by Jane Goodger
“I saw ’im. An’ I know wha’ ’appened to ’im.”
The three adults in the room turned to the young lad who’d been outside polishing shoes. He stood in the doorway, eyes wide. When the three looked at him, he snatched the hat from his head and shuffled his feet, looking for all the world as if he’d wished he’d remained silent.
“Tell ’em what you know, Mickey, there’s a good lad,” the barkeep said, his voice gentle.
“I remember ’im ’cause I ain’t never seen hair that color before. An’ he was tall, too. Acted a mite odd.”
Marjorie smiled. “You are a very observant young man,” she said, hoping to encourage him even as her heart stuttered hearing “and I know what happened to him.”
“He was with another toff.” He screwed up his face. “Don’t remember what he looked like, only that they was together. Once the fight started, they left. I thought maybe I could shine their shoes, so I grabbed me kit and followed ’em out. That’s when I saw three toughs. They hit the red-headed man with a pipe.”
Marjorie gasped and the boy stopped.
“Go on, tell the rest,” Charles said, coming over to her and grabbing one hand.
“Then another man punched the red-headed man in the ’ead.” Mickey darted a look at Marjorie as if gauging whether he should tell the rest. “He fell and didn’t move and the other men all run off. Didn’t take nuffink from ’im. I thought his friend had gone to get help, so I waited for the red-headed man to wake up.”
“Where is he now?”
The boy shook his head. “He got up and stumbled around a bit. I followed ’im, thinkin’ I could let the other gent know where ’is friend went. ’e fell again on New Row and I run back to where it ’appened so I can tell the gent, but ’e never came back. ’e was really in ’is cups so maybe ’e forgot it even ’appened.”
“Anything else, Mickey?”
“I went back to where the gent fell, and ’e was gone. I reckoned ’e just went ’ome.”
Marjorie felt as if she might vomit. Her brother was injured and alone and missing. She could hardly stand, never mind speak, and it was only the strength of Charles’s hand in hers that kept her on her feet.
“You’re a good lad, Mickey,” Charles said, and handed the boy a guinea.
Mickey looked to the barkeep for permission to keep the coin and pocketed it when the man gave him a nod.
They left the darkened pub, the morning sun nearly blinding them. “Where could he be?” Marjorie asked, feeling more desperate every moment.
“He could have wandered off, senseless. Or he could have been found and brought to a hospital.”
Marjorie nodded, though she knew he was omitting another possibility—that her brother could very well be dead.
“Let’s go to New Row. It’s across Garrick. Perhaps someone there saw something.”
“Charles,” Marjorie said as he held out his hand to assist her into the carriage. “Why didn’t Jeffrey tell us what happened?”
His eyes softened. “The lad was probably right. He was likely so drunk he doesn’t remember what happened.”
“It seems like a rather momentous thing to forget,” she said.
“Indeed.”
New Row gave them nothing. The few people they found claimed to have seen nothing, though Marjorie got the distinct impression that at least two of the people they spoke to were lying. It was all so strange and upsetting.
“What’s next?” Marjorie asked, feeling more weary than she ever had in her life.
“I’m bringing you and Alice home and then I’m going to check the hospitals,” Charles said. Next to her, Alice perked up.
“No. I want to go,” Marjorie said, ignoring her maid’s obvious disappointment. “Someone that he loves and who loves him should be the one who finds him. Do you understand? I know you’re not quite a stranger, but if he’s in a hospital or worse, I want to be the one who claims him.” Thick tears fell down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her gloved hands. Charles handed her his handkerchief, and she blew her nose. “I’m not giving up yet,” she said fiercely.
They began their search at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, the oldest hospital in London. It was located in the heart of St. Giles, and so was the logical place to begin their search. Charles sat across from Marjorie in the Summerfield carriage, looking at her for any signs of shock. After her bout of tears, she became eerily calm, her face frightfully pale.
“I do wish you’d stay in the carriage,” he said, but she simply shook her head.
She had no idea what she was about to face. St. Bart’s and other volunteer hospitals were institutions that serviced the poorest of London. The rich could afford to have physicians travel to them; many believed a hospital was a place one went only as a last resort. It was generally known that once you were admitted into a hospital, your next stop was the graveyard.
As the carriage moved around Springfield Circle, Marjorie moved the curtain aside and looked out, her eyes wide. St. Bart’s was a series of four imposing buildings that took up an entire square. At the center of the square was a small park with a fountain bubbling cheerfully, though it did little to soften the stark architecture of the buildings that surrounded it.
“Where do we begin?” she asked, and Charles’s heart broke to hear the quiet desperation in those four words.
“We should start with the north wing.”
The north wing welcomed visitors with a grand archway. Indeed, entering the building was more like entering a wealthy estate than a place that treated the poor of London. The hospital was a monument to good deeds, a demonstration to all that Londoners took care of their poor in great style. The Grand Hall was dominated by a mural of Christ at the Pool of Bethesda, healing the lame. The floors gleamed and the air was filled with the smell of beeswax, which gave Charles a strange comfort. He’d been in battlefield hospitals filled with smells and sounds that would stay with him a lifetime. This place, with its soaring ceilings and tasteful paintings, seemed built to impress. Or fool.
