Raven watched as she poured a quantity of the bismuth mixture into a glass flask and added another liquid to it.
‘Muriatic acid,’ she explained. She had a glow about her that Raven had not seen in a while. She started to describe what she was doing, the various stages of the test she was performing. Something about copper gauze, grey deposits, reduction tubes and arsenious acid. He was not entirely following. Raven did not share Sarah’s enthusiasm for chemistry, far less her comprehension of it, which was probably why he struggled so much with it while at university.
‘Where did you get all of this stuff?’
‘Dr Morris. He lent me some of his equipment so that I could perform my own experiments. I’ve been working my way through Gregory’s Outlines of Chemistry.’
Raven sat in an armchair in the corner, the book she had just referred to propped up on a table alongside. He thumbed through it, noticing its stained pages and the notes made in the margins.
‘Was this before or after you went away?’
‘Both,’ she said.
Raven smiled. Something had been rekindled in her.
He put the book down again, the weight of it troubling his injured arm. He thought he might leave her to it for a while and was considering a tactical retreat to his consulting room to finish off what was left of the fruit cake when Sarah turned from her workbench, a rather severe expression on her face. Concentration. Disappointment. He could not tell.
She presented him with a flat dish containing a tiny mound of white crystals. It looked less than impressive given the time it had taken to produce.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
Sarah smiled. ‘Arsenic.’
‘From the bismuth bottle? Someone put arsenic in his medicine?’
‘Not necessarily. I was reading in a medical journal recently the report of a court case where a man had been accused of the slow poisoning of his wife with a metallic poison, either arsenic or antimony.’
She leaned towards him to retrieve her specimen, evidently not trusting him with it. She was flushed from her efforts, her cheeks tinged with pink. He noticed her eyes, aquamarine flecked with gold, the light dusting of freckles across nose and cheeks. She was in his head again, at the forefront of his mind, squeezing out all other thought and putting paid to the notion that what existed between them had been consigned to the past. He had to force himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
‘Arsenic or antimony,’ he repeated.
‘Analysis of some of the evacuations from the dead woman demonstrated small amounts of arsenic but none was found in the liver. The woman had been exhibiting symptoms of dysentery before death and had been prescribed bismuth, acetate of lead and opium.’
Dysentery. Bismuth. Similarities with the Douglas case that helped to focus his attention.
‘Several physicians who were called to give evidence for the defence stated that they had analysed ordinary bismuth in the course of their work and had on many occasions discovered that it contained arsenic. According to one of them, nearly all of the bismuth sold contains arsenic.’
Raven sat back, trying to absorb what she had just said. The small amount of arsenic discovered in Sir Ainsley’s stomach could be nothing more than a contaminant of the medicine that he took at night to calm his irritable gut: a prescribed treatment for a long-standing gastrointestinal complaint. Not poisoning, not murder, but dysentery: as Struthers had first suggested.
Raven thought of Archie Banks and how his sudden death had been initially suspected as murder. Simpson had shown there to be an innocent explanation. A scientific explanation.
He looked at the bottle of bismuth again.
It was just possible that no crime had been committed here either.
FORTY-SIX
ames McLevy sat at his desk engrossed in his reading. He picked up his pen, made a great show of dipping it into his inkpot, and then began scribbling something. Sarah wondered if what he was writing had anything to do with their business there. He seemed to be enjoying keeping them waiting.
Sarah was aware of Raven shifting about on the chair beside her. It made her recall the rare occasions when she was called before the schoolmaster to explain some minor misdemeanour – usually her questioning his excluding her from lessons deemed only suitable for the boys. He had always kept her waiting, trying to instil in her a fear of potential punishment and inculcate a respect for his authority. It had achieved neither.
McLevy stopped writing but continued to pore over the document in front of him. There was a growing silence as they waited for him to speak.
Given his reputation, Sarah had expected him to be a brute of a man, but he was a little shorter and leaner than she had imagined. Nonetheless there was something quite formidable about him. A strong sense of will and a quiet purpose. The kind of man who seldom had to raise his voice because the mere threat of what he could dispense was often enough.
The day before, when they had first come to him to present their evidence – the bottle of bismuth taken from Ainsley’s bedroom and a sample of the arsenic it contained – he had seemed an intimidating presence. He had looked less than delighted to be confronted by them at all, but by the time Raven had explained their business, his face resembled that of a dog eating nettles.
‘The problem is, Dr Raven,’ he had said, ‘interesting as your little experiments may be, you are hardly an expert in the field of toxicology. Therefore I have to ask myself, just how reliable is this evidence that you have brought to me?’
Raven had made no attempt to dissemble but accorded Sarah the credit that she was due in having made the finding herself. That of course was a mistake.
‘Miss Fisher has made extensive study of the subject and is quite certain of her findings,’ Raven said.
Sarah had braced herself for the inevitable.
McLevy snorted and turned to face her.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I can hardly put you forward as an expert witness.’
She could sense Raven tensing in anticipation of her reply. What he failed to appreciate was that, should she react with anger every time her credibility was questioned, then fury would be her permanent state.
