by Ann Swinfen
‘Not there,’ Will said. ‘It will be overrun by all the gawpers from the inquest. There’s a decent house in Cornhill. Most people won’t walk that far. I think we need to discuss this matter of stolen plays, Ned.’
‘Aye. He soon silenced you about that, did he not? But these rich City men, they only understand the commodities they trade in. They do not understand the value of the words on paper, save for their contracts and bills of sale.’
We made our way to Cornhill, Will and Ned leading the way and talking playhouse gossip, Simon and I following a little behind.
‘What do you think of Will’s idea, Kit?’ he asked. ‘Could it be possible?’
I hesitated before answering. ‘It is quite outside my experience in Walsingham’s service,’ I said, ‘this matter of the financial value of plays, but I am beginning to understand it. What I did learn from Sir Francis, aye, and from Thomas Phelippes too, is that words on paper may have more value than Sir Rowland’s Russian furs, or be more dangerous than the gunpowder stored in the Tower. Men have been robbed and killed for words on paper. It was words on paper that brought the Scottish queen finally to her death. Those were words of state importance, words concerned with war and treason, but in a smaller way, I can see that Will may be right. Perhaps Stoker’s death was not a random street stabbing, but is somehow linked to this matter of the play books.’
Once we were settled in a discreet tavern in Cornhill, Will explained to Ned Alleyn just what we had discovered and conjectured about Wandesford and Stoker, then asserted again his conviction that there was some plan afoot to steal plays from the companies of Lord Strange’s Men and the Admiral’s Men.
‘Just as you yourself told Kit,’ he concluded. ‘And as far as we know, you have not recovered Marlowe’s play that was stolen from your man Holles.’
‘Nay, we have not.’ Ned was leaning forward, listening keenly. ‘I was merely guessing when I talked to Kit, but since our play is still missing, and with all that you have told me now, I am more than ready to believe that someone is after our plays. Someone who was paying Stoker, and attacked Holles, or sent someone else to do so. Whether the murder of Stoker is also connected is not clear, I think.’
‘Nay, it is not,’ Simon agreed.
Up until now I had listened quietly, but now I put a question.
‘This play of Marlowe’s that was stolen – what was its subject?’
Ned gave me a sideways glance and smiled ruefully. ‘I do not think Marlowe would want me to say.’
‘Why?’ Will asked scornfully. ‘Does he fear I would steal his ideas? I have no need to do that.’
‘You know how jealous Marlowe is,’ Ned said, ‘and how quickly he can fly into a rage. It has landed him in trouble before now, and I value my life too much to want to find myself spitted on the end of his rapier like a roasting pig. Why do you ask, Kit? What can it matter?’
‘It was only a thought I had,’ I said slowly, ‘while Simon and I were speaking of the value – and sometimes the danger – of words on paper. I think there is no secret about your play, Will?’
‘Nay.’ Will shot a sharp look at Ned. ‘I am not afraid to speak of it. It is my Henry play that Stoker was copying. Set in the early years of the sixth Henry, last century. It has already been performed several times. Thousands of the citizens of London have seen it.’
‘And it has been highly praised,’ Simon pointed out.
‘Why should that be dangerous, Kit?’ Ned asked.
‘Probably it is not. Truly, it was only the smallest seed of an idea.’
‘Could you not ask Marlowe?’ Simon suggested. ‘If he says you nay, there is no harm done. If he is willing for you to share the subject with us, then Kit can tell us what this seed of an idea might be.’
We agreed that Ned would speak to Marlowe that evening at the Rose, seeking permission to tell us the subject of his stolen play. In the meantime I was reluctant to enlarge any further on the vague idea that was taking shape at the back of my mind.
Chapter Ten
I was growing accustomed to the players’ habit of late rising in the morning, so the next day it was with some irritation that I heard our landlady, Goodwife Atkins, toiling up the stairs as I was spreading my morning bread with some honey Tom Read had given me a few days before, culled from the hospital’s bee skeps.
