by Paula Paul
Snow frowned, a troubled expression. “I am referring to her mind. It is disturbed.”
“She’s hardly more than a child, and she’s been accused of murder, I should think one would be disturbed.” Nicholas said.
Snow ignored him again as he spoke to Alexandra. “She appears to be hallucinating.”
“Indeed!” Alexandra was now both curious and alarmed.
“Yes. She seems to think young Stirling speaks to her from the grave.”
Alexandra relaxed somewhat. “A common phenomenon when one is grieving.”
“Yes, of course,” Snow said, as if he’d been trying to coax the right answer from her all along. “Perhaps, under the circumstances, you, being a physician, should be allowed to see her.” This time he turned to Nicholas, as if for confirmation that his questionable decision could pass the test of legality.
“Certainly,” Nicholas said. “And I—”
“Will not be allowed to see her,” Snow said.
“But…” Nicholas managed to make that one word sound indignant.
Alexandra put a hand gently on his arm. “Allow me to be alone with her for a few minutes.”
“But…”
“This way, please, Dr. Gladstone.” Snow led Alexandra toward the back of the building and unlocked a door to a large room with two small, narrow windows near the ceiling. It had the musty odor of rodent droppings mixed with the stench of human bodies. There were no individual cells in the country gaol. Instead, all prisoners who were awaiting trial were kept together in one room, where they slept on blankets on the floor. However, since it was mandatory that males and females not be kept together, Elsie was not with the three men who stared at Alexandra with hollow-eyed lechery as she passed through their cell to a narrow, heavy doorway. The short train of her skirts picked up black grime from the dirt floor as she walked.
Snow chose a key from a large ring he wore attached to his belt and unlocked the door. As soon as it was open, Alexandra saw a rat scurry across the small room and disappear into a crevice where the wall joined the floor. The window in this room was little more than a narrow hole mid-way up the wall.
Elsie, who had been lying on a blanket on the bare floor, sat suddenly upright and stared at the two of them with frightened, sleep-blurred eyes. She cringed and seemed to be trying to make herself disappear into the wall just as the rat had.
“Dr. Gladstone wants to talk to you a moment, Elsie,” Snow said in a voice that was not unkind. It was, in fact, devoid of emotion. He stood aside for Alexandra to enter. “I shall wait outside while you examine her,” he said. “But you must not speak of the charges against her. You need only to call out to me when you’re finished.”
When Snow left and the door was closed, Elsie stopped her cowering, and her eyes lost some of their fear, but she remained cautious. “What is it ye wants with me, Miss?”
“I just want to talk to you, Elsie. I see no need for a physical examination.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“First of all, I want to assure you again I had nothing to do with your arrest. I did not lead the constable—”
Elsie interrupted her. “I know that, Miss. I was scairt when I accused you of that. Too scairt to think straight.” There was a long silence while Elsie stared at nothing. Alexandra could hear the sound of her own breathing, but Elsie hardly seemed to be breathing at all.
She dropped her head. “They’ll be hanging me, won’t they, Miss?”
“I don’t know,” Alexandra said. She sat down beside Elsie on the blanket, manipulating her skirts with some difficulty, then unfastened her small ribbon-trimmed hat and leaned her back against the wall. She was mindful of Snow’s warning about not discussing the case, but, she rationalized, she could not properly examine her mental state without discussing it.
Elsie turned her face toward her with a quick movement. “Ye’ll ruin them fancy things yer wearin’.”
“There’s nothing fancy about them, so never mind.” Alexandra had few frocks that could be labeled fancy. Most of her dresses, which Nancy made for her, were of cotton for summer and wool for winter. However, in spite of the fact that Alexandra tried to discourage her for practical reasons, Nancy still insisted on trimming them with pleated or draped overskirts, sometimes gathered into a bustle at the back, and occasionally adding a bit of lace or lawn ruching at the neck or cuffs.
Elsie’s eyes took in Alexandra’s pale green cotton dress with its ivory, dirt-stained underskirt and straw bonnet, which Nancy had trimmed with matching ribbons. There was, for the briefest moment, a look of longing in her eyes.
