Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  So draws to a close this most difficult of days. I had little patience with any of my customers today, which I suppose is not surprising. There were five all together wanting to marry before the year is out. One of the women showed clearly that she was already with child, but she and the prospective groom dabbled in each other’s palms as if the prize was still to be had. The men smack their lips when they name the wedding date. You can practically see their members quivering in their breeches. Most of the girls, for that is what they are, act coy but I can always tell the ones that are pretending. Who are as eager for a screw as their men. There are more of that kind than we think.

  Jarius paused. He’d understood at once when Peg came into his room that it was not from desire for him. He hated her even more that she thought he would be brought down by such a pitiful display. He was not the least like the eager men he saw in his office every day.

  They said she fought like a trapped vixen when Ferrier came. She had to be sedated. “A needle right into her arse” was how Frank put it, in his usual delicate way. They intend to keep her in the asylum for several days to assess her state.

  He stopped writing and wiped his pen with a piece of felt. The clock on his dressing table chimed the hour. He heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Augusta was going to bed. She paused and he knew she was considering coming in to talk to him, but she thought better of it.

  Father has stayed in his room all day. I went to see him before supper but he had little to say. “A peck of trouble,” was all he would offer. I am sure he is sick of her but who knows if that will stop him rutting. It is strange to write this but I am quite exhilarated. Tired yes, but excited. It seems as if I am able to resolve these same troubles.

  He had been out of mourning for one month for my wretched stepmother when he claims to have met up with the tart. However, I strongly suspect he was dallying with her long before. And she of course would have no respect for his state. The sooner married, the better for her. A chance for his money.

  The memory of that first meeting was bitter to him. Peg, small and plain, but dressed in a cream silk and lace gown for her wedding day. His father doting over her, kissing her on the mouth without heed to anyone else. Her child, silent and watchful, ugly.

  He blotted his page and closed the ledger. There was a carafe of water and a glass on his desk and he poured out some water, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat into his handkerchief as if he had a foul taste in his mouth.

  For a moment he wavered, wanting to go to bed but his need was too great, overriding the desire for sleep. He took up his lamp and left his room quietly, hurrying down the backstairs as if he were a harried servant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SHE WAS TRYING TO WAKE UP but her eyelids were stuck together and she couldn’t open them. She’d been crying, she knew that; the salty taste of tears was caught in her nostrils. She could hear her mother talking to somebody, a man. “Shut her up,” he said. “Give her something to shut her up else she’ll get what for.” Her mother was clad only in her drawers, her breasts swinging as she bent over the bed. The man was naked. “I did. She’ll be out in a minute,” said her mother. But Peg fought against the weight of sleep until she could do so no longer.

  She opened her eyes and lay still, listening. Where was she? She could hear the sounds of other people, a soft snore, a bed creaking as somebody turned over. She was in a narrow bed that felt hard, the sheets rough. She wasn’t at Dr. Barnardo’s – she was too old – nor at home with Harry. The bed wasn’t the soft luxuriant feather mattress that he loved.

  Think. What has happened?

  Then, as suddenly as if the stereoscope had come into focus, she found the details.

  I’m not married to Harry any more. He died. I married Mr. Nathaniel Eakin.

  As fast as she registered that knowledge, she felt everything she was trying to keep at bay rush toward her, bringing such desolation the pain was almost physical.

  I have been committed to the lunatic asylum. I have been here since yesterday.

  The occupant in the adjoining bed, Mrs. Mallory, turned, muttering some unintelligible words. Peg waited to see if she had woken up, but she hadn’t. She was a farmer’s wife who had been in the asylum for several months suffering from mental anxiety. She wouldn’t talk above a whisper and sat in a chair, rocking ceaselessly.

  Over by the window were Miss Anderson, whom she’d met last night in the baths, and Mrs. Foster, an elderly woman who confessed she’d been in the asylum for six years. She knew everyone’s history and was curious to know about Peg. She had insisted on taking her by the arm and leading her down the corridor where the patients were taking a walk before lights out.

  “It’s the change of life that’s affected her,” she said, referring to the farmer’s wife. “You’ve got that to look forward to, dear. It comes to us early in here.”

  Peg knew from her experience in the orphanage that there was always somebody who wanted to befriend the newcomer, somebody who knew the ropes. So she’d been glad to stroll along the corridor with Mrs. Foster, listening to her talk about the other inmates and the attendants.

  “Reid is a good sort but she’s strict. Furness is cold as a frozen cod. Try not to cross her. Oh, there’s poor Miss Green. She thinks she’s related to Her Majesty, a distant cousin or some such. Do give her a nod; she gets very upset if you snub her.”

  Peg wanted to ask Mrs. Foster why she herself was in the asylum but she knew it was best to wait. She’d find out sooner or later.

  She put her hands between her knees to warm them. There was a steam radiator in the room, but there was a strong draft blowing from the window and the cotton quilt on the bed was thin. What time was it? The blinds were lowered, shutting out all light, but she sensed that it was close to morning. There was a night candle on the window sill and it had burned low.

