A Fever of the Blood

by Oscar de Muriel

  ‘A third-class?’ I asked, scowling, for I’d never ventured so close to a train’s forepart. The noisy, smoky wagons right behind the engine were usually reserved for cargo and the poorer folk. McGray assented.

  We were moving south-west, faster and faster, and in a matter of minutes Edinburgh’s blackened buildings gave way to flat, snowy fields.

  ‘He would not try to attack someone right now …’ I mumbled, ‘would he?’

  McGray looked sombre. ‘Nae. Lord Bampot seems to have very clear targets.’ He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘Ye sure yer all right? Ye look all yellow.’

  ‘I am sure I will survive,’ I said, checking that my gun was loaded and ready. The train was now running at some speed, and there was nothing but white fields on either side of the track. ‘I believe it is time.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ McGray answered, making his way to the corridor. He was about to open the door to the nearest compartment, but I stopped him.

  ‘Let me do it,’ I whispered. ‘I might be a tad less conspicuous,’ and I pointed at his flamboyant tartans. Luckily he nodded.

  I held my gun under my coat’s collar, so that it looked as if I was looking for something in my breast pocket, yet the weapon was ready to be drawn. After a deep breath, I opened the door.

  There was an elderly, very elegant couple inside, but no one else.

  ‘Oh, do excuse me,’ I said, ‘I thought this was vacant …’ And before they could reply I moved on to the next door.

  I searched the rest of the carriage in this manner, while McGray kept watch in the corridor. We crossed to the next carriage and found one of the guards.

  ‘Boss, the driver did as you asked,’ he told McGray. ‘Anything else youse need?’

  I searched my pocket and found Lord Ardglass’s portrait. ‘This is the man we are looking for. Have you seen him?’

  The young man stared at the photograph. ‘Uh, I cannae be sure. There’s a lot o’ people on board.’

  ‘Look for him – discreetly – and come back to us if you happen to see him. Do not talk to him or try anything yourself.’

  The chap bowed and left.

  I felt the sweat on my hands, the tension building up as we moved forwards along the train.

  We reached the dining car next. I looked through its door’s small window before I opened it, and saw the neat lines of tables with their shiny cutlery, the leather-lined seats and the waiters walking around with silver platters.

  I looked at Nine-Nails. ‘You cannot walk in there; you will go as unnoticed as a baboon clambering over their dining tables.’

  ‘So will ye,’ he retorted, staring at my now scruffy overcoat. ‘Yer as sweaty and soiled as me.’

  ‘Just let me inspect the bloody place before you go in,’ and before he could remonstrate I entered.

  To my surprise, I did attract curious stares. A middle-aged lady with a plumed hat glared at me as if faced with a tray of manure, and then covered her nose with her napkin. I soon understood why. My nostrils were hit by a hint of ammonia, and I realized I must have stepped in urine from the witch bottle.

  It was barely a waft but it triggered a most unexpected reaction: I went from queasy to utterly nauseous, feeling a horrible oppression in my chest, pushing upwards, and then my mouth started to salivate, preparing itself to receive vomit.

  My legs trembled and I had to lean on the nearest table. I knocked a decanter over, the noise of breaking glass mixing with the general gasp.

  In the mayhem I heard a female cry, and looking up I saw a thin, somehow familiar figure standing up like an uncoiling spring, covering her face with a menu and running away.

  ‘I see you!’ I yelled, but right then I lost all control over my body: strong chills shot across my torso, my hands, already icy, went totally numb, and I felt pins and needles in all my joints. I gagged, vaguely aware of McGray’s cry: ‘Are ye all right, Frey?’

  He did not look well either, his skin as yellow as bile. The very thought made me retch and my entire upper body heaved forwards, expelling an uncontrollable explosion of vomit.

  Everything became a blur. I barely felt McGray’s hands holding me by the shoulders, and the alarmed shouting of the passengers came to my ears muffled, fading more and more until all my senses abandoned me.