“This looks like an estate, not an institution,” Marjorie said, her brows furrowed with worry. “I’ve never been in a hospital, but this is not what I was expecting.”
“Nor I. And I’ve been in plenty of hospitals, just not here in London.”
As they entered, a woman wearing a dark dress with a gray apron approached them. She took in their fine dress, and curtsied a greeting.
“How may I help you?”
“We’re looking for someone of our acquaintance who might have been brought here,” Charles said. “Lord Summerfield. He would have been brought here two nights ago.”
“An earl? Here?” She shook her head.
“He might have been injured or . . .” Marjorie couldn’t bring herself to say the word aloud, so Charles softly completed her sentence. “Dead.” Next to him, Marjorie flinched.
The nurse looked from Charles to Marjorie. “Please let me look at the register and see if anyone unidentified was brought in during the last two days. If you would wait.” The woman indicated a small seating area, and Marjorie moved toward it while Charles stayed with the nurse.
“It’s very important that Lady Marjorie not be allowed in the dead house,” he said, keeping his voice low so Marjorie couldn’t overhear him. “If her brother is there, I don’t want her to see him like that. Tell her it’s your policy not to allow women. And please check the admittance records. We don’t know for certain what happened to his lordship. He may very well be alive.”
The nurse nodded. “As you wish. I’ll return shortly.”
When Charles reached Marjorie, she was already seated, her eyes hollow with grief.
“I cannot believe what we are doing. It doesn’t seem real. How could he be in this place?” She shook her head. “He’s not here. I know it.”
“I hope not,” Charles said.
“What were you talking to the nurse about?”
“I wanted her not to dismiss us. I explained how import
ant it is that she also check the record of men admitted.”
The nurse returned, her expression unreadable. “Two unidentified males were brought in over the last two days. One is in the south building recovering. The other is here in our mortuary.”
“I want to see him,” Marjorie said, standing up.
The nurse shot Charles a nervous look. “I’m sorry, it’s St. Bart’s policy not to allow women into the morgue.”
“But I’m his sister. I’ll know him immediately.”
“As will I,” Charles said, gently laying a hand on one shoulder. “I’ll be certain. I promise. Please, my lady, I do think it’s for the best.”
Marjorie gave him a shaky nod, and he drew her to him, kissing her forehead before turning to follow the nurse into the bowels of the building where the hospital kept its dead. The shining beauty of the architecture was left behind as soon as they began their descent.
Charles knew when they were drawing close, for the smell of a decomposing body was not easily forgotten. The closer they got to the small room that housed the bodies, the more certain he was that he’d made the right decision to keep Marjorie away. The nurse pulled a key from her apron and opened the door, stepping back.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here. I never will get used to this room.”
Several bodies, enshrouded by white sheets, lay on a common table. Though it was cool in the basement, it was not cool enough to stop completely the decomposition, and Charles withdrew a handkerchief and held it to his nose in an attempt to stifle the putrid smell.
Six bodies. Charles swallowed down the bile that threatened to erupt, and withdrew the first sheet. An old woman. The second, a tragically young boy with angelic features and white-blond hair. The third, a man in his thirties with a thick black beard. One by one he withdrew the sheets, quickly determining that George was not among the dead at St. Bart’s.
“No,” he said to the nurse’s questioning gaze when he departed the room.
“Then it’s to the south building, though I must say if someone had brought in an insensible young man dressed like a peer, I would have heard about it.”
Charles climbed the stairs behind the nurse, feeling ill at ease. This was a terrible business and he was afraid the outcome would not be good. It would be heartbreaking to bring Marjorie to see a man who could not possibly be her brother. Though he didn’t want to remove her hope, he felt it unlikely they would find George alive. If he were alive, why hadn’t they been informed? A member of the peerage drew quite a bit of attention in a place like St. Bart’s, or any of the volunteer hospitals where he might have been taken.
When they entered the Grand Hall, Marjorie stood, her eyes wide with fear. He quickly smiled and shook his head, and she immediately sat back down, as if her knees had given out.
“Shall we go see the patient in the south wing?” the nurse said.
Marjorie nodded. She looked so lost, so utterly sad, Charles wished he could make everything better so she would not have to suffer what lay ahead. If her brother were dead, her cousin would be earl. He knew enough to understand that, given the lack of evidence, it would be highly unlikely Jeffrey would be tried, never mind hanged for his crime. He was convinced Jeffrey had hired those thugs, but alas, had no proof and was doubtful Scotland Yard would find any.
As the three walked across the square, thick drops of rain landed haphazardly on the stone walkways, making dark splotches before disappearing. He looked at the sky, seeing the sun in the west, and looked in the opposite direction to see a brilliant rainbow stretching across a dark sky.
“Look, my lady,” he said, stopping to stare at the rainbow. Marjorie stopped and turned toward the colorful display, smiling sadly.
“It’s too beautiful,” she said. “I’d rather it just rain.”
