‘Besides,’ said Will quickly. ‘Dr Hawkins, you saw Rutherford’s corpse – those neatly stitched lips and eyes. Could that really have been the work of someone as deranged as Dr Golspie was that night?’
Dr Hawkins did not answer.
‘He managed to open his own vein with surprising accuracy,’ said Dr Christie. ‘He might equally have stitched up Rutherford’s face. And to kill a man with one of his own instruments? Is that not the work of one who is insane?’
It was true, I could not deny it. Was Dr Golspie guilty of such a crime? I could not believe it of him.
Dr Hawkins shook his head. ‘I hardly know what to think,’ he said. ‘Dr Golspie, you must remember what you did, what you saw.’
But Dr Golspie was staring at the ground, and he did not reply. It was as though he had retreated into his own mind, was so absorbed by his thoughts that he could not attend to anything else. And yet, as I watched him, I sensed that he was quite aware of what was going on around him, and entirely certain of what he was being asked. Dr Hawkins sighed, and turned away. Dr Christie shook his head and plucked out his pocket watch to check the time. At that moment, unnoticed by the others, Tom Golspie glanced up at Will, then at me, and I knew instantly that he had something he wanted to tell us.
Dr Hawkins opened the door. Pole was standing on the other side of it. The turnkey’s melted face looked moist and yellow above the grubby folds of his neckerchief. The watery sunlight, filtered by the half-closed window blinds, glanced off his scars and pockmarks and gave his skin the texture of grated cheese. I had the impression that he had been listening, and his gaze – what one could see of it – searched the room hungrily, looking from one face to another before settling on Dr Golspie. And yet Pole always looked shifty. It was not his fault that his appearance was so hideous, and I did my best never to judge a man’s character by his looks.
‘What is it, Pole?’ I said.
‘Nuthin’.’
‘You realise that those who listen at doors seldom hear things that are meant for them?’
The man scowled. ‘Weren’t list’nin’,’ he said. ‘Were standin’. Helpful like.’
‘Pole,’ Dr Hawkins said, ‘could you see that a bath is brought up for Dr Golspie. He will take it here, in his room. And find him a change of clothes too. Ask Mrs Lunge. I’m sure some can be procured.’ He turned to Dr Christie. ‘I think he might as well go home, Christie. He needs rest – and some lowering foods, of course. His own bed is the best place for him. He will not run away – where might he go? I can send Mrs Lunge round with a custard later.’
Dr Christie looked down in disgust at the blood-stained and dishevelled figure of Dr Golspie. His watch was still open in his fingers and he snapped it closed, seeming gratified to note that the sound made Dr Golspie flinch. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Though I think you would be wise to keep him here.’
‘He’s not under arrest,’ said Will. ‘And you’re not the police inspector.’
Dr Hawkins raised a hand. ‘I am sending him home and that’s an end to it. He lives not far from the apothecary, Jem. Perhaps you might call in on him now and again, just to make sure all’s well. And you, Quartermain. But no more hashish. The man’s mind has been through enough. And we want him to remember.’
The lunatics who had been clustered around Edward Eden’s doorway were nowhere to be seen. Dr Hawkins looked relieved. He chivvied us out of the room and shut the door, leaving Dr Golspie stretched out on his chaise longue, his hands over his face.
The four of us walked down the passage in the direction of the gentlemen’s sitting room. A curious sound echoed along the hallway, a discordant wailing and moaning that, despite its unpleasantness on the ear, had a peculiar familiarity. Dr Hawkins cocked his head. ‘What the devil is that?’
‘It’s Lead Kindly Light,’ said Will. ‘I think.’ It grew in volume as we listened, a mixture of singing, strumming and a curious draughty fluting sound. The singing had been joined by other voices, ones that gave no thought to tune or melody but sought only to add noise. Gradually, the bellowing accompaniment grew louder, the singing and fluting sinking beneath the cacophony like an orchestra swallowed up by a tempest.
‘The Ladies’ Committee,’ muttered Pole. ‘Mrs Lunge let ’em in.’
