Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  He raised an eyebrow as she frowned and looked disapproving at this admission, then he hesitated, still amused. ‘No, I cannot resist the impulse to instruct you, my dear. Another means of eliciting a response,’ he added in a confidential tone, ‘is to observe your quarry out of his customary habitat, at a party, for instance. That’s a grand chance to see a man give himself away.’ He made her a mock bow. ‘Or herself, of course. No one is above suspicion so we must not forget the ladies.’

  As he had turned to leave the breakfast-table Charlotte had been aware that several of her fellow guests had followed him with their eyes. Mrs Attwell’s face had lost its look of pinched apprehension and burned with what looked like an inner fire. Mrs Montgomery leant back against her chair watching him with an air of exhausted apprehension, while Mr Chettle and Captain Penbury were united in lowering frowns and angry glares.

  Now, as she watched Mr Tibbins saunter out of the front door about his business, Charlotte became aware that the Count de Kersac was in the hall, his frail frame vibrating with silent emotion and a swift sidelong glance revealed an expression of chill despair directed at the departing fellow guest.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Are you sure you really want to attempt this, Elaine?’ Charlotte frowned as she observed the preparations for Elaine’s first session of electrical treatment. ‘Kit would understand if you were to decide against it, I’m sure.’

  Mr Radnor practised close by the Pump Room and the Baths and Charlotte had been biting her tongue about her misgivings ever since they arrived and were ushered into the consulting room where the ominous-looking electrical equipment was being prepared. Charlotte had hissed her question to her friend moments before young Mr Radnor handed Elaine over to a sensible middle-aged woman who took her to a small room so that she could change into the loose cotton shift she had brought with her. As Elaine shook her head in answer to Charlotte, the maid, Jackson, closed the door firmly on the nurse and assisted her mistress herself. Meanwhile, the medical man seized upon Charlotte and proceeded to lecture her on his methods.

  ‘Here, Mrs Richmond,’ he enthused, eyes glowing with zeal. ‘Medical Faradism is indeed a miraculous invention, I have obtained many excellent results from it. Observe these buzzing coils with sponge-covered electrodes attached to them. These are dipped into salt water and introduced to the skin and the electrical currents thus produced make the muscles contract, which is of indescribable benefit to the patient in the way of stimulation.’

  Charlotte obediently observed the equipment and concealed an inward shudder, wondering whether Kit Knightley would be so anxious to submit his wife to this ordeal if he had ever attended a session of this new-fangled treatment.

  ‘Today,’ continued Mr Radnor, his enthusiasm unabashed in the face of Charlotte’s barely concealed distaste, ‘I shall place Mrs Knightley in that wooden chair, which is quite an ordinary chair, dear ma’am, you need have no anxiety; it is perfectly comfortable too. Both legs will then be inserted into buckets of water with electrodes and wires. That, I think, will suffice for today, but tomorrow I should like to expand the treatment by placing Mrs Knightley’s arms into glass pans with wire and electrodes too.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Char.’ Elaine was stoical as Charlotte whispered to her again. ‘Mr Radnor says it will only make my muscles twitch and that it won’t hurt. And who knows? The electrical currents might have a galvanic effect on my nervous system.’

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Knightley,’ Mr Radnor hastened to explain. ‘This isn’t galvanism; that really was an uncomfortable business. You need have no fear of discomfort.’

  Charlotte hid a smile as Elaine sighed. She knew how irritated her friend often found herself when confronted by someone who failed to comprehend her jokes. ‘Cheer up, Elaine,’ she whispered. ‘You look dressed for the tumbril in that long white shift. It won’t be long and we can go to admire the flowers in Victoria Park afterwards if you feel up to it.’ As she laughed, as much to keep up her own spirits as those of her friend, she pursed her lips at that mention of a tumbril. The French Revolution seems to be cropping up entirely too frequently in my thoughts of late, she frowned.

  The treatment session proved less uncomfortable than it looked and Elaine stood up to it very well, even assuring Charlotte that she was sure she felt a slight improvement already. Jackson cast a forbidding frown at Jonathan Radnor and assisted Elaine to the small changing room which contained a day bed so that patients might take an hour’s rest after their exertions.

