‘Where is it?’ said Will. ‘Not in there, surely?’ He held a handkerchief to his nose.
The woman pointed. ‘In there.’
We found the camera, its boxes of plates and bottles, in a small room filled with other mementoes of the building’s past: a tangle of manacles and fetters, and shelves of dusty and discoloured ledgers. I opened one of them. Each page bore the details of a single woman convict – age, profession, details of her crime. ‘You still think the woman in the photograph is a convict?’ said Will.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Though I admit she was not wearing a convict’s dress.’
‘Well, she’s not in those ledgers.’
‘Have you checked?’
‘I have.’
I flicked through the pages nonetheless. Given how long it took to take even one photograph using the calotype method, I was amazed by how many images there were. Page after page showed women’s faces – young and old, their expressions devoid of hope or happiness, so that it felt perverse to look at them, to stare at the misery etched upon each countenance. I wondered how many of them were still alive, how many had worn out their lives on the treadwheel, or gone mad with months in solitary confinement.
‘Don’t you believe me?’ said Will. He sounded impatient.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s just that – I don’t know. Look at their faces. I pass women like this on the street every day. These are not criminals, Will, these are ordinary women whose lives are hard and desperate.’ We fell silent as we turned the pages. Their faces all had a curious flat expression to them, a countenance I recognised as the face of the gin drinker. What hope did they have? I noted the crimes they were accused of – stealing a cloak, stealing two candlesticks, pickpocketing, being caught with a counterfeit note . . . Such paltry things. The photographs stopped as I went back in time, and from 1840 we were left with only names and numbers, dates and descriptions of crimes. But the faces, I knew, would have been the same. I was about to turn away, when all at once there was a name I recognised. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Look what it says about this woman.’
‘Elizabeth Brodie? What of her? She’s not the one we are looking for. She was here long before the camera was used.’
‘But listen,’ I said. “‘Elizabeth Brodie. Aliases, Liz Greasly; Eliza Sanders, Bodkin Bess”.’
‘Bodkin Bess?’ said Will, ‘why, that’s—’
‘Mrs Roseplucker’s old friend. Susan Chance’s childhood nightmare. Let’s see – “Height: 5 feet 2 inches. Hair: grey. Eyes, blue . . .’” I jumped down the page, for her entry was extensive. “‘Trade or occupation: seamstress . . . ” Oh! Listen to this, “Offence for which convicted: Murder. 14th March 1828 prisoner found guilty of bludgeoning known felon James Hardwicke of Prior’s Lane to death and subjecting his corpse to post mortem assault. To wit: The slicing off of the ears and the stitching closed of the mouth and eyes. Sentence: Hanging. Admitted three prior counts of assault upon a corpse: 1827J. Wheeler, known felon of 26 Prior’s Street, St Saviours; 1827 T. Costello, known felon, Prior’s Street, St Saviours; 1826, T. O’Dowd, known Felon, Prior’s Rents.” I need to think,’ I said. ‘But I can’t do that here.’
‘Take these photographic plates,’ said Will, handing me a canvas bag, clinking and heavy. ‘I’ll take this camera.’
We emerged from the room into the arms of a tall slim man carrying a jar of leeches. ‘Hello, Quartermain,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve found it, then?’
‘The camera? Yes, sir.’ Will shook the medical officer’s hand. He made the usual courteous inquiries about the man’s health and introduced me to the fellow, though I was anxious to get out of the place and my responses were more sullen than they should have been. He shook my hand the way a washerwoman might shake out a wet stocking.
‘Yes, I heard you were interested in it,’ he said, addressing Will. ‘There’s been a lot of clearing out, as you can imagine, so I had it brought down for you. I thought Christie might be interested in it but no one’s seen him for days. His head’s full of Angel Meadow.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Terrible business, what? You can see how difficult and unpredictable the mad can be, can’t you? Even those who seem docile. No wonder we don’t want them here. Things are difficult enough without having lunatics in amongst the women too.’
‘Quite so,’ murmured Will.
‘I heard there was an arrest?’