I had never met the Angel Meadow Ladies’ Committee before – something I congratulated myself upon. Every medical institution in the city had one, a gaggle of interfering women eager to get out of their drawing rooms and into the lives of those less fortunate than themselves. At St Saviour’s, the Ladies’ Committee had been the bane of my life. Reading the Scriptures to those too sick and infirm to object or escape was their principal activity. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon they had filed through the wards in a bustling gang, their skirts sweeping aside spittoons, their dismal bunches of ragged chrysanthemums cluttering up table-tops, their shrill voices the murderers of sleep. Here at Angel Meadow, however, it appeared that Bibles had been set aside in favour of hymn books. That morning the ladies were in the gentlemen’s sitting room, a large bright chamber at the far end of the corridor. The place was full to bursting with patients and attendants, their attention upon the fireplace and the group of women stationed before it. Most of the ladies were unknown to me, though that morning I recognised Mrs Hawkins and Mrs Mothersole in their midst. In the centre of the group, most unexpected of all, loomed Dr Mothersole, his pencil-wielding daughter at his side. Standing at his left hand, Mrs Mothersole was strumming on a lute and warbling in a shrill tremulous soprano. Dr Mothersole had a set of pan pipes to his lips. The other ladies were singing; the patients were joining in and the place was in uproar.
Dr Hawkins pulled a whistle from his waistcoat pocket and blew a single blast upon it. The noise came to a caterwauling halt. ‘May I ask what on earth is going on?’ he said. ‘Mrs Lunge?’
Mrs Lunge had been standing against the wall, tall and impassive. She glided forward. ‘It’s Tuesday, sir,’ she said.
‘And this means what, pray?’
‘Tuesday is the day the ladies come, sir. Had you forgotten?’
‘I try to,’ he said.
‘My dear Dr Hawkins,’ thundered Dr Mothersole. ‘I fear I may be at fault here. I have joined the Ladies’ Committee today as I was sure I might find the experience beneficial. I’m sure they find my presence enlightening – many have said as much to me – as I have a deal of experience in matters of what I like to call “the environment of madness”. Music, sir, is the key to tranquillity. Need I say more?’
‘I think you do, Dr Mothersole,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘Your music, if that is what we can call it, sounds anything but tranquil to me.’
‘Music, sir, quells the savage beast and soothes the heart and soul.’ Dr Mothersole raised his pan pipes to his lips and blew a quavering note. ‘I sing too,’ he added. ‘Counter-tenor, of course, though I cannot sing and play my pipes at the same time, more’s the pity.’
Will and I looked at one another and grinned. Dr Mothersole was standing on the hearth, and looked more gigantic than ever. He was dressed in a coat of royal blue boiled wool, and still wore his tall hat, so that I was reminded, briefly, of a ringmaster I had once seen at Cremorne Gardens. His pan pipes looked tiny in his enormous hands and he moved them back and forth across his pursed lips piping a draughty bar of Lead Kindly Light. Many of the patients were laughing. Even Dr Christie could hardly keep his face straight.
‘Of course, it was my specific intention that our music would attract the patients.’ Dr Mothersole threw his arms wide. ‘And they came unto us. You hear how they join in? Such a balm!’
‘I did not find it to be a balm, sir,’ said Dr Hawkins.
‘In the light of the recent tragic happenings here at Angel Meadow I thought it might provide solace, as well as a welcome distraction from melancholia.’
‘Well,’ said Dr Hawkins. ‘I can see that you mean well, Dr Mothersole, but—’
‘And how is Dr Golspie,’ boomed
Dr Mothersole. ‘Perhaps he might join us?’
‘I think not.’
‘He has recovered his senses?’
‘Most of them.’
‘And he remembers the evening? He recalls his time about the asylum? I believe he was free, despite his initial incarceration? Might he be able to cast some light on the terrible events? Perhaps if I were to talk to him—’
Dr Hawkins looked uncomfortable. The eyes of the entire room were upon him now. ‘His memory of last night is returning,’ he said quickly. ‘He will make a full recovery, I’m quite certain. He is to go home to rest, that is all the physic he requires.’
‘And might he—’
‘I am not at liberty to say more, Dr Mothersole,’ interrupted Dr Hawkins sharply. ‘By all means continue with your . . . your music if you wish. I can see that the patients appear to be enjoying it.’ He looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows. ‘I trust you are too, my dear.’
