Did I really think I could call Charlie Lewis into my study and he would immediately break down into a confession? Then what would happen? He would attack me?
“I do wonder if Sidney might be able to help you,” Liz mused.
“How so?”
“Well, I’m sure that, with one word from him, the police would be forced to treat it more seriously than as just a suicide. That would deliver some help into your hands.” She drained her cup, then placed it and her saucer on the tea tray.
“Wouldn’t that simply alert Parliament, and thus every London paper, about the scandal that has occurred at the Establishment?” I said in dismay, my stomach souring even more at the idea.
“But Parliament is not in yet. It could be, shall we say, our secret.” Liz’s eyes sparkled more brilliantly than her jewels as she warmed to the idea.
I turned her suggestion over in my mind. How helpful would the police be if they were forced back into the situation at the behest of the secretary of war? The image that came to my mind was of a resentful, irritated Sgt. Warren Goodrick. That hostility would probably not lead to a productive relationship.
I shook my head. “I think that until I have something more definitive to go on, it is best not to agitate the police. Perhaps I will take you up on your kind offer at a later point.”
The light in her eyes faded, but she ungrudgingly accepted my rebuff. “The offer stands at the ready,” she said.
I wondered whether Liz wasn’t a little bored in her role as the wife of Secretary Herbert. Wise counselor she might be to her husband, but doubtless most of her days were spent molting in this spacious, opulent cage. I couldn’t risk what might happen with Lord Herbert’s involvement, though, just to satisfy my friend’s sense of adventure. No, for the moment I must proceed cautiously on my own.
* * *
I summoned Charlie Lewis to my study the moment I returned to the Establishment. He appeared in the doorway, worrying his tan wool cap in his hands. “Miss Nightingale? You wished to s-s-s-see me?”
Charlie was tall and lanky, with a weathered face that, like that of Nurse Hughes, made it impossible to determine whether he was thirty or fifty. If I hadn’t known he was in his midthirties, I might have guessed by his reserved demeanor that he was much older.
“I did. Please sit down, Mr. Lewis.”
Charlie took a chair across from me, his long legs almost touching the burr of my desk. He took no notice of the rich and intricate knotty whorls in the wood grain but instead slouched in the chair, the posture of a man embarrassed by how overly tall he was and completely unaware of the precautionary coal poker I had at the ready on my side of the desk. I guessed that he must be six and a half feet upright, and even in the chair he towered over me. As I studied him while deliberating on my first question, I realized that he was yet another member of this hospital whom I didn’t really know. I had talked to him only in passing, asking for his assistance with unsticking heavily painted window sashes, or moving furniture, or removing items from high shelves. Charlie tended to spend much of his time out of doors, puttering around in the rear garden where the inmates could stroll or be pushed about in wheelchairs on pleasant days. As consumed as I was with ensuring that the inmates were comfortable and beginning to address the problems with my nurses, I had had scant thought for someone who said little, obeyed me without question, and was unobtrusive. All I had noted was his stutter, which became worse the longer he talked. That was probably the root of his reticence.
He licked his lips nervously. A lock of sandy brown hair fell into his right eye, and he ran fingers through it to brush it back off his face. As I still said nothing, he began tapping his left foot rapidly on the floor, quite a sight in such a long-shanked man.
I folded my hands together on my desk. “Mr. Lewis, I do not recall: were you in attendance at Nurse Bellamy’s funeral?”
My question startled him. “Ma’am? I-I-I-I had an errand to run at the ironmonger’s. I-I-I-I needed some n-n-n-nails and a new h-h-h-hammer. I’m s-s-s-sorry, ma’am, if I should have been there. I d-d-d-didn’t mean to—”
I held up a hand. “There is no need to apologize. Did you know Nurse Bellamy well?”
He ran a hand through his hair again. “No, ma’am. I k-k-k-keep to myself mostly. Most women don’t like Charlie, although I-I-I-I am a great, a great admirer of them.”
“I see,” I said. “And you did not greatly admire Nurse Bellamy in particular?”