‘A lunatic named Susan Chance,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘Yes, I think I’ve heard the name before—’
‘She was convicted of murder some years ago. Dr Stiven—’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the man. ‘I remember now. Rehabilitation. Said he could change die girl.’ He shrugged. ‘Oh well. Can’t change ‘em, you see. If the girl’s locked up as a criminal lunatic I dare say that’s where she should have been all along.’
‘That certainly seems to be Dr Christie’s view,’ said Will.
‘Yes, well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Those deemed mad are transferred to whatever asylum seems appropriate. Angel Meadow takes a fair few. Of course, there was a time when such individuals would be sent out with the fleet.’
‘Transported?’
‘Yes. But what use is an idiot or a lunatic in such a place? None at all. And so, if they are out of their wits when they commit a crime then they cannot be hanged for it, and yet they cannot be released either. To send them away causes trouble, but to put them in here with the others, well, that’s no use either. They’re disruptive, you see. Fear, lack of comprehension of their situation, naivety about the wickedness of those with whom they’re quartered.’ He shook his head. ‘It leads only to more violence, more cruelty, and there’s enough of those things in here already. There’s no special place for them – not yet at any rate, though there’s talk of something out at Broadmoor.’
‘How long has Dr Christie been here, sir?’ I asked.
‘Oh, three years or so.’
‘And you, sir?’
He smiled. ‘Too long. Years, in fact.’
‘D’you remember when the camera was used here?’
‘Oh yes. We’d never seen anything like it, of course. Pictures made of light and chemicals? We were all photographed, you know, all the doctors and governors, as well as the head warden. It was an excellent idea of Gunn’s to photograph the prisoners. Far too time consuming and expensive, of course, though the governors were prepared to give it a try. But there are so many other things to spend money on, and the prisoners were uncooperative, and the photographic process took so long. They wouldn’t sit still. And then Gunn was dismissed, of course. Got caught with one of the female inmates. He wasn’t the only one, but he was the one who got caught. Left his camera here. They said he made a bad marriage sometime after, though I pity the woman who married him, if I’m quite honest with you. Well,’ the man shook my hand and Will’s. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I’m something of a photographer myself and it can become rather an addiction. Of course, there are faster methods of developing now—’
‘Yes,’ I said, anxious not to be drawn into a discussion about the merits of different photographic techniques. And then, on an impulse I asked, ‘Before we go, sir, might I ask whether you can tell us anything more about Dr Gunn?’
‘Ship’s surgeon out to Van Diemen’s Land before he came here, I believe. Deuteronomy Octavius Mandlebury Gunn.’ He smiled. ‘You never forget a name like that. The fellow always used the whole thing too.’
Will gave a polite laugh. ‘I imagine they struggled to fit it all onto his headstone.’
‘His headstone?’ said the man. ‘Why would he have one of those?’
‘Because he’s dead. The governors said—’
‘Oh, what do they know? The fellow’s not dead at all. Not yet, anyway.’
We found Deuteronomy Octavius Mandlebury Gunn easily enough. It turned out he had recently been the medical superintendent at the Workhouse in Seven Dials, but was now in the Lock Hospital, not far from the House of Correction.
‘Are you sure you want to come in here?’ I said. ‘This place is for those with the pox—’
‘Of course,’ said Will. ‘I remember St Saviour’s foul wards well enough. How bad can it be?’
But out of all St Saviour’s manifold awful places, the foul ward was the one I had most abhorred. There we had treated those with venereal diseases, their sores red and weeping, their faces consumed by the most repellent chancres, their mouths drooling and black from the medicine we had given them – if the pox did not kill them then the mercury might well do the job instead. The sight and smell of the place was indescribable. I remembered it well. I checked my pockets for my salts.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Will. He patted his own pocket. ‘I have some right here. I never leave home without them – especially if I’m coming with you.’