With Dr Golspie incapacitated and Dr Rutherford dead, I knew Dr Hawkins would have many matters to attend to. He asked Dr Christie to accompany him to the women’s wing, where he was already late for his rounds, and the two men left together. Although I did not take to Dr Christie I was glad to see that he had agreed to help Dr Hawkins, glad also that the two of them got along well enough, for I could not help but think that Dr Christie’s manner, and approach, would be improved by the acquaintance. As for Will and me, we stayed a little longer to watch the spectacle. Mrs Hawkins was enjoying herself, and she caught my eye more than once and laughed. She was tall and slender, a handsome woman, with the hair piled up on her head thick and dark. The grey streaks I had noticed on our earlier acquaintance were artfully concealed, the jet beads she wore about her neck were adorned that day with a large jade stone that matched the colour of her skirts. She sang well, and had the only melodious voice to be heard above the noise. Even Pole was affected, and he stared at her as if he had never heard anything so beautiful. Mrs Lunge appeared to be the only person who was not enjoying herself. She stood against the wall, her fingers plucking at the high collar of her dress as if the skin below burned. She jabbed Pole in the ribs, and motioned to him to open a window, for the room was growing warm and stuffy with so many crammed into it.
At length, the recital was over, and the ladies went about the room handing out sprigs of herbs and flowers.
‘How bizarre,’ I muttered to Will. I watched a lunatic staring in bewilderment at the tuft of rosemary one of the ladies had given him.
‘Inspired by Shakespeare,’ boomed out Dr Mothersole, by way of explanation.
‘Dr Mothersole draws upon the same well-spring of poetic inspiration as the Bard,’ said Mrs Mothersole. She stroked her husband’s sleeve and peered up rapturously into his giant moon of a face.
‘Quite so, my dear. “Rue for remembrance”,’ he laughed.
‘It’s “rosemary for remembrance”, Father,’ said Miss Mothersole.
Her father waved a hand. ‘That too!’ he cried. ‘Mr Flockhart, perhaps I might be permitted to hand a sprig to dear Dr Golspie? As an aide memoire, so to speak?’
‘I believe he is to be left alone,’ I said.
‘So be it.’ He smiled. I thought I saw something I did not like at the back of his eyes, something hard and vigilant, but then his smile grew wider, so that his eyes, and whatever expression might have been hiding within them, vanished into the folds of his cheeks. ‘Constance,’ he cried. ‘Do you have something for Mr Flockhart? And Mr Quartermain?’
Constance Mothersole came forward with a shallow basket. Her notebook was clamped beneath her arm, her pencil lay amongst the flowers. She handed me a tangled hank of chickweed, whilst to Will she gave a large green leaf with a small yellow flower.
‘Thank you, Ophelia,’ I said. Miss Mothersole looked at me fiercely, and stalked off with her basket.
‘If rosemary is for remembrance,’ said Will, twirling his leaf, ‘then what’s this for?’
‘Gonorrhoea,’ I said. ‘It’s a corchorus leaf. We use it for the clap, for loose stools and for worms.’
Will blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘And yours?’
‘For itchiness.’
Soon, the floor of the gentlemen’s sitting room was strewn with trampled flowers and foliage. I saw Mrs Lunge purse her lips at the sight, and despatch Pole to get a broom. Mrs Hawkins came over to us.
‘I trust you enjoyed our recital, gentlemen?’
‘Very much, Mrs Hawkins,’ I said.
‘The pan pipes were most affecting,’ added Will. ‘And as for the lute—’
‘The instruments of the angels,’ said Mrs Hawkins. Her eyes twinkled. ‘I’m glad to hear Dr Golspie is recovering. My husband told me what had occurred.’ She shook her head, and said gravely, ‘Such terrible happenings. The ways of an asylum are new to me. I am trying to learn what I can about Angel Meadow, for my husband’s sake, but it is a most peculiar place.’
Pole appeared beside us, rasping at the floor with a broom. ‘Watch yer crabshells, miss,’ he muttered. Mrs Hawkins stepped aside neatly as the broom whisked past her feet.
‘Can you not sweep up somewhere else for the moment, Pole,’ I said.
‘Got to clean, don’t I, sir?’ muttered Pole. He glared at the greenery he had gathered at the head of his broom and moved away, his yellow face drooping.
‘There’s as good an example of the peculiarity of Angel Meadow as any you might hope to find,’ said Will, watching Pole shuffle towards the fireplace.
