The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Is it . . .’ Creeda went on hesitantly. It seemed Louise’s earlier scold had been heeded, for the maid was certainly speaking with more care. ‘Forgive me, but is it a good idea, miss?’

  ‘It is an excellent notion,’ she responded in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘My father is a brilliant physician.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  They could not afford to lose against death a second time. Papa’s professional reputation had already suffered two mortal blows – the loss of his family and Lord Redfern’s patronage. It would not weather a third.

  The caves had to work. They would work.

  She looked sideways at Creeda and felt a twinge of sympathy for her. The girl was young – about Kitty’s age – alone and far from home. She had enough to be afraid of, without worrying about the men. Perhaps Louise could help allay her fears.

  ‘Tell me, Creeda,’ she said softly, ‘what bothers you about the caves?’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Creeda wet her lips. ‘It’s the things that live in them, miss.’

  Louise remembered standing by the mouth of the cavern, that sensation of being watched. ‘Crabs? Nesting seabirds? I do not think there is anything else that might live —’

  Pompey began to bark. For an awful moment, it sounded like an echo of Chao’s abrasive cough.

  Both girls looked up to see the dog’s tail wagging furiously. He snorted and pawed at the ground before him.

  ‘What has he found?’ Louise groaned. ‘I must not let him eat it, he will be sick.’

  Quickening their steps, they came up behind Pompey.

  Louise seized his collar. ‘No! Leave it!’

  As she pulled him away, she saw what he had been nosing.

  It was a collection of bones, bleached by the sun and picked almost clean. Whatever had expired had been dead for some time. There were no flies or maggots. Grass grew up around it in a little circle, as if to lend the deceased some modesty.

  After her father’s tales of the dissecting room, Louise was past being frightened by macabre sights. But she was surprised to see Creeda kneel fearlessly beside the skeleton and begin to inspect it with no sign of distaste.

  ‘A hare, most likely.’ Creeda picked up a bone and turned it over. Bristles of tan-coloured fur snagged on the end. ‘Or some sort of rabbit.’

  To Louise’s astonishment, she placed the bone inside her basket.

  ‘What are you —’

  ‘For the factory,’ Creeda explained, reaching for a rib. ‘It’s our special composition. Six parts bone ash, four parts Growan stone, four parts clay.’

  Pompey strained beneath her grasp. Louise scooped him into her arms and continued to watch her maid as she gathered up the bones. The skeleton was mainly intact. Birds had carried away the majority of the flesh, but a dark ribbon here and there gave a hint of putrefaction.

  ‘You mean to send those bones to your family in Plymouth?’ she asked, astounded.

  ‘Yes, miss, after I’ve boiled them and cleaned them up. Gerren found me a seagull yesterday; I’ll do that too. You’d be surprised what you can boil down. A whole carcass, if needs be. Makes the china strong.’

  Ladies in Bristol had looked askance at Louise for her medical learning; even asked her, over tea, how she could withstand such ghastly subjects. Now she longed to go back and tell them that the very bowls they held in their hands were made of animal skeletons; that their prized sideboards were filled with nothing but bone!

  ‘I had no idea they could be used in such a fashion. But surely the slaughterhouses in Plymouth can provide bones for the porcelain factory?’

  Creeda paused, holding the remains of the skull aloft. She caressed it with a fingertip. ‘You’d be surprised, miss. There’s demand for good bones. Ask Dr Pinecroft.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Those resurrection men. They don’t just sell corpses, miss. Sometimes the flesh is too rotten, so they flog what they can.’ Creeda sighed, packing up the remaining bones like some morbid picnic. ‘Father made a pot once, after they come round. I don’t know what he bought, but they weren’t animal bones. Not them.’

  Louise felt sick. She had an image of her family’s graves in Bristol, so exposed and unprotected. Dissecting corpses to further medical science was one thing, but this . . .

  ‘Could anyone truly be so wicked?’ she whispered.

