A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  ‘Tell the lady what she wants to know,’ he said curtly.

  The girl still seemed unsure, on the verge of tears again.

  ‘Perhaps, Wilson, you could take me down to the servants’ quarters,’ Raven said. ‘I need to speak to the housekeeper.’

  Sarah smiled at him to convey her gratitude for this intervention. She was unlikely to get anywhere with the housemaid if Wilson remained hovering. She waited for Raven and the butler to leave before she tried again.

  ‘This is much bigger than the house where I was a maid,’ Sarah began, trying a different line of approach.

  Meg looked at her, obviously surprised.

  ‘It seems—’ Sarah searched for the right word ‘—very formal.’

  Meg nodded. ‘Sir Ainsley was very strict about things.’

  ‘Were you scared of him?’

  She looked about as though reassuring herself that no one was watching, then nodded again, more vigorously this time. ‘We all were. Well, all of us except Mr Wilson. Any mistake, the smallest thing, could get you dismissed. And it did happen. There was one girl—’ She stopped herself, shook her head. ‘But I can’t talk about that.’

  Sarah thought about pursuing this but decided to keep to the issue at hand.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened after Sir Ainsley died? You were asked to clear things away, I think.’

  ‘Mr Wilson told me to get rid of everything that was still on his supper plate and to empty the chamber pot.’

  ‘What was in the chamber pot? Can you describe it to me?’

  Meg winced at the memory.

  ‘Vomit,’ she said. ‘And blood. A lot of blood.’

  Raven followed Wilson along a carpeted corridor and down a set of unadorned stone stairs, a servants’ route leading into the lower depths of the house. During their short walk they had discussed the butler’s recollection of the morning in question, Wilson giving terse answers to Raven’s enquiries.

  ‘So, you sent for Dr Todd as soon as you discovered the body?’

  Wilson nodded. Raven realised that this form of interrogation was of limited use as he could not see the man’s face. Expressions frequently gave so much away, even when they attempted to give away nothing. Sometimes because they attempted to give away nothing.

  ‘Why do you think Dr Todd suspected foul play?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him that.’

  ‘Did you suspect?’

  ‘Me? No.’ Wilson stopped and turned to face him. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you told the housemaid to dispose of everything, before anyone had opportunity to examine it.’

  Wilson’s severity crumbled a little. ‘I was concerned about who might be blamed. The staff in general, the cook in particular. I was worried about what had been served up on the supper plate. That there might have been an unfortunate accident,’ he added hurriedly. ‘No one in this house wished the master any ill. I was not thinking about murder or poison when I found him. We were all in a state of shock, not acting with good sense under the circumstances. I realise now I may have inadvertently had Meg dispose of important evidence.’

  Inadvertently or deliberately? Raven wondered as they continued down the stairs.

  ‘Do you remember who was in the house that night?’ Sarah asked.

  Meg seemed a little more relaxed as she grew used to her company. She had evidently decided she had less to fear from Sarah than perhaps she was used to in this household, and consequently had become more forthcoming.

  ‘A few guests stayed late after the party, but none spent the night. And I would have known. I didn’t get to bed until they had all left.’

  ‘Which guests stayed on?’

  ‘Mr Sanderson, Mr Mansfield, Mr Hamilton and the Reverend McLean. They had port and cigars in the drawing room overlooking the lawns.’

  ‘What time did they leave?’

  ‘Just after midnight. I took a tray up to Sir Ainsley before I turned in.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  ‘No. The master was often up late. He had trouble sleeping. Dr Todd made him take brandy for it.’

  ‘What was on the tray?’

  ‘A slice of cold pie, some cheese, some fruit. The brandy to help him sleep, and his medicine.’

  ‘What kind of medicine?’

  ‘I don’t know the name. It was something for his stomach, I think.’

  Meg wandered over to the chest of drawers and looked among the glass bottles arranged there in a neat line. She selected one and handed it to Sarah.

  ‘Bismuth,’ Sarah said. ‘For dyspepsia.’