‘There be a lad here with a message for you, Dr Alvarez,’ she said, breathing heavily and pressing a hand to her chest, as if that would strengthen her lungs. ‘Seems you’re needed.’
My irritation grew. No doubt Mistress Dolesby’s sister had returned to Lincolnshire by now, where her husband held a substantial manor. Equally beyond doubt my troublesome patient had amused herself in directing her sister’s purchases of the latest fashions in gowns and piccadills – those large lacework collars some of the courtiers had taken to wearing instead of ruffs – and now must have found herself in need of diversion in the form of a medical consultation. With a sigh I collected my satchel, bade Rikki to stay where he was, and followed Goodwife Atkins downstairs.
To my surprise, I recognised the messenger. It was one of the lads who ran errands at St Thomas’s.
‘Why, Eddi,’ I said, ‘what do you here?’
‘You’re needed, urgent, doctor. Goodwife Appledean says, Will you come at once?’
‘But, Eddi, I no longer work at St Thomas’s.’
‘I knows that, maister, and so does Goodwife Appledean. She says she’ll make all right with Superintendent Ailmer.’
This was mystifying, but Goodwife Appledean would not have sent for me without real need. Perhaps my successor, Howard Wattis, was taken ill, or was absent. If a patient needed me, I would go, and the rights and wrongs of my interference in Wattis’s lordship could be resolved later. I followed Eddi at a run along the river to the hospital.
Parting from Eddi, I made my way up the stairs and along the familiar corridors to the Whittington lying-in ward, where an agitated group of midwives clustered around a bed at the far end. Something troubled me about the ward that I could not quite place as I laid my cap and satchel on a stool. Then I recognised it. The air was not quite fresh. There was no stink of poverty here, but a smell lingered of old food blended with the underlying metallic tang of blood. Blood is always present in a lying-in ward, but I had demanded regular scrubbing of the floors with soap and the changing of bed linen several times a day if it was needed. All the linen and the women’s shifts were rinsed in lavender water, and we kept bowls of lavender, hyssop, and other healing herbs in the ward. I had always insisted, too, that, whenever the weather permitted, the windows should be kept ajar. This last had been the cause of a lengthy battle with Goodwife Appledean (who had been trained to keep her labouring women sealed tight and airless), but I had finally triumphed.
It seemed all my work had been undone. Had the midwives reverted to their questionable old practices? Or was this evidence of Wattis’s regime?
‘Sophy,’ I said to one of the younger midwives, ‘we will have the windows open, if you please. It is a beautiful day, washed clean by the storm. The women will benefit from some fresh air.’
‘Aye, Dr Alvarez.’ She smiled at me and hurried away to do as I bid.
‘Oh, doctor!’ Goodwife Appledean surged toward me, hands outstretched. ‘I was not sure whether you would come. I’ve sent word to Superintendent Ailmer, though I have not had a minute to speak to him myself. I am sure he will not object, for I said that I was sure only you could save her.’
She was urging me across the floor as she spoke, so I caught up my satchel and followed her. The woman on the bed was young, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen, and of very delicate build. Her hair, dark with sweat, clung to her face, the bed was pooled in blood, and she seemed at the point of exhaustion beyond which the human frame cannot endure.
‘What is the problem?’ I said, as I peeled off my heavy physician’s gown and then my doublet. This was clearly a time where there was no case for the trappings of dignity.
‘It is a breech birth, doctor. The babe is large and wedged, immovable. And I think there is another, smaller one, trapped behind. I am not sure if either of them is still alive, and I do not think the mother can last much longer.’
I began to roll up my sleeves.
‘Where is Dr Wattis?’ I asked bluntly. ‘By rights this is his case and I should not be here.’
A mixture of anger and disgust coloured her voice. ‘He went home early yesterday, saying there was nothing he could do for her. That if it was God’s will she should die, he would not interfere. He has not come in this morning, although Superintendent Ailmer sent for him. Often he does not come in.’
‘He was prepared to let her die, without making any attempt–?’ I was so angry I could not finish.