“Are ye really a doctor, Miss?” she asked, bringing her gaze back to meet Alexandra’s eyes.
“Yes.” Alexandra spoke quietly.
Elsie squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose in a puzzled gesture. “How can that be? I mean, ye bein’ a woman and all?”
“My father taught me.”
“And have you not heard ’tis not proper for a lady like you to be doin’ such things?”
“I’ve heard that, yes.”
There was another long silence until Elsie spoke again, and this time there was a coldness in her voice. “Me own bleedin’ father taught me nothing except the feel of the back of his hand across me jaw. Until I was grown. And then ’twas the feel of his bleedin’ pecker bangin’ away that he taught me.”
Alexandra felt a tightness in her chest and a longing to take the poor child in her arms. In spite of her talk of being grown, she couldn’t be more than fifteen. But she said nothing. She merely kept her eyes on Elsie’s face, inviting her to say more. Elsie looked away.
“Elsie…”
She responded with a hate-hardened laugh, and there was something in her eyes that made her look older than her young, smooth face implied. “Don’t pity me, Miss. Ye think me the only one what got stuck by ’er old man? Well, I ain’t. If ye’ve not learned already, ’tis time ye know. They’s all alike, men is. Wouldn’t give ye a farthing for a single one of ’em, I wouldn’t.”
“Except George Stirling.”
Elsie jerked her head around to look at Alexandra. “What do ye know about Georgie?”
“I know nothing about him, except that he’s dead. You said that yourself that night at Montmarsh.”
Elsie dropped her eyes again. “Aye, ’e’s dead all right.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Seen ’em take his body away with his face gone blue, I did.” She raised her eyes to look at Alexandra. “But I heard ’im calling to me one night, just outside the window ’ere. It was Georgie’s voice callin’ to me from the grave, I’ll tell you that. I’d know that voice if I was in the grave meself.”
Alexandra reached to touch Elsie’s hand, and, to her surprise, Elsie didn’t shrink away. “Elsie, sometimes when we’re grieving—”
This time Elsie did jerk her hand away quickly. “I know what yer thinkin’. Yer thinkin’ I’ve gone loony.”
“I think nothing of the kind, Elsie. It’s just that you should understand that when a person is grieving, she might—”
“’E come back from the grave, ’e did. Come back to warn me.” Elsie’s voice trembled.
Alexandra stood and started to reach a hand toward her again, but thought it best not to risk alarming her. “To warn you of what?”
“To warn me of my death.”
The poor child was frightened by the prospect of hanging, along with grieving for her lover and trying to cope with the scars of her past. It was enough to make anyone slip into madness. Alexandra knew she was beyond any help she could pull from her medical bag.
“Would you like me to ask the parish priest to talk to you? Perhaps he could give you some comfort.”
Elsie gave her a derisive laugh. “’Tis not a bloody priest I’m needin’. What can ’e do for me? No more than Quince, I say.”
“Quince?”
“Aye. Quince. `Quince can ’elp you,’ Georgie says. `Ye must tell ’im I sent ye’, ’e says. ‘And ’ow do ye think I
can talk to Quince,’ says I. `What with me in chokey.’” She glanced at Alexandra. “Sometimes Georgie can be a bit daft.”
“Is this Quince someone you know?” Alexandra asked.
Elsie nodded. “Georgie’s friend. One o’ them no-counts what hangs around the pier. I never liked ’im meself.”
“Then why do you think George would want you to talk to him?” Alexandra asked.
Elsie turned to face her, and some of her premature hardness had been replaced by a look of naiveté. “Why because they swore a blood oath for one to watch out for the other. Like brothers, Georgie said.” Some of the hardness came back into her eyes. “But I say Georgie was a fool to trust ’im. Never trusted ’im meself.”
Alexandra nodded as if she understood. “But if you could talk to Quince, what do you think he would say to you?”