  17

  Vague shades of colour danced in front of me, and there were moments when I surfaced close to reality. I recognized glimpses of McGray’s face, the sunlight flashing through my eyelids, the sounds of a busy train station, and then I relapsed into a nasty dream where I was vomiting a constant stream of foam, my insides burning. After the dream everything went quiet and peaceful, but it did not last.

  The worst part of awakening was the real discomforts hitting me again: the surroundings were still fuzzy, yet nausea and shivers overwhelmed my numb brain, and I wished only to sleep again.

  ‘He seems to be coming around,’ a stranger said. Then, much to my relief, I heard McGray.

  ‘Ye sure, laddie? He looks terrible.’

  I shuddered, suddenly coming back to life. I was in a whitewashed room, the smells of laudanum and ethanol telling me that I was in a hospital.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, my voice almost a grunt.

  ‘Take it easy, Inspector,’ said the stranger. ‘You’ve had a difficult journey.’

  He was young – I calculated he’d be in his late twenties – and his white coat told me he was a doctor. He had a bushy blond beard, a bony face and eyes magnified by round spectacles.

  ‘Say hello to Dr Riley,’ McGray told me. ‘It was lucky he was on the train.’

  Through the window, all I could see was a patch of grey sky. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Lancaster, dandy.’

  I abandoned myself to a long moan. ‘Blast! Did you not manage to stop him? The case will now be a bloody tangle of red tape. English, Scottish, all trying to wash their hands of –’

  ‘Och, shut up! I pulled you out of a pool of yer own sick and this is how ye thank me? I thank my lucky stars I wasn’t involved in the sponge bath.’

  Indeed I was clean – even the smell of cheap soap was a blessing – and my clothes had been neatly folded and hung on a chair nearby. I noticed a menacing-looking hose lying on the side table.

  ‘I did not require …’

  The doctor smiled. ‘Gastric lavage? No. Your vomiting expelled most of the poison before it caused serious harm.’

  I sat up a little too quickly and felt my head pounding. ‘Poison!’

  McGray was taking a spoonful of charcoal powder, and the doctor handed him a glass of water.

  ‘That’s correct, sir. You both had clear symptoms of poisoning by cardiac glycoside.’

  I pressed a hand to my forehead, futilely trying to ease the ache. ‘Glycoside? But how? Whe–’ And then it hit me. ‘Digitalin?’

  ‘Oh, I see you are familiar with the substance. Yes: foxgloves. I’ve seen these symptoms many times, but it’s usually in summer – and most of the time it’s children who’ve eaten flowers from their mothers’ gardens. You two were lucky; if ingested over long periods of time it also impairs the vision and causes wild hallucinations.’ Dr Riley pulled up a chair for himself. ‘Now, I find it very odd that two grown CID inspectors managed to consume a flower that is not in season. Can you think of any way you might have come to do so?’

  It was not a difficult question.

  ‘The tea …’ I mumbled.

  ‘Aye,’ said McGray. ‘That Oakley bitch poisoned us. I even remember there were foxglove stems in her front garden.’

  That very image was in my head. I also remembered Madame Katerina’s words: Milk of magnesia. You should get some. Soon. Milk of magnesia would not have prevented the poisoning, but the symptoms would not have been as harsh. How could she have known? I’d rather not dwell on that or give the woman any credit.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I said, thinking now of the tea. ‘We both drank from her pot. Why did I pass out while you became
only slightly queasy?’

  Dr Riley stroked his beard. ‘Well, the toxin usually has more severe effects on people of a delicate disposition.’

  Nine-Nails cackled so hard I had to hold my aching head. ‘Aye, this is definitely a fainting one!’

  ‘He does not mean that,’ I protested. ‘He means –’

  ‘Auld folks? Dainty ladies? Wee children?’ McGray asked with uncontained glee.

  ‘All of those,’ Riley said, ‘and also the anaemic and the undernourished.’

  McGray laughed even harder.

  ‘Doctor,’ I groaned, ‘could you give us a moment? We have some matters to discuss.’

  He assented. ‘Of course, Inspector. I have some paperwork to do.’

  McGray spoke as soon as the door was shut. ‘The guards saw Lord Ardglass.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Indeedy. He was in the third-class wagon, but that was right before ye decided to carpet the place with spew. We never found him after that.’

