At half past eight I heard Will scraping his boots at the door. He hung his coat on the hook above the hop basket and removed his hat, examining it for blemishes and stains. He sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. He washed his hands and face, working the pump vigorously in the vain hope that he might be able to remove the fearful smell that hung about him. Then he looked up at me, his face drawn and serious.
‘How’s your father this morning?’
‘The same.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He dried his hands.
I could see he was troubled. Mrs Catchpole might wait another minute, and so I said, ‘How are the excavations?’
‘God help me, Jem,’ he replied. ‘The job will be the death of me.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You will complete the job in the best of health, though somewhat distressed by it, and then, after a while, you will never think of it again.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘Never think of it again? I doubt that very much.’ He sank into a chair. ‘I don’t believe I have the stomach to continue.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Two months? Three? The Company have underestimated the job, as there are many more bodies than they first thought. The parish registers told us as much, though no one but I thought to look in them. The number of corpses defies imagining. It’s as though the entire earth is made of bones. It depends on the rain too – the place is a quagmire.’ He shuddered. ‘I cannot get the sight of it from my mind, nor the smell of it from my nostrils.’
I handed him a cup of bitter black coffee. ‘Try this.’
Outside, the light grew dim. The sun had hardly risen, and already it was as dark as evening. The sky above the ward building opposite was the colour of slate. ‘Rain again,’ I remarked as the stuff sluiced down, battering onto the sodden courtyard. The drain outside the apothecary door gurgled. I said, ‘Mrs Catchpole is dead.’
‘Dead!’
‘Murdered.’
‘But how? Did you not see her last night when you went to Angel Meadow with your father?’ He sprang to his feet, and began to pace up and down the apothecary. ‘How can she be dead? It must have been an accident. Are you quite certain it was murder? But why would anyone do such a thing?’ He put a hand to his head. ‘What kind of a place has this infirmary become, that murder is commonplace?’ He reached out to put his mug on the table, but in his agitation he missed. It crashed to the ground, and he was lashed from head to toe by a tongue of hot coffee. The shock seemed to bring him to his senses. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, and reached for a piece of sacking. In silence I watched him, down on his hands and knees, swabbing the pool of brown liquid off the hard stone floor. ‘Poor woman,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps she would still be alive if she had stayed away from Dr Bain.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ I replied. On the table beside his empty coffee cup I placed the pot of salve I had taken from Mrs Catchpole’s washstand.
‘What’s this?’
I told him what it was and how I had come by it.
He opened the lid, and sniffed it. ‘But it’s only beeswax and herbs—’
‘Careful!’ I said. ‘It’s now poisonous beeswax and herbs.’
He froze, the pot held out before him. ‘Poison? What—’
‘Curare,’ I said. ‘Someone put curare in it.’
‘But how could they have done that?’
‘Easily enough. Dr Magorian, Dr Catchpole and Dr Graves all saw me fill the jar. They all knew I was going to Angel Meadow with it. And I had not been with Mrs Catchpole five minutes when Dr Graves and Dr Catchpole also arrived. Along with Eliza and Mrs Magorian.’
‘Eliza?’ said Will.
‘Yes.’ I looked away. ‘Though she amongst them is without blame, I’m certain.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Will.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I retorted. ‘D’you think I would excuse her simply because—’
‘Yes?’ Will let the silence speak for me. And then he said gently, ‘I think you might not see her in the same objective light as you do the others.’
I could not answer. I had grown fond of Will, but he had no idea who I was. I was not about to discuss my feelings for Eliza. Not now. Perhaps not ever. But she was no murderer, I was certain, and so I said, ‘Miss Magorian was nowhere near the washstand, and the salve. Neither was Dr Catchpole.’
‘And who was?’
‘Dr Graves. And he remained in the room when I followed Dr Catchpole out into the hallway.’
‘And you’re certain it’s curare?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And a clever choice it was too. Curare works only when it enters the blood stream – it’s the stuff of poison darts, made principally from the roots and stems of the Chondrodendron tomentosum, though often other plant matter is added, and the sweat from poisonous frogs.’
‘How on earth might one make a frog sweat?’ murmured Will.
‘By holding it over a fire,’ I replied. ‘More important is the question how on earth it might be got into Mrs Catchpole’s blood stream.’
‘The salve.’