  Charlotte decided to use the period of Elaine’s rest to investigate the former nurse identified by Mr Tibbins and with some trepidation she stood outside a tall, narrow house just around the corner from the doctor’s consulting rooms. She paused with her hand on the knocker only to have the door open inward to reveal a thin, respectable-looking woman who asked if she could be of assistance.

  ‘Oh.’ Charlotte bit her lip then launched into her explanation. ‘I have been told that a Mrs …’ – she consulted the note Mr Tibbins had handed her – ‘Mrs Liddiard, that’s it. I should be most grateful if I might have a short talk with her?’

  ‘You’ll be the lady the gentleman spoke to Mother about,’ said the other woman. ‘Pray walk right in. Mother’s in the little parlour here. I would be obliged if you would let yourself out, ma’am, when you are ready to leave, as I have to go into town and Mother has not the use of her legs. I’ve just made her a pot of tea so I’ll put out an extra cup for you.’

  The back parlour was small and dark but the door opened out into a small area at the back and let in a welcome draught of slightly cooler air as Charlotte and the former nurse sat in companionable ease, Charlotte upright at the table and Mrs Liddiard across from her in a shabby but comfortable armchair.

  ‘Oh no, dear,’ she responded to Charlotte’s friendly query. ‘I was only too happy to help with your enquiry when that gentleman sought me out. A very clever and efficient gentleman he was too. He said he had begun asking about the Female Penitentiary which was where many babies were born; that had led him to search out news of any private orphanages and lo and behold, someone recollected my own name.’ She looked delighted at this attention and shook her head several times. ‘If you see that gentleman, my dear, I wish you would ask him to furnish you with the name of whoever told him of me. I dearly love to talk of the old days, and welcome company, sitting in here day after day as I do.’

  ‘Have you always been a nurse in Bath?’ Charlotte was making polite conversation while she wondered how to steer the reminiscences to the questions that burned in her brain.

  ‘Oh yes, dear. I learnt a lot from my mother who was a children’s nurse herself, to a lady near Chippenham, and then I had a few years working at the orphanage here, oh a long time ago; thirty years and more it must be. That was sad sometimes, mind you, but I was fond of the children.’

  ‘The orphanage?’ Here it came. Charlotte sat up straight and stared across the table at the other woman, recalling her mother’s scanty scraps of information about her history. ‘An acquaintance in Hampshire,’ she improvised, ‘she told me that she believes her mother was born in an orphanage in Bath more than thirty years ago. I asked Mr Tibbins if he could discover anything of her circumstances. Her name was Molly, that was the name, Molly Wesley, I believe. And I understand that she would have been born round about 1819 or thereabouts.’

  ‘Just as the gentleman told me!’ Mrs Liddiard’s face shone crimson and heartily. ‘If ever I heard such a thing. Why, I remember that little girl as plain as day, but your friend doesn’t have it quite right, you know.’

  She sat back and nodded comfortably across at her visitor while Charlotte struggled to maintain her air of polite interest. Could it be true? She trusted Mr Tibbins’s efficiency and if he believed this pleasant stranger had actually known Charlotte’s mother, then that was indeed the case.

  She felt a surge of gratitude to the Pinkerton’s detective, that he should enter so wholeheartedly into her own small investiga
tion when at any moment, she supposed, his mysterious assailant might mount another attack on his person. I could help him, she decided; I could offer to keep my eyes and ears open while I am in Bath, if he would trust me with some of his researches. The prospect excited her but now was not the time so she bent towards Mrs Liddiard once more.

  ‘Ah, there’s nothing like a nice cup of tea, I always say, come rain or shine.’ Mrs Liddiard sipped with relish then put down her cup and nodded brightly to the girl sitting opposite her. ‘As I said, I’m sure I remember that child very well, but she wasn’t born in the orphanage, you know. Far from it. I got quite a shock when I started work there and realized who she was. It was a crying shame, that it was.’

  ‘What … what happened?’ Charlotte asked in a faltering voice, her hands clasped tightly in her lap under the overhang of the table, out of Mrs Liddiard’s sight.

