A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  Dr Simpson removed an implement from his pocket, bent down and started scrabbling about in the turf.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Searching.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Things of antiquarian interest. Arrow tips and the like.’

  Raven sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets and wondered gloomily how long this foraging was likely to take and whether the rain would stay off for the duration.

  ‘It was my uncle Jarvey who got me started,’ Simpson went on, ‘collecting old bits and pieces.’

  ‘Was it?’ Raven replied, thinking it was useful to know who to blame for their current situation.

  ‘He kept an inn in Bathgate which was full of old stuff.’

  ‘Are they ever worth anything? The things that you find?’

  Simpson looked up at him. ‘They have value in what they teach us about the past.’

  Raven could muster no energy for digging around for arrowheads. This was not the sort of buried treasure that held any interest for him. As for the past, Raven felt that in general it was best left undisturbed. He found a large rock and sat down just as a fine rain began to fall.

  Given the lack of anything else to usefully occupy it, Raven felt his mind drifting back to the many problems he was currently wrestling with – number one on this list being Sarah.

  He had become concerned by her recent low mood but was convinced that it was not a result of his engagement. Not entirely. He felt sure that something was already amiss, hence her response to his news. He had thought that she would come back from Europe energised, consumed with ambition and inspiration, and that his new attachment would be of little concern. He wondered what could have happened to her.

  He knew that he ought to ask, but he was worried about how she might respond. He was unsure if they could be friends any more; not in the way they had been.

  The prospect of a growing distance between them gnawed away at him. He missed her. Her company. Her counsel.

  He realised he had been foolish to think that their relationship could remain unaltered. Given that he intended to marry someone else, he would have to get used to Sarah not being such an integral part of his life. And yet the very thought of this made him unhappy. Much as he was loath to admit it, there were many ways in which Eugenie was no substitute.

  Sarah, he knew, would have been a great asset at Crossford House. She would have wheedled more information out of that housemaid, and other members of staff too. In addition, she could probably help him find out more about Teddy Hamilton. As a young radical he was a writer of pamphlets and frequent speaker at meetings: the kind of gatherings that Sarah attended on occasion. She had recently joined the Edinburgh Ladies’ Emancipation Society, a group of Quaker women who, having successfully campaigned for the emancipation of slaves, were now turning their attention to other oppressed groups. Women in particular, hence Sarah’s interest.

  Raven became conscious that Simpson’s eyes were upon him, lively and inquisitive as he looked up from where he was rooting about in the earth.

  ‘Where were you yesterday, late afternoon?’ he asked. ‘I saw you get out of a cab, wondered where you were returning from.’

  ‘I was at Crossford House.’

  He was aware that this answer would only further pique Simpson’s curiosity, but he could hardly keep his activities secret.

  ‘Gideon Douglas is held at Calton Jail,’ he continued. ‘Accused of killing his father with poison.’

  ‘Yes, so I have heard,’ Dr Simpson replied.

  ‘Eugenie has asked me to look into it. She has known Gideon since childhood, Dr Todd having been Sir Ainsley’s physician. She cannot believe this of him and wants me to investigate.’

  ‘A difficult request to refuse. What have you discovered?’

  ‘Little that would comfort her.’

  Raven explained why Gideon was the sole suspect, why McLevy was convinced of his guilt. Simply put, he hated his father and stood to gain financially from his death.

  ‘I must confess,’ Raven said, ‘given what I know of the man and what I have recently learned, I think it entirely plausible that he is responsible. But I have made a promise to Eugenie and will therefore pursue the few questions that I do have.’

  Raven paused, bent down and rubbed at a scuff on his shoe.

  ‘Gideon maintains that his father had greater enemies than himself. Do you think that is likely? How well did you know Sir Ainsley?’

  Dr Simpson stopped his digging, thought for a moment.

  ‘I know that no man procures or retains such wealth without leaving suffering in his wake,’ he replied. ‘Some men practise charity because they know they ought to atone, or because it helps them convince themselves they are good people. They tell themselves their benevolence retrospectively justifies their deeds. In Sir Ainsley’s case, even his charity was a form of exercising control. He was a manipulative man. He enjoyed toying with people. I think he understood that money was not the only means by which one might wield power over individuals.’

  ‘Do you mean his political manoeuvrings? The contagious diseases ordinance?’

  ‘Indeed. I sincerely hope that idea died with him, but I fear it did not.’

  ‘There can be no real harm in offering treatment to afflicted prostitutes,’ Raven mused.

  Dr Simpson scoffed and looked at him with something akin to pity.

  ‘Forced examination of women, harsh punishments if they refuse, and who gets to decide who is a prostitute and who is not?’

  Raven thought of McLevy’s man Wilkie, persecuting Mary Olsen because she had refused his advances.

  ‘Common in many a moralistic man, Sir Ainsley had a disproportionate interest in human weakness, in other people’s vices. A prurient fascination, I would go as far as to say.’

  Dr Simpson paused, looking around as though there might be eavesdroppers even in this deserted field.

  ‘You know I have a discreet role in the fostering of unwanted children.’

