A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  ‘I do have a lead on a story. Potentially far bigger than anything Dr Simpson might disclose.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  Sanderson sounded sceptical but curious nonetheless.

  ‘That it was not Gideon Douglas who murdered his father.’

  ‘What?’ Sanderson spluttered. ‘Of course it was! Poisoned him with arsenic to hasten his inheritance. Oldest story in the book.’

  ‘Arsenic is a metallic poison. Do you understand the significance of that?’

  ‘Chemistry and medicine are not my areas of expertise,’ he said irritably.

  ‘It is easily detectable in the body. Evidently you did not know that, and why would you? But Gideon knew it, as would anyone who had studied medicine. Do you know who else would be unaware?’

  Sanderson narrowed his eyes, suddenly less irate. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Austin Mansfield.’

  ‘That is preposterous,’ he huffed, striking his cane on the stone floor. The noise reverberated around the tiled walls, amplifying his rebuke. Sanderson was overselling his incredulity, and Raven knew why. This was the reason he had brought him here.

  ‘Is it? He was there the night Ainsley died.’

  ‘So were you. So was I. Why on earth would Mansfield want to murder Sir Ainsley?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Then you are mistaken.’

  ‘It is rumoured that Mansfield was in an adulterous relationship with Abigail Findlay, but I believe Ainsley knew it to be more than gossip. He had hard evidence and he used it to command the provost’s support for his contagious diseases ordinance. What proof did he have?’

  ‘I have no idea. He was my employer. He wouldn’t have shared that kind of thing with me.’

  ‘We have already established which way round this works: that you were paid to procure such things for him. What if it was this particular piece of information that got Ainsley murdered? Everyone is fixated on Gideon, but he wasn’t the only man with a motive.’

  ‘You’re havering,’ Sanderson sneered, his lip curling. ‘I didn’t procure anything. This is no concern of mine.’

  He stood up abruptly, turned his back on Raven and made for the door.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Raven said.

  Sanderson halted.

  ‘Because if Mansfield was desperate enough to poison Sir Ainsley Douglas over what he could reveal, he’s hardly going to flinch from killing the man who passed him the information.’

  Sanderson turned. He looked at Raven as though trying to formulate a response, something to refute what had just been said. He had nothing. If Mansfield was the murderer, and it was clear that Sanderson now believed this a possibility, it was in his best interests to reveal what he knew, for his own protection.

  His shoulders slumped and he leaned on his cane, his defiance dispelled.

  ‘There were letters,’ he said. ‘In Mansfield’s hand, to Abigail Findlay. Intimate letters.’

  ‘Stolen from her house?’

  ‘I cannot disclose how I came by them.’

  ‘And where are these letters now? Do you have them?’

  ‘Sir Ainsley took them. They were no doubt safely stowed at Crossford, but are most likely back in Mrs Findlay’s possession by now, as I would imagine Dymock will have discreetly recovered them.’

  ‘Recovered them? Dymock?’

  Sanderson looking surprised and amused at Raven’s ignorance.

  ‘Dymock is Mansfield’s brother-in-law. He is married to Mansfield’s sister.’

  Raven thought of all the papers laid out on Sir Ainsley’s desk, and of Dymock’s flustered, sweaty look. He realised that the lawyer might have been searching frantically for something specific. Raven could see now why Dymock was not keen that he should look any further into Sir Ainsley’s death, and why he was so quick to join in pointing the finger at Gideon. Dymock feared it was his brother-in-law who had murdered Sir Ainsley, and was content for someone else to take the blame.

  Sanderson rapped his cane on the floor again, drawing Raven’s attention back to the here and now.

  ‘A word to the wise,’ he said. ‘Power does not lie only in the information one can reveal. It lies also in the information one can withhold. For instance, I know you have plans to marry.’

  Raven scoffed. ‘So does half the city, it seems. And your point is?’

  ‘To Dr Todd’s daughter, Eugenie.’

  ‘Yes. What about her?’

