A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  While she was standing there, the door opened and a man emerged, straight-backed and surefooted. He was expensively dressed and immaculately presented, sporting neatly trimmed whiskers and a magnificent waxed moustache. He descended the steps, tipped his hat at Sarah and marched off down the street as though he had just concluded a satisfactory meeting with his bank manager.

  Sarah looked at the door as it closed and wondered if she had the nerve to ring the bell. She was not sure what she would say to whoever answered. She did not have much option, however. If she learned nothing here, there were no further avenues of enquiry left to her and she was not ready to give up just yet. Raven’s speech about her tenacity and resilience had put some fire in her belly.

  She ascended the stairs and pulled the bell.

  The lady of the house answered the door herself. She was extravagantly dressed for the time of day, with short sleeves and an abundance of décolletage. She looked instinctively wary. Sarah did not imagine it would be the first time an unexpected female visitor turned out to be an angry wife.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked, her tone suggesting that she would be strongly disinclined to do so.

  ‘I would like to ask you some questions regarding one of your former employees.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re in the right place?’

  ‘From the look of satisfaction on the face of the gentleman who just left, I would assume so. This is the House of Melbourne, is it not?’

  The woman opened the door with much urgency but little grace. ‘You had best come in,’ she said tersely. ‘I do not care to discuss business matters on the doorstep.’

  Sarah stepped through the front door and instantly felt an edge of anxiety. The memory of the ambush in the alleyway was still fresh and she wondered if Raven was right that she was the one in danger.

  She found herself in a grand entrance hall that reassuringly reminded her of a hotel: expensively furnished if a little gaudy. She was relieved to see that there was no one else present: no rough type with a cudgel, ready to bash her brains in. It was all rather opulent, in fact, with little to indicate the true purpose of the premises other than the imaginary landscapes framed on the walls. Although classical in theme, they all had a marked preponderance of nudes.

  The woman stood with her arms folded, her mouth a firm line. She had a fine head of hair, thick black curls cascading around her face, an unnatural colour for a woman of her age. There was something familiar about her, but Sarah could not immediately identify what it was. She thought that perhaps she had seen her at 52 Queen Street but that did not seem at all likely. She could not imagine this woman seated around the dining room table.

  ‘Have we met before?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘I don’t think I caught your name.’

  ‘It is Bouvier. Madame Bouvier.’

  Sarah had to stifle a laugh. Her accent betrayed her, suggesting she hailed from nowhere more exotic than Prestonpans.

  ‘My late husband was from Paris,’ Madame Bouvier added, sensing that some form of clarification was required.

  ‘As I said, I am seeking information regarding one of your former employees, by the name of Christina Cullen.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can help you. The girls here are seldom known by the names they use elsewhere, for purposes of discretion.’

  It was then that Sarah realised why the woman seemed familiar. Partly it was the sound of her voice, but it was mostly her name that shook the truth loose. Her real name was not Bouvier, Sarah was sure, and it was indeed 52 Queen Street she knew her from. She had been there as a patient: an ‘upstairs’ patient at that, one of those who were better financially endowed and saw the professor rather than one of his assistants. She had presented herself less flamboyantly attired and without the wig, as an altogether different manner of lady.

  ‘Perhaps if I describe Christina? I can’t imagine you had many quite like her. Petite, black hair, olive skin, something of the Spanish or Italian about her. She would have been employed here around the early part of this year.’

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Fisher. Sarah Fisher. Miss.’

  ‘Miss Fisher, even if I were to recognise the girl to whom you are referring, it would not be my place to disclose anything about her. Privacy and confidentiality are paramount here. That applies to employees as well as to the clientele.’

  Sarah paused, making a show of taking in her surroundings.

  ‘Given the nature of your business here,’ Sarah said, ‘I fully understand the need for discretion. Confidentiality is of the utmost importance where I work too.’

  Madame Bouvier was beginning to look a little wary now.

  ‘And where would that be?’

  ‘At 52 Queen Street, with Professor Simpson. One develops a good memory for faces – and other body parts – in such a place.’

  Madame Bouvier’s eyes widened briefly. She knew she was compromised and appeared to be calculating the implications.

  ‘You work for Professor Simpson?’ she asked, trying to place Sarah and perhaps to assess the damage. ‘In what capacity? Are you a governess?’

  ‘I work as an assistant to the professor. Preparing medicines. Tending to wounds. Administering chloroform.’

  Madame Bouvier’s eyes boggled more.

  ‘Really?’

  Sarah said nothing.

  It was at such moments that people tended to scoff or be patronising. Madame Bouvier instead seemed genuinely impressed. She may have been the madam of a whorehouse, but Sarah would take credit where she could get it. It was so seldom forthcoming.

  The woman unfolded her arms, placing her hands upon her hips.

  ‘You have my respect, Miss Fisher. But do not confuse that with my good wishes. I do not appreciate being threatened.’

  Sarah realised she had bluffed successfully. She had no idea what this woman’s real name was and would never break a patient’s confidentiality even if she did. However, Madame Bouvier did not know that.

