by Brown, Ben
“Ma’am,” he said as he walked back towards her and his friend. “Might we not take a seat? I feel what we have to say would test the constitution of the strongest of souls. I certainly know my legs are feeling weak, and a chair would be very gratifying.”
The Queen’s pretty face clouded with apprehension, but she quickly regained her regal air. “What a good idea, Sir William, after you.” She gestured towards a number of chairs arranged by the window.
As they took their seats, Victoria gazed out the window at the newly budded greenery of St. James’s Park. “I do so love spring; it is a time of renewal.” She turned her gaze to the two seated across from her. “Gentlemen, do you not feel the same? Spring offers hope of a fresh start.” Her gaze returned to the window. “It is a time when all things are possible. Please, Dr Bartholomew, please tell me all things are possible.” Her voice broke slightly at the utterance of her last words.
Bexley reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Breaking all protocol, he offered it to the distraught young woman. Victoria took it and dabbed at her eyes.
“Your Majesty — Victoria,” said Bartholomew.
Bexley looked at him in disbelief. Such familiarity was uncalled for, but he said nothing.
Bartholomew continued. “I delivered you into this world, and I have cared for you ever since. In all those years have I ever told you an untruth, or sugar coated bad news?”
Victoria looked at him and smiled kindly. “No, you have always treated me with honesty, and you have never tried to shelter me because of my position. Please, Doctor, whatever it is you need to say, do it with the same honesty again.”
Bartholomew rose to his feet and straightened his waistcoat. “Ma’am, I am afraid I have the most terrible news. Your husband, Prince Albert, has the cursed infection known as ‘The Lingering’. I have examined him myself, and regrettably he has the strain which he will not awaken from. He is doomed to become one of ‘The Lingering’.”
Victoria sobbed openly.
The men stared at the other, frozen by millennia of protocols and traditions.
“Should we summon one of her ladies?” asked Bexley uncomfortably.
Bartholomew stared at the young woman, and shook his head. He moved to her side, and perched himself beside her on the seat. A second later he wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder.
“Rupert, have you lost your mind?” growled Bexley in a horse whisper.
“Shut up man! Can you not see she is suffering?”
“Of course I can, but, but — she is The Queen!”
Bartholomew shot his friend an angry glare. “She is also a young woman who has been told that her husband is gone. She deserves the same solace as the rest of us.”
Bexley looked towards the door. “But what if someone sees you — it will mean the tower.”
“What rubbish! The door is locked and you have the key. The only people who will ever know of this, are you, me, and The Queen. Now stop your blathering, and fetch her some water.”
Bartholomew comforted the young woman for close to twenty minutes, at which point she finally regained a modicum of control.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for my outburst. I meant to distress you not, and your kindness and patience is greatly appreciated.”
Bartholomew got to his feet and re-joined his friend across from her. “Not at all, Your Majesty. Your grief is completely understandable.”
Bexley nodded, but then his face darkened. “Ma’am, we need to discuss what is to be done with your husband.”
Victoria turned to him and placed her hands in her lap. “What do you mean?”
Both men looked at each other, and Bartholomew gestured for his friend to continue.
Bexley returned his gaze to The Queen. “Your Majesty, Prince Albert — your husband — will become one of The Lingering. The matter needs to be dealt with before the public becomes aware of his affliction.”
Her brow knitted with confusion. “Dealt with? I do not understand. Doctor Bartholomew, what is he talking about?”
Bartholomew stood. “Ma’am, may I pour myself a drink? I feel I will need the fortifying qualities of a stiff beverage to say what needs to be said.”
Victoria nodded. “Of course, Doctor, and if you need to be fortified to speak, then I am sure I will need to be fortified to listen. Might you also pour Sir Bexley and I a similar measure of fortification?”
Bartholomew bowed his head. “Of course, Ma’am.”