  ‘What indeed,’ Sanderson said, and walked out the door.

  THIRTY-THREE

  he next day, Raven was shown into the morning room at St Andrew Square to discover that Eugenie already had a visitor. Amelia Bettencourt was sitting with her baby on her knee, young Matthew transfixed by a coloured refraction of light that was playing on the wall. The child was tightly swaddled, a blanket wrapped around him though the room was warm. Raven immediately thought about the little corpse with the white tape round its neck and hoped it would not be too long before such memories receded. Sometimes there seemed to be too many of them fighting for precedence. It was exhausting.

  ‘Amelia, this is Dr Will Raven,’ Eugenie said.

  Raven thought he could detect excitement in her voice. Possibly even pride. Something in him warmed to the sound of it, and to the sight of her face. He had spent so long wrestling with his feelings over Sarah that he had forgotten how the mere presence of Eugenie made him feel.

  ‘We have already met,’ her friend replied.

  ‘Of course. At the party.’

  ‘And subsequently at Crossford House. Dr Raven was there making enquiries.’

  Eugenie was brought up short by this.

  ‘So you know then – that I asked him to. Are you angry with me?’

  ‘No, I understand. You feel more affection towards my brother than I do, most likely because you have less experience of him. I hope you are prepared for disappointment. Your sympathy for him will not alter the facts.’

  The baby started to girn.

  ‘Teething,’ Amelia explained. She stood and jiggled the child on her hip, which briefly quelled his complaints. She looked to the clock on the mantelpiece and began walking towards the door. ‘If you will excuse me, it is time for our appointment with Dr Todd.’

  Amelia left the room, the sound of the now crying child gradually receding.

  ‘Is there something wrong with him?’ Raven asked, thinking that the child looked perfectly healthy.

  ‘I don’t think so. She likes to have him examined regularly. She needs reassurance that all is well. He was poorly some time ago and she has never quite got over it. She fusses about every little thing. She dismissed the wet nurse as though she was at fault somehow. Insists on looking after him herself without any help.’

  Raven could well imagine Sarah’s response to such a statement. Most women looked after their own children without any help.

  He began moving towards Eugenie, thinking that they might have some time together, but Amelia suddenly came back into the room and commandeered his intended spot on the couch.

  ‘Your father wished to be left alone to conduct his examination,’ she said.

  Eugenie raised an eyebrow at Raven, underlining her previous remarks.

  He retreated to the other side of the room.

  ‘So,’ Amelia said, addressing Raven now, ‘what have you discovered? I have heard all about your efforts last year, exonerating Dr Simpson when he had been wrongly accused.’

  ‘It was primarily Miss Fisher who was responsible for clearing Dr Simpson’s name. I merely assisted.’

  He looked at Eugenie to determine her reaction. He was aware that he had deliberately not spoken much about Sarah, concerned as to how she might interpret their relationship. However, he did not wish to take the credit for Sarah’s actions and was dismayed by how frequently her role was omitted from accounts of the case.

  ‘I assume you are referring to Dr Simpson’s female assistant, of whom I have heard much,’
Amelia said. ‘A woman giving chloroform and assisting in procedures. Quite unprecedented. Are these one and the same?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I am so admiring of any woman striving to venture beyond the bounds of what men will allow. I grew up with an avid interest in legal matters, and would have loved to pursue it further, but it is impossible for me to study the law, far less practise it.’

  Raven could not help but think how chastened and reticent Sarah seemed of late regarding her own ambitions. He was beginning to understand why. If someone of Amelia’s advantages could not proceed academically, what did that say for Sarah’s prospects?

  ‘Sarah has also been assisting in my investigations into the poisoning,’ he said.

  ‘You have known each other for some time then,’ Amelia asked, somewhat pointedly.

  ‘Do tell, Will,’ Eugenie urged. ‘Just how well have you known her?’

