‘If any woman were unfortunate enough to find herself affianced to you, I’d buy her the bloody arsenic myself!’
We lapsed into uncomfortable silence until the carriage arrived, and our farewells were muted.
Miles wasn’t just an easy target for a constabulary eager to sweep a case under the carpet, I thought. His arrest was very convenient for someone, and I was determined to find out who.
I retired early, and sought refuge in my room away from my mother’s frown and my uncle’s temper. Sometimes it felt that this was the only place I could really breathe, and not just because Agnes had removed the whalebone trappings I wore beneath my dress.
I was brushing out my hair when the thought occurred to me – somewhere between the seventy-fourth stroke and the seventy-fifth – and I moved to the bookcase and ran my fingers across the spines of my library. Novels, all of them. The less savoury textbooks were hidden in a trunk beneath my bed, along with some of the more salacious titles. Women were taking their first steps into a new world on the page as well as in lecture halls, and when I read these books, I felt less alone. My finger alighted on what it was looking for – the dog-eared copies of the Strand magazine, and beautiful bound editions of the books themselves, all telling the tales of detective and faithful assistant.
Arthur Conan Doyle, too, had studied at Edinburgh, and had drawn inspiration from the same iconoclastic Professor Bell who had inducted Merchiston in the art of deduction. I had devoured these stories avidly, and now I was learning from the master himself, if only second-hand. Did my professor fancy himself Mr Holmes or Mr Watson? And where did I fit into the plot? I would not be a damsel in distress or a helpmeet, even though he could certainly do with my help. He blundered around, putting people’s backs up when all it took was a light touch and a genteel manner. He would have the whole thing ruined if it were left up to him and his colleagues in the constabulary. My upbringing might have caused me to stand out in the slums, but here I fitted in; not perfectly – I had never done that – but if I was a radical eccentric, I was at least their radical eccentric. And a bluestocking intellectual with pretensions towards doctoring could be excused the sorts of intrusive questions that a polite society lady would never voice.
Perhaps, I realised, the strange in-betweenness of my life had some value after all.
I pulled out a blank composition book and began to take notes. This, I thought, was where I had gone wrong in investigating Lucy’s death. I had mulled it over, stewed on it, but I had never thought to take a step back and make a cool analysis of the facts.
But it was no use dwelling on the past. Two people lay dead and one had been wrongfully accused. Perhaps I could atone for my mistakes by bringing the real killer to justice.
Chapter 22
The prison sat in the shadow of Calton Hill, overlooking the city. I must have passed by it a hundred times as I travelled across the North Bridge, but had paid it scant attention, preferring to gaze at the squat majesty of the castle or the craggy green-grey peak of Arthur’s Seat. But there it was, less than fifteen minutes’ walk from the station and the hustle and bustle of Princes Street. It somehow loomed larger than other buildings nearby, with a threatening grandeur of its own that rivalled the castle’s. I knew that its south side looked out over Holyrood Park and the bottom of the Royal Mile next to a precipitous cliff edge that seemed as though it might crumble at any minute.
My carriage passed by the grand building of the North British Hotel and the General Post Office before making the gradual ascent up Regent’s Road past the burial ground. I had no idea what to expect, or if they would even admit me. Miles was awaiting trial, but surely he should be allowed some privileges? He was not, despite what the police and public opinion would have me believe, a convicted murderer yet.
I was taking a risk coming here. Even Elisabeth didn’t know where I was, and Alison Thornhill had taken little convincing that I had a terrible migraine and needed to go home. She said I looked pale, and I suppose she had been right – something about entering into the lion’s den, a building crammed full of the most dangerous men and women in Edinburgh, terrified me.
And yet if I was scared, with all the wickedness I had seen in my life so far, how much more frightened must Miles be?
The guard at the door gave me a searching look, and I felt horribly guilty all of a sudden. The thought of setting foot inside, perhaps never to be allowed out again, welled up inside me with mounting hysteria, and I struggled to remain composed.