‘I am certainly not that, Mr McLevy,’ she responded mildly. ‘What is required here is corroboration. What if Professor Christison were to repeat my experiment and come to the same conclusion?’
‘That, young lady, would be something that I could take to the procurator fiscal.’
McLevy thought for a moment.
‘All right. Give me the . . . what was it?’
‘Bismuth mixture,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes, the bismuth mixture. I will make my own enquiries as to the provenance of this liquid, confirm that it was prescribed by Sir Ainsley’s physician, that it did in fact belong to the man in question, and then I will ask Professor Christison to analyse its contents. Though when I will get around to all of the above remains to be seen. It may have escaped your notice, Dr Raven, but there are more crimes in this city than the ones you take an interest in.’
On their way home Raven had predicted that, despite this note of petulance, the detective would expedite the matter forthwith.
‘McLevy might talk about the law and justice, but primarily he serves the interests of wealth and property. He knows that if he is exonerated, Gideon will be a rich and influential figure, so McLevy will not wish to delay and risk antagonising him any further than he has done already.’
So it had proved. McLevy’s message reached Queen Street less than a day later. They had ridden to the High Street in Dr Simpson’s carriage, despite the professor having returned from his trip to London late that morning. Sarah had the impression that he was not looking his best. Raven suggested that perhaps he was simply exhausted from the journey, but his explanation lacked conviction and Sarah could see that he too was concerned.
Simpson himself would have none of it. He told them off for their fussing, saying there would be enough of that
when Mrs Simpson and Mina returned with the children the next day. Despite that, he had taken to his bed. Sarah intended to check up on him the minute they got back.
A clock ticked loudly in the police office. They could hear the voices of passing pedestrians outside on the High Street. McLevy was definitely making them wait, toying with them for some reason. Sarah wondered if he was milking his moment of triumph or trying to establish his status ahead of an ignominious climb-down.
Raven seemed nervous, anticipating the worst. On the carriage ride here he had been pessimistic, certain that McLevy would only have summoned them to deliver bad news.
Sarah by contrast retained absolute confidence in what she had found. She recalled what Raven had relayed from Struthers’ report: There was a small amount of arsenic in the stomach contents, but none was found subsequently in any of the organs. Someone meaning to poison a man as healthy and robust as Sir Ainsley Douglas would not have been light in their measures. Her theory was sound, and she had provided the evidence to support it.
McLevy finally put his pen down and sighed.
He held out a single sheet of paper, not looking either of them in the eye. If bad grace could be captured in a single gesture, then this was it.
‘Professor Christison’s report,’ he said.
Raven snatched it from his hand as though wary McLevy would whip it away again.
‘He concurs with Miss Fisher,’ McLevy announced as Raven read. ‘To his own surprise, I might add. You should have seen the man’s face when I conveyed that it was a woman who had devised this hypothesis and carried out the initial test. I think he set about it all the faster to demonstrate how quickly he might prove you wrong. Nonetheless—’ McLevy frowned, the result evidently having given him as much pleasure as it did Christison ‘—what I don’t understand is, if not arsenic, what did kill him? He was healthy as a horse and just as strong.’
‘We can never be sure of what will bring on dysentery,’ Raven replied. ‘There is often no obvious source.’
McLevy seemed dissatisfied with this explanation. ‘It just doesn’t seem to make sense that a man so high should meet his demise at the hands of nothing mightier than a manky pie.’
‘So, you will release Gideon?’ Raven asked.
Sarah knew he would be eager to give the news to Eugenie. He had yet to convey the possibility, lest it prove premature and Christison contradicted their findings. ‘Hopes dashed at this stage are worse than no hopes at all,’ he had said.
‘I released him hours ago,’ McLevy replied. ‘As soon as Christison sent me his report.’
Of course he had, Sarah thought. As Raven predicted, he had acted to repair relations with the new laird of Crossford House before he would bother informing anyone else.
‘He didn’t come rushing to convey his gratitude?’ McLevy added with a sneer. ‘When you told me you had no interest in financial reward for your efforts, I hope that was true, because that’s the way of the rich. Once they have what they want from you, you are quickly forgotten.’
Raven said nothing. Sarah knew it was not Gideon’s gratitude he was primarily interested in.
McLevy wore his nettle-licking expression again. ‘It is a small man who cannot admit when he is wrong. As much as it grieves me, Dr Raven, I must congratulate you for pursuing your instincts. But please tell me, why were you so convinced of his innocence?’
‘I wasn’t. I’m still not. It is more that I wasn’t entirely convinced of his guilt, and that is a different matter.’
‘Aye, there’s the rub. That is why we have the “not proven” verdict. Juries are reluctant to hang a man on circumstantial evidence alone. But not proven does not mean innocent of the charges brought. It also means the matter is not closed. Gideon Douglas certainly won’t be joining the Navy now, but I warned him not to travel far. There are still many questions to be answered over this business as far as I’m concerned.’
Just then, a young man burst through the door of the office.
‘I have a message from Dr Littlejohn,’ he announced breathlessly.
McLevy put his hand out. ‘Give it here.’