  Raven nodded. He recalled the professor’s evasiveness and secrecy over the matter. He had once thought Simpson kept a mistress and child – a thought that he was embarrassed about now – but subsequently learned that the professor was engaged in finding homes for the illegitimate offspring of his wealthier clients. His former amanuensis Mr Quinton and his wife had taken one such infant. That relationship might have worked out better had a baby been the only thing they had taken.

  ‘Sir Ainsley once approached me to let me know he was aware of these activities. It was before his daughter was married and I wondered if perhaps she had done something foolish. Which would of course have been particularly embarrassing given Sir Ainsley’s prescriptive pronouncements regarding chastity and abstinence. But his purpose proved far more shameful.

  ‘He was attempting to ascertain whose children I had fostered, and to whom. In not so many words he let it be known that there would be financial emoluments if I complied. As if I could be so easily bought. He had heard a specific rumour which he hoped to have confirmed. I think he was also fishing speculatively for information that might be of use to him at a later date.’

  Raven would have liked to witness that particular conversation. Sir Ainsley Douglas could hardly have chosen a less co-operative subject. Dr Simpson saw it as his duty to keep the secrets of his patients. It was something he repeatedly impressed upon students and assistants. Whatever is communicated to you as a matter of professional confidence must ever remain buried within your own breast. As for financial emoluments, Simpson was impervious to such things. There was once a wealthy lady in Brighton who wrote to him asking for consultations, offering ever larger sums to get what she wanted, eventually proposing a fee of a thousand pounds for a visit. Simpson refused to go, saying that there was nothing wrong with her and that he preferred to treat those who were genuinely unwell.

  ‘Did he take your refusal with good grace?’ Raven asked.

  ‘On the surface, but I have it on goo
d authority that he then had Sanderson digging around trying to find something on me that might force me to reveal what I knew.’

  ‘Sanderson the newspaper editor?’

  ‘Yes. Sir Ainsley’s newspaper, remember. It is said of Sanderson that he has cumulatively paid as much for stories that were unfit to print as he has paid for those that have actually appeared in the Courant. Scandal is a currency like any other. Sir Ainsley understood that you must speculate to accumulate. The right titbit could provide the means to acquire more.’

  The rain had become heavier and this mercifully brought their expedition to an end. Dr Simpson stood up and brushed the dirt from the knees of his trousers.

  ‘Even Uncle Jarvey made for home once the rain started,’ he said.

  Good old Uncle Jarvey, Raven thought.

  As they began their journey back to the waiting carriage, Raven thought about the pernicious nature of certain families. Not all were the nurturing environments that they ought to be. He knew that he had not been so blessed with his relatives as Simpson had with his. There had been no one to share passions and enthusiasms with, antiquarian or otherwise. Raven’s primary concern during his childhood had been surviving it. His father had been a violent drunk, and Raven’s fortunes had improved after he died. Some people have such a malignant presence that the world is undeniably a better place after they have left it. He wondered if Ainsley Douglas fell into that category. Was there a general benefit to his untimely departure? Did whoever perpetrated this crime have something more than money in mind? Was there more to this than merely a malignant conflict between father and son?

  Although grateful that his own had departed this earth before he could inflict any more damage, Raven mourned his having grown up without a true father figure: a decent man to model himself upon. Then, as he tramped across the field behind Simpson, it struck him that to all intents and purposes he now had one.

  Dr Todd’s recent words come to mind: Dr Simpson is to be family, as it were.

  This thought was some consolation for the claggy mud adhering to his boots, and the persistent drizzle soaking into his coat.

  As they climbed back into the carriage he feigned interest in the few bits of mangled metal Dr Simpson had managed to unearth, presented on his handkerchief like jewels upon a cushion. Raven felt an unaccustomed contentment settle upon him. He sat back against the upholstery, closed his eyes, and began to dream of his dinner.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  here was purpose to Sarah’s stride as she crossed the North Bridge on her way back to Dickson’s Close, but in truth she had little notion of what she would do if she again found no one home. Her conversation with the woman from the perfumier had been enlightening but she still had no idea of how she might track down her quarry if it turned out she was no longer at that address. There were several Kings listed in the Post Office directory, but Sarah doubted this woman would be formally advertising her whereabouts.

  She had just turned on to the High Street when she glanced across the road and saw Raven on the other side, striding down from the direction of the castle. She stopped and considered turning back, then asked herself why she thought that she needed to conceal her activities from him.

  Because she was on her own now. Fending for herself.

  Her hesitation cost her any chance of escape. He had seen her and was now crossing to her side of the street.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked. His tone was light, friendly.

  ‘Just walking.’

  ‘Walking? Here?’

  He obviously did not believe her, and she could not blame him. Nobody would cross from the New Town to this place in search of fresh air and bracing exercise.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, attempting to divert him.

  ‘The Maternity Hospital,’ he said. ‘As I do most days.’

  He seemed amused at her poor attempt at a lie. He knew her so well; it was almost impossible to hide anything from him. This was suddenly irritating to her.

