“All of this,” I concluded, “will ensure that the patient will not only be comfortable but will wish to partake of the food offered. Next to cleanliness, nourishing food is the most critical component of good health.”
As I dictated my final thoughts on the matter—to which I was sure I would add later—I heard wailing erupt from the ward of inmate rooms. It wasn’t so much a wailing, really, as a terrible keening.
It was John Wesley.
CHAPTER 14
Poor John Wesley was suffering terrible pain with his knee. Although I knew he had been through a gruesome operation, I was also concerned that he was receiving too much laudanum.
But laudanum was the least of his problems, for if an infection set in due to the surgeon’s work, the boy would not likely survive. Thus far, he had not presented a fever, nor confusion, nor nausea, so thus I did not believe he had an infection. My greatest hope was that he would continue to somehow ward off such symptoms.
Regardless of my concerns about laudanum, I gave him a half dose of the medicinal tonic, waited for him to settle back against his pillow, inspected and changed his bandages, then went to gather up the nurses, instructing them to meet me in the kitchens.
They all sat around the worktable—now cleared of its pastry-making supplies—and I sat at the head. Polly Roper attempted to excuse herself, but I told her that she was to be part of the conversation.
First, I discussed my opinion of John Wesley and that we should reduce how much laudanum he received, at least until Dr. Killigrew returned and ordered otherwise. I also stated that in the afternoon I wanted him out of his sickbed to learn how to use a crutch, and that I expected the other nurses to work with him each day as well. I didn’t want a ten-year-old boy to become a coddled, permanent invalid like Hester Moore.
Their expressions were much what I would have expected. Nan Wilmot was smug, Margery Frye was openly hostile, Marian Hughes was blank, and Clementina Harris’s features were carefully schooled into calm repose, although she had made sure to select a chair as far from Frye as possible.
Mrs. Roper was agitated, rocking back and forth and picking at herself as though she had fleas, which I attributed to her discomfort at the group of us invading her domain. She didn’t tend to mix much with the others, unless what Jarrett had said was true and Polly Roper was actively engaged in a plot with Wilmot and Harris.
It was difficult to believe that one of these women might be a murderess.
I put it away in my mind. If I was to sweep out the evil debris from the Establishment, I couldn’t allow myself to be afraid of some dirt.
“I have brought you together to tell you of my thoughts regarding invalid cooking.”
Frye made an impatient noise. “Isn’t that for Polly to know?”
I truly hoped that Margery Frye was guilty of some wrongdoing that I could eventually prove. The thought of her being hauled off the premises in chains actually gave me a warm feeling.
“It is for all of you to know,” I replied with firm conviction. “As nurses, you must not be reliant on anyone except yourselves for the care of inmates. This means everything from knowing how to clean”—I gave Nan Wilmot a sharp stare, under which she had the good grace to shrink—“to performing everyday household tasks, and especially how to cook.”
Grumbling passed around the table, but I rapped on the scratched and scarred wood. “A good nurse does whatever is required of her to ensure her patient’s comfort. Although we do rely on Mrs. Roper’s considerable talents, it is imperative that everyone know how to prepare dishes like egg wine and rice milk.”
I turned back to Mary, who sat in a corner, and asked her to record the recipes. Then I had Mrs. Roper assemble ingredients for me, and together we prepared egg wine, mixing together a beaten egg, a half cup of cold water, sugar, and nutmeg. I asked her to pour it all into a saucepan, and then I added a cup of sherry to it. “An egg is very nutritious, and it is beneficial to add it where you can,” I said as Mrs. Roper stirred the warming concoction.
After the cook poured the saucepan contents into a large cup, I passed the cup around the table so that each nurse could taste the result. All of them seemed openly surprised that the mixture tasted pleasant, and naturally Nurse Frye took a couple of extra swallows. Seeing that everyone noticed, she defended herself. “My taste buds are dull today. I need more of it to get the flavor.”
