A Corruption of Blood

by Ambrose Parry

  ‘Raven has been taken!’ she announced as she returned to Angus’s side.

  ‘Taken?’ Mrs Simpson asked. ‘By whom?’

  There was only one name in Sarah’s head, only one man who would have done this. The problem was that a more pressing matter needed her attention first. There was nothing she could do to assist Raven right now, as she had no idea where he was. She only knew where he most certainly wasn’t, which meant that she would need to go and fetch Syme herself.

  FIFTY-SIX

  storm of implications billowed around Raven’s head like the wind in his face as he leaned from the carriage and saw who was staring back at him from the driver’s seat.

  Wilson. Sir Ainsley’s butler.

  He suddenly apprehended the ways in which the fellow must have been in conspiracy with Gideon, though it had been before him all along. The man who had served Sir Ainsley drinks all night, and who must have brought him his supper tray. The man who had commanded the maid to throw away the remains of his final meal and the bloody contents of the bedpan.

  I realise now I may have inadvertently had Meg dispose of important evidence.

  ‘I would warn you to sit back in the carriage, Dr Raven,’ Wilson told him, raising his voice above the thundering of hooves and the burr of the brougham’s wheels upon the rutted road.

  ‘Where are you taking me? I have urgent business back at Millbank. Dr Simpson is gravely ill and I need to fetch Professor Syme!’

  Even as he spoke, Raven understood there was nothing he could do for now without risking mortal injury. Wilson was driving like the devil, and he knew where they were bound. He would wait until they reached their destination and then wrest control of the brougham. He only hoped the horses would do as he asked. He had never driven before.

  The carriage raced into the Crossford estate, but a quarter of a mile past the main gates, instead of proceeding towards the house, it veered off at a fork in the road and headed deeper into the woods. As the narrowing track wound between the trees, Raven spied the shimmering of a river in the late afternoon sunshine and got the first inkling of where they might be headed. Soon enough he made out the looming shape of the summerhouse: the place Eugenie had spoken of, to which Gideon had often retreated in search of solitude and simple comfort.

  Was this where he had been lying low?

  But as the butler brought the carriage to a stop, he deduced another reason Wilson had brought him here, and under such means of subterfuge. There were staff at the house, but here there would be no witnesses.

  He thought of what McLevy had said about being quickly forgotten by the rich once they had what they wanted from you. What if it was worse than that? With a jolt it struck him that Gideon might have learned that Sarah had visited the house that very day and discovered the manchineel. It was not only himself who was in danger.

  Raven stepped down from the carriage, which had come to rest in a clearing before the summerhouse. He could see empty bottles on the porch of the wooden structure. The new laird was in residence.

  He watched Wilson climb down from the driver’s box seat, calculating when to make his move. Raven’s practised eye took in two things that gave him pause. The one of more immediate concern was that Wilson was carrying a pistol, but it was the other that truly had him reeling. The man was moving gingerly to protect his left foot.

  It had been Wilson who attacked them in Fleshmarket Close: the masked man with the bayonet.

  Raven walked slowly towards the summerhouse, his thoughts a blur as his assumptions were once again turned on their heads. It did not follow. What reason would Wilson have to attack him and Sarah if they were working to exonerate Gideon?

  Then he saw that he had it wrong. Gideon’s exoneration was the very thing Wilson wished to prevent, because Sir Ainsley’s wayward son had been set up to take the blame.

  Had it been Wilson all along: the butler murdering his master? That did not feel right either, not least because there seemed no strong motive. Was it the death of Lady Douglas? Sir Ainsley feared she had taken a lover, and perhaps that lover had been his own butler. But if so, why would he wait so long to take his revenge?

  More practically, Raven could not envisage how Wilson might know what a manchineel was. Even Sarah had needed to seek out the Professor of Botany to identify the fruit and describe its deadly properties. A person would only know such information if they had encountered the deadly fruit personally, and that wasn’t going to happen during a lifetime working in a mansion at the foot of the Pentlands.

