Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  Her other neighbour eventually laid down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth on his napkin and smiled round the table at his fellow guests.

  ‘How pleasant it is for me to return as a guest to Waterloo House after my brief sojourn elsewhere and how fortunate I feel to have discovered such an agreeable residence in the first place,’ he announced in a confiding manner and with a genial nod towards his hostess. ‘I have been travelling widely in England since I landed and a chance meeting with a charming lady when I was lately in Brighton told me of this house. I believe she was an acquaintance of yours, dear Mrs Montgomery. We must have a cosy talk about her soon.’

  Charlotte, buttering her toast, surprised an expression of utter dismay on the face of her landlady; a face that seemed suddenly wary, much older, pale and drawn. However, the lady had herself well in hand and merely murmured a commonplace rejoinder. What perplexed Charlotte more though, was the distinct air of quiet satisfaction that Mr Tibbins radiated as a result of this interchange.

  On the opposite side of the large mahogany table Captain Penbury and Mr Chettle were discussing their various travels abroad, with the sailor advocating the benefits of a sea voyage, while the younger man spoke up in vigorous defence of the health-giving heat of Egypt where he had spent a period of several months, some ten years previously.

  Mr Tibbins, whose hearing was evidently acute, cocked an eager ear to this conversation and Charlotte had the oddest feeling, almost as though he was happily checking their remarks against some list in his head. Presently he broke into the talk himself, with some anecdotes about life in America before he returned to their topic. ‘So, gentlemen, you have both enjoyed the delights of the eastern Mediterranean climate?’ he enquired. ‘Did you enjoy Alexandria at all, Mr Chettle? I believe there is a flourishing trade, both legal and otherwise, in the many relics to be found pertaining to Cleopatra, that beautiful lady of legend whom age cannot wither.’

  Mr Chettle’s face darkened; his jaw jutted forbiddingly and his overhanging eyebrow loomed in a frown as he gave a curt nod in reply and addressed himself to his breakfast. Mr Tibbins gave a slight nod of satisfaction and turned to the other guest. ‘And what of your own travels, Captain?’ His smile deepened as he observed the sudden fidgeting that overtook the naval man. ‘Were you by any chance engaged in the Battle of Acre?’

  The man from London shook his head and sighed at the other man’s abrupt denial. ‘No? Perhaps a relative of yours took part? What a stirring battle that must have been. Only eighteen years ago and so fortunate – fewer than twenty of your gallant British sailor boys killed, against more than a thousand of the enemy. How one would have cheered to see such courage and derring-do among the British officers.’

  Again, Charlotte was puzzled as he assumed that same enigmatic smile while the bluff Captain Penbury’s already weatherbeaten red face was suffused with an even deeper terracotta glow.

  At this point Mrs Montgomery resumed control of her breakfast table and not a moment too soon, decided Charlotte. Their hostess herself still wore a look of wary concern while Mr Chettle was frowning at his half-eaten mutton chop, his appetite apparently vanished, and Captain Penbury, who had subsided from his turkey-cock bluster, was downing his weak tea with an air of imperfectly assumed indifference. The cause of all this unrest, Mr Tibbins, sat peeling an orange with perfect unconcern.

  ‘We are expecting a most distinguished new guest,’ Mrs Montgomery told them, determinedly not letting her glance fall on the disruptive gentleman. She cast a gracious smile round the table and said smugly, ‘A Lady Buckwell has written to engage a sitting room and a bedchamber for a month and she is bringing her own maid. Apparently she is an elderly lady who wishes to reacquaint herself with the delights and diversions of Bath which she knew in her youth.’

  Charlotte readily understood her hostess’s air of complacent satisfaction. An elderly lady with her own maid, staying for a month and obviously well-to-do, was a catch indeed, particularly at this time of year when most visitors headed for the country rather than a hot, stuffy city and Bath was thin of company. Bath had sunk into genteel shabbiness since its heyday in the Regency, so Mr Chettle had informed her the previous evening, and even Waterloo House, occupied as it was with invalids all year round, had at least one or two bedrooms still vacant, so Lady Buckwell could have her sitting room without difficulty.

