Beloved Poison

by E. S. Thomson

  ‘You lookin’ fer Joe?’ The child’s voice was sharp, its eyes suddenly bright and hungry looking.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Will.

  ‘He’s not up here?’ I said, turning back quickly. ‘He used to live at the top.’

  ‘He’s not there now,’ said the child. I had no idea whether I was addressing a boy or a girl. The face looked familiar, though lack of food gave them all the same pinched, sepulchral appearance.

  ‘Where is he?’ I said. ‘Can you take us to him?’

  ‘Joe said you’d come. The one with the red mask and the one with the ’at, he said. Said the one with the ’at was soft as butter and like as not’d give us a shillin’ just for lookin’ sad.’ The child winked. ‘Easy to look sad in this place, ain’t it?’

  ‘Will you take us to Joe?’

  ‘Course!’ Quick as ferrets both children sprang up and vanished through a hole in the wall behind.

  ‘Well,’ said Will. He looked at my filthy coat, and then down at his own scuffed and shit-caked boots. ‘It can’t get much worse, can it?’

  The further we followed those two ragged children, the more uneasy I felt. We crawled through a jagged gap in the wall, clambered up a tall rickety ladder, and tiptoed over a dozen or so worm-eaten rafters. Here and there the lath and plaster had fallen through and dark holes gaped at our feet, the abyss below unfathomable. A draught of foetid air, and the sound of rustling and muttering voices, drifted up from the depths. The place was dark, the only light coming from holes punched in the roof where the slates had tumbled down. We ducked below a wooden beam, upon which, inexplicably, the bodies of dead rats had been pinned, lined up in a row – some curious tally of the city’s most populous and execrable vermin. There were four score at least, all dangling by their tails, all in various states of desiccation, dried like kippers in the warm draught that blew up from the tenement below. The first ones we passed were now no bigger than tobacco pouches, the last plump and oily-looking.

  ‘What are these for?’ said Will, appalled.

  ‘Never mind, Will,’ I whispered. ‘Some things are best left unexplained.’ We crawled behind a chimney stack and along a narrow passage directly beneath the roof. I was sweating with exertion. How quickly those children moved, scuttling before us. Behind me, I could hear Will gasping for breath. He kept knocking his hat on the overhanging rats and they swung gently on their dry tails as he shuffled past. All at once the child in front of me vanished through a hole in a wall beside the greasy black flank of a chimney stack. At first I could see nothing, but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I noticed that the shadows beyond the hole were moving. The sound of smothered coughing was audible, and whispered voices. Then a match was struck and the darkness was interrupted by the feeble yellow glow of a cheap tallow candle-end.

  ‘Mr Flock’art?’ It was a whisper from the cave ahead. The smell of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes was pungent beneath the smell of smoke and burnt fat.

  ‘Joe.’ I kept my voice low. ‘That you?’

  Joe’s face appeared, lit from below by the feeble yellow candlelight. ‘You shunt o’ come,’ he whispered. ‘I tol’ the others to look out fer you in case you came but you shunt o’ come.’

  ‘Do you have something for me?’ I said.

  ‘It ain’t here. I hid it.’

  ‘Where is it?’ I could hardly imagine a more well-hidden and repulsive hidey-hole than the one Joe currently occupied. Why on earth he chose to hide himself in one place and Dr Bain’s missing coffin in another—

  ‘You’d never find it even if I tol’ you,’ said Joe. ‘No one can find it ’cept me. But I’ll get it and bring it you. Tomorrow. I were goin’ to do that, but I heard there’s been someone lookin’ for me. P’raps someone what saw Dr Bain give it me.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know who.’

  The building was suddenly eerily quiet, for all that it teemed with vermin and paupers. From somewhere – whether behind or below us I could not tell – came a scuffling sound, followed by the echo of cautious footsteps. Even I could tell that those footsteps were made by the sharp heels and supple soles of new, finely crafted leather. Had we been followed after all? I put my hand into my pocket and felt the rough surface of the sugar lump between my fingers. Then the footsteps stopped – there was only silence, and the sound of the wind rattling the rotten shingles above our heads.