  ‘I mean you no ill-will,’ Sarah stated. ‘I am merely trying to help Christina.’

  ‘What is your interest in her?’

  ‘She works at Queen Street now, and she has asked me to help find the baby she was forced to give up.’

  Madame Bouvier took a moment, weighing up her options.

  ‘I will tell you what I can,’ she said, ‘on the understanding that you will remember my co-operation should I one day need a favour from you.’

  Sarah nodded her assent, trying not to think of what form this obligation might take.

  ‘I remember the girl,’ she finally admitted. ‘She left when she became ill. Ended up in the Lock Hospital. But truth be told, if you want to know more, I am not the one to speak to. She was friendly with another of my girls. Nora Burns is her name. You had better hurry, though. She’s in the hospital too.’

  ‘The Lock?’

  ‘No. The Infirmary.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Beautiful girl in her time, but I always said of Nora: if conceit was consumption, she’d soon be dead. I believe she’s putting that to the test.’

  FORTY-TWO

  here was no doubt about it, Gideon Douglas looked rough. Unable to avail himself of his usual grooming regime, his appearance was dramatically altered. Although not completely broken, bodily or in spirit, he seemed humbled, shorn of his usual arrogance. He was the son Raven had seen cowering before his father, not the obnoxious fellow who had pretended not to remember him just an hour before that.

  Just under two weeks had passed since Raven last stood here, but it looked like it had been longer for Gideon. He was unshaven, the beginnings of a beard sprouting from his chin, those fledgling bristles not enough to conceal bruising on his face. Fresh bruising this time, not the work of his recently deceased father.

  ‘What happened?’ Raven asked, as he took a seat in the cell.

  Gideon, who had been lying on his bed when Raven entered, sat up and shrugged
his shoulders as though it were nothing.

  ‘Someone complimented me on my jacket.’

  ‘How did that turn into a fight?’

  ‘The compliment was an overture to something else. The short version is that the gentleman concerned now has my jacket and I have this bruise.’

  ‘Did you inform someone? Given who you are . . .’

  ‘Who I am?’ Gideon wore a bitter smile. ‘Who I am is why I am here. The son of a powerful man who died suddenly, and as a result, in less than a week I am to stand before Judge Arbuthnot. They say no butcher in Edinburgh has hung more meat.’

  He looked at Raven with an expression in which hope was all but gone.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  Raven had come here because he owed it to Gideon to tell him what he had discovered – or at least admit that what he had discovered did not add up to much. Following his conversation with Eugenie, he was feeling less pressure towards a preferred outcome and yet at the same time a stronger desire to get to the truth of it. Her accepting the possibility of Gideon’s guilt allowed him to assess the evidence without prejudice. Unfortunately for Gideon, even as Raven laid it out, it was clear that none of it pointed to his innocence.

  It was possible Teddy Hamilton believed he stood to inherit if Gideon was blamed, but this notion was contingent upon him anticipating that Amelia would renounce her son’s claim, and that stretched all credibility. Furthermore, it had turned out that, much to her chagrin, Amelia had been mistaken in this assumption anyway.

  Mansfield had a stronger motive, but not as strong as Gideon’s, and the provost had other means to exhaust before he resorted to murder. He would surely have made further attempts to recover the letters, even despite his brother-in-law’s cowardice. And though Raven did not say as much, he could not envisage any defence advocate introducing evidence that relied upon such a revelation regarding the wife of his faculty’s dean.

  In his growing despair, Gideon came back to the question on which he pinned the diminishing sum of his hopes.

  ‘But can’t people see that it makes no sense I should use such a detectable poison?’

  ‘It makes no sense to me,’ Raven replied, ‘but McLevy insists that jails are full of men who thought themselves too clever to make a mistake. You were correct that other men might have reason to wish your father dead, but that is mere speculation, and none of them enjoyed the access you did.’

  Raven paused, thinking there was not much more to say. The only other information he had uncovered had little to commend it. He decided to share it anyway. Gideon deserved that they explore all possibilities.

  ‘The only others who had such access were the household staff. The butler was swift in instructing the maid to dispose of the supper remains. He told me this was because he was afraid the cook might get the blame for serving food that had gone bad. Might Wilson have any other reason to do this? It was my impression he was silently disapproving of your father.’

  Gideon scoffed. ‘Wilson would not dare go against my father in any way. Happy is the man who knows his place. Such men keep their own counsel. Wilson was loyal to my father regardless of what he might have privately thought of him; just as should I inherit, he would loyally serve me, his opinion of my character notwithstanding.’

  ‘Wilson also told me you got a girl pregnant. Who was she?’

  Gideon had endeavoured to maintain his equanimity up to this point, but this last piece of information seemed to fell him. His head dropped into his hands and he held it there for a few moments before looking at Raven again.

  He looked crushed, revealing an aspect of himself that Raven had not seen before. There was affection and regret. Vulnerability. Anger. Contrition. And sadness.

  Gideon rubbed his hands across his face, as though he could wipe away what Raven had already seen. He sat up, hands on his knees, ready to talk.

