I wasn’t sure why I was reluctant to be open and honest with the doctor. He was kind and intelligent, if a bit exasperating with his constant puns and riddles. Perhaps I was just becoming a lunatic.
“I can’t imagine,” I said. “One moment I was casually stepping downstairs, the next I must have gotten caught up in my skirts. As though I had just today become a child on unsteady feet, I suppose, and taken a toddler’s tumble.” I smiled weakly again.
“Hmm,” the doctor said, his expression becoming the most serious that I had ever seen. “You didn’t see a mouse that might have startled you? Or, perhaps, you heard something that gave you a fright?”
It was clear that he didn’t believe my explanation. “Not that I recall. The stairwell is very dark.”
He studied me silently for several moments, which unnerved me to no end. Finally he said, “Although you are dented and bruised, you have no broken bones. You were quite fortunate, don’t you think?”
“I suspect I am quite fortunate to be alive at all,” I replied in jest, but Dr. Killigrew was not amused.
His scrutiny was transforming him from jovial jester into probing inquisitor. “I have had patients before who, lacking the sort of attention they want—or trying to deflect attention away from misdeeds—have injured themselves to acquire sympathy and thus eliminate careful examination of their condition.”
I was aghast at his insinuation. “Are you suggesting that I purposely fell down the stairs to deflect attention away from Nurse Bellamy’s death?”
Dr. Killigrew stood and returned the chair to its place. Then he turned to face me again. “I do not suggest anything, madam. I only explore all possibilities. Lady Canning informs me that the committees are concerned about your … stability … here given what has happened.”
My stomach was working into a furious knot. Why was my employer talking to the Establishment’s doctor about such things, particularly when she had seemed so supportive of me when we had previously met? On the other hand, why would I think she wouldn’t do so? If Charlotte Canning, seemingly one of my only advocates, was gossiping with Dr. Killigrew, I could only imagine what braying and grousing committee members like Roderick Alban were doing.
Now I was caught. If I proceeded to tell Dr. Killigrew that I had been pushed down the stairs, it would seem I was making it up in the moment to justify myself. If only I had made a wiser choice two minutes before.
Yet now I knew with certainty that if I shared anything with him, it would be deposited straight into my employer’s ear like a love-starved girl’s penny into a wishing well. I had to maintain a confident front.
“The committees’ concerns are appreciated, but I assure you that even a hospital superintendent can experience an accident. I already feel better and will be back to work in short order.” I said this decisively, and it seemed to have the right effect on the doctor, for he smiled once again. “That’s the woman I know. Tough as ten-year-old mutton. I may as well go check on the other inmates while I’m here; then I’ll check on you again during my regular visit next Tuesday. That reminds me, what is the difference between a tube and a foolish Dutchman?”
I shook my head. “I do not know.”
“One is a hollow cylinder and the other is a silly Hollander.” With that, he burst into laughter. I smiled wanly in response.
I was both glad to see Dr. Killigrew leave and thoroughly unsettled by his visit.
* * *
I refused all other visitors except Mary Clarke and, of course, Nurse Harris. Harris was dedicated in ensuring I had plenty to drink and in applying salves to my various bruises.
Mary presented the collection of Nurse Frye’s pharmaceuticals. The crate was heaped with bottles and boxes, an impressive haul.
I sent Mary back to the lodgings with instructions to hide the crate in my rooms and return immediately thereafter.
For it had occurred to me that my attacker had not finished his job and might seek to do so during the night.
I had Nurse Harris bring in a cot for Mary. The room became awkward for Harris to maneuver in, but it was the least of my concerns. For the moment, I believed Mary to be the only person I could trust without reserve, given that she was a complete stranger to the Establishment and could have no possible agenda or motives for any damage befalling the hospital.
How had I gone from resenting her presence to craving it in the space of a half day?
Mary returned after dark and accepted the cot in my cramped room over a comfortable bed in my lodgings without complaint.
We shared a silent supper together, and then she retrieved nightclothes for me from my room and helped me change. Even in the dim lamplight, I could see how bruised I was. Raising my arms over my head was painful, but I gritted my teeth and pretended I was fine.
I had to be fine, as wasting these many hours was quite enough. After tonight, I had to return to getting the hospital in order and continuing my investigations.
* * *
In the morning, Mary Clarke helped me rise and change into day clothes. I felt immensely better after a night of sleep, even though the previous day’s cloudiness had turned into pouring rain overnight. The constant patter was rhythmic and comforting.
I instructed Nurse Harris to have breakfast brought to Mary and me in the library. I planned to work there while recuperating. The sight and smell of books would no doubt encourage my recovery.
As we finished up our deviled kidneys on toast, served in lap trays at the far end of the library, Persimmon Jarrett entered, humming as she unpinned her bonnet and tossed it onto her desk near the door. She smoothed her pinned hair back with one had as she turned in our direction.
Jarrett squeaked at the sight of me. “Miss Nightingale, you gave me a scare! I didn’t realize you would be here. I thought you were—” She stopped, looking perplexed.
Even from my distance, I saw that she held a butter biscuit in her other hand. I arched an eyebrow. “I see you visited Mrs. Roper on your way in, Miss Jarrett.”