  She was about to hand it back but decided to keep hold of it, worried that it might disappear like the rest of the evidence.

  ‘How much of the meal was eaten?’

  ‘He ate most of the pie and some of the cheese.’

  ‘What about the fruit?’

  ‘I don’t think he had eaten any of that. I couldn’t say for sure because I can’t remember how many pieces were on the plate when I took it up, but I reckon most of it was still there.’

  ‘What kind of fruit was it?’

  ‘Some strange thing that came back from Tobago with Master Gideon.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘No, Mr Wilson told me to throw all of it out.’

  She looked furtive, and she knew Sarah had noticed.

  ‘What?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I tried a wee bit of it.’

  ‘And?’

  She grimaced, pursing her lips and shaking her head. ‘Can’t say that I cared for the taste at all. Burned my mouth like whisky.’

  ‘Is there any of it left?’

  ‘You’d have to speak to the cook.’

  ‘Have you been working here long?’ Raven asked.

  They had entered the housekeeper’s sitting room to find it empty and the scullery maid had been sent in search of her. Raven sat down in one of the armchairs beside the fire while Wilson busied himself polishing glasses from a tray.

  ‘Many years, sir,’ Wilson replied, once more conveying the bare minimum of information. Raven wondered if this was a practised discretion incumbent upon his job, or whether he had other reasons for his reticence.

  ‘Were you fond of Sir Ainsley?’

  ‘Fond of him? It wasn’t my job to be fond of him.’

  Raven rephrased the question. ‘Did you have any complaints about his treatment of you?’

  ‘It was a privilege to serve such an eminent man. He had achieved so much; few men in this city have done more to alleviate the plight of the poor.’

  Raven was loath to let that remark go but knew now was not the time. In any case, it sounded as though Wilson was reciting a rehearsed speech rather than expressing his own feelings. A diplomatic reply if ever he heard one.

  Wilson produced a kettle from somewhere and set it to boil over the fire. Raven wondered if he was going to be offered tea but thought it unlikely. He remembered Wilson at the party, being the only member of staff permitted to pour Sir Ainsley’s drinks. He wondered if Ainsley had been worried about being poisoned. Had he suspected that his life might be in danger?

  Raven tried to get his thoughts back on track.

  ‘Did Gideon get on well with his father?’ he asked. It was a question to which he already knew the answer, but reckoned it would be useful to gauge what could be detected beneath Wilson’s next noncommittal reply.

  The butler picked up a spoon from a pile of cutlery and began polishing it.

  ‘Gideon was a disappointment to his father,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Things came too easily to him and so he valued nothing. He cared only for his own pleasure.’

  He stopped polishing and stared at the object in his hand.

  ‘Actually, that is not strictly true. There was one person Gideon cared for besides himself, but she is gone now.’

  ‘His mother?’ Raven suggested.

  ‘Um— yes. Indeed. They were very close. He took her death hard. As did we all.’
r />   Raven noted the hesitation.

  ‘You didn’t mean his mother, did you? You meant someone he cared for more recently than that.’

  Wilson put spoon and cloth down, although why he was polishing the silver at this point Raven could not fathom. It seemed entirely unimportant given what else was going on. Perhaps going through the motions was the only way to maintain a sense of order and meaning.

  ‘Gideon was involved with a young woman. An unsuitable girl. He got her . . . into trouble. That is why his father sent him to Tobago. To put an end to the matter. Gideon did not forgive him for it.’

  Something cold passed through Raven as he recalled Sanderson’s taunt, which continued to torment him, and Dr Todd’s relief at his daughter finding a suitor. He could not help but wonder whether the unsuitable girl might have been Eugenie. Was this why she was ‘complicated’? It would certainly explain her eagerness to exonerate Gideon – and Dr Todd’s clear disdain for him.

  ‘Who was she?’ Raven asked, unsure whether he really wanted to hear the answer.

  ‘That is not for me to disclose.’

