Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  Miss Green was sitting on the couch next to another attendant, and as they went past she called out in an affronted tone.

  “I beg your pardon, I do beg your pardon.”

  Peg hesitated, not sure what transgression had occurred.

  “Bow to her,” said Mrs. Foster and bobbed in the other woman’s direction.

  Peg had already curtsied to Miss Green twice as they passed her in the corridor but she did so again. However, the other woman was not satisfied.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said in an even more indignant voice. The attendant stood up quickly and interposed herself between them.

  “I think it’s time for you to write your letters, madam. Her Majesty relies on you.”

  She led her away to a desk at the far side of the room. Miss Green was well into middle age but she had styled her hair into side ringlets more suitable for a young woman. She was wearing an out-of-fashion dress of green and blue check taffeta. The bodice was tight and the full skirt was pulled back into a bustle with a drape of blue ruffles that cascaded into a long train.

  “Poor woman,” said Mrs. Foster. “She gets most upset if she thinks she’s been slighted.”

  “What did I do wrong?”

  “I don’t know, dear. She’s quite changeable on the matter.”

  Mrs. Stratton, the woman Peg had talked to in the bath, was sitting alone on the window bench. She was oddly dressed in a one-piece loose garment of brown holland. It had legs like a man’s trousers and was fastened at the ankles and wrists.

  “Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Foster. “May I introduce Mrs. Eakin?”

  The woman turned her head but gave no sign of recognition.

  “I believe we’ve met,” said Peg.

  Mrs. Stratton nodded. “Yes, of course. Do you have children?”

  Peg recoiled. “I told you yesterday that I did.”

  “They’re all dead, I assume. Murdered no doubt.”

  She was saved from answering by Mrs. Foster, who pulled at her arm.

  “Come on, my dear. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Stratton.” She patted Peg’s hand. “Don’t mind her. She has ten fine healthy children, seven of them boys, but she fancies they’re all dead and that her husband murdered them.” She lowered her voice. “It’s been brought on by the change. Poor thing, her flushings are very bad.”

  “Why is she wearing that peculiar outfit?”

  “That’s what they call an untidy suit. She must be in one of her bad spells. She’s worse than any baby during those times. Wipes her food all over herself. Not to mention her you-know-what.”

  “How long has she been in the – in here?” Peg couldn’t bring herself to say the word “asylum.”

  “Not that long. She came in last March.” Mrs. Foster continued. “She probably should be on the second floor with the really bad patients. It’s not nearly as nice as our floor. They don’t have any singing or dancing and nobody is allowed sweets.” Suddenly, she stroked Peg’s cheek. “You don’t want to go down there, my dear.”

  Peg involuntarily moved away from her touch. “I have no intention of doing so.”

  As they turned back toward the fireplace, the door opened and Miss Bastedo, the matron, and two nurses came in. All the attendants stood up in deference and one or two of the patients followed suit. Miss Bastedo was a tall woman, mature and strong featured. Like the rest of the staff, she wore a plain dress of blue wool but she omitted the apron and the cap. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She began her tour of the room, chatting to the patients as she went. Her assistants walked quietly behind her.

  Peg could feel her heart beating faster as she approached. She felt as if she had gone backward to her own girlhood and this was one of the mistresses of the orphanage. Unexpectedly, Mrs. Foster dropped her arm and wandered off in the direction of the hearth, leaving her stranded.

  Miss Bastedo halted in front of Peg. “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Eakin? The nurse tells me you are settling down quite nicely.”

  “Indeed I am, thank you.”

  “I heard you ate a hearty breakfast this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  Peg had been ravenous and she’d devoured two servings of ham and toast.

  “You wouldn’t take your tonic though.”

  “No, ma’am. I did not feel the need.”

  “You really must take it. You will feel so much better. All of the other ladies do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The matron’s expression was kind. “I understand how new everything must seem. I know you have been very frightened. Tonight, I will come by myself and give you the tonic. And just so you will know it is perfectly safe, I will even have some myself. I could do with it these days. Will that be more acceptable to you?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Peg had been afraid the tonic contained sedatives and she couldn’t bear the drowsy, helpless state they induced.

  One of the assistants came forward and said something to the matron.

  “Ah, yes. Before your marriage you had the occupation of dressmaker, I understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We encourage our ladies to do some simple occupation while they’re with us. It calms the nerves. We have a wonderful sewing room here. Would you like to do something? Embroidery, if you wish. Or we are always in need of garments.”

  “I would like that, ma’am.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps on Friday, then, you can go to the sewing room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I think you can have day clothes tomorrow. You will have to make do with what the asylum provides for now, but I will send a message to your family to bring in your own clothes.”

  She was about to move on but Peg reached out and caught her sleeve. Both assistants tensed but Miss Bastedo stayed, looking at her calmly. Peg let her go.

  “I was wondering if anybody has been to see me.”

  “Not yet. On the whole we prefer to see our patients settled in before they have visitors. Are you anxious to see your husband?”

  Peg was quite aware that, in spite of the pleasantness of Miss Bastedo’s manner, like Shelby, she was watching for any signs of delusions or unnatural behaviour. But she wanted to scream out, No! Don’t let him near me. Don’t let any of them near me. Instead, she bowed her head.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Foster had wandered back and the matron greeted her warmly.