Like a young child making an obvious attempt to hide a wrongdoing, she put her hand behind her back.
I ignored it. I wasn’t ready to war with the librarian over her indulgences when I had literal life-or-death matters at hand.
“This is Mary Clarke,” I said, nodding at Mary. “She is my new companion here at the Establishment.”
Jarrett’s expression became even more confused. But as she neared us, she offered Mary a “Pleased to meet you,” and they exchanged pleasantries.
“Mrs. Clarke and I will be working on some papers,” I told Jarrett, who took her cue and retreated to her desk.
I believed the librarian to be far enough away that she couldn’t overhear a murmured conversation with Mary. I quickly explained to my new companion what had happened in the servants’ stairwell.
Mary wrung her hands together nervously. “Oh, Miss Florence, the danger you’re in. What will your parents say?”
I gazed steadily at her. I had not considered the fact that my parents—well, my mother—might expect Mary to report on me. Was there really no one at all neutral enough for me to talk to?
“Tell me, Mrs. Clarke, would it be necessary for my parents to know? Why would we upset them without cause?”
She withered under my stare. “Oh, dear,” she fretted. “Oh, in the name of Peter and Paul.” The literal hand-wringing continued.
It was obvious to me that Mrs. Clarke was trying to sort through where her loyalty lay: with the people who were paying her or with the girl to whom she had been loyal all those years ago.
“I suppose there is no harm in remaining quiet for now,” she said slowly, nodding. “To not upset them unnecessarily, as you say.”
I smiled to encourage her. “Perhaps this will be resolved in just a few days’ time, and then you can send the Nightingales a glowing report of what has happened here … including your part as my assistant.”
Mrs. Clarke blushed in pleasure at being called my assistant, and I k
new I had won her to my side.
She sat up a bit taller in her seat and removed her breakfast tray from her lap, setting it on an armless old Chippendale chair next to her. “What would you have me do, Miss?”
“Well, Mrs. Clarke—” I began.
“No, Miss Florence, you must call me Mary. I insist.”
“Very well … Mary. I have started a series of charts and notes that are in my study. Perhaps you could…”
“Right away,” she said, rising and leaving to retrieve my documents.
I, too, was tired of my lap tray and was in the middle of moving it over to a table when Miss Jarrett came scurrying back to talk to me, a pencil drawing of some sort in her hand. It dangled to her side in her left hand as she stood before me, breathless from rushing to the rear of the library. She really needed to spend time taking walks to increase her lung capacity.
“Miss Nightingale, if I may…” she began.
I nodded at her, and Jarrett turned back toward the door to be sure we were still the only ones there.
“That Mrs. Clarke who was here, is she to be an inmate?”
Was that panic in her eyes?
“Mrs. Clarke is going to be attending me.”
“Like … your maid?”
“No, Miss Jarrett,” I said patiently. “She will attend to my personal affairs.”
“So, your personal secretary?” The woman was clearly struggling to understand.
“Does it matter? Does the idea displease you?” I asked, wearying of this line of conversation.
“Ah—no. No, ma’am. I just didn’t know if she was someone to be trusted.”
How did such a thing affect Persimmon Jarrett? “What are you getting at? What sort of trust do you believe I should—or should not—place in her?”
Jarrett glanced furtively at the door again and dropped her voice. “Miss Nightingale, when I heard you fell down the stairs yesterday, I had my suspicions. I think you may have been pushed or tripped. Someone tried to harm you.”
How did she know? I replied to her in a carefully measured tone. “How did you come to this conclusion?”
“I-I-hope you won’t be too angry with me, ma’am, but ever since Nurse Bellamy’s … well, you know … ever since then I have felt evil in this place. There are very bad spirits at work, but I don’t know if they are attached to living beings or not.”
I knew any evil in this place was most definitely living.
Jarrett’s words now came out in a tumble. “The police never came back, and I saw that you were taking on the investigation by yourself, and so, begging your pardon, I thought maybe I could quietly do some investigating for you on my own. Especially since the tragedy happened here in this room.” She shuddered. “I didn’t want to bother you with it in case I wasn’t up to snuff and would have no result.”
Poor Jarrett was breathing heavily again.
“I presume, then, that you have a result, else why would you be mentioning it to me?” I said.
“Yes.” She produced the pencil drawing for me to see.
I laid it on my lap and realized that it was a crude sketch of the Establishment’s layout, including the back gardens.
“Did you do this?” I asked.
“Yes.” She bowed her head. “I like being the librarian here because I like books. And maps. And drawings. Making drawings myself is just a foolish hobby, but I thought a sketch of the hospital might somehow help.”
I looked back down at her drawing again. Though crude, it certainly showed the rooms of all three floors in fair proportion to one another. She had even drawn in all of the staircases, including the servants’ stairs I had so recently fallen down.
“What are these arrows?” I said, pointing to lines that seemed to mark routings through the building.
Jarrett beamed. “I paced out possible entry and exit ways. I heard Nurse Wilmot complaining about Nurse Bellamy’s night visitors to Mrs. Roper and thought maybe I could figure out where they might be entering and leaving so as not to arouse anyone’s notice. As you can see,” she said, tracing a specific set of arrows on the paper, “a path from the attic stairs down to the rear of the entry hall, followed by the servants’ staircase down through the kitchens and out to the rear of the building, is one to which almost no one would pay attention.”