Charles understood what she meant. Despite her brave words, he knew Marjorie was imagining the worst had happened to George. Death was such a final, terrible thing, it was difficult to realize that beauty could continue without a misstep.
The entrance to the south building was far less grand. It was a simple lobby of gleaming marble floors and a set of stairs that rose up, then split, to the upper floors. “This is where we put the accident victims. He’ll be in the men’s ward. If you could describe him.”
“Red hair,” Charles said. “Tall, thin. But the red hair is unmistakable.”
“If you’d wait here, I will see if this patient meets your description.”
Marjorie took a step as if to follow the nurse, but she halted her mid-step with one look. “I do apologize, m’lady, but I cannot allow you in the ward.”
Marjorie wrapped her arms around herself and nodded. “What if she is wrong? What if she’s looking at the wrong man? He could be here, somewhere, and we’d never know.”
“George is unforgettable,” Charles said.
She let out a small laugh. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been so grateful for his bright hair. If he’s not here, where to next?”
“Lambeth, I think.”
“If he is alive, he would have sent a note. He would have let us know. It’s been nearly two days since he was attacked, if what that boy said is the truth. Why hasn’t anyone come to us yet?” She closed her eyes as if shutting off her thoughts.
“He could be unconscious. He could have been brought into a private home and is being cared for by someone who doesn’t know who he is. Any number of things could have happened.” Charles placed a hand behind her head and pulled her to him. She was so tense, it was like embracing a large wooden doll.
“I want it all to go away.”
“I know, love.”
The sound of a female clearing her throat drew their attention. “The unidentified patient is in his sixties and bald. Your brother is not here.”
As they traveled from hospital to hospital, Marjorie’s moods fluctuated wildly, from painful hope to searing disappointment to sickening dread. One moment she was imagining a tearful reunion, the next she was picturing herself standing wearing black beside a grave. She began to fear her brother’s body had simply been dumped somewhere—or was being used for scientific purposes. They’d gone to three hospitals, all of which barred Marjorie from entering their morgue because she was a female. Instead, Charles had the grim task of looking at the recently arrived bodies, often stored on slabs in a windowless room.
It didn’t feel quite real to be standing outside a room waiting for Charles to return with the news of what he’d found. She would wait outside with a nurse, still, quiet, and stare at the door, praying George would be found and praying just as hard that he not be found. Each time, Charles would appear, smile, and shake his head. At each hospital, they inquired about any red-headed male brought in with an injury to the head. And at each they’d been told no one matching that description had arrived there.
They traveled to Lambeth, Miller, and St. Thomas, leaving each with a growing sense of dismay that George was not in any of them—either in the morgue or in a ward, lying insensible.
“What’s next?” Marjorie asked wearily. They had checked hospitals closest to where Mickey had claimed the assault had been carried out and were running out of options.
“Westminster.”
Westminster was a massive building across from Westminster Abbey. Looking up at the three-story building, Marjorie had a sense of how impossible their task was. The crenellated top of the building looked more like a fortified castle than a hospital. Marjorie shuddered.
“Alice, you may wait here,” Marjorie said, as she had said at the other three hospitals. Alice was more than willing to wait outside, for she’d freely admitted that hospitals made her nervous. Truthfully, they made Marjorie nervous, too.
“It’s so large. How will we ever find him?” she asked no one in particular.
Charles placed his hand on the small of her back as they climbed the shallow steps leading to three large arches that ushered visitors through the hospital’s entrance. As they walked in, a n
urse met them.
“I’m looking for my brother, Lord Summerfield.”
“Oh, yes, right this way,” the nurse said with a smile, and Marjorie clutched at Charles’s sleeve, feeling the blood drain from her head.
“Wait, you mean he’s here? Lord Summerfield?”
Startled, the nurse turned back to them. “Unless the young man is lying or confused. Which wouldn’t be too shocking given the condition he arrived in. Got bashed in the head, he did. He woke up last night, though, a bit muddled but otherwise fine. Of course, at first we didn’t believe him. Imagine a lord being brought here. And him without a spit of clothing on him but his breeches. But he was adamant and we all decided that if he was a lord and he was wearing his finery, it would make sense to arrive with nothing on his back. Thieves, you know. They’ll steal anything that ain’t nailed down, and that includes a fine lord’s clothing.”
Marjorie laughed, giddy and lightheaded. George was alive. She kept repeating that over and over.
“He wants to go home, but since he cannot even sit up without keeling over, we thought it best to keep him here. And we weren’t completely convinced he were who he said he were.”
“What color is his hair?” Charles asked.
“More orange than a carrot,” the nurse said, a dimple appearing in her apple cheeks.
Marjorie began to cry in earnest, as if all her fear and sadness left her by way of the tears. “Oh, God, Charles, he’s all right.”
She sobbed into his chest, and Charles held her, speaking to the nurse over her head. “We thought his lordship might have died, you see,” he explained.
“Oh dear, but we sent a note over to his house, just this morning, letting you know he was here. It’s not every day we have an earl on our floor, you know.”
“We must have left before it arrived. Mother must know by now. She’ll be so relieved. Thank you, nurse. Can you take us to him now?”