A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  He knew well of her pride at his holding a position with such a man. She had even intimated that her miserable brother, who never expressed any pride in Raven himself, was nonetheless fond of casually dropping the Simpson name into conversation when in company. That, Raven knew, was as much acknowledgement from his uncle as he was ever likely to get.

  Walking along Queen Street, with every step that took him closer to St Andrew Square he felt more burdened with uncertainty regarding the next family he was about to become associated with. Sanderson’s words still haunted him.

  What about her?

  What indeed.

  Dr Simpson’s remarks regarding rumours in the city came to mind: that they tended to be true. He wondered if the professor knew something about Eugenie, something he was not telling him. Simpson’s role in fostering children kept nagging at him, as if there might be a connection there. If so, surely he would tell Raven about it and not allow him to be deceived. Or would he? Dr Simpson’s reverence for the inviolable confidentiality that shielded all interactions between patients and their doctors would put paid to that. It would be something that he would not, could not, divulge.

  The thought made Raven confront what he feared: that Eugenie had got herself into trouble at some point and the evidence had been spirited away. To save face. To save her reputation. Was an illegitimate child the great secret? The shame that brought her down to his level?

  He could not rightly say why this troubled him so much. He was not such a hypocrite as to demand a virgin bride. None of the lovers he had known had been any such thing.

  Perhaps it was merely not knowing that was troubling him: not being trusted with the truth, and therefore not being able to trust the family he was about to marry into.

  He recalled Wilson’s words about Gideon, that he had been sent away for this very reason. Getting a girl into trouble. An unsuitable match. In a sober analysis there was no good reason to think this had anything to do with Eugenie. He counselled himself that it would be wrong to jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was his own self-esteem – or lack of it – that was posing the problem here. Maybe he really was good enough for a woman like Eugenie, and she did not need to be tarnished to accept him.

  When he arrived at St Andrew Square, he was received in the morning room, Eugenie resplendent in an emerald green dress, white lace at the collar and cuffs. There was no need for clandestine meetings now, no more brief glimpses from behind glass. And yet he felt more distanced from her than ever.

  A housemaid entered with a tray. She laid out cups and saucers and poured the tea. There was a rhythm to it, a pattern. The same movements in the same order each time. Eugenie watched it all with a calm contentment. Raven watched Eugenie.

  He found that he was examining her, as if a close inspection would reveal what was being kept from him. She was beautiful, unblemished. The voice in his head made itself heard again, questioning his worthiness of her. He recalled something Henry had said: she had been sent away to protect her from a surfeit of suitors, and then suddenly Raven was good enough. It did not make sense. Something was missing from the story.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said. There was concern in her voice. She knew him well enough to sense his mood. ‘How goes the investigation?’

  ‘There is not much to tell. We went back to Crossford House and questioned the staff. I cannot say that it was particularly helpful.’

  ‘We? You went there with Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She made no response, began fiddling with the seam on her sleeve.

  ‘My friendship with Sarah troubles you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You said yourself that she is a widow and relatively new to widowhood at that. And I am the one who has your promise. I suppose that I am simply jealous.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘She has known you longer than I have.’

  ‘That could be said of any number of people. And anyway, it does not compare. My relationship with Miss Fisher has always been far different from the time you and I spend together. Much of it is spent butting heads, believe me.’ Raven took a sip of his tea. ‘What lies in the past with someone else need not prove any impediment to our being together. Do you understand what I am saying?’

  She looked a little surprised at the turn the conversation was taking but said nothing.

  ‘I don’t see why you would feel the need to be wary of Sarah,’ he said, then paused for a moment. ‘Unless perhaps there is someone in your past whom I should be wary of. Is there something I ought to know? Is there something I deserve to know?’

  Her expression hardened. A barrier had come down.

  ‘I have no notion what you are talking about,’ she said. ‘I have kept nothing of importance from you.’ She stood up. ‘I do not know what you are insinuating but I tell you this – I do not care for it.’

  He noticed that there were tears forming in her eyes. Her body betraying her. She rushed from the room, leaving him in no doubt that their conversation was at an end.

  Raven did not follow her, thinking there was little to be gained by doing so. He was not reassured. Her response had been too vociferous, too combative. He was now convinced that she was hiding something from him and was beginning to wonder if it was indeed directly connected with Gideon as he feared. Gideon had been sent away for getting a girl into trouble. Eugenie had been sent away, ostensibly to protect her from ardent suitors, but there were other reasons young ladies might be sent away for a few months, as Dr Simpson could attest. Perhaps Eugenie had been sent away because of reasons pertaining to one suitor in particular.

  Raven had just decided to take his leave when the door opened again. He thought it might be Eugenie returning to apologise for her behaviour or perhaps to explain it, but it was her father who entered the room. He smiled self-consciously at Raven.

  ‘A lovers’ quarrel? Eugenie can be stormy, but like any storm it will blow itself out.’

  There was no doubt that Todd had seen her leave. His tone sought to make light of it, but he did a poor job of masking his concern.

  ‘She is complicated,’ Raven said.