  ‘He’s ’ere!’ whispered Joe.

  ‘It was probably just the wind,’ I said. ‘God knows, there’s enough loose boards around here to squeak and bang and thump till you’re half frightened out of your wits.’

  ‘I know all the sounds o’ Prior’s Rents,’ replied Joe. ‘And them footsteps weren’t none I’ve heard before.’

  ‘Then you’ll know when to run, won’t you?’

  Joe looked up at me, his face pinched, and frightened. ‘Dr Bain’s dead, ain’t he?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘I knowed it,’ said Joe. ‘I liked Dr Bain. I got no complaints about ’im.’ He sniffed, and rubbed his eyes with hands black with soot and grease. ‘Gave me a sov that day. Just for keepin’ that box for ’im.’

  ‘A small coffin?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Somethin’ nasty lookin’ inside it, but I seen much worse round ’ere. Said I were to give it to you if he din’t come back for it ’imself. Trusted me to keep me word, Dr Bain did, and I will too.’

  ‘Well, you bring me what Dr Bain gave you, and I’ll give you half a crown.’

  ‘Here’s one for now,’ said Will. ‘Go and buy yourselves something to eat.’

  The coin was hardly visible as he tossed it forward, but I heard the sound of Joe’s grubby hand snatching it from the air. ‘Now go away,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll bring that thing tomorrow mornin’, sharp.’

  Chapter Ten

  We said little as we walked back to St Saviour’s. Will had to go to the graveyard – he had spent too much time away from the place already – and I knew I had left Gabriel and my father alone in the apothecary for too long. How selfish I was, gallivanting about the city when my father was ill. I glanced behind us. Were we being followed again? But St Saviour’s Street was thick with people, cabs, coaches, carts, and I could see no one in pursuit. I took a deep breath. After the stinking tenement of Prior’s Rents the place was like a fragrant oasis.

  I had not been in the apothecary five minutes when Dr Hawkins appeared. ‘Where’s your father, Jem?’

  ‘Out-patients, with Gabriel.’

  ‘Has he slept?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then he’s no better?’

  I thought of my father, gaunt and worried, directing Gabriel about the apothecary shelves, trying his best to pretend that all was well. But I knew from his face, when he thought I was not looking, that fear and sorrow were his constant companions. ‘From what I can tell he’s just the same.’

  Dr Hawkins rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘We’re running out of time.’

  ‘Running out of time?’ I said. ‘For what?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘Will he die?’ I said.

  ‘We will all die, Jem.’

  ‘That’s not the sort of sleep my father needs.’

  Dr Hawkins shook his head. ‘He may well beg for it before much longer.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I said. ‘What do you mean “beg for it”? Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dr Hawkins laid a hand on my arm. ‘I spoke out of turn. He won’t die yet, not if I can help it.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime . . . There is something—’ He stopped, as though the words had stung his lips.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What?’

  ‘Something we might try. We can’t wait much longer. And this time I will need your help.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Tonight, Jem. I will come for you both.’

  My father and I attended to the ward rounds together that evening. I knew the seven o’clock ro
und was his favourite. The physicians were seldom on the wards at that time, the nurses behaved themselves and it was too early for them to be noticeably drunk.

  I had told him that Dr Hawkins had been, that we were to go to Angel Meadow together that evening, and he lingered over his duties about the wards as though it might be the last time he ever saw the place. We passed from bed and bed. He stopped and spoke to every patient who was still conscious. ‘You’ll need another apprentice when I’m gone,’ he said as we left the surgical ward.

  ‘Gone?’ I said. ‘You’ll not be away for long, surely?’

  He smiled, but his eyes were grave. ‘You know what I mean.’

  When we got back to the apothecary my father went upstairs to gather whatever personal items he might need for his sojourn at Angel Meadow. I waited downstairs, staring into the fire. Will had taken Gabriel out to Sorley’s for supper, and the place was silent. I wondered when Joe Silks would come. We had learned little from the coffin brought to us by the girl from Mrs Roseplucker’s. Perhaps Joe’s would be more illuminating.