  Creeda shrugged. ‘It’s a memorial, of sorts. China’s prettier than a skeleton.’ She glanced towards the coastline. The wind blew out her dark hair. ‘They mine the china clay near here, don’t they, miss? Who knows? Perhaps I’ll make some china of my own, one day.’

  Pompey whined. Louise buried her face in his fur for comfort and walked away. In Creeda’s voice, the words did not sound like an innocent aspiration.

  More like a threat.

  Louise trod the familiar path down to the beach where her father was already at work. Some of the men were out and about on this blustery morning, making the most of the sun as it flitted between fast-moving clouds. Old Seth sat on a rock, drinking milk from a pewter cup. Chao stood at the edge of the water, letting the surf play over his bare feet. One of the shirts Louise had sewn billowed around his wasted frame. The plan was to start the men on a regime of sea-bathing once they had rallied a little strength, but she could not envision the Chinaman taking part in this. He was so slight, the tide would carry him away.

  She approached the entrance to the cave. Some lamps hung suspended from nails driven into the rock. By their light, she saw her father, just inside the opening, listening to Harry’s chest.

  The young man offered a wan smile. Today his lips were crimson, flecked with blood.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling? I trust the camphor brought down your temperature?’

  He nodded, reluctant to speak while the doctor listened. She noticed the distinct three-sided bite on his wrist, which showed Papa had been removing his diseased blood with leeches.

  Harry reminded her of the apprentices who had trained under her father in Bristol: eager, polite young men with just that little spark in their eye to suggest they could misbehave, given the chance.

  It was a daily struggle for her to remember that all these men had been arraigned and incarcerated for crimes.

  Papa pulled away from Harry and appraised him. ‘Hmm. Have you drunk your milk today?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man. I want you to go and walk slowly on the sand, take in some of that fine air.’

  ‘Glad to.’ Harry tugged his forelock. ‘Miss,’ he said to Louise as he passed her.

  A hardened criminal indeed.

  A cough echoed from the back of the cave, punctuated by a steady dripping. Papa rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking.

  She felt awkward, a trespasser. It was always so in the morning. The men banded tightly together, as if something had taken place in the night that she could not understand. But she comprehended all too well: the nights were the worst for consumptives. The fever, the restlessness, the gasping for breath. She had seen it all and she should be down there, helping Papa to nurse them through it.

  ‘How do you progress?’ she ventured.

  He turned away, not meeting her eye. ‘It is too early to tell at present. I am sure the air will prove salutary, but I am not willing to trust to that alone.’ He began to pack the jar of leeches and the tongue depressor into his mahogany chest. ‘We both know the dangers of such complacency.’

  ‘Papa, you did everything you could—’

  ‘Not everything,’ he insisted, growing slightly hoarse. ‘I did not take them to a better climate. Italy has many advocates, but it was so difficult to travel with . . .’ The top of the box slammed shut. She saw him trying to form the F for Francis; he could not bring himself to do it.

  Her own chin trembled. Dear God, she thou
ght, do not let him see me cry.

  Another cough rang out.

  ‘However,’ he added tightly, ‘I begin to suspect it is the sea voyage, and not Italy itself, which offers relief to the phthisical patient. Look at the lower classes. Neither the sailor nor the fishwife suffer. We will find the cure in the ocean water . . . in the air. How your mother would have loved this air.’

  Louise swallowed and tried to turn the subject. ‘I did not see Michael or Tim outside. Do they keep to their beds?’

  ‘Yes.’ Still he did not look at her. ‘The moisture retained in the rock has done something to lower their fevers. The emetics are also jarring Tim’s humours back into balance, but Michael . . .’ He exhaled. ‘Michael stands in need of your nursing. Perhaps you could help him to drink his milk.’

  ‘I will do it directly, Papa.’

  She picked up a cup and made for Michael’s hut.

  The wooden door was damp and spongy to her touch. It creaked when she pushed it open. Michael made a confused noise that was not quite language.