  Then Raven realised that there was somebody who must have encountered them first-hand.

  I know well enough what a pineapple is. I have visited the Indies too.

  Amelia had been to Tobago. Gideon said he and his sister had wintered there after their mother died.

  Raven could vividly imagine the scene: a moment of panic as someone shooed the unsuspecting girl from beneath the branches of a deadly tree lest its sap burn her skin. The dire warning of how lethal its fruit was.

  He was stopped in his tracks as everything finally became clear, and this time all the pieces fitted. Amelia had told people she wished to renounce the inheritance, but this was merely to dispel suspicion and disguise her true intentions. She had a keen interest in law, so she had always known that as a woman she could not renounce on behalf of a male heir. She had merely pretended otherwise.

  This was why the fruit was placed on the plate, though the poison was delivered via the brandy. The fruit was supposed to be found, in order to incriminate Gideon. But then the arsenic was discovered, and though she could not have anticipated this, she had been happy to let events play out because they were leading to the same end. That was until Sarah had proven the arsenic came from Sir Ainsley’s bismuth, and Gideon was released. Suddenly Amelia had to revive her original plan. She had planted the remaining manchineel but needed someone else to discover it, and had identified Sarah as the perfect conduit, flattering her into doing so.

  If anyone might get to the truth of this, it would be you.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  arah had to walk all the way to Charlotte Square before she found a cab for hire, several occupied carriages passing on either side of Queen Street as she hastened along it. Once she had finally secured a conveyance, she had to ask the driver several times to hurry, requests that he seemed happy to ignore. Eventually she offered to supplement the fare and they made much faster progress thereafter.

  She wondered what had happened to Raven but tried to put it from her mind. She had to see to Dr Simpson first. She knew that she could not afford to lose either of them. Certainly not both.

  The cab covered the distance in less than twenty minutes, but it felt considerably longer than that. They pulled up outside Millbank, a grand, ivy-clad house set back from the road, where the door was answered promptly and she was asked to wait in the hall. All was quiet. She could not imagine children or pets running amok here as they did at Queen Street.

  Sarah had retained a small hope that upon arrival she would be told that Professor Syme had left already, that a young man had come for him with an urgent request, but nothing had been said.

  As she stood in the hallway, she wondered what kind of reception she would receive. Again, she allowed herself to be optimistic, indulging in the fantasy that Professor Syme would appear from behind a closed door, bag in hand, Raven at his back, but when the surgeon did descend the stairs he was stern-faced and alone.

  ‘Whatever it is, I hope that it is of the utmost importance,’ he said. ‘I do not like to be disturbed at home.’

  ‘Dr Simpson is gravely ill,’ Sarah told him, unintimidated by his severity. ‘Mrs Simpson has sent this note kindly requesting that you attend.’

  She proffered the letter, hastily scribbled just before she left.

  Syme opened it and read. Would he refuse to come? Sarah recalled Raven describing a recent argument at the Caledonian Hotel, how he had thought it might come to blows.

  Syme looke
d up and frowned. ‘Mrs Simpson has communicated her concern but has failed to supply any detail as to the nature of the complaint.’ He eyed Sarah sceptically. ‘I don’t suppose there is much point asking you, is there?’

  ‘Dr Simpson has a large axillary abscess, the result of an injury to his hand. He is febrile and his condition has worsened over the last few hours.’

  Syme raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘You have a carriage?’

  ‘I have a cab waiting.’

  ‘Then we had best be off.’

  And that was it. No further discussion. No hesitation.

  He called for his bag, which a young girl brought to him. Black shiny leather, as though polished every night before being put away. Dr Simpson’s bag was a scuffed brown thing, flung about with abandon unless there was a bottle of chloroform in it. And sometimes even when there was.