  Wilson picked up the spoon again – the same spoon – and recommenced his polishing.

  ‘Sir Ainsley sometimes questioned whether or not Gideon was actually his issue,’ Wilson went on.

  Raven leaned forward in his chair. Wilson was suddenly providing information that he had not asked for.

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘Gideon was such a disappointment to him that he preferred to think his wife had been unfaithful than that he had sired such a son.’

  Sarah followed Meg into the kitchen, where a middle-aged woman in a starched apron and cap sat in a rocking chair by the range. She was knitting what looked like a scarf or a shawl, a great swathe of it piled up on her lap. The kitchen was quiet and tidy, everything scrubbed clean. Sarah realised that the house was largely empty now, with only a few members of staff present, their collective fate resting on the outcome of McLevy’s investigation. How different it must have been only a week or so ago when there was a party to be catered for, guests to be served.

  The woman spotted them and stood up, her ball of wool rolling and unspooling across the stone floor. She was very thin in comparison to Mrs Lyndsay, the Simpsons’ cook, who Sarah presumed was better fed.

  ‘It’s alright, Mrs Morrison,’ Meg said. ‘This lady just wants to ask you some questions.’

  Mrs Morrison gathered up her wool and her knitting, shoving them in a nearby drawer. She pushed a bit of stray hair under her cap and stood to attention.

  What kind of house was this? Sarah thought. Run on military lines, perhaps. No questioning of orders, and harsh punishments for those who disobeyed.

  Meg scurried out and closed the door behind her, clearly relieved that Sarah’s questions would be directed at someone else.

  ‘There is no need to stand, Mrs Morrison,’ Sarah said. ‘I am conducting some enquires at the behest of Gideon Douglas, trying to establish what happened on the night of Sir Ainsley Douglas’s demise.’

  The cook sat down again but did not seem reassured. She looked worried. Guilty, even.

  ‘There was nothing wrong with that meat pie,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure that you are right about that,’ Sarah said, although in fact she could not be certain at all whether Sir Ainsley’s final supper was implicated. She suspected the cook was far from sure either, despite her assertion. It had been Wilson who ordered everything be thrown away, which must have placed considerable doubt in the cook’s mind.

  Sarah pulled up a chair and sat down too, trying to appear less intimidating. It seemed a house where the staff were used to being stood over, not sat down with.

  ‘Meg tells me that you have worked here for many years. Since Gideon and Amelia were children.’

  Mrs Morrison nodded, still uncomfortable.

  ‘Not as long as Mr Wilson,’ she said. ‘He was here when I came.’

  ‘He must have enjoyed working for the family to have been here so long.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Did he get on well with Sir Ainsley?’

  ‘Well enough. Better in the past, I think. Things were never the same after Lady Douglas passed away.’

  According to what Raven had told her, Margaret Douglas’s death had been a decade ago, but evidently remained pivotal in the cook’s mind. Sarah sought to know more.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know. She became ill very suddenly. Dr Todd said that there was nothing anyone could have done. A tragedy. She was very young. And those two children left without their mother.’

  ‘Was Sir Ainsley a good father to them?’

  ‘Amelia was the apple of his eye. That’s what he called her: my little apple. She was the firstborn but that makes no odds if you’re a girl. Gideon was the one he placed all his hopes on. There was a lot of pressure on the boy, but he was never good enough, no matter what he did. I often felt sorry for him, truth be told. Tell someone they’re useless often enough, they’ll start to believe you.’

  Sarah was surprised by the cook’s sympathy and compassion for the dissolute and overindulged Gideon. Life with Sir Ainsley Douglas had obviously not been easy.

  ‘Meg mentioned some exotic fruit Gideon brought back from Tobago. Do you still have some of that?’

  ‘I do, as it happens,’ she said, getting up from her chair and disappearing into the pantry. ‘Not sure what to do with it, if I’m honest.’

  Sarah wondered what manner of fruit might burn the mouth like Meg had described. There were none that she could think of. Such sensations were often nature’s way of warning that something was not safe to eat. Could this perhaps be the cause of the poisoning, an important clue that they had missed?

