‘I’ve got it here.’
‘Well, I can’t very well carry a cake about the wards, can I?’
‘It ain’t a cake.’
‘No?’
‘No.’ Her beady little eyes were tearful now. ‘I don’t know what ails him, Mr Jem, but I’ve seen him getting thin and pale and always in his chair. It breaks my heart to see him like he is. And then there were them coffins. And then Dr Bain.’ She fell silent, swabbing her face with a square of cotton cut from an old hospital bed sheet. ‘Well, I made him this. I thought it might be a comfort.’ From behind her vast skirts, Mrs Speedicut produced a bundle, tied with string. She unwrapped it and drew out a heavy patchwork quilt. The colours glowed warm as summer in the dismal light.
I touched the rich fragments of fabric, stitched together with tiny, almost invisible, stitches. ‘Mrs Speedicut,’ I cried. ‘I had no idea you were so skilled with a needle.’
Mrs Speedicut blushed. ‘Who else might I do things for?’
‘I can think of someone.’
‘Gabriel,’ she said. ‘I were wrong to treat him so harsh, to say those things. He’s just a lad, it ain’t his fault where he comes from or what his parents did.’ She looked left and right, and then leaned close to me. She stank of cheap candles, sweat and baccy. ‘Don’t you tell him.’ She looked up at me coyly. ‘I’m making one just the same for him.’
I tried to keep the surprise off my face. I failed. ‘Really?’
Mrs Speedicut nodded. ‘It ain’t ’is fault ’e were born.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Look, you don’t need to do the rounds with me, Mrs Speedicut. Why don’t you go over to the apothecary? Take your quilt. Gabriel will have made some coffee.’
‘D’you think he’ll speak to me?’
‘Gabriel?’ I said. ‘I sincerely hope so, or he’ll feel the yard rule across his backside.’
‘Oh, no, not that.’ I must have looked astonished at such unexpected soft-heartedness, for she changed the subject abruptly. ‘Think you’ll find out who did it? Who murdered him?’
‘You think it’s murder?’
‘Course it is. You know it as well as I do. That Dr Bain, he were too clever by half. And too clever to make a mistake like that. Poison himself? You watch your step,’ she said. ‘Doctors! They’re all the same. They looks after each other.’
‘I know that.’
Mrs Speedicut frowned. ‘You don’t know nothing! I’ve seen you, disobeying their orders with your rhubarb and your boiled water. And I’ve heard you too, answering back and showing them up an’ making them feel stupid. Well they might well be stupid, but no one likes to be made to feel that way.’
‘My dear lady—’
‘Don’t you dare talk down to me, Jem Flockhart!’ she cried. ‘You’re not too big to feel the yard stick across your own arse. And you’re not near careful enough, neither. Ain’t you seen them? Whispering together? Looking at you?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I suppose I have.’
‘No you ain’t.’ She jabbed at my shoulder with the stem of her pipe. ‘Think you’re so clever, but you ain’t watchin’. Not like you should be. You ain’t one o’ them – you never will be – and that means somethin’.’
‘I’ll find out who murdered Dr Bain, and then they shall hang for it.’
‘Not if they get you first.’ She backed away, her precious bundle now cradled in her arms. Her voice hissed out from the shadows. ‘You watch them. Don’t take your eyes off any of them.’
I left her then, to go about the wards. I was grateful for her warning. She was a busybody, and an eavesdropper, but her gossip’s eye was sharp, and she noticed everything. She probably knew more about St Saviour’s than anyone else. And yet still I paid no heed. I had worked with medical men all my life: I could see their weaknesses, I endured their arrogance and I knew they held no one in higher regard than themselves. But one of them, perhaps more, was a party to wilful murder. How long could they hope to hide such a secret? I had lived a lie for my entire life, I knew what it was to conceal, to dissemble, to pretend one was something one was not and all the time to be in fear of discovery. It was a difficult act to sustain. The urge to tell someone, to explain or justify oneself, was powerful and corrosive. They would make a mistake, I was certain, and I would see it instantly. None of them would get the better of me.
Nothing had happened on the wards during the night. The routine of the morning was a comfort, and I arranged for the usual bleeding and purging without thought. I felt calm by the time I left the place, and decided I would breakfast with Will and Gabriel, and perhaps Mrs Speedicut, when I came back from Angel Meadow.
My father was exactly where I had left him, sitting in an armchair in front of Dr Hawkins’s fire.