His mouth dropped open and there was panic in his eyes. “I-I-I-I swear, ma’am, that I am most ’spectful of the l-l-l-ladies here. My unwanted affections I-I-I-I keep to myself.”
I wasn’t sure what sort of answer that was, but I also realized that I had leapt into questioning the man without getting to know him. I took a deep breath before starting over. “Mr. Lewis, I confess that I don’t know much about you. How did you come to the Establishment?”
The topic switch confused him once more, and I was beginning to realize that Charlie Lewis was not as sharp as most people. However, he valiantly carried on, presumably to please me. “I’m just an old tar, ma’am. Served Her Majesty from the time I was a lad of fourteen until last year.”
I noticed that when he spoke of the Navy, he no longer stuttered, and in fact sat up straighter and gained some confidence.
“Why did you leave Her Majesty’s service?” I asked.
“’Twas my own fault, ma’am. I’m ashamed to say that I copped a ter’ble case of green gills in my last year. I dunno how it happened after so many years. But my mates couldn’t take me constantly offering up my daily rations on deck, and no amount of lashing ’cross my back fixed it. So ’twas asked to leave. Did some odd jobs, I did, until Lady Canning found me when I was a painter’s helper working on her ladyship’s iron fence. Now I have my job and I’m very happy for my security here, ma’am, ’deed I am.”
So Charlie Lewis had been drummed out of the Navy for seasickness. It was ironic and amusing actually, but it was obvious that the man had been devastated by losing his position in the Navy and considered himself to have found a safe place in the Establishment. Still, that didn’t prove or disprove anything.
“Lady Canning assigned you your room in the basement near the kitchens, didn’t she?” I asked. I was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with how much I didn’t know about this place.
“Yes, ma’am. Lady C-C-C-Canning wanted to make sure all was proper, and that the w-w-w-women were kept separate from me.” The stuttering had returned.
But that meant his rooms were near the kitchen where Nurse Wilmot claimed to have seen Caroline Bellamy’s inamorato depart.
It was time to be blunt with the man. “Mr. Lewis, I will tell you that someone here says she witnessed a man leaving late at night through the kitchens after, ahem, visiting Nurse Bellamy. I am wondering if that man was you.”
More bewilderment. “Ma’am, I have no n-n-n-need to leave the building ’cept to pick up tools and supplies. I-I-I-I never do that at night.”
This short interview was convincing me that Charlie Lewis was an uncomplicated man who had no wherewithal to conduct a thought-out murder. What had happened to Caroline Bellamy had certainly not been a fit of rage or a spontaneous occurrence, but rather had been devious and well planned. I didn’t think it possible that Charlie had done it. That didn’t mean though, that he wasn’t lying to me and that he didn’t have “affections” for the nurse that he kept to himself. Because of my vocal suspicions, I doubted he would confess them to me, either. I would simply have to keep my eye on him, much as I needed to do with everyone in the building, staff and inmates alike.
I glanced down at the new chart I had developed. I had already interviewed Nurse Nan Wilmot, our librarian Persimmon Jarrett, and our cook Polly Roper. I traced a couple of the other names on the list. “I wish to speak to either Nurse Hughes, Nurse Frye, or Nurse Harris. Will you fetch one of them for me?”
“Harris,” he repeated dumbly. “Yes, ma’am.�
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In that instant, though, I had another idea. “Never mind, Mr. Lewis. I don’t need to see any of the nurses at present. You may return to your duties.”
It was after four o’clock, and the nurses were likely taking afternoon tea. It was a bit stealthy of me, but I thought it might be a good time to go over those three nurses’ particular rooms to see what might present itself to me.
* * *
I went up to Nurse Marian Hughes’s room first. It was located across the hall from Nurse Bellamy’s and was also private. It was furnished in the same simple manner, but Hughes’s surroundings were far more interesting, to say the least.
Fabric-covered boxes in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures adorned every available table and windowsill. On the wall above her writing table was a piece of embroidery in a scratched, bent walnut frame. I went to peer more closely at it.