The messenger looked at both men, one then the other.
‘It’s for Dr Raven.’
McLevy seemed more than a little affronted at being upstaged in his own office.
‘I went first to Queen Street,’ the messenger explained as Raven opened the letter. ‘I was told of your whereabouts by a housemaid, but I fear I may have somehow given her offence.’
‘No,’ Sarah said, thinking him sweet to be so concerned. ‘That was just Lizzie.’
Raven stood up. ‘Thank you for your invaluable assistance, Mr McLevy, but we must away. An urgent matter.’
He grabbed Sarah’s arm and led her outside.
She waited until they were some distance from McLevy’s door before asking what the letter contained.
‘Henry has asked me to come urgently to Bonnington Mills.’
He handed the note to her.
‘“It concerns a matter of interest to you,”’ she read. ‘“Join me quickly while the news remains contained.”’
‘I will drop you at Queen Street. If it is something Henry has been called to, it will doubtless be unpleasant.’
On their way to the carriage, they saw one of McLevy’s officers leaping down from a cab and hastening towards the office. Sarah thought this unlikely to be a coincidence.
‘Henry said it was urgent,’ she said. ‘We should go there directly.’
FORTY-SEVEN
he carriage pulled up outside the flour mill close to Bonnington Bridge, the Water of Leith flowing beneath it. Sarah noticed that there was an odd smell in the air, presumably from the Bonnington chemical works further down the road. A group of men were standing beside some earthworks, great mounds of drying mud piled to the side of the river. There were hoists and rope lines, piles of timber. Beside them stood Henry.
‘I heard they were widening a channel here,’ Raven said. ‘Dredging, perhaps.’
‘They don’t appear to be dredging anything today,’ Sarah replied.
The men who should have been working were standing around looking restive. Something had halted their activity and they did not seem happy about it.
Raven and Sarah climbed down from the brougham and started walking towards the mounds at the edge of the water.
A man ran to intercept them before they could reach Henry.
‘You can’t come through here,’ he insisted, holding his hands up in front of them. ‘No one is to be admitted.’
Henry looked up, noticing the activity.
‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘Dr Raven is here at my request.’
‘And what of the lady?’ the man asked. He looked appalled at the prospect of letting her through his cordon.
Henry regarded Sarah. ‘You might prefer to remain where you are,’ he said, ‘but given what I know about you, I would not presume to bar your way. Whether you proceed is entirely your choice.’
Sarah knew that Henry would not be here were there not a corpse involved, but that held no fear for her. She had seen plenty of dead bodies in her time and knew that if she wished to pursue a career in medicine, she would see many more.
She strode forward at Raven’s side. In a matter of seconds she was wishing that Henry had barred her way. There had been moments in Sarah’s life the significance of which she did not appreciate until a long time later, their effects having continued to resonate down the years. And there were sights that even in that first moment of looking, she knew she would take to her grave.
As she approached the water, she saw a man huddled on his haunches close to the banking, pale and tearful. A man next to him had a supportive hand on his shoulder. The first man appeared to be in the process of assuring him all was well, but when he made to stand, he found that he could not and sank back down.
‘The engineers diverted the flow into a tributary channel so that they could widen this section and strengthen the
sides,’ Henry explained. ‘The water level dropped almost to the riverbed, revealing this.’
There were packages partially embedded in the mud, haphazardly arranged, driven by the flow of the water. There were dozens of them, some wrapped in sailcloth, some in bedsheets, and some in waxed parcel paper. Some were piled on top of others, some side by side. From Raven’s description of what had been found in the water at Leith harbour, Sarah immediately knew what they were.
There was a sheet laid down on the banking a few feet from where Henry stood, crenelated by several small shapes arranged beneath it.
Raven pointed to it. ‘What’s that?’
‘The ones I have opened. I have barely begun to retrieve them. But each one I have unwrapped contained the same thing.’
He pulled back the sheet. Lying on the banking were a host of small bodies, pale and partially rotted away, bones visible.
‘I think there could be two dozen at least. I sent for you because of those I have opened . . .’
They looked closer, Sarah pulling the collar of her jacket up to cover her nose and mouth. There was white tape looped around each little neck.
These were the ones she could not sell, Sarah thought. The ones that did not thrive. The ones she did not want to waste pap and Godfrey’s Cordial on.
‘They were probably thrown from Bonnington Bridge,’ Henry said. ‘All weighted down. The Water of Leith flows into the harbour where the first child was found. It was wrapped in parcel paper, presumably all there was to hand. The paper must have torn and the stone weighting it fallen loose.’
‘Do you think Christina’s baby is among these?’ Raven whispered to her.
Sarah did not doubt it. Nora’s words echoed in her head.
Everybody lies to themselves about it . . . They’re paying to salve their conscience, spending on a fantasy.
This, laid out here and beginning to stink in the sun, was the brutal truth of it.
‘Are any of them a boy with a birthmark on his upper arm?’ Sarah asked.
Henry gave her a quizzical look. ‘Not that I have seen, though it will be quite some time before I am able to examine them all. I take it that you are looking for a particular child. How long has he been missing?’
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