  Mrs Morrison emerged from the pantry holding a large pineapple. Sarah had seen one before: a gift to Dr Simpson from a grateful patient with a hothouse. She had not tasted it. In fact, she was not at all sure what Mrs Lyndsay had done with it.

  ‘Do you want to try some?’

  Why not? Sarah thought. She nodded and the cook cut her a slice. Sarah bit into it and some of the juice dribbled down her chin. The taste was both sweet and sharp, difficult to describe, and clearly like nothing Meg had ever encountered before. It was not unpleasant, and nor was it likely to kill anyone unless it was dropped from a considerable height onto their head.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  aven looked at himself in the mirror and tried to make an objective appraisal. He was wearing a new shirt and his jacket had been brushed until every last thread was clean. He was freshly shaven and his hair, for once, seemed to be behaving itself. He leaned in a little closer and examined the scar on his left cheek, letting his forefinger run along the length of it. A fine pink line. Fading nicely but still visible. An indelible mark that gave a little too much of his history away.

  Was he a handsome man? He was far from ugly but lacked the kind of looks that drew attention; the right kind of attention, anyway. He was no Teddy Hamilton, but surely a reasonable prospect in terms of marriage. Added to that he was a man of some standing now, with the possibility of a lucrative career ahead of him. Was that what Dr Todd was referring to when he said that he and Eugenie were a good fit? Raven was still trying to convince himself, concerned that it was Eugenie’s reduced status that made their match an appropriate one. And if so, what had brought her down to his level?

  He was determined to find out. He had been invited to tea at St Andrew Square, where he planned to press Eugenie for answers. Awkward or not, he had to know.

  He descended the stairs, concentrating on what he was going to say and narrowly avoiding a collision with Glen the Dalmatian and a snot-nosed child who seemed to be playing a game of some sort in the downstairs hallway. Something involving the coat-stand and an umbrella.

  ‘Careful there, Wattie,’ Raven said as he dodged out of the way.

  Walter was a sweet-natured child but, as with all children o
f his age, he seemed to be permanently covered in an adhesive substance that defied definitive identification. Jam, perhaps. Raven was relieved that in his well-scrubbed state he had avoided any direct contact, but as he approached the front door, Walter’s older brother, David, leapt out at him and jabbed him with another umbrella. Raven cursed his naivety for thinking Wattie would be alone. They tended to hunt in pairs. They also tended to be even more boisterous when their father was from home, and with the professor gone to London, he should have known to beware.

  ‘We’re pirates!’ David yelled, prodding Raven again for good measure.

  Jarvis appeared and handed him his hat. The butler wore the same inscrutable expression that he always did. Not even marauding pirates could dent his equanimity.

  ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ Raven replied, safely assuming that it was his engagement being referred to and thinking that there really would be no need for any formal announcement. There was nobody left to tell.

  ‘When will you be moving out?’

  Raven laughed, thinking that this was a joke, then realised that it was an entirely reasonable question.

  ‘I haven’t given it much thought,’ he admitted.

  Jarvis raised an eyebrow, which Raven interpreted as an admonition regarding his lack of proper planning.

  As he descended the steps outside the house, it struck Raven that he was less concerned about where he would live than where he would not. The thought of leaving 52 Queen Street was not a pleasant one and perhaps explained why he had been slow to consider it. Not only because of what it had meant to him to live there, but also because of who he would be leaving behind. For once it was more than Sarah complicating his thoughts.

  This family had become his family, Dr Simpson allowing him to experience the affection he imagined a father was supposed to provide.

  His association with this adoptive family had also allowed him to rise in the estimation of his own true family – what was left of it. His mother had responded to the news of his impending matrimony with equal parts surprise and pleasure, but much as she was delighted at the prospect of her son marrying well, she seemed just as gratified that this might finally provide an occasion whereby she could venture across from Fife to meet the great Dr Simpson.