  ‘Did you search thoroughly?’

  ‘Aye, course we did, but we lost precious time making sure ye weren’t dead. The laddies took me to where Ardglass had been sitting – no need to hide after yer wee scene – but he wasn’t there any more. We found an auld chap in the next seat; he told us that he’d seen a middle-aged man, with a very fancy coat for third class, but that he stood up and left the carriage as soon as someone yelled there were inspectors on the train.’ McGray shook his head. ‘I ken ye were a spectacle, but how could they tell we were CID so soon?’

  I sighed. ‘I think I know. Right before I passed out I saw Miss – this Oakley woman in the dining car. She saw me first; she was running out, trying to cover her face.’

  ‘D’ye think she was the one who told everybody?’

  ‘I cannot think of any other explanation. Oakley and the guards were the only people on that train who knew who we were.’

  Nine-Nails shook his head. ‘Why? First it looks like she was running from Lord Ardglass … but then it looks like she was warning him … None o’ this makes sense.’

  ‘I am glad I am not the only one at a loss. And we do not even know why she decided to travel all of a sudden.’

  McGray began to pace. ‘So we went to see her, she poisons us, and for no apparent reason she decides to run away, right before Lord Bampot comes by and makes a wreck o’ her house.’

  ‘And takes an envelope,’ I added.

  ‘Aye, and we have no idea what that was …’ He paced a little longer. ‘It’s clear she was running from him. We must have said something that warned her.’

  ‘Assuming, of course, that such warning did not come from Clouston.’

  ‘I heard him tell ye Oakley didn’t say much.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Then I believe him.’

  ‘I will not argue about that right now. I’d be more interested to know why Oakley had to run from Lord Ardglass. Some sordid affair nobody has told us about? She knew he was coming …’ I clicked my tongue. ‘Yet if that is correct, why would she not tell us? Why would she poison us, if we were the very ones who could have protected her? And then why would she appear to warn him, as if she did not want us to catch him?’

  As I spoke I saw a glow of understanding in Nine-Nails’ eyes. He stopped at the window, staring at the dark clouds. ‘D’ye think she might’ve done something … something she shouldnae?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We are chasing Ardglass, assuming he committed the murder – what if he didnae?’

  ‘Do you mean to say –’

  ‘What if Oakley did it? And now Ardglass is chasing her ’cos he’s been framed?’

  I pondered that.

  ‘That petite young woman … she does not look like a murderer; then again, I have seen odder culprits. I remember when I cracked the case of Good Mary Brown, the tiny woman who poisoned –’

  ‘Half a dozen husbands right after buying them life insurances. Don’t ye ever get tired o’ telling that story? Yer like a great-granddad boasting he was run over by King Willy’s carriage, or –’

  ‘Jesus, I am trying to say that you might actually be talking sense. Let’s say you are right and Oakley – for some reason I cannot fathom right now – did murder her apparently good friend Miss Greenwood and managed to frame Lord Ardglass. If that were the case, how come he is on the run? Why would he not come to us and explain what happened?’

  ‘The chap’s insane,’ McGray reminded me. ‘Who kens what goes on in his brains?’

  ‘Very true,’ I said, massaging my sore head. ‘This is not how investigations are supposed to go: we started with one suspicious fugitive – now we have two.’

  ‘And we’re in bloody England. Things are turning to shite!’

  Things became even worse when Dr Riley came back with his bill, and the man refused to take our credentials as a guarantee.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I would like to keep you under observation until tomorrow morning,’ he told me as he counted the money.

  ‘Tomorrow is a luxury I cannot afford right now,’ I said, buttoning up my jacket, which still gave off a slightly sickly smell, and feeling my considerably lighter wallet.

  ‘Ye cheap bastard,’ said McGray when we reached the corridor.

  ‘Cheap! I will have you know I have little money left, and we still need to secure a train back.’

  ‘Don’t think o’ that so soon, laddie. We’re not leaving ’til we find either Oakley or Ardglass.’

  I snorted. ‘Oh, are we not? How much money do you have on you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I never carry any. I hate my pockets jingling like a baby’s rattle.’