‘Of course. The poison would enter the open wound immediately. And I believe that is exactly what happened. The steps she followed as soon as she awoke were plain to read. She lit a candle, and washed her face – the candle was hardly burned, the towel and the edges of her hair were damp. She applied the salve, and began brushing her hair – the bruise and the cut glistened, her hairbrush lay at her feet. Death came swiftly. The stuff paralyses, prevents breathing, so although her heart continued to beat, the lungs, the diaphragm, were unable to work to provide the body with air. And so she slowly suffocated to death, fully sentient, but unable to move, to speak, to let anyone know what was happening.’
Will swallowed. His face showed me that he could hardly believe such cruelty existed. ‘And the antidote?’
‘It hardly matters.’ I said. ‘She’s dead, is she not?’ I held up the pot of salve. ‘And this is the cause.’
‘And so you took it?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Everyone knew I’d given it to her. The real murderer is bound to point to the salve, and then they would assume that it was I who killed Mrs Catchpole. I could hardly leave it there.’
‘I hope you don’t come to regret taking it,’ said Will. ‘Far better to have left it were it was and see who drew attention to it as the likely cause of death—’
But I was not listening. I went over to the window, and looked out. Despite the rain, the courtyard was busy with people coming in through the gates to go to out-patients, with doctors about to begin their rounds and with all the usual people and activity of a busy infirmary. And yet out of all of those people, we had narrowed down Dr Bain’s murderer, Mrs Catchpole’s murderer, to only a handful of possible perpetrators. ‘You can see how clever our killer is,’ I said. ‘And how knowledgeable.’
‘But who might it be?’ said Will. ‘And why did Mrs Catchpole have to die?’
‘I am convinced that Mrs Catchpole saw something that night when she looked through Dr Bain’s parlour window.’
‘She saw her husband.’
‘That much is certain. But I think she might have seen something else too. It’s clear from what she said to me last night that there was someone else in the room at the same time as her husband. Of course, she didn’t stay to find out. Once she saw Dr Catchpole in there she ran away again. And when I asked, she was unable to recall any meaningful details about Dr Bain’s room. But if she had thought some more, if she had been given time to think and reflect without being disturbed by so many people, then she might very well have remembered something. But she could not be allowed to remember. Even the possibility that she might recall something, anything that might point out Dr Bain’s murderer, was enough to ensure her death. And so she was killed.’
‘By whom?’
I held up the pot of salve between finger and thumb. ‘Dr Graves,’ I said. ‘He had every opportunity. And there is the sugar lump, remember, from
Prior’s Rents?’
‘Can you be sure?’ said Will. ‘Forgive me, Jem. I mentioned it earlier, I know, and I could see you weren’t to be persuaded, but I can’t help but notice that Miss Magorian . . . distracts you. You can’t deny it. Can you be sure you were paying attention to what took place in Mrs Catchpole’s room last night? Are you certain that it’s not Dr Magorian, and that he might have a willing accomplice in someone?’
I opened my mouth to object, but I knew he was right. If I had not been so absorbed with looking at Eliza—
‘Is Miss Magorian herself really above suspicion?’
I shook my head. Eliza had not been anywhere near the salve, had she? I was no longer sure. And had she been instructed to smile at me, so that I would see nothing else? I had taken her wink to mean that the herbs I had given her had proved to be efficacious. Perhaps I was simply a fool, one easily gulled into not noticing what she, or her mother, might be up to. Had she, and her mother, and Dr Graves, all deliberately remained in Mrs Catchpole’s room while I had pursued Dr Catchpole out into the corridor? I felt my face flaming, humiliated by my own naivety. Mrs Speedicut’s words, spoken in earnest that very morning, crept in my head: you ain’t one of them – you never will be – and that means somethin’. She was right. Will was right. I could not trust any of them.
Before I could say anything a face appeared at the window. It was a small, wizened face, with dirty hair beneath a greasy-looking bonnet. The eyes were large and dark ringed above hollow cheeks, the mouth small and downturned.
Relieved by the distraction, I sprang to the door and flung it open. Dashing outside into the rain I grabbed the girl before she could make off, and propelled her swiftly into the apothecary.
‘Your clothes are soaking,’ I said. ‘Come over to the fire.’ The girl twisted in my grasp. I turned her around so that she was facing me. I recognised her as one of the urchins who hung about above the heating vents outside St Saviour’s laundry. ‘You’re Joe Silks’s friend, aren’t you?’
The girl nodded. She stood there miserably, her skirts ragged above bruised ankles and filthy feet. Even from two yards away I could see the lice crawling in her hair. She put up a grubby hand and raked at her scalp.
‘You need new clothes,’ said Will.