  ‘What plans do you have for today, Mrs Richmond?’ Mrs Montgomery addressed Charlotte with a kindly condescension, interrupting herself to let out a tiny scream of dismay. ‘Oh, pray, Mr Tibbins; I beg of you do not move that vase. It is Sèvres and was bequeathed to me by my first husband’s mother’s cousin. It is one of my most precious possessions.’

  Charlotte was secretly amused to note that even Mr Tibbins’s customary bounce was a little subdued at this admonition and that he snatched his hand away looking like a guilty schoolboy.

  ‘I’ve just been telling Mr Tibbins,’ she explained to Mrs Montgomery, ‘that I hope to be able to attend church, but that I can’t settle on any excursion until I’ve discovered what my friend, Mrs Knightley, is doing. She must see her medical adviser before any plans can be made.’

  ‘Very wise, very wise,’ boomed Captain Penbury, who clearly could not bear any discussion of symptoms and treatments that did not allow him to take part. ‘And who might Mrs Knightley’s medical adviser be? I should call myself honoured if the lady would let me be her guide, if she has not yet decided on her course of treatment.’

  Charlotte was spared the necessity of answering as the captain, diverted, broke off their conversation as he stared past her out of the window.

  ‘By George,’ he exclaimed, his face alight with interest. ‘Talk of the devil—’ He broke off in some confusion as Mrs Montgomery’s slightly protuberant blue eyes rested on him in glacial disdain. ‘Harrumph, beg your pardon, ma’am … but there, just outside this house is the latest and most sought after medical man in Bath. And, by heaven, he’s just walked up the steps of this house. Now there, Mrs Richmond,’ – he turned eagerly back to Charlotte – ‘that’s the fellow your friend should see. What was his name now? Rumble? Runcorn? Aye, he has them all queuing to consult him on the latest treatments so I fear Mrs Knightley might not stand a chance of seeing him.’

  The maid entered and bobbed a curtsy to her mistress. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but Mrs Knightley would be glad if Mrs Richmond would look in on her. I’ve just shown Mr Jonathan Radnor to Mrs Knightley’s sitting-room.’

  The electrical medical practitioner in whose revolutionary methods Kit Knightley was placing such trust bowed over Charlotte’s hand and turned back to his patient.

  ‘As you will have heard, dear Mrs Knightley,’ the young man smiled, ‘I trained under Mr Frederick York who practised here in Bath until three years ago. Like Mr York, I was initially apprenticed to a chemist but then completed further studies under Mr York’s auspices before proceeding to Paris for further practical experience. Mr York, however, specialized in galvanism which certainly had some successes but which, in my opinion, causes too great a degree of discomfort for the patient.’

  ‘Discomfort?’ Charlotte interrupted with a sharp query and was aware of Jackson shuffling her feet slightly where she stood protectively behind her mistress. Charlotte was also aware of an approving nod in her own direction from Jackson, as she spoke up further. ‘Mr Knightley didn’t mention any discomfort when he arranged for this treatment.’

  ‘No, no, Miss, er, Mrs Richmond.’ Mr Radnor hastened to explain, his brown eyes meltingly sincere in his handsome face. ‘That was in the past. The method I use is known as Faradism.’ He frowned for a moment then continued, ‘I suppose the simplest way I can describe it is that I use electricity to stimulate a response in the patient’s muscles. This response, when used judiciously by a skilled operator, can have a markedly beneficial effect upon the nervous system in chronic patients.’

  Elaine’s sweet smile betrayed none of the despair Charlotte knew her to f
eel. Both women were aware that no stimulus of muscular response would benefit Elaine in the long run; that her condition was beyond medical help. Elaine refused to discuss her symptoms, but Charlotte was well aware that her friend was suffering increasing bouts of internal pain, besides the long-standing delicate condition of her heart that was responsible for her bodily weakness. Both women, however, knew that at home in Hampshire, Kit Knightley was clinging desperately to the belief that this radical new treatment would restore his wife completely to health and neither of them could bear to shatter his faith.