He turned and headed towards a small table, on which sat a decanter of Sherry. He placed three small crystal glasses on a silver tray, and filled them to the top. A few moments later he offered the tray to Victoria, then to his friend, and finally he took his own. While Victoria sipped at her drink, both men downed theirs in one.
Bartholomew placed both the tray and his empty glass on a table beside Bexley. Then, as the warming effects of the Sherry burned in his belly, he crossed his arms behind his back and began the hardest words he would ever utter.
“Your Majesty, I feel it best I explain this abhorrent disease to you in full. Only with a complete understanding of this nightmarish malady, will you appreciate the steps which need to be taken.
“Back in late September of last year a ship arrived from the Americas — more specifically, Boston. Over two-thirds of its crew and passengers seemed stricken with an illness which no physician seemed able to identify. The infection spread through the port like wildfire, and within a month an epidemic had taken hold of our fair city. The epidemic spread at a frightening speed, and nothing we did seemed to slow it.”
Victoria raised her hand. “Doctor, what of the Americas, how are they fairing against this disease?”
“Ma’am, the infection runs rampant throughout the civilized world,” interjected Bexley. “It would appear that no nation has been spared this blight.”
Victoria turned her gaze to him. “Why had I not been informed of this? I knew a sickness troubled the cities, and I knew that things were dire, but I thought we had things under control.”
Bexley smiled weakly. “Your Majesty, the prime minister thought it best you not be worried. He never dreamed one of your family would be taken by this lamentable disease.”
Victoria got to her feet. She no longer looked grief stricken. She now looked angry. “Gentlemen, I am The Queen! To keep such information from me borders on treason!”
Bexley nodded. “Ma’am, I agree, but my opinions were usurped by the prime minister. Your Majesty, there will be time to lay blame later. And if I am among those with which the blame lays, then I will take my punishment accordingly. That is in the future, but for now you must hear Dr Bartholomew out.”
Victoria returned to her seat. “Pray continue, Doctor.”
Bartholomew took a second to gather his thoughts. “The disease quickly infected nearly all of the poor, and it soon gained a foothold among the rest of the population. By last December, over ninety percent of the population had fallen prey to The Lingering. It seemed that nothing could be done for those stricken. The infected fell into a stupor which lasted for weeks, sometimes months. However, by some miracle, slowly the veil of the disease began to lift.
“On Mass, people started to awake. Most showed little to no ill effects from their brief glimpse into Hell. They were weak, and malnourished, but the disease seemed completely gone. Unfortunately, others were not so lucky.”
Bartholomew looked over at Bexley, and his old friend nodded for him to continue.
He moved towards his queen. “Ma’am, may I sit? My legs are old, and I do not think they have the strength to bear the burden of what I am about to tell you.”
Victoria patted the seat beside her. “Come, Doctor, sit with me.”
He smiled and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He mopped the sweat from his brow as he took the seat beside her. She looked deep into his eyes.
“Doctor, I know that you are deeply troubled by what you have to tell me, but I am not a child. If I am to be
The Queen of the most powerful country on the planet, than I must bear bad news stoically. Your words may cause me pain, but I will blame you not. Please, Doctor, tarry no further.”
Bartholomew nodded, and cleared his throat. “While many people have begun to waken from their stupor with no ill effects, others have woken changed. These poor souls still bear the mark of The Lingering. They no longer resemble the living, but rather they are like the walking dead.”
Victoria covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. Bartholomew allowed her a moment to gather herself before continuing.
“I have managed to examine some of these people, and while their hearts still beat, nothing else about them resembles the living. Ma’am, while this is distressing news, it is not the most horrific part of my report. For the most part, these creatures are docile and placid. But if they get the scent, or taste of blood, then they become ravenous beasts. I have the regrettable duty of telling you they have eaten a large number of your citizens.”
Victoria leaped to her feet and dashed to the window. She fumbled with its catch, then flung it open and began gasping for air. In a second Bexley was at her side.