  ‘It’s quite a tale,’ came the answer, and the older woman settled herself more comfortably and began her story, happy to have such an interested auditor. ‘I was just a young girl and my first post was as an under-nurse at a lady’s house, here in Bath. Not a private household, as such, but something you found a lot in those days; and nowadays too, if I am any judge. I worked for a woman who took in young ladies of good family when they were in trouble, if you understand me.’ Charlotte nodded, holding her breath. ‘The guests would arrive about a couple of months before their confinement and my mistress would find good foster parents for the babies. Sometimes the young ladies were lucky and their families would make arrangements, but other times my mistress would do so.’

  Mrs Liddiard picked up the teapot, cocked her head at Charlotte and poured them both a further cup of tea before she continued, ‘Well, I remember that little baby quite clearly because her mother wasn’t the usual run of young lady. Dearie me, no. Very fashionable, she was, and open-handed and very impatient to be done with the whole business, not tearful and frightened as they mostly were. And she was married too, or said she was; certainly the other thing we realized was that she had already had at least one child and that again was unusual.’ She nodded sagely. ‘I remember my mistress saying to me that it was a clear case of a husband away, in the army perhaps. Let me see … You said I think that the name was Molly Wesley? It must be the same – I certainly don’t recall any other girl at the orphanage with anything like the name. The lady I’m telling you about told us her name was Mrs Wellesley, “Like His Grace, the Duke of Wellington”, she told us. And she laughed when she said it. Well, we knew, of course, that the guests never gave us their real names but I remember my mistress saying she wondered if there could really be a family connection with his lordship, with her so fashionable and bold.

  ‘We liked her, you know, my mistress and the servants alike, for all her airs and graces and even though we were sure she was no better than she should be. A hoity-toity piece she was, with sandy hair; not pretty, but taking, quite a little woman and one you wouldn’t forget. Not the first society lady to find herself in a fix, we thought; husband away, perhaps, as I said just now, and a baby she couldn’t fit the dates to. The baby was born somewhere before Christmas, that I remember, because Mrs Wellesley had to get back to London for some great Twelfth Night Ball, and the baby would have been around the six weeks when her mother left for Town.’

  ‘But how did the baby end up in the orphanage?’ Charlotte tried to keep her voice calm and to display no unseemly anxiety.

  ‘Mary, that was her name. Little Mary Wellesley, that’s right. Well, my dear, it was a sad business. Her mother, as I said, had to be in London at Christmas time so she gave my mistress a good sum of money and asked her to find respectable foster parents for the baby. She would come back to Bath by Easter and would make permanent arrangements then. So off she went and I never saw her again.’

  She stared with surprise at Charlotte’s shocked gasp. ‘I don’t mean that the way it sounds, my dear,’ she explained, shaking her head. ‘She may well have come looking for her baby, but I’ve no knowledge of it myself. What happened was that the very day after Mrs Wellesley upped and went off to Town, my mother had a fall and I was sent for to help look after my father and little brothers. When I eventually came back to Bath – and that was a year or two later as my mother became an invalid – I found disaster had struck my mistress as she had suffered a palsy stroke and died and the house given up.’

  ‘But what became of the baby, Mary?’

  ‘Nobody knew. No more did I till I obtained my position at the orphanage and found the little mite there. The tale the orphanage had been told was that she’d been fostered but there was no money to pay for her and so the foster parents had given her up. Well, I knew that was a lie; there’d been plenty of money, for my mistress had told me, so all I can conclude is that the foster parents stole the money and got rid of the child. If they hadn’t given her right name I’d never have found out that much.’

  She cast a shrewd look at Charlotte’s pale face and patted her hand. ‘There, there, my dear, no use getting upset over an old story. You mustn’t think that the orphanage was a cruel place, not like you read about in books; it was a small, private affair. The master was a clerical gentleman, firm man, but fair, and the children were well-treated, taught to read and write and kept clean and healthy. I used to keep a special eye on young Mary and because I knew she was Quality, I made sure she spoke as well as I could manage and kept her at her books too. But there, she must have been about eight years old when I left the place to marry John Liddiard and I never saw her from that time. We went to live over near Chippenham, you see, and I didn’t come back to Bath to live with my daughter till after John died, three years ago that was, come next Easter. My health had failed by then and I could no longer live alone.’