  ‘I suggest a restful morning, Mrs Knightley,’ the electrical specialist was advocating. ‘As I understand you spent most of yesterday travelling, we will take it very steadily.’ His gently superior smile grated on Charlotte, but she noted that Elaine seemed a little soothed by the young man’s attentions; she was certainly listening with interest to his suggestions. ‘In bed, if you please, although this afternoon it will be acceptable, if you feel your strength equal to it, to rest upon this comfortable-looking day bed so conveniently to hand by the window.’ He bowed again and Charlotte hid a smile at Elaine’s equally ceremonious nod.

  ‘I fear I must forbid any attendance at church, dear lady, and tomorrow morning I would like you to remain in bed until noon. In the afternoon I will send round a bath chair with a respectable and reliable man to push it. It is a little cooler today and I am assured that we can expect a health-giving breeze tomorrow so I’m sure you will feel all the better for some fresh air and new interests.’

  He gave her an approving smile. ‘On Tuesday at about eleven o’clock, I would like you to come to my treatment rooms just off Milsom Street down towards the Pump Room and we shall commence treatment. If your maid could pack several loose nightgowns I think you would find that the most comfortable garb.’

  Charlotte saw the young man down to the entrance hall, asking further details of how long the initial treatment would take and whether Elaine would need extra rest afterwards. As they spoke together under the suspicious eye of Mrs Montgomery’s mother’s brother’s portrait, the ubiquitous Mr Tibbins descended the stairs, admired himself in the mirror, stroked his modest side-whiskers, added a tilt to his hat, gave a preliminary twirl to the cane he carried on every possible occasion, and sauntered out of the front door, with a graceful nod to Charlotte. His gaze fell on her companion with mere mild curiosity at first until a spark lit his eye and he stared with avid interest before going on his way with a jaunty spring in his step.

  ‘Who … who was that?’ The dapper young medical man was looking distinctly alarmed. ‘Mrs Richmond, who was that gentleman who has just gone out?

  CHAPTER 3

  Elaine Knightley professed herself content with the programme suggested by her new medical adviser.

  ‘Frankly, my dear Char,’ she admitted. ‘I shall be only too glad to stay in my room today and am happy to postpone making the acquaintance of my fellow guests. No, I’m not ill, don’t look so anxious. I am merely tired after the journey and all the excitements before we left home. Why don’t you do as you suggested and make your way to the abbey? I remember it as a beautiful building and you will enjoy the literary and historical associations, but do try to concentrate on the sermon too!’

  Charlotte grinned and nodded in agreement and Elaine went on, ‘What would you like to do this afternoon?’ As Charlotte shrugged, Elaine looked thoughtful. ‘In that case, if you have no decided preference, perhaps we could spend a peaceful afternoon exploring this box of novels that has just been delivered to me? Kit, bless him, sent them an order. If you would read aloud to me, I confess I should enjoy it very much, perhaps after tea? Kit is no hand at reading aloud which is a pity as I do enjoy lying back and listening, so it would be a great pleasure if you would do the honours.’

  The service in Bath Abbey was inspiring but try as she might Charlotte’s efforts to concentrate upon uplifting thoughts were interrupted by memories of her mother and Will Glover and digressions into remembered passages from various much-loved novels. The other guests at Waterloo House jostled in Charlotte’s thoughts also, in particular the disturbing Mr Tibbins who seemed to upset his fellow residents merely by opening his mouth. But nothing he said was impolite, mused Charlotte as she listened with half an ear to the sermon, her eyes demurely on the prayer book in her lap. She cast her mind back and could only recall fragments of what had seemed to be mere social niceties. She was only too aware, however, that he was keeping her under observation nearly all the time and could only be grateful that his interest appeared to be benign. In fact, during their brief conversational encounters she had begun to find him a sympathetic and amusing fellow guest, happy to relate tales of his life in New York and other cities in America where he seemed to have travelled extensively.

  It was a puzzle, but, she sighed, she had a greater puzzle to hand. After the service Charlotte strolled down towards the river and sat down on a convenient bench, delving into her reticule and pulling out a much creased letter. A frown marred her smooth brow as she read the pointed calligraphy for quite the twentieth time.