“Your Majesty, might you swoon?”
She waved him back. “Thank you, Sir William, I just needed some air. Please, Doctor, continue.”
Bartholomew wiped at his dry lips, and then continued, all be it shakily. “Once they get the taste for flesh, they change. They are no longer docile and manageable. They become uncontrollable and violent in the extreme. Our soldiers were used to stop them, but bullets, bayonets and swords seem to hinder them not. At least they do not when used on the body. The only way of stopping these things is with a blow or bullet to the head. Anything less just slows them.”
Victoria turned and looked at Bartholomew. Her face had aged a decade in minutes, and she now looked hard and resolved. “Doctor, is my husband among those who have not passed from The Lingering’s veil?”
A tear ran down Bartholomew’s cheek. “Yes, Your Majesty. He walks, but he lives not.”
She dabbed at her eye with a delicate lace handkerchief. “Has he become unmanageable?”
Bexley stepped forward. “No, Your Majesty. He has not tasted blood, he remains at peace.”
She turned her gaze to Bexley. “So, Sir William, what do you propose?”
He averted his eyes from her gaze. “Ma’am, we feel it is best to dispatch him before the blood lust takes him.”
“Sir! Kindly look me in the eye when you tell me you want to murder my husband!”
Bartholomew approached her. “Your Majesty, he is no longer your husband. Albert has passed.”
She turned her angry gaze to Bartholomew. “Nonsense, Doctor, if he has not passed from this world, then he is still my husband! Gentlemen, leave me. I need time to consider what to do, but killing him will not ever be my decision. Now go.”
Bartholomew and Bexley bowed their heads and left without another word.
Chapter 3
Location: Saint Mary’s Hospital for the Poor in Whitechapel, London
Date: March 26th 1843
Time: 7 a.m.
Bartholomew stood before the dirty, soot covered building and stared at its doors. Once, his volunteer work had brought him pleasure. The thought of his skills helping those less fortunate than he, always brought him comfort. Now the doors of St. Mary’s offered him nothing but pain and sorrow. Since The Lingering, much of his work had involved dispatching those who had become Lingerers. He felt like a vet whose only job was euthanizing sick animals. He knew the work had to be done, but it still sickened him.
Finally, he headed for the door and rapped on it with his cane. He heard the sounds of locks being pulled, and then the old doormen, Rogers, swung them wide.
“Dr Bartholomew, it is good to see you, sir. Could I take your hat and coat?”
Bartholomew removed his top hat and passed it to the bent man before him. “Thank you, Rogers. Tell me, has the night been quiet?”
“Yes, sir. I am gratified to say that the worse seems to be behind us.”
“And how are you feeling after your brief glimpse into the abyss?” Bartholomew asked as he handed Rogers his coat and cane.
“Much better thank you, sir. I hope I find you well today?”
“I have the constitution of an ox, but thank you for your concern. Have we any new guests since yesterday?”
“Yes, sir, a few. The good news is some of them have not been touched by The Lingering. We are beginning to see people suffering from run of the mill maladies again. God forgive me for thinking such a thing a blessing, but that’s how it feels.” The old man tugged at his cap apologetically. “Beg your pardon, sir, but this hospital has been like a slaughter house for too long now. It is time to get back to treating the sick.”
Bartholomew patted the question mark shaped man on the back. “Well said, Rogers, you took the thoughts right out of my head. Now, point me towards my first patient.”
The old doorman smiled. “Matron is on the first floor, she has the list of our new comers. But seeing as you asked, I think your first visit will be with Martha Skinner. She lives just up the road from me, and she is with child.” Rogers moved closer to Bartholomew and gestured for him to bend, so he could whisper in his ear. Bartholomew lowered his head with a smile. “She is a bit of a sort, this young Martha. I wager the father could be one of half a dozen men. She has no idea who the bastard’s old man is. She has had one blessing though.”
Bartholomew straightened. “And what blessing might that be?”