  She felt wide awake now. Ever since she could remember, at times of great distress, she couldn’t sleep. Paradoxically, she felt worse if she was sharing the room or bed with somebody else. The sound of the regular breathing of the sleeper created more and more anxiety. She was awake in a world that slept; she was abnormal in a normal world. When she was in the cottage home, she never dared to wake one of the other girls, afraid of possible anger, and she had slept so badly for weeks that finally the matron had prescribed a daily tonic, convinced that the dark circles underneath Peg’s eyes were from anaemia. Later, when she was married to Harry, desperate, ready to risk wrath if it meant somebody would talk to her, she had awakened him. He was always impatient, didn’t understand, and soon turned away, putting his pillow over his head to shut her out.

  There was a sound from the other bed. She raised her head. Mrs. Foster had gotten out of bed. She trotted over to Mrs. Mallory and opened the door of her bedside cupboard. Then she realised Peg was watching her and she stopped, glancing over her shoulder with a mischievous grin.

  “She had some bonbons,” she whispered. “She won’t eat them and she’s always offering them to me. I was feeling a bit peckish.” She reached in and helped herself to one of the candies, popped it into her mouth, and took another handful.

  “Do you want one?”

  “No, thank you,” said Peg.

  Mrs. Foster scampered back to her own bed and stashed the stolen candy in her own cupboard.

  “Good night, dear.”

  She was so childlike in her pleasure and lack of guilt that Peg smiled. She wanted to go on talking, to engage her, but the older woman immediately pulled up her quilt and turned over.

  Peg curled up tighter, trying to will herself into sleep. She must have been lying like that for a while when she heard the soft creaking of footsteps outside the door. There was a gleam of light through the small window and she heard the key turn in the lock. Somebody came into the room with a lamp, sweeping it back and forth over the beds. The person came nearer to her and she could hear wheezing in the chest. It was the night attendant, Reid. Her skirt rustled as t
he hem dragged on the rush matting. The light became brighter and Peg knew she was standing next to her bed, watching. She rolled over onto her back.

  “Oh dear, Mrs. Eakin, not asleep?”

  “I was, the light woke me.”

  “Try to go back to sleep. It’s not time to get up yet.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Reid.” She closed her eyes obediently, listening as the other woman checked on the remaining occupants. She heard her blow out the night candle, then she left, locking the door behind her.

  Peg sat up and waited until her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, then she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She hitched up her nightgown. When she arrived she had been issued a flannel gown and a grey dressing robe, both too large for her.

  “When you’re feeling better, you can wear your own clothes,” said the matron. “Your gown did need to be laundered,” she added, and Peg knew that she must have been filthy when she’d been admitted.

  Keeping her in nightclothes ensured she was conspicuous and vulnerable. The better you behaved, the better you were treated and the more privileges you got. Peg had soon realised the asylum was run on very similar principles to the orphanage where she’d grown up.

  She went quietly over to the window. The sash was stiff but she managed to push it open. There were bars that smelled metallic and they were cold and wet with rain. She knew she was on the third floor and, as she sniffed the damp night air, she caught the smell of livestock. She must be facing the south side of the building, which overlooked the vegetable gardens and stables. Mrs. Foster had told her proudly that the asylum tried to be as self-sufficient as possible and that they raised pigs and a few milch cows.

  “The bacon’s really quite excellent,” said the old lady with glee.

  Suddenly, Miss Anderson sat bolt upright.

  “Good morning,” she said to Peg in a loud voice. “How are you, Annabel?”

  Miss Anderson called everybody Annabel, which was apparently the name of the family household maid, long since dead.

  “I’m very well, thank you.”

  Miss Anderson burst into song.

  “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war …”

  She was well launched into the first verse when the two other women in the room both woke up. Mrs. Foster called out, “Please be quiet over there. I’m trying to sleep.”

  Miss Anderson was oblivious and began to sing louder. “With the cross of Jesus going on before.”

  Mrs. Foster glared, then flung back her covers and jumped out of bed. Before Peg realised what she intended, she ran over to Miss Anderson and attempted to put a hand over her mouth.

  “I’ll make you be quiet, then, you silly canary.”

  The older woman grabbed at the hand across her mouth, trying to pry the fingers loose. Mrs. Foster wasn’t big but she was much more vigorous than her victim. She started to push her back into the pillows.

  “I’ll shut you up once and for all.”

  Her ferocity was so alarming, Peg had to do something. She rushed over and tried to pull her away.

  “Stop it! Come on now, stop it.”

  The woman let go and turned her fury on Peg. Her fingernails hadn’t been cut for some time and the claws aimed straight for Peg’s cheeks. She would have inflicted a serious injury, but Peg managed to grab her by the wrists and keep her at bay.

  Next to them, Miss Anderson was trilling at full voice. “Forward into battle, see His banners go.”

  Mrs. Foster was trying to get at Peg’s face, spitting at her and kicking. Her toenails were likewise untrimmed and she scratched Peg’s shins badly. Suddenly, the door opened and Reid swept in.

  “What’s going on in here? Stop that at once. Mrs. Foster! Let go of her, Mrs. Eakin.”

  Peg grunted, too intent on protecting herself to answer. The attendant caught hold of Mrs. Foster’s arms from behind and, quickly and expertly, spun her around and two paces back.