The design was of a thatch-covered cottage with “Cleanse thou me from secret faults, Psa 19:12” written beneath it. The name “Marian Rose” had been stitched in varying hues of blue to form a border on the piece.
My sister had always been the needlewoman of the two of us, much to my mother’s despair. It had always been Mother’s plan that I should be accomplished in needlework, music, and scintillating conversation, so that I might attract a titled or monied husband into our family. Her hopes were thus concentrated because my father’s property was entailed and would be going to my Aunt Mai and Uncle Sam when Papa died. She had even managed to have Parthenope and me presented to the queen at one point, the most terrifying experience of my life.
In a great irony, I had instead adopted my father’s interests in math, science, and languages, which no desirable suitor would ever care about in a wife but made me a perfect candidate for striking out on my own to raise the standards and stature of nursing for the sake of inmates.
I had also already developed an interest in checking on ailing relatives and villagers and was developing skills in keeping the sick nourished, hydrated, and warm or cool, depending upon what was needed.
I ran my finger along the edge of the two-story cottage’s jagged roofline, done expertly in silver, brown, and tan threads. The cottage was a sweet representation of an idyllic home where children could be raised and tranquility would be de rigueur.
Poor Mother. She had had just such a vision for me, despite my boyish tendencies. Although Parthenope was the more perfectly cultivated one, I was the one who had been graced with beauty. Mother had assumed that my perfectly white and straight teeth, my creamy complexion, and my dewy eyes would overcome my lack of feminine skills.
It had seemed to be true when Richard Monckton Milnes came to court me. I had met Richard when I was twenty-two. He was older than me by eleven years but was still ludicrously handsome. I was as besotted by him as he seemed to be by me. He was already a member of Parliament as a conservative member for Pontefract, and was known for his literary and poetic wit. He had also been noticed by men like Lord Palmerston.
My mother had nearly swooned over Richard’s attentions to me, particularly since I had already rejected a proposal from Henry Nicholson, one of Mother’s brilliant, hand-picked suitors, who also happened to be a cousin of mine. Had she really thought I would entertain an offer from so close a family member? As Richard and I had drawn closer through a love of reading the philosophers and debating theology, my mother had essentially declared the family future secured.
Parthenope had also been relieved, as her suitors had been sparse and she, too, was relying on me for her salvation.
But being a savior is very distressing work, and I wasn’t formed for such lofty efforts.
Besides, my encounter with God in my seventeenth year had shown me clearly that my purpose was far from being anyone’s pathway to heaven. To the contrary, He had shown me clearly in a vision that I was to be set aside for a specific purpose, although it would be several years of waiting and seeking before I understood that purpose to be caring for the sick and infirm.
I can still remember the day of my vision as a great flash of light coming upon me while I strolled through the February gardens of Embley Park. I had clutched my cloak as I enjoyed the solitude and silence of walking among the frost-covered boxwoods, their bright green leaves juxtaposed against the bare branches of all the other flora around me. I have always tried to walk every day, not just to stay robust, but because it is precious time to think in private. My mother and sister would never have dreamed of parading around anywhere that their breath would crystallize in front of their faces, so I never worried that they would try to join me. As I strolled that day—my nose and ears numb and my throat burning from the cold air—my line of vision was consumed with a fullness of light, as if the sun had descended to earth directly over me. As I stood there, stunned, I truly heard a voice say, “You will hold yourself apart for the task I will assign you.”
I froze in abject fear, of course, as I wondered whether I had lost my senses before ever approaching my dotage. After all, any normal person who starts to claim to hear voices might find herself tossed into Bedlam forthwith.
As I quailed, though, the blinding light lifted like a curtain, and once again I stood in normal daylight, grateful that I had at least not embarrassed myself by evacuating my bowels.
Naturally, my parents and sister believed me to be inventing tales so as to avoid my presumed role in life. No amount of pleading, cajoling, and isolating myself in my room could convince them that I had had a genuine vision from God and was determined to follow and obey it.