‘His attempts would have been fatal in any case,’ she said bitterly. ‘The last time we had a breech birth, he cut the woman, killing the baby in the process, and wounding the mother so badly that she bled to death in a few hours. I tell you the truth, doctor, I do not want him near my women.’
There was nothing to be said to this.
‘I need plenty of boiling water to steep healing herbs,’ I said, ‘and a flask of oil of olives, with a bowl.’
I looked around. ‘Where are the washing basins with soap?’
‘Dr Wattis did away with them, saying they were an unnecessary expense and he intended to show how to save the hospital money.’ She lowered her voice and muttered to herself, ‘He can show us little of any other skills.’
Sophy, having opened the windows, had anticipated my demand for soap and water, and came in carrying a basin she had fetched from elsewhere in the hospital, with a towel over her arm. It is a mystery to me that physicians who are scrupulous about washing their hands before meals will treat one patient after another without dreaming of cleaning themselves.
By the time I had washed, Goodwife Appledean had found me a flask of oil of olives, with which I oiled my hands. English midwives will use butter or beef grease, but I was trained in the Portuguese way by my father and have always found that olive oil serves much better as a lubricant to bring a stubborn baby into the world. The mother was so exhausted I feared she could do little to help me, although her body was convulsed by regular contractions. At first, though, I wanted her to lie quiet.
As Goodwife Appledean had deduced, the baby was presenting the wrong way up and by now it was too late to try to turn it. I would have to deliver it feet first. The following half hour was a struggle. A struggle between me, the recalcitrant geometry of a breech birth, and an infant who seemed determined not to leave the womb, but at last I won and the baby slid reluctantly into my hands. To add to my difficulties, he was near to strangling himself on the cord, but Goodwife Appledean was quick with twine and knife, freeing him from the last link with his failing mother.
There was indeed another baby, but this one so small and facing head down, that she slipped into the world almost before I could hand her brother to Sophy, to be washed and wrapped in a soft blanket. Where the boy was exceptionally large, the girl was very small, so small I feared she had a poor chance of survival, but she let out a hearty yell at the shock of confronting this doubtable world.
‘Small,’ I said to Goodwife Appledean with a smile, ‘but I think this one is a fighter.’
While the midwives tended to the babes, I turned my attention to the mother. She lay flaccid and exhausted, too weak even to sit up and hold the children who had cost her so dear.
‘We will move her to another bed,’ I said to Goodwife Appledean. ‘This one is so drenched and soiled I am not sure the mattress can be saved. Help me to lift her to that empty bed.’
Between us we carried the girl, who weighed no more than a child, to a neighbouring bed, where two of the midwives stripped her of her soiled night shift, washed her, and slipped a clean one over her head, before laying her down. Seeing that her eyes were open, I took her hand in both of mine.
‘How do you find yourself now?’ I said.
‘Sore.’ She attempted a smile, which was a brave effort after all that she had endured. It seemed she had been in labour for more than thirty hours.
‘I have applied a healing salve, for I am afraid that vast son of yours caused your skin to tear, but it should heal cleanly.’
‘It is a boy, then?’
‘Aye.’ It seemed she had been barely conscious during the final stages of that battle. ‘Aye, a fine big boy and a dainty slip of a girl, though she has a mighty pair of lungs on her.’
‘A girl as well?’ She was astonished. It seemed she had not suspected she was carrying twins. Silent tears began to run down her face, though whether of joy or sorrow, I could not tell. It is not uncommon after giving birth. The women who came to this charitable ward at St Thomas’s sometimes had tragic histories.
‘You will be busy with the pair of them,’ I said. ‘Now, I want you to drink all of the beef broth I have sent for. Every drop, mind. And then you may sleep as long as you wish, until it is time to feed the pair of them. The women here will care for you. They are all good, skilful women.’
‘But where have you come from?’ Her brow creased in a frown. ‘I have not seen you before, only that other physician, the one who keeps his distance and speaks Latin like a churchman.’
‘Oh, I used to be the physician here, in charge of this ward, so Goodwife Appledean sent for me when she needed my help. I must leave now. Drink your broth and sleep.’