  “Mrs. Eakin, please get into bed,” she managed to call over her shoulder. Panting, Peg retreated and at that moment another attendant who had heard the noise came hurrying into the room. Reid was holding Mrs. Foster tightly but she was bucking and struggling like a wild creature. Miss Anderson sang on. The second attendant went straight over to her, took out a strip of linen from her pocket and in one swift movement, bound it around Miss Anderson’s mouth. She made no attempt to remove the gag, but continued to sing in a much muffled way, staring at the ongoing struggle between Reid and Mrs. Foster. Abruptly, the fight stopped; Mrs. Foster went limp and sagged in the attendant’s arms. Reid spoke to her soothingly.

  “That’s my good girl. Shush now.”

  The fourth occupant of the room, Mrs. Mallory, had covered her head with her quilt but she was moaning to herself. Reid led Mrs. Foster back to her bed.

  “Are you going to be good, now? I don’t have to tie you down, do I?”

  “No, dear, not me.” She pointed at Peg. “It’s her who’s the troublemaker. Tie her down.”

  Peg shrank back, shaking her head. “Please, I was just trying to help Miss Anderson. Mrs. Foster was hurting her.” She spoke in her best English manner. “She began to sing and Mrs. Foster got angry.”

  “And why shouldn’t I?” interjected the other woman. “That’s the third time this week she’s started bellowing and woken us all up. Listen to poor Mrs. Mallory over there.”

  The two attendants exchanged glances and Mrs. Reid went over to Miss Anderson, who immediately became silent.

  “It’s too early to be singing. You’re just being naughty. You can sing after dinner. Now do you promise to be a good girl and go back to sleep?”

  Miss Anderson nodded, her blue eyes wide and bright above the gag. The attendant removed the linen strip from her mouth. She waited until the elderly woman lay down, patted her lightly on the head, and went back to Mrs. Foster’s bed. She brought her face so close their noses were almost touching.

  “You will not move a muscle until morning bell or you will have only bread for breakfast. And tomorrow is Wednesday and it’s ham. You know how much you like ham, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Foster nodded. “I have to use the commode.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s coming fast.”

  Reid sighed. “Very well.” She turned to the other attendant. “Thank you, Mrs. Furness, I think we’ll be all right. I’ll keep her with me until morning.”

  “What about that one?” Furness indicated Peg, talking as if she were invisible.

  “I just want to get back to sleep, if you don’t mind.” She suited her actions to her words and quickly got into bed and under the covers. Her legs were stinging from the scratches but she wasn’t about to add to the trouble by mentioning it.

  Reid, who was the senior of the two, was satisfied, and holding Mrs. Foster by the arm, she led her away to the water closet. Furness wagged her finger in a warning at Peg and followed.

  The room seemed to rock as unsteadily as a dinghy in the wake of a steamer. Peg lay staring at the ceiling.

  Be calm. Think! You’ve got to think!

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE CHAPEL AT HUMPHREY’S FUNERAL HOME was used regularly for coroner’s inquests because the post mortem examination could be easily conducted on the premises. The room was panelled in dark oak with a sober brown carpet and pews. A large portrait of Her Majesty and the prince consort, surrounded by their young children, was hung at the front of the room. Murdoch assumed Mr. Humphrey had chosen this particular reproduction because of the family aspect. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert as a source of parental comfort to the bereaved.

  The chapel could comfortably hold about forty people but there were at least sixty jammed into the room, extra benches having been provided. Word had spread about Wicken’s death and Murdoch also recognised many of the people he had been questioning the previous day. There were four or five constables from the station and Inspector Brackenreid himself was present. He was looking quite disgruntled and Murdo
ch knew he considered Wicken to have brought disgrace to the force and particularly his station. He gave a curt nod as the detective went to take his seat near the front with the other witnesses.

  In the first pew were the thirteen jurors. Murdoch slipped into the aisle seat in the second row and was almost knocked over by the various odours of camphor, violet pomade, and shaving soap. Several of the men had cleaned themselves up and taken out their Sunday-best suits, as befitted their important role in the proceedings.

  Across from him was Oliver’s mother. She was in deep mourning and a heavy crepe veil fell to her shoulders. Her head was bowed and she was very still. She didn’t acknowledge anyone and she seemed alone and friendless, even though there was a woman next to her who Murdoch assumed was a neighbour. She too was in black and he saw her wiping her eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. Mrs. Wicken was not weeping.

  Beside the neighbour was the patrol sergeant Hales, who had to testify, and next to him was a young woman that Murdoch didn’t recognise. She was soberly dressed in a dark grey walking suit and plain black felt hat with a short veil to the chin. He wondered if this was the woman that Wicken had apparently died for. She seemed to be alone and her head was bowed in prayer. He could imagine what an ordeal the inquest was going to be for her.

  The spectators were behaving with respect and there was only a subdued murmur as they waited for the proceedings to start. A table had been placed at the front of the chapel for the coroner and the constable of the court. The side door opened and Crabtree strode in, followed by Mr. Johnson.

  “Oyez! Oyez! Everybody please rise.”