  ‘Hush, now. It is Miss Pinecroft.’

  The atmosphere inside was oppressive. A natural, stony smell rose from the cave and mingled with the tang of wet wood. But these were the pleasant scents. She tried to focus upon them, rather than the effluvia and stale exhaled breath.

  Michael lay on a straw-stuffed mattress. He had sweated through the sheet and his clean shirt. A brimming pot at his side showed the purges had worked, at least.

  ‘Water,’ he panted.

  He looked haggard, the flesh hanging from his cheekbones. Droplets of blood and vomit were sprinkled in his beard.

  ‘We should prefer you to drink milk this morning.’ She took a rag from her apron and ran it over his brow. ‘It is most effectual at building up the strength.’

  He groaned.

  She imagined the disease sitting thick on his lungs, like tar. How could it waste a strong, tall man like Michael and leave her, a slender girl of barely twenty, untouched?

  Sitting Michael up, she leaned his weight against her shoulder and began to spoon the milk from a cup into his mouth. After only two swallows, he erupted into a coughing fit.

  She felt it spray her cheek and closed her eyes. Michael gripped her so tight that it hurt. She thought of the catch in a fisherman’s net, twitching and gasping on the deck.

  She opened her eyelids and saw why Michael had not been able to take in air. His lungs were brimming with something else.

  The blood spilled over, dribbling down his lips into the cup of milk. She watched red ribbons twist through the white liquid, and all at once she was holding a cup fit for the devil’s table.

  Hastily, she set it aside and tried to dab Michael’s mouth. When she brought the handkerchief away, all the red he possessed seemed to come with it. The hue of his lips now matched the pallor of his skin. Even his gums were anaemic, shrivelled.

  It took all her fortitude to keep her distress from showing on her face.

  ‘We will try again later,’ she said briskly, rising to her feet. ‘In the meantime I will obtain a feeder cup. Such a vessel will make the process easier.’

  He wheezed for a moment before replying. ‘A . . . pap boat. Like a . . . damned baby.’

  Little Francis flashed before her eyes.

  Turning on her heel, she left the hut.

  Papa was still standing in the same spot, his fingers at his lips. This was the way he would listen, intent, as a patient described their symptoms.

  Only no one was there.

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘Louise! Did you . . .’ Confusion suddenly clouded his brow. He glanced quickly behind him. ‘Did you just arrive?’

  ‘I have this moment come from Michael’s hut.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed. Again that furtive glimpse over his shoulder.

  She considered showing him the cup of blood, but his distraction was evident. She set it down on a rock, glad to have it out of her hands.

  ‘So you did not . . . Never mind.’

  ‘Is something amiss, Papa?’

  ‘Amiss? No, no.’ He ran a hand down the length of his face. ‘In fact, I have had an idea.’

  She nodded encouragingly.

  ‘You recall me saying that smoke inhalations have relieved the symptoms of asthma?’

  ‘I do, Papa.’

  ‘And this disease shares characteristics with the asthma: the difficulty breathing, the tightness of the chest. Surely strengthening the lungs in general will help fight against one aspect of the illness.’

  ‘So you propose to give the men pipes?’

  ‘I do.’ He drew back his shoulders, a touch more confident. ‘But smoke is not the only treatment that has helped asthma sufferers. They have also derived benefits from stramonium and digitalis purpurea.’

  ‘Foxglove?’ The word popped from her; the cave took it up and bounced it back, mimicking her amazement.

  Papa waited until the echo faded away. ‘You are right to be surprised. Of course, the plant can prove poisonous. But in small doses, it will promote the absorption of air.’

  ‘And slow the pulse.’

  ‘Just so. We will regulate the hectic flow of the men’s blood. They have an overfullness of blood, at present.’

  His face had unfolded. The muscles of his jaw looked more relaxed; there was something of the old gentle set to his brow. Her parent returned to her.

  Surely she must encourage this, or anything that gave him purpose?