  The innuendo in this question was clear and Raven was surprised by it. Eugenie was being risqué as a means of showing off to her friend, but there was an edge to it, more than a hint of insecurity and suspicion. Raven knew because he recognised it: the question of who else one’s intended spouse might have lingering feelings for. And of course he did have intimate knowledge of Sarah: just not in the way Eugenie might fear.

  ‘Sarah is a widow,’ he said, as though this in itself constituted sufficient explanation, but even as he said it he realised that it resolved nothing. Eugenie certainly did not appear to be reassured.

  ‘A widow? And yet you refer to her as Miss Fisher,’ Amelia said, demonstrating a particularity that would have served her well as a lawyer.

  Raven was unsure how to answer. Sarah had reverted to using her maiden name shortly after Archie died. He knew it had something to do with retaining her own identity, not being defined by her attachment to another person, but it was not a decision that he found easy to explain.

  ‘Sarah is a very singular individual,’ he said. It was the best he could do at short notice.

  ‘And what have you discovered, the pair of you?’ Eugenie asked, placing a telling stress on this last part.

  Raven thought for a moment, conscious that he would have to be discreet.

  ‘Gideon suggested that his father had many enemies. Unfortunately, I have found this to be true.’ He looked from Eugenie to Amelia. ‘I am not sure how appropriate it is to further discuss these matters here.’

  ‘There is little about my father that would shock or disappoint me, Dr Raven,’ Amelia insisted. ‘Do go on.’

  He paused, considering how best to share what he had unearthed.

  ‘I have learned that your father had obtained damaging information regarding a certain gentleman in politics. That is not enough on its own to draw any firm conclusions, but Sir Ainsley’s death certainly made things more comfortable and convenient for this person.’

  ‘You said enemies plural,’ said Amelia. ‘Who else?’

  Raven paused again. This was far more delicate.

  ‘How well do you know your cousin Teddy?’

  ‘Teddy Hamilton?’ Amelia looked confused.

  ‘He is the male heir should you renounce your son’s inheritance, which Charles Dymock tells me is your firm intention.’

  ‘We knew each other growing up,’ she said. ‘Family gatherings, weddings and christenings, but not so much in recent years. He went to London to study a few years ago, I believe. Eugenie probably knows him better than I do.’

  Raven wondered if he was supposed to infer any deeper meaning from that statement. Sanderson’s parting shot the night before bounced around his head. He realised that there was much about his future wife that he did not know, and he was becoming increasingly worried about it.

  He looked at Eugenie. Did she seem anxious or was he merely imagining it? Suspicion could act like a slow poison, allowing doubt to creep into everything. Had she been involved with Teddy in the past? And if she had, did it matter now? It did if she still harboured feelings for him.

  ‘Are you suggesting Teddy would poison his uncle?’ Amelia continued. ‘For money?’ There was scorn in her voice, her scepticism starkly evident. ‘That is an absurd notion. How could he anticipate that I would wish to renounce?’

  ‘Did you ever discuss such matters?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Never directly. Only in as much as Teddy, like me, is not in thrall to wealth and status. There are more important things in this world than money.’

  How easy it was to express such sentiments, Raven thought, without ever having suffered the depredations of poverty.

  ‘Useful for the essentials, I find,’ he said. ‘Food, shelter. That sort of thing.’

  Eugenie gave him a hard stare then turned to her friend.

  ‘Are you permitted to renounce on behalf of the male heir?’ she asked.

  ‘I am his mother,’ Amelia stated firmly.

  That, although not strictly an answer to Eugenie’s question, was one of the few elements in all of this that Raven could be sure about.

  ‘What of the evidence against Gideon?’ Eugenie asked.

  ‘The main thing which casts doubt on his guilt is the arsenic,’ he replied.

  ‘I thought that it was surely proof of his guilt,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Gideon knows that it is easily detectable,’ Raven explained. ‘He argues that if he wished to poison his father, he would have used something else.’

  Eugenie looked suddenly animated, as though Raven had solved the matter.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He would not be so foolish as that.’

