell offered Sarah a slice of bread, which she declined with a shake of her head.
‘Have you come to take the cure yourself, Miss Fisher?’ Mr Glynn asked.
Sarah shook her head again and then realised that he could not see her. ‘No. But my travelling companion is very keen to do s
o.’
‘It is most invigorating,’ he said, laughing.
‘That is certainly one way to describe it,’ Dr Blackwell added. ‘A half bath, a plunge bath, and then wrapped in a wet bandage. And as much cold water as you can drink.’
‘Has it helped?’ Sarah asked.
‘It has certainly done me no harm,’ Dr Blackwell replied. ‘Although I suspect that being outside most of the day walking in the mountain air may have been more efficacious. And it has certainly been easier to bear than the initial treatment for my complaint.’
‘Barbarous,’ Mr Glynn said, shuddering.
‘On the contrary. I was given the best care and attention; I can have no complaint on that account.’ To Sarah she said, ‘I had an unfortunate accident while working at the maternity hospital in Paris. I was syringing the infected eye of an infant. Some of the water sprayed into my own eye and I became similarly afflicted.’
‘Cautery to the eyelids, leeches to the temples and vigorous purging,’ Mr Glynn persisted. ‘Sounds like torture to me.’
Dr Blackwell snorted. ‘Without it I would likely be as blind as you are.’
‘If you have not come for the cure, why have you come?’ Mr Glynn asked Sarah.
‘I have come to see Dr Blackwell.’
‘Well, I suppose she is something of a celebrity,’ Mr Glynn said, smiling again. A piece of the coarse bread had lodged between his front teeth.
‘This young woman works with Professor Simpson,’ Dr Blackwell added, as though this provided an explanation for why Sarah was there. ‘The man who discovered chloroform.’
‘Another celebrity. I am indeed honoured.’
Dr Blackwell removed an envelope from her pocket, the letter of introduction that Sarah had delivered the previous day. Sarah recognised Dr Simpson’s elaborate hand and felt a sudden pang, an intense longing for home.
Her melancholic thoughts were interrupted by a sudden hubbub. A large group entered the room and several people stood to get a better view.
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