  He was beginning to lose patience. The whole thing felt like a charade. A trick. And he was the poor dupe in the middle of it.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘That is what you said of her yourself. How you chose to describe her. I wonder whether you would care to elaborate. Is there something I should know?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you mean.’

  Raven could see the anxiety in Todd’s expression and the faltering attempt at a smile to hide it.

  ‘I had an interesting conversation with William Sanderson,’ Raven stated.

  ‘I hope you bathed afterwards. I would advise it after dealing with such a man who makes his living rooting in the gutters.’

  If he expected a laugh or a smile in response to this, he did not get either.

  ‘He spoke of the power inherent in withholding information,’ Raven continued, ‘and implied that there was something he was choosing not to tell me about your daughter. By further implication, something you are choosing not to tell me about her.’

  Todd sought to wave it away as nothing. ‘Sanderson trades in gossip, innuendo and rumour.’

  ‘Your answer reveals more than you intend,’ Raven said. ‘Unless you believed there was reason why Eugenie should be the subject of any of those things, you would be telling me you had no notion why Sanderson might suggest anything about her at all.’

  Dr Todd suddenly became severe, all attempts at humour and bonhomie abandoned.

  ‘I would warn you not to dig too deep,’ he said. ‘There is nothing to be found that will profit you, Dr Raven. You already know the measure of my daughter. Take it as proof only of my esteem for you that I consider you a good match for her. Do not give me reason to reconsider my opinion, or reconsider my permission.’

  Raven could think of no suita
ble reply and instead made for the door. All of his doubts were settling into something more solid.

  He hoped that Dr Todd was never inclined to gamble at cards. He was as good a bluffer as he was a liar.

  THIRTY-SIX

  aven watched Sarah brush her hand over the brougham’s red plush upholstery as it crossed Princes Street, a look of smiling approval upon her face. It did him good to see her looking pleased about something.

  ‘So much better than walking,’ she said. ‘Especially in this weather.’

  ‘It’s only a bit of rain,’ Raven replied. ‘Although it was good of Dr Simpson to let us have use of the carriage while he is away.’

  ‘While everyone is away,’ Sarah corrected him.

  Dr Simpson had departed for London some days ago, and Mrs Simpson had taken the children to visit relatives in Liverpool, where she would meet with Mina. Christina had gone with them, which Raven thought would impede Sarah’s enquiries, but she maintained it would make little difference as the girl refused to reveal anything more than she had done already. Much as she wanted to find her missing child, there was evidently something or someone she was very much afraid of.

  ‘I thought you liked walking,’ Raven said.

  ‘Not in the rain. I would like to see you attempt it in these skirts. They weigh you down when they get wet.’

  ‘We’re going to have to walk part of the way, at least,’ he said. ‘It’s market day. The carriage won’t be able to get much further than the High Street at this time of the morning.’

  Raven let his head rest back, pleasantly lulled by the movement of the carriage. He felt at his ease, even though his thoughts were so jumbled and contorted. The more he found out the less he seemed to know. Perhaps it was Sarah’s presence that was calming him, a balm for his troubled mind. He was enjoying spending time with her again and wondered if that told him anything about his relationship with Eugenie. He had not felt this way around her of late, and speculation about her past was one of the reasons for his mental disquiet.

  ‘Anyone who sees us today will assume that we are people of worth,’ Raven mused.

  Sarah scoffed. ‘Only until we step out onto the street. Such things are illusory anyway. An image presented to the world rather than the truth of a person. Everything we are learning about Sir Ainsley Douglas is demonstration of that.’

  Raven thought of Eugenie again and the elevation in his stature that an association with her father would bring. Setting up a practice as son-in-law to Cameron Todd would surely put him on the path to prosperity. But could he believe Todd genuinely esteemed him if he did not respect Raven enough to be truthful?

  Perhaps it was not a lack of respect but rather the fear that Raven would take flight. That was why he had dangled the possibility of withdrawing his blessing. Todd had unwittingly revealed himself: he was the one afraid of losing something.

  Maybe Raven ought to change tack: stress either to Todd or to Eugenie that they had nothing to fear from telling him the truth. But could he honestly say that? If it turned out she had borne Gideon’s child – even if that child was now God knows where – he could not say for certain that he would feel the same about marrying her.

  Had she borne Gideon’s child? Was he truly contemplating this as a possibility? A dispassionate assessment of the facts would certainly support such a theory. And if this child existed, would it have a claim on Gideon’s bloodline and inheritance? Were Gideon to be disinherited, if ‘corruption of blood’ was invoked, any such claim would be negated. Was that why Eugenie was so keen to clear him? Was she, as the mother of his bastard, protecting that child’s future interest by preserving its right to inherit? In Scots law, marriage legitimised children born out of wedlock. If Eugenie were to marry Gideon and reclaim her child . . .

  ‘Where have you gone?’ Sarah asked, putting a hand on his knee. ‘Come back to me.’

  He looked at her hand and she withdrew it.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Raven. ‘I have much on my mind.’

  ‘Would it help to talk about it?’

  Raven knew that it would, but he could hardly discuss Eugenie’s possible past indiscretions with Sarah.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Just something I will have to work out on my own.’