‘Did you sleep?’ I asked.
‘A little.’ No doubt he had not slept at all but did not want to worry me further. I looked at Dr Hawkins. Had my father’s raging blood, newly present in his veins, meant that he had paced the floor till dawn? If so, he looked remarkably fresh for it. The rose in his lapel was as yellow as clotted cream.
I did not linger. My father was no worse, and that would have to suffice. Besides, there seemed little to be said. Always taciturn, he was even more disinclined than usual to talk. Perhaps I might send Mrs Speedicut to see him. He always seemed to find her prattle soothing, and she was sure to be better company for him than me, with my searching gaze and bleak silence. His fate weighed heavily upon me so that I could think of nothing else when I was with him. What use was the present, when it would soon be gone? What use was the future when it held nothing but madness and death? And the past – we had neither of us ever had much cause to dwell upon that.
The attendant who led me away from Dr Hawkins’s rooms was new to me. ‘Might I see Mrs Catchpole?’ I said.
‘It’s early for a visitor,’ she replied.
‘I’m the apothecary from St Saviour’s,’ I said, deciding that impatience and manly arrogance would serve me best. ‘And a friend of Dr Hawkins. He says I may see the lady. The matter cannot wait.’
The attendant pulled out her keys. She did not care where she took me, and she did not want an argument. ‘This way, sir.’
She led me down the stairs and into the ladies’ corridor. In the morning light I could see that the tall arched windows I had noticed the night before looked out over a wide, well-kept lawn. The flower beds were filled with daffodils, the vegetable garden hoed and ready for spring planting. There were attendants everywhere; one of them at Mrs Catchpole’s door, a kettle of hot water in her hand. She jangled her bunch of keys and smiled at me as I came up to her. ‘Mornin’ sir,’ she said. ‘Back to see Mrs Catchpole?’ She knocked and listened, then opened the door, and stood back to allow me in.
What I saw within I will never forget: that close, darkened room, a single candle on the washstand, the shadows rearing and jumping as the flame guttered in the draught, and on the floor—
I cried out, and reeled back. How was this possible? Beside me, the attendant sank to her knees, her keys tumbling from her fingers. The woman who had brought me down from Dr Hawkins’s rooms stood, transfixed, in the doorway, her mouth open, her fingers plucking at her lips. She struck up a terrible moaning sound.
Mrs Catchpole was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Her head was thrown back, her eyes glassy and staring, her hands clutching at her throat as if in her final moments she had tried to unwind a scarf that was tied too tight. But there was no scarf, no assailant, no rope or cord; indeed, no sign that anything at all had touched her throat. I could not understand it. I had seen her myself before she went to bed. The door had been locked all night, surely? I looked about the room. The bed was rumpled and Mrs Catchpole was wearing her nightdress. Whatever had happened, it was clear that at some point she had been in bed. I looked at the candle – it was hardly burned down at all. Obviously recently lit, a box of matches was beside it on the mantle. Mrs Catchpole had lighted it no more than quarter of a
n hour earlier, I was certain.
I sprang across the room to crouch at Mrs Catchpole’s side. Her eyes stared up at me accusingly, but there was no breath in her body. ‘Have you been in here this morning?’ I directed my question at the attendant with the kettle of water. She shook her head, her mouth hanging open. ‘And you heard nothing? Nothing at all?’ The woman shook her head again. She could not take her eyes off Mrs Catchpole’s prostrate figure.
Then she said, ‘She was in bed when I saw her last night. I checked them all before I locked up, I always do. She was in bed. I locked her in.’
‘It’s your practice to lock the patients in at night?’
‘Of course. Some of them wander.’
‘And no one came to see her after you had left her?’
‘It was lights out. No one came. Not even Dr Hawkins, and he’s the only other person with a key.’
‘I think this woman needs a cup of hot sweet tea,’ I said to the attendant who had brought me downstairs. ‘Can you see that she gets it?’
‘But Mrs Catchpole—’
‘I’ll stay with her,’ I said. ‘Dr Hawkins will be here in a moment, I will stay with her till he comes.’ No one moved to obey my instructions. I had to get rid of them. I clicked my tongue, the way Dr Magorian did. ‘For God’s sake, take her away, woman!’ I bellowed. ‘And close the door when you leave. We don’t want people traipsing in and out. Have a little respect.’