  At that moment Dr Catchpole came in, Dr Magorian and Dr Graves in his wake. I was surprised to see them at the hospital so late – why were they still here? But then I remembered that there had been a meeting of the Building Committee over in the governors’ hall to discuss St Saviour’s relocation south of the river. They would not have missed the chance to opine about the new hospital.

  ‘I cannot bear to be at home without her,’ said Dr Catchpole as he entered.

  ‘But it is for her own good,’ said Dr Graves. ‘Dr Hawkins concurs. Angel Meadow will provide her with a refuge from the world.’

  Dr Catchpole shook his head. ‘She will not see me,’ he whispered. ‘I cannot put that knowledge from my mind. I’ve been in the library all evening trying to distract myself but I have failed. I stepped in to see whether Mr Flockhart would give me something to help me sleep tonight.’

  ‘Surely you have laudanum?’ said Dr Magorian. He rested a hand on Dr Catchpole’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry for your troubles. A wife should be a support to her husband. A helpmeet in all he does.’

  ‘You are lucky, Magorian,’ said Dr Catchpole. ‘Your wife is an angel.’

  Dr Magorian smiled and nodded. He slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out his silver sugar case. ‘Mr Flockhart,’ he said. ‘Do you have a moment to prepare a draught for Dr Catchpole?’

  ‘If you’re not too busy running about doing other things.’ Dr Graves grinned. He watched me reach up for a jar of powdered valerian. I winced, as my shoulder burned from my escapade at the canal side. ‘Something troubling you, Mr Flockhart?’ he said.

  ‘What have you been doing, man?’ murmured Dr Magorian. He peered at the grazes on my cheek, before offering his sugar case to Dr Graves.

  I looked from one to the other. Both were tall, both were wrapped in cloaks. I looked at their boots, searching for the distinctive filth of Prior’s Rents, but both men’s boots had recently been cleaned.

  ‘I have the same draught I make up for your wife, Dr Catchpole,’ I said.

  Dr Catchpole closed his eyes, pressing his folded handkerchief to his lips. ‘Have you nothing stronger?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If you wish it.’ I reached for a bottle of tincture of Cannabis sativa. ‘I’m going to Angel Meadow shortly,’ I added. ‘May I take Mrs Catchpole something? A salve, perhaps, for her head?’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Dr Catchpole. I could see I had disturbed him by even alluding to her. His chin trembled. ‘Oh, Annabel.’ He dropped onto a chair, his spirit broken, the tears running down his face. Dr Graves and Dr Magorian cleared their throats and looked out of the window at the night, embarrassed by the sight of such weakness.

  I decanted the Cannabis tincture, and sealed the bottle with wax. I had made some lavender and oatmeal soap, which I sold to the ladies’ committee for sixpence each, and I put one aside for Mrs Catchpole. I filled a pot with salve made from beeswax, olive oil, calendula, lavender and comfrey. The comfrey would reduce the bruising to her head, and help the skin to heal, the lavender was astringent and would ease any inflammation, the calendula would soothe.

  I handed Dr Catchpole his tincture. He slipped it into his pocket with hardly a nod of thanks.

  ‘Come along, sir,’ said Dr Graves gruffly. ‘Let’s find you a cab.’

  I held the door open for them as Dr Graves and Dr Magorian helped Dr Catchpole out into the courtyard.

  Later on, when it was all over, I looked back at those moments with Dr Catchpole, Dr Graves and Dr Magorian and I was amazed at my complacency. I prided myself on my powers of observation, and yet I could not have paid less attention to what was said and done if I had been deaf and blind. My mind was filled with my own worries – about my father and what might happen to him that evening; about Eliza and the herbs I had given her. And yet such excuses only serve to reveal my imprudence further. It was clear that it was either Dr Magorian or Dr Graves who had followed Will and me through the rookeries of St Saviour’s earlier that day. And yet still I was convinced that I was one step ahead of them. Was I not going to speak to Mrs Catchpole that very evening? Would I not then discover who, or what, she had seen as she looked through Dr Bain’s window? And did I not have one of Dr Bain’s coffins? Joe would deliver the other soon enough, as promised. We had yet to uncover their secrets but it would be only a matter of time and then we would know everything. Oh, how arrogant I was! And how greatly I underestimated our adversary. It was to prove my undoing. After that night, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Eleven