Atfirst, I thought Dr Deuteronomy Octavius Mandlebury Gunn was working at the Lock Hospital. But when we asked after him, it turned out that he was one of the patients. We found him holding a spittoon, while another patient, too weak to spit alone, disgorged a mouthful of glistening grey saliva into it. Dr Gunn looked unkempt. His head was bald of hair, though here and there long grey wisps proclaimed where it once had been. What remained of his teeth were long and black-stained, his cheeks sunken, his eyes pale and deep set with hooded membranous lids. His coat was dirty, his neckerchief a slippery rag. He patted the hand of the man he was helping, and added a thin stream of his own saliva to the pot.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said. His voice was deep, the low vowels of the north of England roughened by drink and tobacco. ‘I assume you come from Finch. Well you can tell him I don’t have his money—
‘Dr Gunn,’ I said. ‘My name is Flockhart. I’ve come to tell you that Dr John Rutherford is dead.’
‘Is he?’ He shrugged. ‘Why should I care?’
‘Dr Rutherford was murdered.’
‘I’m not surprised. Was it a woman?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said.
‘He deserved it.’ He eased himself back to lie on his bed, a mean straw-stuffed palliasse resting on a crooked pallet. ‘No doubt I’ll meet the old bastard soon enough for the pox’ll see me off before much longer.’
‘What can you tell us about Dr Rutherford?’
He closed his eyes. ‘Rutherford was a coward and a bully. He was second rate, ambitious, cruel and ruthless. Is that enough?’
‘Well,’ said Will, ‘those are our impressions of the man, certainly. But how did you know him? And perhaps—’ he pulled out the photograph of the girl. ‘Do you know who this is?’
Gunn opened his eyes again and took the ragged picture. He pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and we waited while he fiddled them into position. He peered at the girl in silence. Then, ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve never seen this before, though I can tell you it was taken with my camera. Why do you ask?’
‘We found it near his body,’ said Will.
‘Oh.’ Gunn removed his spectacles and closed his eyes again, sinking back into his stained and lumpy pillow. ‘I can’t tell you much, but I can tell you what I know. I met Rutherford years ago. Phrenology was his obsession. It was quite the fashion, for a while, though no one takes it seriously these days.’ He chuckled. ‘Some of us didn’t take it seriously then either, but Rutherford loved it. He was very meticulous about it. Took photographs, measurements, everything. The camera was his before it was mine. He adored the thing.’
‘It was Rutherford’s?’
Dr Gunn opened an eye. ‘That’s what I said. But he lost it in a game of cards. He was furious, but he’d lost fair and square and there was nothing he could do about it. He’s not the good doctor, you know, despite his exalted position at Angel Meadow. He had a past, did old Rutherford. He worked hard, and was a hard man too. He took what he wanted – loved power, loved being strong whilst others were weak. I didn’t like him. I didn’t know anyone who did either, though he managed to charm the ladies whenever it suited him.’
‘Did Dr Rutherford work on the transports?’ I said.
Dr Gunn licked his lips with a blackened tongue. I held the spittoon for him while he dribbled a stream of saliva into it. ‘Yes,’ he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘We both did.’
‘Who had the camera then?’
‘He did.’
‘Where you on the same ship?’
‘There was only one surgeon per ship.’
‘Where did you meet?’ I said. ‘In Australia?’
He nodded. ‘Newcastle.’
‘And what ship was Rutherford on?’
‘Different ones,’ he said.
‘Before you won his camera, I mean.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Was it the Norfolk?’
Gunn smiled. ‘The Norfolk,’ he said. ‘That’s right – a long time ago now. Something happened – I don’t know what. Nothing was ever made clear.’
‘What?’ said Will. ‘What happened? To whom? Did it involve Dr Rutherford?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dr Gunn. ‘But I don’t know what.’
‘Think, sir,’ I cried. ‘What was it?’
Dr Gunn sighed and turned his head away. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t care either. Now go away.’
Angel Meadow Asylum, 18th September 1852
‘It is therefore ordered and adjudged by this Court that you be transported upon the seas, beyond the seas, to such a place as Her Majesty shall think fit to direct and appoint for the term of your natural life . . . ’ I have never forgotten those words. How can any who have been sentenced thus ever forget them? For my ordeal was set to continue: I was not hanged again – my escape was deemed providential – instead I was sentenced to seven years’ transportation. My gaoler said the judge had refused to hang me for fear of the mob.