  ‘Then how do you buy … your pints, or your drams or those ghastly platefuls of haggis that you are so fond of?’

  McGray shrugged. ‘I tell them I’m CID and folks gimme stuff for free. Haven’t ye tried?’

  ‘No. I have never needed free stuff.’

  ‘Och, everyone can use a free dram every now ’n’ then.’

  ‘Well, we – no, I will run out of money very soon, yet you want us to stay here indefinitely? How do you plan to get by?’

  ‘Take it easy, Frey. We can get money wired to any telegraph office; this isn’t the Stone Age.’

  We left the hospital at twilight, and as we stepped out I fully realized that we were in an entirely different town. Thick layers of stormy clouds shrouded the brown stone buildings of Lancaster, and the old houses, richly fitted with Honduras mahogany, reminded me of the wealth the borough had attracted in the last hundred years. The port was one of the most important on England’s west coast, second only to Liverpool. Cotton, precious woods, ivory and many other costly commodities (slaves included, before the Abolition Act) were imported through the waters of Lune Bay. Some said the town’s heyday would soon fade, for the waters of the river were slowly silting up; for now, however, trade still thrived, as proven by the many carriages and horses coming and going, seemingly oblivious to the bitter weather.

  Lancashire’s salty air should have been a few degrees warmer than Scotland, but I did not feel it. The roads and roofs were covered in snow as deep as Edinburgh’s, and I had to wrap myself tightly in my overcoat after a blast of icy wind. I still felt rather unwell and the cold air was like daggers stabbing my head.

  ‘Ye still have that photograph, don’t ye?’ McGray asked.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘We’re going to see if the local peelers can give us a hand in our search.’

  I nodded – reluctantly. ‘I am astonished. You actually had a very sensible idea.’

  The very narrow street ascended a gentle slope towards the heart of the town, where the ancient castle – in fact a working prison and court since medieval times – sat.

  We approached the main gates, an imposing display of oak and wrought iron, but there was something else that became fixed in my memory: a gnarled, majestic yew, its trunk so thick
that three men’s outstretched arms could not fully embrace it. The ancient tree was infested with a large murder of crows, all perched on the knotty branches like black leaves.

  I somehow felt that the birds were watching us, their eyes casting a strange spell on me. I had to shake my head to clear it, and then noticed that McGray was talking to the guards, who told him that the police headquarters were housed there too.

  After enquiring three times, showing our credentials to five different officers and clerks, and waiting in a dingy, damp-smelling room, we were finally led to a cluttered office. The plaque on the door read Chief Constable P. T. Massey.

  The oak panelling was dusty and battered, there were enormous piles of documents so old the folders looked discoloured, and the bin by the desk was overflowing with newspaper sheets soaked in grease.

  The man behind the desk was lounging on his chair with his feet up, and picking his teeth with a used match. He had a very angular jaw, his dry skin seemed stretched tight across his bones, and he gave the impression of being about to fall asleep.

  ‘A couple of foetuses in formaldehyde,’ I whispered in McGray’s ear, ‘and this could be our Dumping Ground.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, so lazily that I felt he drained half of my own energy.

  There was a solitary chair on our side of the desk, which McGray took immediately, showing his badge. ‘We’re CID from Scotland.’

  ‘Obviously,’ the man said, his eyes on McGray’s bright tartan trousers.

  I sensed Nine-Nails growing edgy. ‘We’re after a very dangerous man. Frey, show him the picture.’ So I did. ‘His name’s Lord Joel Ardglass and he escaped from an asylum after murdering one o’ the nurses that took care o’ him. We have reason to believe he’s following a lassie, a Miss Jane Oakley.’

  The chief constable dragged his arm out to lift the portrait. ‘How do you know he’s in Lancaster?’

  ‘We saw both o’ them on the afternoon train from Edinburgh.’

  ‘The very train in which we arrived,’ I added.

  A languid eyebrow was raised. ‘The very same train? And you didn’t manage to catch him?’

  ‘We had problems on board,’ McGray groaned. His limited patience was wearing thin.