‘My fiancé is here awaiting trial. Could I be permitted to see him, even just for a moment?’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
I shook my head, viciously pinching the inside of my wrist to bring tears to my eyes. ‘I don’t know how any of this works. I can’t believe that he could be accused of something so awful. He’s a good man, sir, I promise.’
He shook his head sadly, clearly thinking I was some poor deceived soul who had been duped by a charming smile.
‘If he was that good, he wouldnae be in here, miss.’
‘Please,’ I begged, finding that tears sprang to my eyes unbidden now. I wasn’t leaving without at least letting Miles know he had a friend who believed in his innocence. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ I asked, hoping that whatever bribe he would be satisfied with was financial rather than physical. ‘His name is Miles Greene. Even if you could tell him that Sarah visited, it might bring him some hope.’
He sighed. ‘Wait through here, lassie. I’ll see what I can do.’
I sat on a hard wooden bench in an imposing hallway. Presumably this was not the area where the resident miscreants were processed. Eventually the guard returned with a grim expression, and I realised that in the interim he must have been apprised of Miles’ crimes.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, hen?’
I nodded. ‘I know what he’s been accused of, but he’s innocent. Even if . . .’ My voice broke. ‘Even if he’s found guilty at the trial, I can’t let him rot here thinking he doesn’t have a soul in the world who cares about him.’
My new friend nodded. ‘For your sake, I hope he’s found innocent.’ He and I both knew, however, that the prospect was an unlikely one.
He guided me through a maze of corridors, each one darker and more forbidding than the last. The air reeked of damp and my feet ached with the cold seeping in from the stone floors, while the clanking of the keys on the chain at his waist made me think of Jacob Marley’s ghost.
We stopped at the first locked door and he glanced back at me. I nodded silently.
It was the noise that hit me first, rather than the smell. That came moments later, and turned my stomach when it did, but the noise would haunt my dreams for months to come. I thought that I had seen hopelessness in the slums of the city, that I had come face to face with the most desperate and pitiful a person could get, but the men’s voices had a hollowness to them that belied whatever bravado lay in their words. These men were rats scrabbling around in a cage, biting and scratching each other because their captors were untouchable, fighting out of boredom and a need to fill their last weeks or months with whatever activity they could.
How had Miles survived even a day here? The answer came after we wound our way even deeper into the heart of the prison and it was as I had expected: he had barely survived at all.
The man in front of me was a stranger. A week of whatever passed for food here had begun to melt the puppy fat from his bones, and I could see the echoes of his brother and parents in his face. One eye was bloodshot and red-rimmed and the other was so swollen and bruised it could barely open at all.
I whirled around to face the warden. ‘Has he been seen by a doctor?’
A dry, rattling sound came from the cell. ‘Now I know I’m not dreaming. Only you would walk in here and give me a diagnosis before you’ve even said hello.’
‘The prison doctor patches them up, miss, but if the men didn’t get into fights then they wouldnae need treatment. I’
m sure the other fellow looks as bad.’
Somehow I doubted that.
‘I think I managed to get in a hair pull,’ Miles muttered. I had done worse than that scrapping with Gertie when we were children. How could this man really be the main suspect in a murder investigation?
‘Can we have a moment alone?’
The warden shook his head. ‘It’s not safe for me to leave you.’
I turned to Miles. ‘It’s good to see you,’ I said softly.
He tried to smile, and winced as his cut lip split open again. ‘Is it? I thought you’d be delighted to be rid of me. It’s no secret that you didn’t exactly want this marriage.’
‘Did you kill your father or Clara Wilson?’
‘No, I swear to God, I never touched a hair on her head. They’re saying we were lovers, that we were going to run away together until I threw her over for you. I don’t think I ever said more than two sentences to her since she came to us. I’ve never even . . .’
He broke off, and I reddened as the recollection of exactly what Miles had never done sank in.
‘They must have had some evidence, surely.’
‘They found arsenic and some of Mother’s jewellery among my things. I don’t know how they got there, but no one will listen to me.’