We then stepped through the makings for rice milk, a more solid provision for a patient than simple egg wine. Once more using a saucepan, I had Polly simmer some rinsed rice in milk. Once it was tender, I added sugar and nutmeg.
“Nutmeg not only flavors well but aids in digestion,” I instructed them as Polly put spoonfuls in egg cups for the nurses to try. “You will want to find ways to use it for patients, who so often develop intestinal problems just from lying around with other ailments.”
The rice milk was clearly not a favorite with Frye, but she gamely ate what was put before her.
“As good nurses, you should all be able to develop quick-thinking recipes for your inmates that Mrs. Roper can easily prepare or you can prepare on your own if she is busy. Keep basic principles in mind: patients love sugar, and it will cause them to ingest something otherwise revolting. Nutmeg is good for digestion, as is arrowroot, although I think flour can be substituted for arrowroot’s thickening properties while providing more nutrition. Broths of all types are restorative but must have good flavor—whether it be from beef, chicken, veal, or mutton.”
To my surprise, Frye had become interested in what I was saying, sitting up straighter and frowning in concentration. “Miss Nightingale, what of coffee?” she asked. “Is it as helpful as tea? Sometimes I am asked for a pot, but I always deny it because I assume tea is much more nutritious.”
“Fetch me your supply of coffee beans,” I said to Polly Roper, then addressed the nurses. “I believe a great deal too much credit is given to tea by some, and too much criticism is made by others. We English crave it beyond all reason, and I count myself among those who must have several daily cups. A little bit of tea or coffee can be quite restorative, but too much—particularly of coffee—will impair what little powers of digestion the patient has. However, when we see that one or two cups of tea makes the patient feel better, we think, ‘How much better might four or five cups be?’ and yet this is not the case. Coffee is generally a better restorative than tea, but is also quicker than tea to disrupt digestion. Thus, you must use good judgment in determining how much of either to give the patient and not simply give in to her demands.
“I shall demonstrate for you how to make nutritious coffee. Ah, thank you, Mrs. Roper.” The cook had returned and handed a tin to me. I rattled it and heard the telltale sound of beans. However, upon removing the lid, I was immediately dismayed. There was an awful fuzz growing on the beans. “I presume you haven’t been using these? They are covered in mold spores.”
Mrs. Roper shrugged. “They came over from Cavendish Square and I put them on a shelf. No one ever asks me to make it.”
“Dispose of these and obtain more from the grocer. Buy no more than a pound of beans until we see how much we might use now that we understand its benefits. Do not keep any coffee for more than a couple of months, and only ever grind what you are about to use.”
The cook nodded and took the beans away.
“Then I shall simply explain the proper making of coffee for an invalid, which is a fairly simple matter,” I said, wondering what other stored foods might need review. “To make a large cupful of coffee, first bring a pint of milk to nearly boiling in a saucepan, then stir in a half ounce of ground coffee. Boil them together for three minutes, then let it settle off the heat for five minutes. Now, how might the coffee be made even more nutritious?”
Nurse Hughes raised her hand tentatively. “An egg?”
I smiled. She had been listening. “Yes. A beaten egg in the empty coffee cup, then mixed with the hot coffee that is poured over it.”
The
nurses were all paying rapt attention to me now. Was it my imagination, or was there the tiniest glimmer of respect in Margery Frye’s expression?
“Tomorrow we will gather again to discuss cleanliness and how it prevents the miasmas that contribute to the spread of diseases. I am of the firm opinion that—”
There was a thud against the rear servants’ door so loud that we all started in unison.
Polly Roper smoothed her apron. “That must be Gideon, the butcher’s boy, with the beef joints I ordered. He’s a clumsy little oaf. I’ll just pop out and take the delivery.”
She scurried out of sight, and in a moment I heard the door locks unlatching, and then it opened with the squeal of rusted hinges that had not been replaced in decades. So much more could have been done in the building’s renovation.
However, the creaky hinge was inaudible over Mrs. Roper’s shriek, which could not possibly have resulted from being offered a tainted cut of meat.