  “I see you’ve been taking good care of our new arrival.”

  The old lady beamed. “I most certainly have. She’s my dear friend. We were just about to go for a walk down the corridor.”

  “Very good. And I must continue with my rounds. Good afternoon to you both.”

  She moved away and Mrs. Foster took Peg’s arm.

  “My dear, you are trembling. Are you cold?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am rather.”

  There was another attendant sitting by the door. She was round featured and rather jolly looking.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Foster, Mrs. Eakin. Where are you going?”

  “Just for a turn down the corridor and back,” answered Mrs. Foster. “Matron approves.”

  “Very well. But don’t be gone too long, will you?”

  “That’s Wylie,” said Mrs. Foster as they went outside. “She’s a good lassie; never has a cross word for anyone.”

  They began to walk down the corridor. There were no other patients out there except for one of the charity inmates who was sweeping the floor. She was quite elderly and bent and, as they passed, Peg heard her cough so hard, she had to stop what she was doing and lean on her broom.

  “She sounds consumptive,” she whispered to Mrs. Foster.

  “Oh, she is, my dear. That’s Effie Callahan. She was quite all right when she came in here but she caught the consumption last year from another patient. She’ll probably be gone by spring, you mark my words.”

  They walked by her but s
he didn’t look up.

  “Who was it you wanted to see, my dear? Oh, don’t be surprised. Nothing escapes me, especially where my friends are concerned. I myself only want my daughter. She is such a love. She is married now with her own family and she cannot visit as often as she would like. My husband, Mr. Foster, doesn’t approve and hardly ever comes.”

  She reached up and pinched Peg’s cheek. “You can tell me.”

  But she couldn’t. Her protestations only got her into trouble. A dog that barked and bit was tied up and rendered helpless. It was the silent cat who moved in the darkness that remained free.

  “How many grandchildren do you have?” she asked, and Mrs. Foster was diverted and chatted to her merrily until they reached the end of the corridor. Here, there was a pair of double doors. Mrs. Foster made to turn back.

  “We can’t go through there.”

  “Why not?”

  “It leads onto the verandah and we’re only supposed to be there in warm weather.”

  Peg tried the door and it wasn’t locked. Mrs. Foster dithered. “We’ll get into trouble.”

  “Don’t worry. If anybody scolds, I’ll tell them it was entirely my idea.”

  “I’ll wait here then. I’m not allowed.”

  Peg pushed open the door and stepped through. The semicircular verandah was quite large and roofed but otherwise open. She drew in her breath sharply. Her flannel wrapper and nightgown were little protection against the chill air. She walked over to the far side and peered through the bars. In the distance, the pewter-coloured lake was hardly distinguishable from the sky. Below her stretched the sodden garden, denuded now of all vegetables. There was a thin plume of smoke coming from the chimney of the gardener’s house and the hominess of it made her want to weep. She pushed up her sleeve and thrust her bare arm through the bars and held it there while the rain wet her skin.

  “I don’t know what will happen to me if you don’t come. Please don’t leave me here,” she whispered.

  “Mrs. Eakin? We should be getting back.”

  Mrs. Foster had the door partly open and was peering in anxiously. Peg turned.

  “I’m coming.” She returned to her companion. “There, you see, a little air has done me wonders.”

  In fact, she was shaking uncontrollably. Mrs. Foster took one of her hands in hers and chafed it briskly.

  “My dear, you’re so cold. And look at your slippers. They’re quite wet. Let’s go back to the fire.”

  She looked into Peg’s face, her eyes knowing.

  “I heard you say something. Were you praying?”

  Peg gave a wry smile. “Yes, I suppose I was.”

  “That’s good, dear. I myself pray all the time.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE MOOD AT THE STATION WAS SUBDUED. Everybody felt bad about Wicken, who had been well liked. The discussions were ongoing, but most of the constables were resigned to the verdict and the inexplicable nature of the human mind. Murdoch retired to the cubicle behind the tea room that served as his office. He wasn’t in the mood for talking. Mrs. Wicken’s devastation haunted him. She had left immediately after the verdict had been delivered and he hadn’t had a chance to speak to her again. Mary Ann Trowbridge had departed quickly as well and he hoped she had somebody to comfort her.

  With a sigh, he turned to his battered metal filing cabinet. He should look over his old reports at least, see if he could follow up on anything. He took out the folder labelled Piersol, which was a charge of embezzlement against a young clerk who worked for an insurance company. It was a complicated case and Murdoch had to admit he didn’t much care about it. Piersol was underpaid and overworked and if he syphoned off some of the considerable profits of the company, good for him. Before Murdoch could go any further with these thoughts, there was a tap outside. His cubicle was too small for a proper door, so visitors had to signal their presence by knocking on the wall. Through the reed curtain, he could see the outline of Sergeant Seymour.

  “Come in.”

  Seymour pushed through into the tiny space.

  “Thought you could use a spot of tea.” He was carrying a mug, which he held out to Murdoch.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Murdoch took the mug and sipped at the hot brew.