‘I believe you.’ The relief on his face transformed it, and I saw for the first time someone I could truly care about.
‘Do you have any idea who could have done this? Was there anything suspicious you noticed in the days leading up to Wilson’s death?’
His expression clouded. ‘Did someone send you here to ask these questions?’
I felt a wave of remorse. He had been so delighted to have a visitor, to hear that I believed in him, and now all I wanted to do was talk about the reason he was occupying a cramped, stinking cell.
‘I’m here of my own accord, Miles. I don’t believe you killed Wilson or your father, and I mean to prove it.’
He looked defeated. Perhaps I was heartless, not giving him the tenderness he so clearly craved, but what I could offer was better: the possibility of freedom.
‘Mother was being blackmailed. She started receiving letters that frightened her, and then some of her jewellery went missing. She always wore her garnet and pearl necklace to the opera – it was an anniversary present from Father – but the last time we went she wore her emeralds instead and flew into a rage if anyone commented on it. Father asked her to wear a sapphire and diamond set to a dinner party and she refused because it didn’t go with her new dress, when I’d heard her say before that she’d had it designed specifically to go with it.’
‘So that’s how Wilson got the jewels.’
‘Whenever I tried to talk to Mother about it, she changed the subject. Father ran a tight ship – he went through the household accounts with a fine-tooth comb, so she could hardly have used the housekeeping money – and she didn’t have funds of her own.’ He looked sick. ‘Why didn’t she tell the police about the blackmail? Surely that would exonerate me? I have my own funds; I don’t need her money. I’ll come into the rest of my grandfather’s inheritance when we marry . . .’
He broke off. We both knew how unlikely that ceremony would be now.
I needed to change the subject – but more than that, I needed answers. ‘Was it a happy marriage?’
He shrugged. ‘Happy enough. Father was away a lot until he left the army – not that he ever really left. They grew closer after that.’ He paused. ‘You can’t be implying . . .’
‘Your mother has syphilis,’ I said bluntly. There was no point in sheltering him from his family’s secrets any more, not while he was paying for them. ‘Your father didn’t.’
He was quiet for a few moments, and then he smiled. There was no humour in it. ‘Out of the two of them, I wouldn’t have thought he’d be the faithful one.’
‘You aren’t surprised?’ I had been, and I’d wager I knew more about the ways of the world than he did, prison or not.
‘Alisdair has a taste for married women. Any illusions I might have had were shattered when I walked in on him and my mother’s friend Mrs Stewart, engaged in . . . honestly, I’m still not sure what it was they were doing, but I remember it didn’t look comfortable. The next night she and her husband joined us for dinner and you’d think there was no one in the world she loved more than him.’
The guard cleared his throat behind me. I couldn’t stay, but I couldn’t leave Miles without some reassurance.
‘All we need to do is create enough doubt that the courts rule it not proven. It’s a stain on your character, but better that than an early grave. And then . . .’ I couldn’t formally break off the engagement now. Perhaps leaving him with hope was cruel, but he had so little of it that surely I could spare some? ‘Then we’ll see.’
‘Miss!’ the guard’s voice had a warning tone. ‘I cannae let you stay any longer. Say your goodbyes or you’ll be in the women’s cells for causing a disturbance.’
Miles looked at me desperately. ‘Will you visit again?’
‘I won’t need to,’ I promised. ‘The next time I see you, you’ll be a free man.’
And that, I reflected as I retraced my steps to daylight and freedom, would be a problem for the future.
As I stumbled out into the early-afternoon light, even the drizzle of rain and the dark clouds promising worse on the way weren’t enough to challenge the buoyancy of my spirits.
Chapter 23
Returning home from lectures the next day, my mood had lifted a little and I was resolute. I at least had new information, and Miles knew that someone believed him. But time was of the essence. Even if he could be acquitted, I was not sure he had the constitution to make it as far as the trial. I would not have his death on my conscience.