I stood up, feeling suddenly exhausted. I had forgotten how tiring these battles with the angel of death could be. Sophy came with the broth and helped the girl to sit up, as I walked to where I had left my discarded doublet and robe. While I was donning them, Goodwife Appledean returned from supervising the stripping of the soiled bed.
‘I am mighty grateful to you, Dr Alvarez,’ she said. ‘I did my best, but I could not shift that great lad. We would have lost them, all three, if you had not come.’
‘I was glad of it,’ I said, truthfully. ‘I have missed you all. There is surely no better branch of a physician’s skill than bringing new life into the world.’ I looked around the ward, and lowered my voice. ‘Can you not bring back our practices of washing and clean linen? I see some of the women have soiled bed clothes. The floor needs scrubbing. And can you restore our pots of fresh herbs to sweeten the air?’
‘I’d do all happily, doctor, if that man did not prevent.’ She was letting her annoyance get in the way of her natural courtesy. Her contempt for Dr Wattis was clear.
‘Do you think it would help if I spoke to Superintendent Ailmer?’ I said.
‘I cannot see that it would do any harm.’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘He sent word he would like to see you before you leave.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘He is displeased.’
‘Nay, I do not think so.’
‘I will just look in on the children before I go,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose none there will know me.’ I could not conceal the note of regret in my voice. I had last visited the children’s ward in the spring of the previous year.
‘You will find a few of our regulars.’
I returned her smile. There were some very large, very poor families in Southwark. Hunger was a regular visitor to their homes, which meant that our regulars would appear from time to time, suffering from malnutrition, and weakened so that they caught every sickness passing through the area. Scurvy, too, was rife amongst them, owing to a poor diet. We would keep them in the children’s ward and feed them up, until they were strong enough to move to the hospital’s almshouse, home to the destitute who were not sick. Then eventually they would go home. It was a constant cycle which kept most of them alive and relieved their families of part of their burden for a while. A few of these children even made a permanent move to Christ’s Hospital, if they were deemed to deserve a place there. And those were often the lucky ones, given bed and board, and education, and a trade.
The regulars in the children’s ward did remember
me, at which I was absurdly pleased, and I stayed for a while, talking to them about their families and meeting some new children. In this ward too I saw signs of neglect, but the sisters here were usually the young ones, who lacked Goodwife Appledean’s authority. It was unlikely they would be able to resist Dr Wattis’s economy measures, even had they wanted to. I knew one of them, but the other girl was unknown to me and looked quite slovenly in her dress.
When I made my way at last to Superintendent Ailmer’s office on the ground floor, I was feeling dispirited at what I had seen in the two wards which had once been my responsibility and my pride. I hinted as much to him.
‘It is not a happy situation, Dr Alvarez,’ he said gloomily, ‘that I will admit to you freely.’ He passed his hand over his face and I noticed that he was looking older and more tired. Worry about money was one of his greatest burdens. ‘Dr Wattis was appointed, as you know, through his family’s influence with our governors, and I had no part in the matter. There have been . . . difficulties since he has been with us, especially since the death of old Dr Colet, who kept a careful eye on him. But what can I do?’
He raised his hands in despair.
‘Goodwife Appledean would like to return to the practices I introduced in the lying-in ward,’ I said. ‘She cannot do so without your support. With your support, however, I believe it would be possible.’
‘Practices?’ He was puzzled.
I explained about the washing of the women’s shifts and bed linen, the scrubbing of the floor, fresh air, lavender and other herbs.
‘It appears that Dr Wattis wishes to save St Thomas’s money by cutting down on washing, but all my training has taught me that patients recover much more quickly if their surroundings are clean. And fresh air costs nothing, while the herbs that sweeten the air cost only pennies. Many can be gathered free from the hospital’s own herb garden. These things would indeed be an economy for the hospital, for the swifter the cure, the less it will cost.’
‘I had no idea that Dr Wattis had embarked on so misguided a regime,’ he said. ‘I will certainly give Goodwife Appledean my support. I will also ensure that Mistress Maynard knows of this.’