Elsie wrinkled her nose again. “And ’ow would I be knowin’ that?” She fell silent again, then spoke quietly. “But if ye wants to know what I think Georgie would think, it would be that if anybody can get me out of ’ere, ’tis Quince.”
Alexandra kept prodding. “And why do you think that?”
“Because Quince knows things,” Elsie said, still edgy. “’E’s the one what told me that it was the bloody earl what killed Georgie, and ’e knows who killed the earl too.”
Alexandra felt a jolt of surprise mixed with alarm. “Elsie, if you know anything about either of those two deaths, then you must tell Constable Snow.”
“Knows anything?” Elsie looked suddenly alarmed. She backed away from Alexandra. “So that’s what yer doing coming ’ere in yer fine clothes and yer soft voice. Trying to get me to say I done it, are ye? Get away from me.” she screamed.
“That’s not what I meant at all. Please, Elsie.”
“Get out.” Elsie’s scream had reached a loud, high timbre. “Get out, I say. Ye ain’t gettin’ me to say I done something I never done.”
“Is everything all right?” It was Snow’s voice calling from outside the door, and at the same time, Alexandra heard the key rattling in the lock. Then the door burst open and Snow stepped inside. He quickly grabbed Elsie, pinning her arms to her side with his long, sinewy hands, while he looked into her face. “Enough!” It sounded like a bark, and Elsie’s screaming dissolved to a whimper, and then to a wide-eyed, white-faced stare. “I think you best leave, Doctor,” Snow said over his shoulder to Alexandra.
Alexandra started to protest. If she could have just a little more time with Elsie, perhaps she could correct what she had said that got them off on the wrong footing. But she said nothing. Constable Snow was probably right. She should go. Still, it was with a large measure of reluctance that she picked up her bag, carrying it, along with her hat, in her hands.
Nick was waiting for her in the constable’s office. He stood up as soon as he saw her. “What happened? You and the constable were gone for such a long time, I’d begun to think he’d locked you up.”
“What? Oh, no. Of course not.”
Nick gave her an odd look. “You sound distracted.”
“Well…”
“Good lord. She told you something.” Nick looked around as if he was expecting Snow to return at any moment. “Let’s get out of here, and you can tell me what she said.”
“It was just a lot of gibberish, really,” Alexandra said as Nicholas took her arm and led her out of the building. She stopped and turned to look at him. “And why were you so belligerent back there with Constable Snow? Didn’t I tell you there was undoubtedly nothing he could do about the attack on me?”
Nicholas took her arm and started her walking again. “That excuse about the young toughs from Chemlsflord was just too convenient. I can’t help wondering if there’s not another reason why he’s not more aggressive about investigating the attack. And stop trying to change the subject. What did Elsie say?”
“Just as the constable said, she claims George Stirling speaks to her.”
“About the murder?”
“She claims he told her to talk to someone named Quince, who apparently is one of those young men Constable Snow suspects may be thieves. I think she believes he can help her. She claims Quince knows who murdered Lord Dunsford and George Stirling both. In fact, she says Quince once told her it was Dunsford who murdered George.”
Nicholas stopped and looked at her. “Good Lord.” By this time they were standing beside the carriage. Nicholas helped her to her seat, then sat beside her. “So she’s gone ga-ga, then?” Nicholas said as he took the reins.
“I’m not so sure.”
Nicholas jerked his head around to look at her. “You think she’s actually speaking to the dead?”
“Nooo.” Alexandra pondered it. “I think there’s a possibility she’s hallucinating, but I think the whole story about this Quince is her way of saying she thinks Quince knows some answers. But she can’t quite make herself believe he can help her.”
Nicholas frowned. “Why not?”
“Because he is male, and the only male she ever felt she could trust is George Stirling.”
“Rather odd, I should say.”
Alexandra didn’t respond to his remark. There was no easy way she could tell Nicholas why it wasn’t at all odd that Elsie wouldn’t trust men. “The trouble is, I botched the whole conversation with Elsie. I think she would have told me more if I hadn’t been such a fool.”