If I had known what was awaiting me, I might not have felt so sanguine. My mother sat in the parlour, gripping a note so tightly in her fingers that it had torn slightly. I recognised Aurora’s handwriting, and a sinking suspicion that my previous day’s adventure had not gone unnoticed settled upon me.
‘Sarah, come here immediately.’ Her voice was like ice, colder even than the Scottish winter outside.
I wanted to turn tail and flee in the other direction, but my body obeyed her automatically.
‘I have had the most disturbing letter from Aurora Greene, alleging that you visited Miles in prison yesterday. Tell me that this has been a misunderstanding.’
I shook my head. ‘He is still my fiancé, Mother.’
‘He has been arrested on suspicion of murder. And after all your protestations, I didn’t think that you would mourn the fact quite so deeply. What possessed you to go to such a place? I truly thought you had plumbed the depths of depravity with your behaviour, first in London, then cavorting in the slums with those ghastly women who call themselves doctors – but now this. Is there any vice you cannot be drawn to? I thought you would learn your lesson here, but I see that my sister has allowed you far too much freedom.’
Across the room, I saw Aunt Emily wince and wondered if she had been the recipient of the same scolding I was to undergo.
‘Aunt Emily didn’t know where I was going. She would never have permitted it.’
‘So you add deceit to your list of sins now? If your aunt can be duped that easily, then perhaps she is not the guardian I thought she was.’
I had complained about Aunt Emily more than my fair share of times to anyone who would listen, but I had leapt to her defence regardless. She could be strict, but I knew that she loved me. And I was wondering if I had ever felt truly loved by the woman in front of me.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Emily. I won’t do it again. I just felt so bad for him . . . He can’t possibly be guilty.’
She gave me a watery smile. ‘I’m afraid the police think differently, dear.’
‘Police! Ladies of our standing do not talk to the police. No, Sarah, I’ve made up my mind. All that nonsense last year is water under the bridge; no one will be talki
ng about it now. I think it’s better that you return home, and I’ve written to your father to tell him so.’
Rage and shock made me still; the thought that she could discard me like a broken doll and then pick me up again when she was bored. ‘Would I be able to study there?’ I fought to keep my voice level, even though I knew the answer.
‘For heaven’s sake, Sarah. You don’t care how this has affected your family one bit, do you? I don’t just mean your appalling behaviour with Mr Beresford, or those outlandish accusations you made to get yourself out of trouble. Running around going to lectures, reading textbooks. And now you’re enrolled at a university. Ladies do not have professions. Our vocation is our house, our home, our children—’
‘And you’ve made such an excellent job of that, haven’t you, Mother?’ I spat. ‘Tell me, has Gertie forgiven you for sending me away?’ The last time I had seen my little sister, she had been near hysterical with crying. No one had explained to her what I had supposedly done, simply that her beloved older sister had been wicked and would no longer be permitted to lodge under our parents’ roof.
She pinched her lips together tightly. ‘Gertrude understands that there are expectations placed on her. She knows that there is one way, and one way only: that a life without a husband is not one worth living.’
Somewhere at the back of my brain, the thought still terrified me. I didn’t know what life as a single woman would look like. Would I be the fast, dissolute hussy of my mother’s imagination, or the tragic, withered spinster of the popular press? The female doctors I had seen working at St Giles’ Infirmary didn’t seem like either. Yet somehow my mother made no distinction between the professional women working inside the clinic and the poor wretches walking the streets outside it.
‘You’re a clever girl, Sarah. You’ll find that running a house-hold is a challenge in itself, balancing the books, managing staff, keeping everything running smoothly.’
‘So smoothly that even my husband doesn’t know how hard I work. Don’t patronise me, Mother – I know I’m clever. Don’t tell me to be modest, or that my value is in my good name or whatever hideous truism you want to trot out now. Any house I keep will be mine and mine alone. Any staff I manage will be in a hospital. And if you’d wanted me to have children, you shouldn’t have let those madhouse butchers carve out my ovaries.’
The Unquiet Heart Page 16