“For some reason The Lingering left her whole family untouched. She lives with her dear old mum and dad. Her four brothers are still at home too. Not one of them suffered the curse. Not even when every house in the street had fallen to it.”
Bartholomew raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Really, how old is the girl?”
“Sixteen, sir, but she fornicates like a brass from the gutter.”
Bartholomew stared at Rogers disapprovingly. “She is a child! Comparing her to a prostitute is hardly the act of a Christian.”
Rogers tugged at his cap. “Sorry, sir, I got carried away.”
“Well, remember where you are. We are here to help the unfortunate. We are not here to judge them. Now be off with you.”
Rogers scurried off, cackling to himself as he went. Bartholomew shook his head, but smiled. In spite of his short falls, Rogers was a good man. He knew the old orderly never left his post, not even through the worst of the outbreak. Even when many of the other staff ran, he stood strong. Only a good man would act so.
Matron Morag Evans gestured towards a very young looking girl in a bed. “This is Martha, doctor; she is about ready to drop.” The matron’s deep, Welsh voice boomed off the walls of the stark ward. “I think the baby will be along very soon. Trouble is, doctor, the poor girl has felt no movement for over a day. I have explained to her what this means, but I think she needs to hear it from you.”
Bartholomew looked around the ward. All the other patients had their eyes locked on the poor child crying in the bed.
“Matron, might we not move her bed to one of the single rooms?”
Evans adjusted her apron; she looked annoyed by the suggestion. “Doctor, she is giving birth, the single rooms are meant only for isolation. This girl is not infectious, so she should remain here.”
Bartholomew took the portly woman by the arm and guided her to the centre of the ward, then whispered, “Matron, she is a child about to give birth to a dead baby. Surely she deserves a little privacy in her grief.”
Evans pulled her arm free of his grip. “The little trollop found no need for privacy when she conceived the child. She should have to …”
“Enough! Move her to one of the single rooms!” bellowed Bartholomew angrily.
Evans lowered her eyes. “Of course, doctor.”
“One more push, Martha, and this will all be over.” Bartholomew could see the top of the baby’s head. “Just push down for me one more time.�
��
Martha let out a pain filled cry, and wept, “Sorry, I ain’t got no more to give.” She slumped from her elbows back to the bed.
Evans grabbed the girl by the shoulders and lifted her back to a position conducive to pushing. “Martha, you have made your bed and now it is time to lie in it! Do as the doctor asks, and push!”
The young girl gritted her teeth and pushed. Her hair stuck to her sweat covered face, and the matron mopped it away with a wet rag. As she bore down, Martha’s face turned a startling shade of red.
With a gush, the tiny corpse emerged from her in a rush of pain and blood. She screamed, and slumped back into the sweat covered pillow. This time Morag Evans allowed her to rest.
“Matron, quickly, a clamp and some scissors.”
Evans moved with a speed which did not match her size. She shifted quickly from the girl’s side, to the tray of surgical instruments beside the bed. Deftly, she passed Bartholomew the tools he required.
He clamped off the umbilical which joined the dead child to the one that lived. Then he severed the connection completely. He lifted the tiny blue body from between its mother’s legs, and placed it on a table behind him. He then turned his attention back to Martha, who now sobbed uncontrollably.
“I am so sorry my dear, but you still have a little work to do. You have to push out the afterbirth.”
From behind him a faint gurgling could be heard, then a cry. Evans stared at him in disbelief, and he returned her gaze with equal amazement.
“I can hear my baby — is it alive?” cried Martha as she heaved herself back to her elbows.
Bartholomew turned back to the tiny infant, and examined it carefully. He watched as the child licked its mother’s blood from its lips, and its eyes turned from yellow to black. Evans now stood at his side, and she stifled a gasp. Apparently, the child now numbered among The Lingering, but how? Its mother had been free of the disease, so how had the child contracted the dreadful malady?