  The carriage pulled up on Market Street and he shook off his ponderings, lest they drive him mad. They disembarked, but there were few pedestrians to be impressed by their means of conveyance.

  The rain had lessened to a fine smirr as they climbed the steps of Fleshmarket Close up to the High Street. Raven tried not to think of Sanderson as they passed the tavern where he had spoken to the journalists, but his surroundings were a constant reminder of the multiple problems he was wrestling with. There seemed to be no respite from them.

  As they made their way across the High Street the crowds were thinner than usual on account of the inclement weather. They found what they were looking for in Hunter Square, beside Goldsmiths’ Hall. Dymock and Paterson, solicitors-at-law, lodged in an ancient but well-maintained building giving the impression of a long-standing institution.

  The front door opened onto an outer office, where a young clerk was seated at a desk. Mr Dymock ambled out of his room just as they entered, carrying a sheaf of papers which he presented to his employee. He did not seem pleased to see them. He was perspiring less than when Raven had last encountered him, but he retained the same air of profound discomfiture.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, abandoning all pretence of good manners. He scowled in the direction of the clerk, as though the lad should have known to eject Raven on sight. ‘You were less than truthful with me when last we met,’ Dymock continued, pointing a fat finger at Raven. ‘I have been hearing about you from Amelia Bettencourt. You and . . .’

  The finger now pointed towards Sarah.

  ‘Miss Fisher,’ she introduced herself, bright and pleasant in exaggerated contrast to his unwelcoming tone. ‘And how was your meeting with Mrs Bettencourt?’

  Dymock looked a little taken aback at Sarah’s speaking to him in such a forward manner. Or perhaps simply speaking at all.

  ‘Unsatisfactory,’ he grunted. ‘Neither of us was much contented with what we learned from the other. She informed me that you are not working with the police. I don’t appreciate being lied to, Dr Raven.’

  ‘I have not lied. I told you McLevy and I were working in tandem. I cannot be held accountable for any misinterpretation on your part.’

  Dymock did not appear in any way placated by this. In fact, he looked like a pot about to boil over.

  ‘And what did Mrs Bettencourt learn from you?’ Sarah asked. Her voice was like an emollient on an angry rash. Dymock turned his attention from Raven to her, his expression softening.

  ‘That the law dictates she may not renounce the inheritance on her son’s behalf in the event that it should pass from Gideon. She was less than pleased, but surely there are worse problems to have in this life.’

  Raven wondered if Amelia’s attempt to renounce her son’s inheritance had anything to do with Gideon’s suspected bastard, then reminded himself that there was no evidence such a child even existed.

  ‘Anyway, I ask again: what do you want?’

  Dymock’s tone was even more hostile than before, causing Raven to wonder if the man had already shared more than he wished to.

  ‘We should really speak in your office,’ Raven suggested.

  ‘I would rather speak here and get rid of you all the sooner.’

  ‘Believe me, you will wish to discuss this in private. It concerns the letters you were looking for when last we met.’

  The clerk looked up from his work as if to emphasise the lack of privacy in the outer office. He was a brawny lad with something of the countryside about him, as though raised on a diet of fresh air and mutton, more at home in a field than behind a desk. Raven wondered if they were going to be physically removed. Dymock he could handle. He was less sure about the young farmhand.

  Dymoc
k’s expression betrayed the alarm of a man discovered. He ushered them into his inner sanctum, away from the big lugs of his young clerk.

  ‘What do you know?’ he asked defensively as soon as he had closed the door.

  ‘That Sir Ainsley possessed letters proving Abigail Findlay and your brother-in-law were lovers. William Sanderson acquired them and passed them on to his employer.’

  ‘Sanderson!’ Dymock spat the name. ‘Those letters have been restored to their rightful owner. Nothing more need be said about the matter.’

  ‘They were being used to force the provost’s hand, bend him to Sir Ainsley’s will, and therefore provided Mansfield with a strong reason to murder the man. Given that I saw him that night skulking around upstairs, I believe there is plenty more to be said about the matter.’

  ‘If you saw him where he should not have been, it was because he was looking for the letters. It is absurd to suggest Austin would murder Ainsley.’

  ‘Not so absurd that you could not believe it yourself. That was why you were so eager to see Gideon named the culprit. You knew how desperate Mansfield was, and more importantly you knew what kind of man Sir Ainsley was. He was threatening ruin upon your brother-in-law and you stood idly by as he used this stolen proof of scandal to wield his power.’

  Raven was pushing the man, trying to provoke him in the hope that in his anger he would reveal more information.

  ‘You could have procured those letters,’ he continued. ‘You had easier access to Sir Ainsley’s documents than anybody. But if they went missing, he would have known who had taken them, and that would have been the end of your association, wouldn’t it? So, you swallowed all pride and principle merely to retain his patronage.’

  If this was true, Dymock looked less than remorseful.

  ‘I had my suspicions but not the proof, and both are necessary before making accusations. I only knew of the letters after Sir Ainsley died. I sought them out merely to prevent them falling into the wrong hands again. I wished to prevent my brother-in-law’s infidelity becoming common knowledge and nothing more because I suspect him of nothing more. He could no more kill Sir Ainsley Douglas than you or I.’