  They climbed into the cab, Professor Syme instructing the driver to make haste, which this time he did without question or the promise of an enhanced fare.

  The return journey to Queen Street was made in silence, which was a blessing as Sarah felt incapable of making polite conversation. She imagined that it would have been difficult to exchange pleasantries with Syme at the best of times. These were not the best of times.

  When they arrived, Sarah jumped down from the cab hoping to see Raven at the door, but it was Jarvis who answered the bell.

  ‘Is he back?’ she asked.

  Jarvis shook his head.

  Syme, who Raven had always described as a dour and irascible fellow, was kindness itself when dealing with Mrs Simpson, a woman who was no stranger to family tragedy. She had already lost two children to the rapacious clutches of infectious disease. She was fragile and Sarah worried what kind of toll any further catastrophe might take. Mrs Simpson already spent an unhealthy number of hours shut up in her room with the Bible and improving tracts for company; and sometimes, if Lizzie was to be believed, the chloroform bottle.

  Sarah escorted Syme to Dr Simpson’s room. It felt stuffy despite the open window.

  Syme wasted no time. He asked a few questions – how long Dr Simpson had been this way, what remedies had been attempted, what medicines administered – then conducted his examination with surprising gentleness. Simpson himself was still delirious and did not seem to recognise his medical attendant as the man he had locked horns with on so many occasions.

  ‘You were right to call me,’ Syme said. ‘This requires immediate surgical drainage.’

  He pointed to the ruby red swelling in Dr Simpson’s armpit. It seemed to pulsate, blinking like an angry beacon in time with the patient’s rapid pulse.

  ‘I’ll get the chloroform,’ Sarah said.

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Syme declared. ‘And there is no one to give it.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Sarah told him. She could not abide the thought of Syme cutting into Dr Simpson’s flesh without the aid of an anaesthetic. It seemed grossly unfair that he should not receive the benefit that his discovery had bestowed upon so many others.

  Syme looked at Mrs Simpson, who nodded by way of confirming what Sarah had said.

  ‘Very well, but be quick about it. If you are not back by the time I am ready to start, I shall begin without you.’

  Sarah fetched the chloroform bottle while Syme made his preparations. She was well versed in the technique, having been taught to administer it by Simpson himself, but still her hand shook as she sprinkled a small quantity onto a handkerchief and held it to his face. It was hard to imagine the stakes being any higher. If something were to happen, if the professor did not survive, would she be held accountable? Chloroform, or at least the administration of it, was often blamed in similar circumstances. Almost immediately she thought about Hannah Greener, the young girl who had died within three minutes of it being administered and was purported to be the first chloroform-related death.

  She dismissed the thought as being singularly unhelpful, but it was replaced almost immediately by an account she had read of a public demonstration at the Royal Institution in London. It had been intended to reassure those present regarding the safety of chloroform and ether. The lecturer had chloroformed a guinea pig, promising to revive it after a few minutes, but at the end of the demonstration the animal was found to be dead.

  She forced herself to concentrate on Dr Simpson’s breathing, which was now slow and regular.

  If Syme shared any of Sarah’s apprehension he showed no sign of it. He pointed at the chloroform bottle.

  ‘I wasn’t convinced at first,’ he said. ‘Certainly not by ether. Its effects were too unpredictable, and I was wary of using it despite the unbridled enthusiasm it seemed to engender. The first time I saw ether used by Professor Miller at the Infirmary, there were so many Free Church ministers present that I thought I had intruded upon a meeting of the Presbytery.’

  Sarah smiled at this, despite her tension.

  ‘Alright to go?’ he asked, brandishing his scalpel.

  She nodded and Syme made a large incision in the abscess. Sarah could see that it took a boldness born of experience to make a large enough opening to evacuate all of the pus: to attack the thing rather than gingerly poke at it. Being tentative would not do. Being tentative courted disaster.