  ‘It’s not really your business where I’m going, is it?’ she said.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Well, if you’re planning on wandering about the Old Town on your own then I would say that it is.’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ she retorted, immediately regretting it.

  ‘Help with what?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she insisted, her tone petulant, though it was herself she was annoyed with now. She really would have to learn to control her emotions better than this.

  ‘Well, since you are here and have nothing specific to do . . .’ Raven gave her an arch look that made her want to punch him. ‘Why don’t you come with me to Milton House? We have a couple of intriguing cases at the moment.’

  She thought briefly about refusing this invitation but knew there would be less effort and obfuscation in complying. She also knew that her refusal would be made partly out of spite, partly out of sorrow: spite because it seemed that he still wanted her company and it was in her gift to withhold it, and sorrow because she had once enjoyed these visits to the Maternity Hospital and now felt there was no point to them.

  Therein lay the crux of the matter, which lay beyond Raven, his engagement and the transference of his affections. She no longer knew what her purpose was or should be.

  Raven shepherded Sarah up the steps of Milton House, his hand hovering close to her waist. She could feel the heat of him, could smell his shaving soap. She had a sudden urge to caress his face, to feel the smoothness of his cheek, the slight puckering where skin met scar.

  She should not have come here. It was a form of torture.

  ‘There are several patients here that are of interest at present,’ he said as he pushed open the door. ‘One in particular. A thirty-nine-year-old woman in the seventh month of pregnancy, admitted last week with increasing breathlessness on climbing stairs.’

  Sarah tried to focus on what he was saying. He spoke to her as though she were a colleague, or a student he was instructing. Now she wondered why he did so, why he would encourage her interest.

  ‘Much troubled by swollen legs,’ he continued. ‘Before you ask, her urine has been tested but showed no appearance of albumen on application of heat or nitric acid.’

  He had barely closed the door when the matron appeared, a sense of panic about her.

  ‘Dr Raven, thank goodness you’re here. Come through to the kitchen. I think one of the patients is in danger of suffocation.’

  Sarah wondered if someone was choking on the lumpy porridge that was foisted upon the patients several times a day, but when they reached the kitchen it became clear that the situation was considerably more complicated than that.

  A woman was sitting on a chair beside the kitchen door, supported by another patient. She was breathing rapidly but ineffectually. Her lips were tinged with blue despite the heaving of her chest. Her eyes were wide and staring. She looked terrified.

  ‘This is the patient I was telling you about,’ Raven said as he knelt beside her.

  ‘Oh, doctor,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t get a breath.’

  ‘Sarah, help me loosen her clothes,’ Raven instructed.

  Sarah unbuttoned the woman’s dress and pulled at the ties on her stays, wondering why she was wearing such a thing. It was not tight to begin with and Sarah’s unpicking of the knots made little difference. Her palms were damp with sweat, whether her own or the patient’s she could not tell.

  The woman was still struggling for breath and if anything appeared to be deteriorating. White frothy fluid began bubbling from her mouth.

  ‘Let’s get her into bed,’ Raven instructed, and between them they partly dragged, partly carried her through to the ward, Raven asking the matron as they did to prepare some sulphate of zinc. ‘An emetic,’ he clarified, though Sarah was hardly likely to ask for explanations now.

  Once in bed the patient looked no better. She sat upright, grasping at the sheets, her breathing laboured and noisy, a rattling sound emanating from dee
p within her congested chest.

  The matron returned. The patient readily swallowed the draught given to her, but it seemed to do no good. Large quantities of frothy mucus were now pouring from her mouth, her complexion livid, her eyes staring. She flailed her arms, gasping for air, then grabbed at Sarah’s sleeve, clutching at the material, fear in her face. After two further ineffectual inspirations she fell backwards onto the bed.

  Sarah was struggling to comprehend what was happening. They had only just arrived. She could not be dead already, could she?

  ‘Pull the bed to the window,’ Raven ordered.

  Sarah helped him to do this but wondered what he was planning. It seemed obvious that the patient was beyond all effectual aid. A bit of fresh air was hardly going to revive her. But this was not a time for questions.

  ‘I can feel no pulse,’ matron said.

  Raven put his ear to the patient’s chest. Frothy mucus was now running from both her mouth and her nostrils, her eyes wide open, unblinking, staring into the far distance.

  ‘Give me a knife,’ Raven demanded.

  Without a word, Matron pulled a bistoury from a drawer in a nearby cabinet. Sarah took a step back from the bed, her mouth dry.

  Raven took the knife and cut through the thin material of the patient’s dress, pulling it aside to expose the taut skin of the lower abdomen beneath. Without any further hesitation he made an incision. The uterus appeared, blossoming upwards between the cut edges of skin and muscle. He made a further cut, sticking his hand in through the opening, amniotic fluid spilling around his wrist and onto the bed.

  He pulled the child out. It looked pale and clean, but also quite dead. Raven called for cold water, dashed it on the baby’s chest, gave it a rub, then put his lips to the infant’s tiny mouth and filled its lungs with air. He repeated this several times, rubbing the chest between breaths.

  Sarah realised she was holding her own breath, willing life into the little body, though it appeared hopeless.