  ‘On the morning I learned my father had died, I admit I did not mourn, I did not weep. And let me tell you why. I know you hate me because I am – I was – rich. So much was given to me. But with that came demands that were impossible to satisfy. I did not want to become lord of a grand house. I wanted something simpler.

  ‘At one time I thought if I became a doctor then I might have a career, a life that would take me away from my father. Unfortunately, as you know, I lacked the necessary discipline. My father’s predictions of my failure became self-fulfilling. I had little confidence in myself. I was angry all the time, seeking comfort in hedonistic pursuits. And still I sought a simpler life. For a while I dreamed that I might have that with her.’

  Gideon looked away for a moment, perhaps picturing the girl.

  ‘She was beautiful. Apart from my mother, she was the only person who truly loved me, despite all of my numerous flaws. The only person who made me forget the anger that I felt. That I still feel.

  ‘I know people would say I used her and then discarded her, but it was not like that. I realise how foolish it sounds now, but I genuinely believed that we might run away together.’

  ‘And what did you imagine you would live on?’ Raven asked. ‘With no profession and cut off from your father’s money?’

  Gideon looked slightly ashamed. ‘I did not think that far ahead.’

  ‘I have heard that about you,’ Raven said, wondering whether this also extended to detectable poisons.

  ‘Yes, it was an impossible dream. Yes, it would be fair to say I did use her, because deep down I knew a relationship with her would never be permitted. If we had run away, we would have been found. We were undone before that, though, when it was discovered she was pregnant.’

  ‘And that is the real reason you were sent to Tobago. Not as you told it the last time I was here.’

  ‘What I said was partly true. I was exiled, but I was given charge of the plantation, ostensibly as a chance to prove myself. I enjoyed my time there. I managed it better than you might have heard. My father recalled me simply to demonstrate his power. I suspect he also recalled me because I was happy there, though not as happy as I would have been with her.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  The penitence and wistful remembrance disappeared. There was only bitterness and anger now.

  ‘It does not matter, because she is dead. My father sent me off to Tobago and upon my return took pleasure in informing me of her fate: that her bastard was given away and she became the play-thing of many men before falling to disease.’

  ‘All of this sounds like further reason for you to kill him.’

  ‘But I did not. For in truth, Raven, I am too cowardly. Afraid of the consequences should I try but fail. It would take a stronger man than me to kill Sir Ainsley Douglas.’

  ‘You cannot tell me you don’t have it in you to kill someone. I was there that night in the alley, remember?’

  ‘And I should belatedly acknowledge I owe you for saving me from myself on that occasion. I made that poor man a vessel for my rage, a surrogate for someone whom I had not the courage to challenge. I was kicking a man who was already down: put down by you, for I had failed to achieve even that on my own.’

  Gideon thumped the tops of his thighs with clenched fists.

  ‘My father ruined my life,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘For a time, I believed that when he died, I would be free, but he continues to torment me from the grave. His death has become the instrument of my own end.

  ‘My only consolation is the thought that somewhere my child lives yet. He or she will certainly outlive me.’

  FORTY-THREE

  arah climbed the steps to the Infirmary, passing a man as he descended, negotiating the stairs using a pair of crutches. He seemed well-practised in their use, suggesting some chronic affliction. He smiled at her, said hello, grateful perhaps to be able to walk at all.

  As she approached the front door, she felt an unexpected reluctance to enter. The sights and smells of hospitals held no horror for her but the place was bringing back unpleasant memories. All that ghastly bu
siness a few months ago with a nurse who used to work here.

  She made her way to the medical wards and had to enquire at several before finding Nora Burns. She drew stares as she walked down the corridors, her clothes indicating her relative affluence. The patients of the hospital were the poor folk of the town who could not afford to be treated at home. No one with any money to spare would allow themselves to be admitted here.

  The patients were well cared for – supplied with regular meals, clean clothes and bedding – and for some that was all that was required to produce a cure. For others, the disease they suffered was beyond remedy.

  Nora Burns was one of the latter. As Sarah approached, she saw her hoist herself up in the bed and begin to cough, expectorating copiously into a basin that she held in her scrawny hands. The bones of her skull were clearly visible through her skin. When the bout of coughing was at an end and she looked up at Sarah, there was a sheen of sweat across her brow, thin strands of hair plastered to it. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her gown, leaving a thin trail of crimson against the not-so white. Sarah could hear the rattling in her chest from the end of the bed.

  She narrowed her eyes at Sarah, immediately suspicious.

  ‘Come to save my soul, have you?’ she croaked, clearly unenamoured by the prospect. ‘You lot are all the same. Coming in here in your fancy clothes, spouting passages from the good book, trying to teach us the error of our ways.’ She scowled at Sarah, as though doing so would force a retreat. ‘You’re not doing it for us,’ she added, sweeping her skinny arm wide to take in the rest of the ward. ‘You only do it to make your own selves feel better.’

  She was a wasted, emaciated thing. Sarah tried to see the attractive girl that Madame Bouvier had described, but that required a fair amount of imagination. The girl before her was a ghost of what she must once have been.