I jumped up and ran through the kitchen, linen room, and laundry to the rear door, stepping short at what I saw.
Persimmon Jarrett lay face down on the floor, sobbing, blood pouring from one wrist onto the old, tiled floor.
CHAPTER 15
Jarrett’s hair was tousled, if not downright ratty, above her shaking shoulders. She was clad in a drab brown dress that was immodestly bunched above her knees, and there were a variety of scratches and bruises on her exposed skin.
I permitted myself two seconds to absorb the scene in front of me before snapping to action. “You will boil some water,” I instructed Mrs. Roper, “for the nurses will need clean water to address her wounds.”
She immediately obeyed me, most likely so she could flee the dreadful scene. I knelt down next to Miss Jarrett. “You little simpleton,” I said quietly but not unkindly. “What happened to you?”
With Polly Roper gone, Mary and the nurses clamored into the room, but all were thankfully silent.
“Miss Nightingale, I am so sorry,” Jarrett said, struggling to rise to her knees. Harris got down on her own knees on the other side of the librarian, and together we gently lifted her into a seated position.
I ordered the other nurses to prepare a room, to go to the linen room for bandages, and to summon Dr. Killigrew. Again. Dr. Killigrew was spending more time at the Establishment lately than at his wealthy clients’ homes.
For once, Nurse Wilmot moved as though she was not drugged. A tiny bit of progress.
Marian Hughes returned first with bandages, which I instructed her to press against Jarrett’s wrist to arrest the bleeding. The librarian whispered her thanks.
Harris loosened Jarrett’s clothing as best she could so that the woman could breathe better.
“So sorry,” Jarrett repeated, snuffling now as Harris and Hughes worked on her. With Hughes pressing the now blood-soaked cloths against Jarrett’s wrist while holding the cut arm up in the air, Harris began inspecting her for other injuries. I was pleased with my nurses’ zealous and efficient tending of the injured woman.
“She has a very large contusion on the side of her head, Miss Nightingale,” Harris announced as she ran her fingers carefully over Jarrett’s scalp.
The librarian winced as Harris probed the area more. “No blood, but she took a nasty blow.”
“Tell me what happened,” I said, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and offering it to Jarrett. She made quite a sight. Her one arm was raised in the air like a child desperate to answer a schoolmaster’s question, and the other was wiping a piece of linen across her nose while a nurse picked at her head like a chimpanzee removing fleas off a fellow monkey.
“It happened about—I don’t know, what time is it?”
I consulted the watch pinned to my dress. “It is half past two.”
She frowned, confused. “Oh. Then I was out longer than I thought.”
“Out?” I said. “Outside? Or do you mean unconscious?”
“I suppose both. I just wanted to help you.” Her voice cracked and the tears began streaming again.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, tell me how this happened.” Persimmon Jarrett was achingly frustrating, and it was causing my temper to flare again.
“I thought I might be able to assist you by keeping an eye on the Establishment, to see if a stranger came around and tried to sneak in. I failed.” The word “failed” was drawn out in a cry of anguish.
“Miss Jarrett, you still haven’t told me what happened to you.” What was keeping Dr. Killigrew? Was I too impatient in expecting everyone to appear in an instant?
“Right.” She snuffled one last time. “I hid among the boxwoods. I thought that in this dress I would blend into the gardens. I was in what I thought to be a good spying position, and the next thing I knew, I felt a cold, hard … object … strike me. I fell sideways and woke to find my … my … wrist bleeding. I tried to get up and fell again, and I woke up again with my wrist against … against … a sharp stone, and bleeding anew. It hurt so much. Who would do this to me, Miss Nightingale?”
She wiggled her coagulating wrist for emphasis and Nurse Hughes shook her head at the librarian.
First me, then John Wesley, now Persimmon Jarrett. All of us attacked, but all in a somewhat clumsy manner, as if the attacks were warnings being issued and not truly attempted murders.
In fact, they were exceedingly amateurish attempts, particularly compared to the thorough job done on Caroline Bellamy.