  A considerable amount of foul-smelling pus poured forth, the stench mingling with the sweeter chemical tang of the chloroform. It produced a noxious and thoroughly unpleasant combination.

  Syme squeezed the edges of the abscess, encouraging the disgorgement of more of its evil contents until satisfied that he had got it all out.

  ‘We’ll need to apply a poultice,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see that it is done,’ Sarah replied.

  Syme smiled and nodded, seemingly satisfied that she knew what she was doing. Sarah withdrew the chloroform and watched with some satisfaction as her patient continued to sleep, breathing regular, pulse rapid but strong.

  ‘That’s as much as can be done for now,’ Syme said, wiping his scalpel before putting it back into his instrument case. ‘With a bit of luck, he should start to improve.’

  Luck. Was that what it was going to come down to?

  Syme packed up his things, declined an offer of tea and requested Jarvis summon a cab to take him home, vowing to return the following day.

  As the door closed behind him, Sarah felt the urge to pray again, to request some divine intervention. She knew better than to expect miracles. There was a limit to what a surgeon could do, even one as revered as Syme. She made do with applying the poultice he had requested and bandaging it into place.

  She sat by the bedside after Syme had gone, monitoring the patient for any signs of change: for better or worse. She felt conflicted. She wanted to stay but also desperately needed to leave: to find Raven, wherever he was, and help bring him home.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  aven heard the creak of a door opening and saw Gideon emerge onto the porch, little resembling a man who had inherited a fortune. He looked like he had slept in his clothes, if he had slept at all. He was bleary-eyed, slow and confused in his movements.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in the croak of a voice that had not spoken in some time.

  Raven observed that Wilson was holding the pistol by his side so as to keep it from Gideon’s sight, and in that moment he saw the answer. The butler meant to kill them both.

  ‘Get back inside, Gideon,’ Raven called out, ‘and bar the door!’

  Wilson raised the pistol, pointing it at Raven. It was a flintlock, so there would be a slight delay between Wilson pulling the trigger and the charge firing. Raven took in the ground between them and estimated how fast he could cover it.

  Wilson took a step away as though reading Raven’s intentions. He swung his arm back and forth to aim the pistol at each of them in turn.

  ‘Both of you stay where you are,’ he said. It was intended as a command, though his voice was faltering.

  Gideon ignored both entreaties, moving slightly closer to
the edge of the porch. His daze looked less the result of alcohol than of a man punch-drunk from too many blows. Nothing was making sense to him.

  He distilled all of this into a single word, less a question to either of them than to the whole world for what it had been doing to him of late.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he is in league with your sister and fears her original plan has fallen apart,’ Raven answered, keeping his gaze on Wilson, oscillating his focus between the weapon and the man’s eyes for notice that he was about to shoot. ‘She poisoned your father and intended you to take the blame. If he makes it appear that we killed each other, perhaps in a fight, then your father’s inheritance will fall to Amelia’s son.’

  Raven could tell Gideon saw the truth of it, but he looked less like it had ignited a blaze of anger than that it had dealt one more devastating clout to someone with little stomach left for the fight. He turned to face Wilson, his expression a mixture of hurt, accusation and disbelief.

  The butler, for his part, looked like a man unravelling, his expression contorted with desperation. Irrational and unpredictable. He only had one shot, but at this range it would likely prove mortal for whoever it hit.

  Then in a burst, faster than Raven would have believed he could move, Gideon hurled himself from the porch, his hands grappling for Wilson’s arm. As they collided, the pistol fell to the grass without discharging.

  Raven seized it but by the time it was in his grasp he saw that there was no fight to be had. Wilson had dropped to his knees and broken down in tears, making no attempt to defend himself.

  ‘Forgive me, Master Gideon.’

  His arms were open as though to invite Gideon’s rage. However, there was no echo of that night in the alley.

  Gideon stepped back, his face a study in turmoil and hurt.

  ‘Does my sister despise me so much that she would see me hang for something I did not do?’