  Amelia appeared to have been unsighted by this revelation. She clearly believed her brother was capable, motivated and ruthless enough to have committed the crime, and yet this represented a serious flaw in that hypothesis, a factor she had not considered. Perhaps for the first time she was feeling doubt that her brother was guilty.

  Seeing this made Raven question certain of his own assumptions. Would he be disappointed if Gideon were exonerated? Did part of him want to believe Gideon killed Sir Ainsley? How much of that derived from Raven’s relationship with his own father? How much of it came from his need for absolution? He was reminded of Sarah’s remarks about his cloudy judgment and realised that he needed her input more than he had thought.

  It struck him that the key to the whole thing was the poisoning itself, about which they knew so little. He needed to know more about what happened that night. He would have to go back to Crossford House: this time with someone who could get the staff to talk.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  s Sarah stood outside the front door of Crossford House she felt a sudden urge to take Raven’s hand; an urge she suppressed, of course. She wondered what had prompted it. Perhaps it was the house itself. It seemed hostile somehow. Intimidating. And not merely because someone had recently died here.

  They had come to question and to probe. To ask the staff difficult questions, no doubt upsetting people who were already distressed, their futures recently made uncertain. She felt a surge of gratitude, and not for the first time, that her own experience of domestic service had been with the Simpsons, a raucous family home, full of warmth and kindness. Crossford House seemed to be too big, too grand, to be in any way welcoming. Raven had told her of his ill-fated attempt to get one of the housemaids to talk to him. ‘Terrified’ was the word he had used to describe her. Sarah wondered if she would have any more success.

  The door was answered by a severe-looking man wearing a uniform that seemed a little too tight. He seemed flushed, a high colour in his cheeks as though his necktie was effecting a slow strangulation.

  Sarah very nearly reached for Raven’s hand again.

  Raven seemed unintimidated.

  ‘Wilson,’ he said loudly and with confidence, as though they were well acquainted. He brandished a piece of paper at the butler.

  ‘I have here a letter from Gideon Douglas granting me permission to search the house and interview the staff.’

  Sarah knew th
e letter was no such thing, just some random piece of correspondence picked up from the tray at Queen Street. Wilson did not look pleased (and more importantly did not look at the letter) but nor did he attempt to bar Raven’s entry. He merely stepped aside and let them proceed into the entrance hall. It was an imposing space, with towering marble pillars and an intricately carved wooden staircase.

  Raven wasted no time. He shoved the letter back into his pocket and started issuing demands.

  ‘We need to speak to the staff who were present on the night the death occurred.’

  Sarah noticed that he had not used the word murder and wondered if that was deliberate.

  ‘I am particularly interested in speaking to the maid who cleared the bedroom after the fact.’

  The butler looked as though he was about to speak. To complain, perhaps, or to refuse. In the end he said nothing, but scuttled off down a corridor, muttering under his breath.

  He returned with a young girl who looked tremulous and on the verge of tears.

  ‘Take us to the bedroom where the body was found,’ Raven demanded. He had adopted a no-nonsense tone that he would never have used towards the staff at Queen Street: mainly because it would not have got him anywhere. Jarvis would most likely have laughed at him. It had the desired effect here, however, and the butler led them up the stairs, the snivelling housemaid following on a few paces behind.

  The bedroom was as Sarah had imagined it: four-poster bed (more carved wood) with matching armoire, chest of drawers, two armchairs, a small table between them, and a desk. It was tasteful, elegant. Almost regal. And exceptionally tidy. Not a thing out of place. It was hard to imagine how it would have looked the morning the body was discovered.

  Sarah turned to the girl standing in the doorway.

  ‘Handkerchief please,’ she said to Raven, who hesitated for a moment then complied, handing his handkerchief to the housemaid. He looked less than happy as the girl blew her nose noisily into it.

  ‘What is your name?’ Sarah asked her.

  ‘Meg, ma’am.’

  ‘Can you tell me about the night of the party?’

  The girl looked at Wilson.