The one thing that struck me as unusual was that whereas John Wesley and I had been pushed down the stairs, Jarrett’s wrist had been cut. An echo of Bellamy’s death.
I still had no idea who might be behind it all, nor the purpose of all of the bloodshed and batterings.
More important, I didn’t know how to stop it from happening again.
* * *
Dr. Killigrew checked Jarrett over and determined that the cut was neither deep enough nor the blow to her head strong enough to put her in any mortal danger.
I had him accompany me to the rear gardens, and together we found the spot where Jarrett had been attacked. She had been hiding between the brick wall that separated the Establishment from its neighboring property and a short line of old boxwoods that rose in front of a section of the wall. Several branches were snapped and lay bloodied on the ground, and there was a pool of dried blood that seemed to mark where her wrist had been draining out until she managed to wake and stumble her way down to the kitchens.
Poor, stupid girl. Although I had to admit that she really had chosen an ideally concealed location from which to view anyone coming and going from the rear of the building. It just wasn’t concealed enough for her to avoid detection. Of course, knowing Jarrett, she had probably sneezed or coughed at the wrong moment while crouching back there.
“Here you are,” Dr. Killigrew said, holding up a brick from the wall. We searched the wall and found a location on the opposite side of the gardens where the brick had fallen out. Or been chiseled out.
“Do you have any suspects now?” he asked, replacing the brick into its proper place but with the bloodied side in the wall.
I shook my head. “I can find fault with everyone inside the Establishment, and yet I cannot find enough fault with anyone.”
“Hmm,” he speculated. “Perhaps you should be looking elsewhere.”
I frowned. “Where else is there to look?”
“If the murderer is not obviously here, he might be more obviously found elsewhere, and find him you must. Who is associated with the Establishment who does not reside here?”
I considered this. “Well, there is Lady Canning, of course, but that’s a preposterous notion.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Then there would be all of the committee members. And their wives.” I remembered the conversation I’d had with Lillian Alban, happy to not have had any subsequent visits from her. “Beyond that, there would just be the inmates’ relatives and the routine people who come by in the course of a day. Delivery boys,
the postman, and the like.”
“And me, of course, Miss Nightingale. You should also consider the fact that I am a regular visitor.” Killigrew smiled broadly at me, and I returned the smile.
“Yes, doctor, I shall put you at the top of my suspect list. Pray, what is your reasoning for the mayhem you have caused in my life?”
He spread his hands. “It could be any number of things. What are the seven deadly sins? Let me see … sloth, envy, gluttony, avarice … what are the others?”
“Lust, pride, and wrath,” I finished up for him.
“Of course, of course. Well, you may be sure that the murderer’s reasoning is one or more of these sins.” Dr. Killigrew then expressed to me his grave concern regarding what was occurring at the Establishment, especially since it might result in my dismissal, a fact I was acutely and miserably aware of. I didn’t need constant reminders about it.
“Think on my suggestions. You are shrewd and resourceful, Miss Nightingale. You will find the answer.”
* * *
With Dr. Killigrew gone and Jarrett situated in a room resting comfortably, I sent Mary on an errand to purchase sundry supplies that would have her wandering from shop to shop throughout Marylebone. I needed a chance to clear my mind away from the Establishment and decided upon another visit to Elizabeth Herbert. She would be both a comfort and a wise counselor. I rather regretted now refusing her offer to ask for her husband’s help in my situation.
Liz welcomed me as warmly as usual, but this time her face was etched with worry as we sat down.
“I’ve been a bit frantic about you, dear one. What I’m hearing—is it true that you nearly died from a fall?”
I assured my friend that reports of my injuries were exaggerated. She looked at me dubiously. “In any case, I am glad to see you feeling robust, and relieved that you thought to come see me as soon as you were well. I wanted to send you a note, but Sidney wouldn’t hear of it.”
I was puzzled. “Why on earth not?”
“Sidney greatly admires your courage but is concerned about the outcome of your venture. And as you know, Sidney is worried he may soon be prosecuting a war in—”
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