‘And yet I was thinking of Dr Mothersole.’ Mrs Hawkins smiled. ‘His approach is unusual, but seems most wholesome. He was also talking of dancing, gardening and countryside walks.’
‘They are methods Dr Golspie at least would have some sympathy with,’ said Will.
‘My husband speaks very highly of Dr Golspie,’ said Mrs Hawkins.
‘He’s a good man,’ said Will. ‘And a good friend. He just acts too impulsively.’
‘I am impulsive myself,’ she said.
‘It is a most becoming trait in a lady,’ offered Will gallantly.
‘Were you away from London for many years, Mrs Hawkins?’ I asked.
‘Twelve years, Mr Flockhart.’
At that moment Pole reappeared beside me. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘But I’m to tell you that Dr Graves has arrived.’
‘Dr Graves,’ said Mrs Hawkins. ‘I don’t believe my husband has mentioned him. Is he a physician here too?’
‘No, ma’am,’ I said. ‘He’s an anatomist.’
‘I see.’ She looked alarmed. ‘And he’s here for—?’
‘He is here to perform a post-mortem on Dr Rutherford.’
‘What an unpleasant thought. Still, I suppose it has to be done.’ Mrs Hawkins’s face had turned as white and luminous as a pearl.
‘Are you quite well, ma’am?’ Mrs Lunge appeared like an apparition at Mrs Hawkins’s side. Her expression was as stony as ever despite the solicitousness of her question. ‘Perhaps you might care to sit down – if these gentlemen have finished?’
We watched as the two women walked away. ‘That was rather odd,’ said Will. ‘I admit that the very idea of Dr Graves makes me nauseous, but she’s surely never met the fellow.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Either his reputation precedes him, or Mrs Hawkins is pregnant.’
Chapter Twelve
Up ahead, descending the stairs that led to the mortuary, I recognised a small figure, dressed all in black and wearing a stovepipe hat almost as tall as Will’s. He carried a doctor’s bag, and moved with a curious crouching gait, as if he carried an invisible sack of bones over his shoulder.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Our visitor from St Saviour’s. Dr Hawkins asked for Dr Graves, I believe, as it is best if the postmortem be conducted by someone unconnected with Dr Rutherford.’ I put my hand on Will’s arm. ‘Don’t let’s catch him up. I see no need to endure his company any earlier than we have to.’
Dr Graves was a
wiry man, not tall, but strong, with long sinewy arms. He radiated a nervous energy, moving quickly with his curious creeping gait. He stank of decay due to the amount of time he spent in the company of putrefying corpses and formaldehyde. The man had been no friend of mine, though I could not but admire his speed and skill at the dissecting table.
‘Must I come?’ said Will. ‘I will swoon like a woman and humiliate myself.’
‘You will swoon like a man,’ I said. ‘The effect will be just as diverting. Take your salts. Come on, Will, you’ve attended brain surgery and remained on your feet. The days when you slipped to the ground in a dead faint are far behind you. Besides,’ I added, ‘I cannot go without you. I do not want to go without you. It is Dr Graves—’
The last post-mortem I had attended had been conducted by Dr Graves at St Saviour’s Infirmary. It had been the final dissection to take place there, for the old infirmary was demolished soon after. The body we had anatomised had belonged to my dear friend, Dr Bain. Dr Graves was a zealous and speedy worker, and he had eviscerated Dr Bain for the edification of his students with a gusto it still pained me to recall. In no time at all he had sawed off Dr Bain’s head, removed his brain and internal organs and peeled back the skin of the legs and arms to reveal the crimson musculature below. Once the body had been emptied of its various organs – the medical students had taken these away for the benefit of their own collections – Dr Bain’s body was boiled in the giant copper cauldron Dr Graves kept for the purpose. Finally, stripped of every shred of skin and tendon, Dr Bain’s bones had been wired together and placed in the Out-Patients’ Waiting Room, a grim memento mori of what might happen to those who did not take their medicines as they ought. When the infirmary was torn down I had saved my friend’s skeleton from the rubbish heap, and brought him home to the apothecary. Now, his bones warmed before the fire, watching over Gabriel, Will and me. I had often wondered what he would have made of his fate – poisoned, anatomised, boiled and displayed. It was immortality – of a kind – and Dr Bain had been vain enough to crave such a thing.
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