  ‘I will layer the tobacco with stramonium and digitalis,’ Papa decided. He seized her hand and pressed it in his own. ‘Then we will work to combat the fever and the wasting. It will be a cure, Louise. We will achieve it. These men shall live to enjoy their freedom.’

  She had read Pharmacopoeia Extemporanea more times than she could count. Without going back to consult the pages, she knew the composition it recommended for such inhalations: pistachio peels, hyssop, horehound, even orpiment. There was no mention of smoking the leaves of foxglove or stramonium – a plant the common folk called Devil’s Snare. This must all be her father’s own genius.

  ‘It is a bold plan, an admirable plan,’ she began carefully. ‘If we could only be certain . . .’

  ‘Courage, Louise! Trust me,’ he said.

  She did not realise, until that moment, that she had ever stopped.

  Chapter 22

  Ernest awoke at the first glimmer of dawn, when the gulls began to screech. He did not object. Sleep, when it came, was no relief. His wife flitted through his dreams. Not as she had been in life but radiant, transformed into an angel. A mirage he could not touch.

  That image remained in his mind as he returned to the house and spoke with his patient before she began her daily tasks. He realised that his own grief was giving him a unique insight into Creeda’s troubled world. He could comprehend, when others could not, how the demands of sensibility might have caused her to weave elaborate stories for comfort.

  Such as her tale of ‘changelings’.

  ‘Sometimes they swap,’ she had told him, as matter of fact as if she were asserting the time of day. ‘See, they get the sickly fairies, ones that are of no use, and they put a charm on them.’

  ‘What kind of charm?’

  ‘One to make them look like us. So you could be gone, taken away underground, but there’d be a fairy in your place, wearing your own face. No one would know,’ she added, her voice tight and afraid. ‘No one would even know to come and find you.’

  Swapping the sick for the healthy. An ingenious concept. He almost wished he could do the same.

  ‘And you believe that these sickly pixies—’

  ‘Fairies, sir.’

  ‘Pardon me, fairies. Do they die?’

  She shrugged. ‘I expect they would. They can’t stomach our human food.’
<
br />   He thought of his men on the beach, struggling to consume the milk and broth he had brought them. ‘But in your mind, the person concerned is not actually deceased? Although their double expires, they remain . . . in fairyland?’

  She nodded. ‘Under the ground. Where I was.’

  ‘There is no method, I suppose,’ he had asked almost jokingly, ‘of switching back?’

  ‘Water,’ she replied at once. ‘You banish the fairy with water or fire.’

  ‘You kill them,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  An altogether more pleasant exchange took place at the end of the interview. He left her with her daily ounce of distilled vinegar, and in return she handed him a small wooden casket. ‘Your order, sir.’

  He opened the lid. Inside were two small vases. Cobalt blue flowers surrounded the rims, but the curved bodies were a fretwork of strange vines, intricately twined.

  Mopsy would have adored them.

  And she would have been pleased too, he thought as he climbed the stairs, that he had procured another present for Louise. Towards the end, she had always been pestering him to leave her and tend to the children instead.

  He stopped outside Louise’s bedroom and was reaching for the door handle when it struck him that perhaps he should knock. She was a young lady now, after all . . . But he could not quite bring himself to swallow that, so he entered the room boldly as usual.

  The ash tree outside the window was bursting into leaf. Morning light filtered through the branches and gave everything a greenish underwater tint. Louise sat at her dressing table, wedging some extra hairpins through her cap.

  She did not pause in her toilette or show the least surprise at seeing him.

  ‘Sorry, Papa, I fear I am running late. I meant to be at the caves an hour ago. Creeda did not wind my clock.’

  ‘It is of no matter. I wanted to speak with you.’

  ‘And I with you.’

  Her dressing table was very sparse, he noticed. None of the lotions and powders Kitty would have thought necessary. And then there was the room in general. It was neat as a pin. He thought with shame of the chaos that reigned inside his own chamber. How devilishly tricky it was without Mopsy to keep things in order.