  To Charlotte’s relief she saw that her hour was almost up. The friendly former nurse had poured out so much information that she needed some time alone to digest it all. As she rose and thanked her hostess for the tea and for her time, Mrs Liddiard gave her a shrewd glance and a comforting pat on her arm. ‘You can come and talk to me whenever you wish, my dear,’ she offered. ‘I’m always here except when I go for my drive out between three and four o’clock. Don’t you forget now.…’

  Charlotte wandered aimlessly across Pulteney Bridge but today even the fascinating shops failed to engross her. All she could think about was the child who had ended up in the orphanage.

  Was that really you, Ma? It was too circumstantial, she thought, to be a coincidence. The name was so similar and the child: ‘a pretty little thing, with fair curls, very taking’. In her mind’s eye Charlotte could see her pretty little mother with her hair bundled into a snood and with fair curls escaping from the net to frame her face, so unlike her tall, dark and angular daughter.

  Fond as she was of Elaine Knightley, it was undoubtedly a relief to be on her own with these thoughts teeming in her brain. Mr Radnor had vetoed Charlotte’s suggestion of a trip to see the Victoria Gardens.

  ‘Another time, I think, Mrs Richmond.’ He had given her a patronizing nod and, at the same time, patted his patient’s hand. ‘Mrs Knightley has weathered this morning’s treatment exceptionally well and is now looking refreshed, so I wish to build on this success by sending her to the King’s Bath to try bathing in the warm water this afternoon.’

  ‘Dear Char.’ Elaine smiled up at her anxious companion. ‘I really am quite well enough to do this, so please don’t fuss. We’ll explore the gardens another time and meanwhile, you have the whole afternoon to yourself. You deserve it, my dear, after dancing attendance on me so kindly.’

  Charlotte’s protestations were brushed aside and so she had set out for a walk beside the river but her mind was too agitated to appreciate the delights of the city and the heat was exhausting, even to a healthy young woman. I shall go back to Waterloo House, she determined, to see if there’s a letter from Finchbourne that will explain why I am to be punished by the arrival of Agnes’s battling governesses.

 
It wasn’t difficult, she conceded, not difficult at all, to understand why her brother-in-law Barnard might have been driven to so drastic a step. Melicent Dunwoody’s constant weeping and hypochondria alone would cause a saint to have a temper tantrum. Combine this with Dora Benson’s brisk common sense and total lack of sensibility, as evinced by her brutally frank remarks about Melicent’s imaginary ailments, and Charlotte could manage to summon up considerable pity for Barnard and the entire household at Finchbourne.

  I’m not sorry for you now though, she sighed, compressing her lips as she frowned. What a thing to do to me, Barnard! You could have despatched the pair of them anywhere in the country, abroad even, perhaps to Carlsbad to stay with Mrs Richmond. With a wry smile Charlotte pictured her redoubtable mother-in-law’s reaction to such an invasion at the Bohemian spa where she was currently taking the cure, but no, Barnard, she fumed, you had to bundle them off to me in Bath. Her ready sense of humour came to her rescue as she strolled back up Milsom Street, fanning herself with her book as the heat threatened to become oppressive. Perhaps Mr Tibbins will take them off my hands? Perhaps he will engage the warring governesses in a light flirtation to while away the time.

  She recollected that Mrs Montgomery had been considerably exercised because she now had only one room remaining that she could allocate to the two governesses. Hmm, that won’t please them at all, Charlotte grinned, feeling more cheerful; as long as nobody expects me to share with either of them she hastily qualified her thought.…

  As she turned along George Street Charlotte heard her name called out in the unmistakable bluff tones of Captain Penbury who was to be seen just coming down one of the hilly side streets. She cast a furtive glance behind her and saw that the gallant captain had been detained briefly by a couple who were asking directions. Perfect. Slipping swiftly into another of the side roads that would take her up to Waterloo House, not far above Edgar Buildings, she congratulated herself on her stratagem. Captain Penbury, who was, she conceded, a perfectly acceptable sort of man, had begun to pay her a little too much attention, a few too many broad compliments on her charm of person. If I can avoid him, she told herself, and keep doing so, perhaps he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.