  “Ow.”

  “Will, you’d better get that tooth looked at. Your jaw is all swollen.”

  “Yrr, tea’sot.”

  The sergeant smiled at him. “Listen, it’s quiet here this afternoon. I’ll book you out early. Go over and see Brodie.”

  “He’s a butcher.”

  “Maybe, but he does his job.”

  The hot drink had set up such a clamour in Murdoch’s mouth that he could hardly sit still.

  “Come on, Will. You can’t keep putting it off.”

  “Yes, I can,” said Murdoch, trying to grin.

  But the sergeant prevailed and he soon found himself setting off along Wilton Street in search of a dentist, any dentist other than Brodie.

  A chill wind was blowing in from the lake and the sky was grey, sunless, threatening more rain to come. He wrapped his scarf around his face. Are you a miserable coward or not? he said to himself, and the answer was a loud Yes.

  He remembered passing a dentist’s office not too far from the station on Wilton Street and he decided to try there first. His feet had kept moving and he was now standing in front of a dry-goods shop. Just to the right of the window was a green door that looked newly painted. A shiny brass plaque announced DR. F. STEVENS, DENTIST. 2ND FLOOR. He hesitated. Well, at the least he could look at the place, determine if it looked decent. No blood and discarded teeth on the floor. He opened the door and stepped into a narrow hall which led to a steep flight of stairs. The walls were a cheery yellow tint and the oilcloth floor covering was a flowered pattern. Everything appeared to be well swept and clean. So far so good. Slowly, he mounted the stairs. At the top was a small landing with another green door and another plaque that said PLEASE ENTER. Murdoch paused and touched his sore tooth with the tip of his tongue. The resulting jolt moved him to open the door. He poked his head around. In front of him was a tiny room with just enough space for a desk and three straight-backed chairs lined up against the wall. A pretty young woman was seated at the desk and at his entrance she rewarded his courage with a welcoming smile.

  “Good afternoon, do come in.”

  She was wearing a sober blue dress with a starched white apron over it and her auburn hair was pinned up beneath a stiff white cap.

  “You’re here to see the doctor, I presume?”

  Murdoch mumbled. “Yes, bad toothache.”

  She looked at him sympathetically. “I can see your jaw is swollen. But never mind, Dr. Stevens will have you right as rain before you know it.”

  She stood up and came over to him. “Let me take your things. It’s another nasty day, isn’t it?”

  She hung his hat and his coat on a brass coat stand. Murdoch added the muffler and stood awkwardly waiting. There was some kind of telephone board on the desk and she sat down, plugged in a wire, and leaned closer to the mouthpiece.

  “A patient here to see you, Doctor. A Mr.…?” She looked up.

  “Murdoch, William Murdoch.”

  She repeated that into the telephone, then held the receiver to her ear. Murdoch heard crackling as the invisible doctor replied. She gave a smile, so quickly suppressed, he wondered what the man had said. He perched on one of the chairs while she took out a large ledger.

  “I just need your name, address, and occupation.”

  He gave her the information.

  “Oh, my, a detective. We haven’t had one in here before. It must be exciting work.”

  “Sometimes.” He wasn’t up to explaining all the different shades of liveliness that his job entailed.

  Suddenly, he noticed a shelf behind the desk. Sitting on it was a glass box, inside of which was what looked like a set of teeth. He got up and went closer to investigate. The young woman smiled.<
br />
  “Those are an old set of dentures. Dr. Stevens collects them. They are what we call ‘Waterloo’ teeth. The back molars are made from ivory but the front teeth were taken from the corpses at the Battle of Waterloo. They were very popular as they are so natural looking. They’re glued to a copper plate.”

  “Must have been hard to eat with those things. How did they stay in?”

  “There is a little spring at the back. But you’re right, they would be quite uncomfortable and we believe they were only worn for show. Special occasions. I suppose you had to eat as best you could with your gums. Nowadays we have vulcanised rubber that we use for the plate. Much better. People can have all those troublesome teeth removed and hardly know the difference.”

  Murdoch thought her glance fell to his lips as if sizing him up as a prospect but just then the door opposite opened and Dr. Stevens came into the waiting room. He too seemed very young and Murdoch’s stomach quailed. He had hoped for an elderly man with much experience who knew what to do, who wouldn’t hurt any more than necessary. Stevens looked to be barely into his mid-twenties. He was tall, clean shaven, with dark-brown hair trimmed close to his head. Seeing Murdoch he stretched out his hand and smiled, revealing perfectly white and even teeth. Murdoch supposed that was a good advertisement and he wondered if they were real. Weakly, he shook hands.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’ve got a bad toothache.” He jabbed his finger in the air, indicating the side of his jaw.

  “Ah. Come this way, we’ll have a look.”

  The nurse gave a reassuring nod and Murdoch followed the dentist through to the adjoining room. This was larger, with deep windows on two sides. Even with this much light, the afternoon was so gloomy that all the wall sconces had to be lit. In the far corner was a Chinese screen of black lacquer, hiding who knows what instruments of torture. There were two tall oaken cabinets flanking the door. However, what dominated the room was The Chair. It was on a pedestal and stood dead centre.