Richard, though, was the first and only reason I ever wavered in my determination to wait patiently on my divine destiny. He was utterly devoted to me and respected my intellect. His hand folded around mine like a perfect, comfortable glove. His laughter was rich and infectious. He sought my opinion in every decision he made.
Oh, yes, I would have done well with Richard Monckton Milnes.
His first proposal to me wasn’t unexpected, but I was still tortured by having to make my response. I finally told him no, describing the vision I’d had. In true Richard fashion, he didn’t mock me but asked serious questions about what I’d experienced.
A week later, Richard returned to me and declared that my vision was not incompatible with marriage to him. He assured me that he would be perfectly pleased to let me do as I would as his wife, as he, too, wished to obey whatever God’s leading was.
God help me, I believed him wholeheartedly. He would have permitted me just about anything, and I desperately wanted to say yes. Only I knew I could not, for I had a destiny that did not involve the natural feminine triad of wife, home, and motherhood. The day of my formal refusal was the worst of my life, as I saw the tender light leave Richard’s eyes, to be replaced with confusion, incredulity, and anger. I would never forget watching the back of his finely tailored jacket as he walked away from me, grabbed his velvet-trimmed hat from the hat stand, and stormed out of the house.
I took a deep breath and dropped my hand from the stitching on Nurse Hughes’s wall. Remembering what had happened next served no purpose, and I had a murdered nurse to worry about. And one of that murdered nurse’s peers had an odd collection of boxes. I suppressed only a moment’s twinge of guilt before picking up one of the boxes from the desk. The container and lid were covered in a coral-and-white-striped taffeta with a small brown stain along one side. I pried off the lid and was puzzled by the contents.
Inside were numerous squares of heavy paper, and in the center of each was a different button, tacked to the paper with a small pin that was bent at the back of the paper to keep the button attached. As I poked through the contents of the box, I saw that most of the buttons were common ones of plain brass or fabric-covered wood. But there were some ornamental buttons with stamped designs on them, a few studded with paste diamonds, and a lone enameled button. Several were jet-glass mourning buttons.
How very odd.
I picked up another box and found another assortment of card-back
ed buttons. Surely they were not all filled in the same manner?
I walked over to her window, which had a panoramic view of the rear gardens below. A brick-patterned walkway spoked the gardens where Charlie was on his hands and knees, fixing some loose bricks in the section of walkway that approached a figural vase standing proudly in the center of the space. The gardens were still green but had little left blooming in them.
I lifted another box that rested on the sill, this one covered with an old, mottled gray piece of wool. Again more buttons. I tried two more boxes before realizing that that was all I would find in any of them. I was baffled by why Nurse Hughes had them. Did they belong to every piece of clothing she had ever owned in her life? I doubted that, for she would have had to be quite wealthy to own this number of articles. Had she stolen them? Perhaps, but for what purpose I couldn’t fathom.
I abandoned examining them and went to her armoire. It contained what I would expect from someone of her station: plain underclothes and a nightgown of thin unbleached muslin, as well as a couple of serviceable dresses in cheap fabrics. However, they were well maintained, much like the dress Nurse Bellamy had been wearing when I found her. Maybe the two nurses had hired the same seamstress, although I couldn’t for the life of me understand why they would spend precious money on such an extravagance instead of making repairs themselves.
A search of her desk drawers revealed nothing of interest either, just a matted hairbrush and tortoiseshell comb with two missing teeth, plus a jar of tooth powder and a worn boar-bristle toothbrush.
Nurse Hughes’s worldly value seemed to be in the enormous button collection she owned. It was odd, to be sure, but not criminally suspicious in any way. Maybe I would discover something more incriminating in the room that Nurses Frye and Harris shared next door.
I gave the embroidered sampler a final look, unsure why I was so drawn to it, given how much it caused me to dwell upon the past. The past was a far more dangerous place for my mind to reside than the investigation of my dead nurse. Yet I traveled back one more time as I ensured all of the button boxes were arranged as they had been before.
No Cure for the Dead Page 7