  We walked up to Angel Meadow in silence, Dr Hawkins, my father and I. The evening was chilly, and I could feel the familiar lick of damp against my skin as a brown fog drifted up from the river. The air had an opaque, grainy look to it. In an hour’s time we would hardly be able to see to the ends of our noses. My father was too tired to speak. Dr Hawkins was deep in thought. And me? I would, at last, discover what made my father so sick, so unable to sleep that even laudanum appeared to have no effect on him, and he rose from his opium-induced stupor worse than when he lay down. I wondered what Dr Hawkins’s plan might be, and what role I would play that evening. I wondered whether I would see Mrs Catchpole and what she might say.

  Angel Meadow was a dark fortress of a building. More like a prison than a hospital, at least from the outside, it was built of the same dark stone that had been used in the construction of Newgate. Once, like St Saviour’s, it had been situated outside London. Fresh air was considered beneficial to the inmates, and besides, who in the city wanted to be reminded of their relations condemned within? Far better to forget such tainted individuals, to condemn them to a life of incarceration in the country, out of sight, and, quite literally, out of mind. But the city had grown, and now, like our infirmary, Angel Meadow Asylum was surrounded on all sides by the houses of the poor. Slick with moisture from the rising fog, and coated with coal dust and soot, it had a black, sweaty appearance. There were only two small windows in the northern wall. Situated high in the brickwork, they glittered in the darkness like a pair of tiny yellow eyes. The main entrance was a large arched gateway to the west, through which secured coaches and padded ambulances rattled during the day, but which was closed, locked and bolted during the night. It was through those gates that Mrs Catchpole had been brought, her dress torn and soaking, her face streaked with mud and blood, crying and sobbing for Dr Bain.

  Below the yellow eyes was the small door through which my father and Dr Hawkins had vanished on the night I had followed them. As I expected, Dr Hawkins knocked three times upon it with the head of his stick. Behind the door a man in a leather apron held up a lantern. Beyond, a low whitewashed passage plunged into the heart of the building. Dr Hawkins nodded to the man, but said nothing. He led us into the passage and the door closed silently behind us. There came the sound of keys jangling, of locks turning and bolts shooting home, and then the sound of footsteps –
my own, Dr Hawkins’s and my father’s. The man in the leather apron moved noiselessly behind me.

  ‘Dr Hawkins,’ I said. ‘Is there time for me to see Mrs Catchpole?’

  Dr Hawkins spoke to the silent turnkey, then he turned to address me. ‘Mrs Catchpole is an interesting case,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll be surprised at what you find. She’s found Angel Meadow to be a refuge from the world. The effect on her mind has been remarkable.’

  ‘And Dr Catchpole?’ I said. ‘Has he been to see her?’

  ‘She won’t see him. I’ve advised him to stop coming – for the time being at least.’

  Dr Hawkins and my father vanished through a doorway. The attendant led me further into the building. He said nothing. He was no taller than I, but he was broad. His forearms bulged below his rolled-up shirt sleeves, his skin etiolated and as pale as fat. No doubt most of his muscular activity – which presumably involved restraining mad people – took place in dark cells or dimly lit wards, far from the hope of sunlight and rescue.

  We ascended a long flight of stairs until we reached a heavy metal door. The man produced his great bunch of keys, selected one of them with the precision of a master safe-cracker, and inserted it delicately into the lock. All at once the place was illuminated by the warm glow of lamps. The floor beneath our feet was carpeted with drugget, the walls lined with pictures – soothing landscapes mostly, or images of trees and flowers. I noticed they were screwed tightly to the wall in their frames. Through a door to our right, I saw a room filled with large comfortable chairs. Attendants waited in the shadows.