‘Hundreds out of work,’ he said, ‘and they say we are the greatest manufacturing nation the world has ever seen!’ He snorted. ‘Hanging a pretty girl like you in front of that lot?’ He shook his head. ‘Your friends’d never stand for it.’
‘I have no friends,’ I said. ‘They would gladly watch me die, thankful that it wasn’t their own necks that were being stretched.’
‘Pretty girl like you,’ he said again, and he stroked my cheek. I bit his finger then, and he cursed me for being a hell-cat and slapped my face. ‘A month in solitary and three months on a transport?’ he said. ‘You’ll be glad of any kindness before long.’
At first I feared we were to be quartered on the hulks moored at Woolwich or Deptford. Once, when we were young, Goblin and I had gone out to see the prisoners from the hulks toiling on the docks. They were rowed ashore every day, to labour in full view of passers-by and spectators. I have never forgotten the stony countenances of the men as they worked breaking rocks and digging the earth. I knew men just like them in the Rents, had known them all my life, and yet I had never seen anyone in the Rents wear an expression of such suppressed rage and humiliation as I saw on those prisoners. I’d looked over at the hulks, huge rotten structures moored stern to prow. Even from the shore I could see that their barrelled sides were mottled with mould and slime. Their masts were cut to stumps and flapped with lines of washing, their hulls blighted with makeshift structures – platforms, galleries, and additional rooms – giving them a diseased appearance, like a row of bloated carcasses bobbing in the dirty waters. What horrors might lie within? I would, never find out, for in the event I was taken to the Surrey House of Correction instead, as were all women condemned to transportation. I knew Goblin would not be so lucky.
At the House of Correction we were put in solitary cells so that we would have time to contemplate our sins. At mealtimes we were brought out, but we were made to wear a closed bonnet, the sides of which covered our faces so that we might not see our neighbour, nor talk to anyone. I had been told by the magistrate that I would have to endure three months of this, but we had hardly to wait three weeks before we learned we were to be taken aboard the
Norfolk, a transport ship bound for Botany Bay.
I had never been on a ship before, had never been further than Prior’s Rents, Mr Day’s Blacking Factory or the House of Correction, and the prospect of leaving everything I was familiar with to travel to the other side of the world filled me with dread. I was used to dirt and meanness and vice, and yet I knew another world existed – one of light and order and safety. I had dreamed I might one day escape to it — could I not read and write and keep accounts? Could I not speak like a lady and ape their fancy way? I had only ever known London, and as bad as the Rents had been I had always had some hope. What hope might there be once I was trapped in the belly of a transport ship? I imagined a cramped and crowded space, pestilent and cruel, echoing with misery as it crossed the clamorous seas. What I was to find was a thousand times worse.
Chapter Nineteen
As we turned in at Fishbait Lane I sensed immediately that something was wrong. The door to the apothecary was open – not an unusual occurrence, especially if Gabriel had made some sulphur pills. If the room was not well ventilated the smell inside was like Hades itself. And yet I knew its windows intimately, and all the shapes and shadows beyond. Something was definitely amiss.
‘Gabriel?’ I leaped out of the hansom, the bag of camera plates I carried swinging against my legs. Behind me, Will struggled with the camera box.
The apothecary was in disarray. The poison drawer where I had concealed the skull was open, as were all the others along the wall. Jars had been taken down and set randomly about the place as shelves and cupboards were searched. Sacks of hops and burdock had been kicked aside, the baskets containing bunches of lavender, long strings of cleavers, dried plantain and chickweed had been pulled out and dumped one on top of the other. The shelves that contained my recipe and prescription ledgers, my books on anatomy and physiology, materia medica, botany and various pharmacopoeias, were ransacked, the contents flung across the floor in a fan of spreadeagled pages and trampled covers. My father’s botanical notebook, which he had kept since he was an apprentice, lay face down, its cover bearing the unmistakable imprint of a dirty, street-soiled heel. Dr Rutherford’s phrenology ledger was gone.
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