  My dear Madam,

  I thank you most humbly for the good wishes you graciously convey to me from my old friend, Dr Perry, now your neighbour in Hampshire. It was a delightful surprise to have news of him and I am only too happy to be of service to a friend of his. Sadly, however, I am unable to satisfy your request for information regarding the birth, in Bath, of a female orphan in late November of the year 1819.

  As my old friend told you, I have a particular interest in female delinquency which is a scourge upon the fair name of womanhood and upon receipt of your kind enquiry, I betook myself to make enquiries on your friend’s behalf. Alas, the registers of the Female Penitentiary here in Bath proved to be of little assistance in your quest as there is no record of a female orphan, Molly Wesley by name, having been born to any of the unfortunate women confined there. Nor, dear lady, was there any female child born during a month either side of the date you gave me.

  It is a grievous admission for me to be obliged to make, dear Mrs Richmond, but I am unable to serve you further in this matter. Should you wish, on your acquaintance’s behalf (and what a fortunate female she must be to have so solicitous a friend) to investigate further, I can only suggest that there existed at that time several small homes for orphans, run by charitable persons.

  I remain, with deepest apologies for so inadequate a response to your cry for help,

  Your humble servant,

  Jas Yolland

  She had said that there were three particular reasons for her delight in the proposed visit to Bath but in fact there was a fourth, which she had confided to only one other. The notion, when it struck her shortly after Elaine’s welcome invitation, had seemed heaven-sent. Bath was where Charlotte’s mother, Molly Glover, née Wesley, had been born – in an orphanage – she had told her daughter. It had seemed such an obvious proceeding to Charlotte to make discreet enquiries about that same orphanage and when she had confided the bare bones of her problem to Dr Perry, the Finchbourne physician, he had been triumphant when he unearthed the address of his old acquaintance.

  ‘Prosy old bore,’ he had confided to Charlotte. ‘But if there’s anything to be found, he’ll ferret it out for you.’ He had cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at her. ‘Someone you knew in Australia or India no doubt?’

  Well, she sighed, as she folded the letter and slipped it into her bag, that avenue is closed off to me but I am certainly not abandoning my quest. As Mr Yolland says, there were, and probably still are, some private institutions. My difficulty will be in discovering them and seeking out anyone who has any recollection of nearly forty years ago.

  Elaine’s proposed programme for their entertainment was carried out to their mutual benefit, Charlotte reading aloud with brio and Elaine applauding at particularly dramatic moments. Once or twice Charlotte faltered in her performance but she pulled herself together and was confident Elaine had noticed nothing untowar
d in her manner. Charlotte, however, had much to consider and was glad to fall in with the suggestion that she should forego the delights of dinner with her fellow guests and share Elaine’s supper in their sitting-room.

  It had been such an oddly frightening little incident, she recalled, when she was able later to sit in her own room and reflect on the event.

  She had taken an early tea in the drawing-room of Waterloo House, accompanied by her hostess who dispensed the beverage from a massive silver urn, along with Mrs Attwell and the son she kept so firmly tied to her apron strings, Mr Chettle, and the bluff captain whose ponderous gallantries were as trying in their way as the unpleasant descriptions of funeral customs which she reluctantly suspected were her Hampshire neighbour’s attempt at charming her.

  As soon as it could not be condemned as impolite, Charlotte gathered up her shawl and reticule, bade a pleasant farewell to the assembled company and swiftly left the house, seeking some fresh air. Sadly, fresh air was hard to come by as the city sweltered in a damp heat that made her buff muslin dress cling unpleasantly, but she persevered and managed a fairly brisk walk along the river. It was on her return towards Waterloo House that she crossed the road, turned a corner and came upon a gentleman on one knee, in the act of rising up from the pavement. He looked dazed and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief which he pressed to the side of his head.

  It was Mr Jonas Tibbins.

  As she halted, surprised and alarmed, Charlotte saw that the American was staring at the red stain that was spreading across the white linen he held, and forgetting her reservations, she rushed to his side.