They bustled out of the room and pulled the door to. Had I been less absorbed, less stunned by what we had discovered, I might have paid more attention to them; I might have noticed the way they looked back at me, the way they looked at each other. But I was too engrossed by the conundrum of finding a corpse in a locked room; too determined to discover what I could before the place was filled with busybodies. By and by I was to remember it, and to wish I had acted with more caution.
But time was short, and I had to act quickly. Other than the limited number of furnishings I had observed the day before, the room was empty. I sprang over to the bed and slid my hand between the sheets. They were still warm, she had clearly been between them only minutes earlier. I flung open the shutters, though the morning was so dull and grey that the light was hardly improved by it. The window was closed, the bars and shutters meant that it was impossible that anyone had entered the room that way. I seized the candle and crawled quickly back and forth across the floor, looking for a vial of some sort – had it rolled beneath the bed, or into the corners of the room? I pulled open her clenched fingers but found nothing. I crouched beside the body, and sniffed. I could smell nothing – not vomit, not the mousy smell of hemlock nor the bitter almonds of cyanide. Was it aconite? Again? Possibly. But aconite must be ingested, the vial containing the poison, or whatever food or drink had been tainted by it, would be quite evident. And yet there was nothing. Nothing.
I squatted beside the body. The eyes were wide and glassy, the face curiously smooth. Beside her lay a hairbrush, perhaps knocked to the floor as she fell. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, and still tangled from sleep, so that it was clear that whatever had occurred, it had taken place almost as soon as she had washed her face. And yet – I looked at her face again – there was something about the eyes that unsettled me. She was not breathing, that much was clear. How long had she been dead? I put my ear to her chest – a heartbeat! How was it possible that she might be dead, and yet alive? That she might have a heartbeat, but no breath? Surely one was not possible without the other? Unless – I crouched down again, my own heart now so loud in my ears that I could hardly focus upon hers.
‘Mrs Catchpole,’ I whispered. ‘Mrs Catchpole.’ Was there a movement in her eyes? The skin had a rigid, unnatural look to it. I took a deep breath, and, holding her nose closed, I put my mouth over hers and blew. Her rib cage rose, and fell. I blew again. And again. I listened to her heart, still beating. But she would not, could not, keep breathing. Could she see and hear? Was she sentient, observing her own death, knowing her fate but able to do nothing about it? Again her lungs filled with breath – my breath – and emptied. Again she was still. I pressed my ear to her chest. This time, there was no heartbeat. Her eyes, I could see, were those of a corpse.
Her face was waxy; her eyes stared up at a corner of the ceiling; her tongue visible behind blue lips. I examined her throat and head. I opened her nightdress and surveyed her naked body. There was no sign of violence, no wound, no puncture, no apparent trauma to any part of her. There was no blood. The bruise on her head from where she had struck it when she fell during Dr Bain’s funeral was still dark and purplish, but fading already as the blood drained. The cut at its centre was still red, but granular, healing. I could see a greasy smear across the wound from where she had applied the salve – no doubt this had done something to help the bruising, though that hardly mattered now.
But Dr Hawkins would be there at any moment, and with him a horde of trampling, bustling attendants. I went to the washstand. There must be some clue as to what had happened. There was nothing on it but a selection of hair pins and a wedding ring. The soap I had brought was untouched, the bag of camomile tea still wrapped, the jar of the comfrey and camomile salve bore the imprint of her fingertips. I examined each item, but they told me nothing. The lavender-filled pillow was on the bed, the chrysanthemums were exactly where Eliza had left them. Mrs Catchpole’s clothes had been taken away the night before and brought back that morning – they remained on the floor, where they had tumbled from the attendant’s arms. How had she died? A stroke? A heart attack? But that would not account for the paralysis, for the fact that the heart had continued whereas the lungs were unable to draw breath – and yet . . . I looked about – the bed, the pillow, the hairbrush, the washstand, the body . . .
And all at once I knew. I knew how she had died, and why. It was murder, without a shade of doubt and, for the first time, I felt vulnerable, exposed. Why had I not been more cautious? I had led the murderer to Mrs Catchpole as surely as if I had pointed her out in a crowd, and in my foolish confidence I had set the scene for her execution.
‘Has Joe Silks been here?’ I asked as soon as I got back to the apothecary. I wished Will was back, but he was still out at the graveyard. Gabriel was cleaning out the large leech jar. I did not tell him what had happened, that Mrs Catchpole was dead. I could not face a barrage of absurd questions and sensational speculations. He would find out soon enough anyway. But Gabriel knew something was amiss. He watched me, his expression wary. ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Has he been?’