“You? A fool? Come now, Alexandra, what could you have possibly said to her that was foolish?”
“I should have continued to go along with her story that George had told her to contact that Quince fellow. Instead, when she made the claim that he knew the identity of both Lord Dunsford’s and George’s killers, I made the mistake of telling her that she should tell the constable if she knew who had done it. She immediately interpreted that to mean that I thought she was the killer and went into hysterics.”
“And what do you think about it?” Nicholas asked.
“I think that I should like to talk to Quince.”
“And how will you find him?” Nicholas had that barrister sound to his voice again.
“Why, I shall go down to the pier and ask about until I find him.”
“I think not. It could be quite dangerous, you know.”
“Mmmm,” Alexandra said.
Chapter Nine
Alexandra was alarmed the following morning when she realized she had once again overslept by two hours. The wound at her throat had obviously taken more of a toll than she realized.
She dressed hurriedly and ran downstairs to demand of Nancy why she had allowed her to sleep to such a late hour. She found Nancy dusting the parlor, but before she could confront her, Nancy handed her a cheap and somewhat greasy envelope.
“Two messages for you, Miss,” she said.
“Two? But there’s only one—”
“The other is from Seth Blackburn. He came himself, earlier.”
Alexandra saw the look on Nancy’s face and felt a void in her chest. “Priscilla?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Nancy nodded and looked down at her hands. “She’s gone, Miss. Passed away in the wee hours of the morning, her husband said.”
“You should have…” Alexandra didn’t finish her sentence. It would do no good to scold Nancy for not waking her. Not now, anyway. She felt stunned as she walked past Nancy into her surgery. She closed the door and sat in one of the chairs, staring out the window at nothing. She always felt a keen sense of futility when she lost a patient, but never more so than now. She had done literally all she could for Priscilla, knowing all along that it was not enough. She was too weak, had lost too much blood, probably had become severely anemic during the pregnancy as well. Perhaps if she had come to her earlier, the iron and quinia would have helped. But perhaps not. Perhaps there was, in the final analysis, nothing that could be done.
What Priscilla Blackburn had needed was, quite simply, more blood in her body. Given time, iron might help build it back in some patients, but no
t in patients such as Priscilla. She needed blood immediately, and there was simply no way to infuse blood into a human being. Doctors, including her own father, had tried, but the patient almost always died. Even sheep blood had been tried in at least one experiment. Obviously there was something about the properties of blood that no one understood. The practice of medicine was a humbling experience. It served to illustrate with resounding authority the frailties and weaknesses of both the patient and the physician.
Alexandra sat alone, staring out the window for several minutes more until Nancy knocked softly on the door and stuck her head in. “Will you be wanting anything more before you start your rounds, Miss?” It was Nancy’s way of seeing if she was all right and of making sure she got started on her work. It was almost noon, and she was two hours late starting on her rounds.
“What? Oh no, I’ll just get my bag and…” As she stood, the crude envelope Nancy had handed her fell from her lap to the floor. “Have Freddie saddle Lucy for me, please,” she said as she stooped to pick up the envelope.
“She’s already saddled, Miss Alex. I did it myself. Freddie didn’t show up this morning.”
“Thank you, Nancy. I’m on my way.” Alexandra tore at the envelope hurriedly, fully back to herself and eager to catch up on her work.
“Yes, Miss.” Nancy murmured and disappeared. Alexandra pulled a sheet of coarse paper from the envelope and held it up to the light of the window to read, grasping it in one hand while she reached for her bag with the other. She had only read a few words before she forgot about the bag and gripped the paper with both hands, startled as she read the brief message, scrawled in crude, childish penmanship.
Docter Glad Ston, The gerl is rite. Quince nos who kilt the erl. Meet him at 10 tonite at the old peer. He will help you.
The note was not signed, and Alexandra felt a cold shiver creep down her spine. She had told no one except Nicholas about Elsie’s mention of Quince, and no one else except Constable Snow knew of her visit to see Elsie. Neither Nicholas nor the constable would have written this crude note, of course.