I traced it myself. What Jarrett said was true. But how was it helpful to know the escape route of Bellamy’s paramours? “What are the filled-in circles drawn in some of the rooms?” I asked.
“Oh.” Jarrett hesitated. “As part of my travels through the building, I noted rooms that had at least two doors leading in and out. I thought those likely rooms for trysts, since flight from them is so much simpler.”
I examined these rooms. Only one patient room had two doorways in it, that of Alice Drayton, who had claimed Bellamy had tried to poison her. Now I wasn’t sure at all that the inmate was confused, although surely Bellamy was not meeting a man in an inmate’s room? Unless Miss Drayton had been out of the room and come back unexpectedly. Perhaps I needed to question her again.
“I don’t know if this diagram has been helpful or not,” I said to the librarian as I handed it back to her. “But thank you for showing it to me.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m glad you aren’t angry with me for taking it upon myself and all to do this. It was just me wanting to help.”
“I understand,” I said, already becoming distracted as I wondered what was keeping Mary.
Jarrett continued to stand there, rocking back and forth like a puppy who needed to go outside to relieve itself but didn’t know how to communicate its urgency.
“Is that all?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Jarrett sat down in Mary’s chair and sat back, hugging herself at the elbows. “I’ve been at my wit’s end over whether to tell you this, Miss Nightingale, as I think I could be very seriously hurt—or worse—for telling you. You know I said I thought you were pushed down the stairs because of evil in the hospital?”
“Yes.” I felt growing dread over what she might be about to say.
“When I told you I overheard Nurse Wilmot talking to Mrs. Roper about Nurse Bellamy’s male visitors…” Jarrett trailed off, the fierce red blush of embarrassment creeping up her face.
“Did you overhear something else? Do not be afraid to tell me,” I said.
Jarrett took a deep breath. “I also heard Nurse Wilmot ask Mrs. Roper if she wanted to be included in a scheme she had started with Nurse Harris.”
“Nurse Harris?” I repeated in disbelief. “What sort of scheme?”
She shook her head. “I’m not quite sure. Something to do with becoming rich without anyone knowing about it. Charlie Lewis came downstairs about that time and I didn’t want him to catch me in a bad position, you understand.”
“Why did you not tell me this sooner?” I demanded in complete frustration. “Why would you keep such important information to yourself?”
“I-I-I—” She was becoming nervous again. “I thought perhaps if I could figure it out on my own—”
“Then you could be the heroine of your own novel: saving me, saving other staff, and saving the Establishment’s reputation,” I finished tartly for her.
“Well—I—well, I didn’t mean to—” Jarrett was on the verge of tears.
I sighed. “Very well. You did the proper thing by at least finally coming to me. You will speak of this to no one else, is that clear?” I rose to end the conversation.
Jarrett bobbed her head up and down as she also stood. “No, madam. I mean, yes, of course, madam. But … is there any other way I can help?”
I paused. I had only just decided to trust no one other than Mary, who was known to me but was a stranger to the Establishment. I wasn’t sure I was ready to fully extend my confidence elsewhere. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. If you happen to witness or overhear anything, tell me immediately. But”—I frowned to emphasize how much I meant this—“do not listen at doors or
question anyone or do anything remotely investigative. Do you understand?”
Jarrett nodded, but I had the feeling she would be crouched down, peering through a keyhole, in no time. Should I worry that she might also be knocked down a flight of stairs?
Jarrett bobbed a curtsy and returned to her desk with her floor plan, humming happily once more as she folded it. As I left the library myself, I watched as she locked the floor plan away in a drawer as though it were a secret treasure.
I was developing a bad feeling about Persimmon Jarrett’s future health and well-being.
* * *
In the corridor, I nearly collided with a confused Mary Clarke, who carried her writing notebook as well as the papers I had asked her to retrieve.
“Miss Florence, I thought you wished to—”
“What kept you?” I snapped, much more harshly than I had intended.
“My apologies. I misplaced my notebook. I could have sworn I put it on a bookshelf in your study, but it wasn’t there. I found it on the table in the entry hall. I don’t remember dropping it there.”
I doubted she had been forgetful, but why would someone have moved it? “Let’s return to my study,” I said. There was no question that Jarrett’s ears would be perked up like a terrier’s if we remained in the library. My study was probably the only safe place in the building to talk.
Once we reached it, I firmly shut the door and turned the key in the lock. No need to risk it accidentally drifting open.
Mary watched me with a growing expression of concern.
I ignored the look and dragged my desk chair around until I was seated next to her. “Mary,” I said. “It’s time for you to hear a story…”
I spent the next half hour recounting the past few days to her, from the moment I had found Nurse Bellamy to the conversation I had just had with Persimmon Jarrett. I nearly wore myself out reliving the encounters with Roderick Alban, Lillian Alban, Nurse Wilmot, and Nurse Frye, not to mention my near brush with death the day before.
No Cure for the Dead Page 14