He shook his head. ‘What you want him round here for?’
‘He has something for me.’ I looked out of the window, at the statue of Edward VI with his cape of bird droppings and the looming grey prison of the ward beyond. Where was Will? I needed to talk to him. I could not help but feel uneasy. Joe had said he would bring the coffin this morning. It was only eight o’clock but I knew the lad was always up early. Besides it had been quite clear that he had been anxious to get rid of the thing Dr Bain had entrusted him with. Why had he not appeared? Of course, he was a homeless boy, a pauper and a thief. There was always something he was up to. He was unreliable and unpredictable, and I should not be surprised if he was late – I should not be surprised if he didn’t show up at all. And yet, his loyalty to Dr Bain was without question. I knew he would come. I glanced up at the wall clock. I pulled out the silver pocket half hunter watch my father had given me – once a gift from his own father – when I had finished my apprenticeship. Both dials told the same time.
‘Breakfast time,’ said Gabriel, seeing the object of my interest.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Put a pot of coffee on the stove and go to the bakery.’
‘Shall I get a currant loaf? Mr Flockhart always likes a currant loaf.’
‘Mr Flockhart is not here,’ I said. I thought of my father. I doubted very much whether currant loaf would be on his mind.
‘I wish he was here,’ said Gabriel, tearfully. ‘I wish every
thing were like it used to be. But now Dr Bain’s dead, and Mr Flockhart’s ill and St Saviour’s is to be pulled down. P’raps it’s my fault. P’raps I bring bad luck.’ He sniffed, pathetically.
‘Of course it’s not you, Gabriel.’ I handed him a half crown. ‘Look, buy a loaf, and some cheese and butter. And get the currant loaf too. Perhaps you can take it to my father directly. Have your breakfast with him.’
‘Might I go and see him?’ His face brightened, and then fell. ‘Oh, but he’s in Angel Meadow,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want to go in there.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ I replied. ‘Not like it used to be. Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany Mrs Speedicut. I think she’s as afraid of the place as you are.’
‘Me!’ cried Gabriel. ‘I’ll not go nowhere with her!’
‘I’ll not go anywhere,’ I corrected. ‘Gabriel, you must do as you’re told. Mrs Speedicut will be in the matron’s office, as she always is, no doubt planning on coming here, as she always does.’ All at once I had to get rid of both of them. I had to think and for that I needed silence. ‘Go and get her, and ask her to accompany you to Angel Meadow to see my father. You must take him a currant loaf and talk to him to keep his spirits up. Then come back and tell me how he fares.’ I held up a hand as he opened his mouth to object. ‘You will be polite and courteous to Mrs Speedicut at all times. Am I making myself understood?’
Gabriel nodded, his expression hostile. ‘I’ll do it for you,’ he said. ‘And for Mr Flockhart, that’s all.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ll do it for Mrs Speedicut. She’s sorry for what she said, though she did no more than speak the truth, as unpalatable as that might be. Besides, we must take our friends the way we find them. The world’s a cold and lonely place for orphans.’
I sat for a while in silence, glad to have Gabriel out of the way. I put my hand in my pocket, closing my fingers around what I knew to be the source of Mrs Catchpole’s death. I had taken it from her room so that none but I should know of it. How was it that St Saviour’s Infirmary had come to this? I might suspect who was behind the murders of Dr Bain and Mrs Catchpole, but why they had committed such crimes I could not possibly guess. And across all this, across every moment I was awake, my father’s illness cast its long shadow. I was not so naive that I believed Dr Hawkins’s exchange of blood would have any effect on him. I had spent my life amongst sickness and disease, surrounded by medical men, their various ‘remedies’ and ‘cures’, and I knew that, for the most part, they had nothing useful to suggest about anything. Anatomy and physiology had improved understanding of the body’s functions, but the mind, and the brain, remained a mystery. As for sleeping and waking, why, we took it for granted that should we be able to do one, then the other would automatically follow. Dr Hawkins’s idea was coherent – rational and logical – based as it was on an assumption that madness might somehow be carried by tainted blood, but if madness had its root in the mind, and the brain, what use was new blood? I closed my eyes. I understood why my father had not told me: now I too had to live with the knowledge that I might one day lie blind and deranged in the basement at Angel Meadow. I looked back on my ignorance with a grieving heart.
Beloved Poison Page 21