‘She’ll only sell them,’ I replied. ‘And then be colder and wetter than ever.’ Even if she didn’t sell them, I knew that she would most likely be beaten and stripped by her fellows, or by her own family (if she had any), and then they would sell them. The best we might do was to wash and dry what she had. Already the steam was rising off them. The smell was abominable.
‘Take everything off,’ I ordered. I tossed her a blanket. ‘Wrap yourself in this.’
‘I brought you summink,’ said the girl. She rooted beneath her tattered shirt and produced a parcel. It was about eight inches long, loosely wrapped in a piece of dirty sacking and tied up with a scrap of frayed string. ‘Nasty fing it is,’ she said. ‘Don’t know why Dr Bain gived it to Joe, but now Joe’s gone so he can’t say. He tole me someone were after him. Don’t know for what – thievin’ most like. Said he had to keep out o’ sight a bit. Said I were to just give you this an’ then run, run as far away as I could. I reckon Joe’s den at the top o’ Prior’s Rents is far enough for anyone. I ain’t got the strength to go no further ’n that. Not that Joe’s there,’ she added dismally. ‘Don’t know where he is.’
I took the sack-covered parcel and unwrapped it. I knew what it was. I could tell by the shape beneath its coarse grey shroud and the feel of something shifting within. Will and I exchanged a glance. Now we had both coffins, the only two that had not been destroyed in Dr Bain’s fire; the two Dr Bain had hidden, to keep them safe. But safe from what?
I set the kettle to boil on the stove top, and flung the girl’s clothes into the large brass cauldron I used for boiling up cough syrups. I added lemon oil and lavender against the smell, rosemary and thyme to kill the lice, and then the hot water. I wondered whether it was worth the bother. Perhaps it would be a better idea simply to throw everything onto the fire.
The girl sat, wrapped in a blanket, watching her clothes bubble. I wanted her to take a bath – there was no point putting her in clean clothes if she was still verminous – but she refused. I decided I would set Mrs Speedicut onto her: when Mrs Speedicut wanted you to take a bath, you took a bath. In the meantime, I gave her a cup of sweet milky tea and a plate of bread and cheese. She gobbled the food and glugged down the tea in no time, then curled up in the blanket on my father’s chair, and fell asleep.
Will opened the coffin. Within was the familiar, hideous bundle. ‘Do you have the other one?’ said Will. I had hidden it at the bottom of the hop basket. I brought it out and laid the two boxes side by side. They were almost identical in size and shape: both contained the same mixture of dried flowers, the same rough, rag-swaddled doll. ‘Whatever their secret is, someone considered it worth killing two people over,’ said Will
‘We need to examine them properly. To think about what they mean. But not here. Not at the apothecary, it’s too public.’
‘We might return to Dr Bain’s laboratory? It’s quiet and private. None but you has the key.’
‘This evening,’ I said. ‘We can go there directly after my rounds.’ It was a good suggestion, and I was glad to postpone our examination of those horrible objects, even for a few hours. Suddenly, our possession of them had become a huge and dangerous burden. Would Dr Bain have taken them if he had realised that he was forfeiting his own life, Mrs Catchpole’s life, by so doing? I wished with all my heart that I had never seen them, that they had remained where they were, in the darkness underground, slowly decaying until they were nothing more than paper fragments, their meaning lost in time. I closed my eyes. I tried to be calm, to be focused and rational, but all at once I could not manage it; I could not step back from events taking place so close to my heart, events that were tearing apart the only world I had known. Even Eliza was implicated—
I put my hands to my face. I could not let Will see me crumble, not now. But he was there, beside me, as he always was. He put an arm around my shoulders. ‘Things may not turn out so badly.’ But there was to be no rest for us that morning, for scarcely had Will reached for the coffee pot when the silence was obliterated by the sound of a fist hammering on the apothecary door. A man stumbled in, his oilskin streaming with rainwater. I slipped the coffins into a sack and out of sight beneath the work bench.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr Quartermain, sir.’ The man wiped mud off his face with a large meaty hand. ‘But there’s something you should see up at the churchyard.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s best you look for yourself, sir.’
‘But can’t you just say what it is?’ said Will, irritably. ‘I’ve just come from the place. What urgency can there possibly be?’
‘A body, sir. A corpse—’
‘There are hundreds of corpses,’ said Will. ‘All equally offensive to the eyes and nostrils. I’m sure it can wait.’
‘There’s hundreds, yes sir, but not like this,’ said the man. ‘None of ’em’s like this.’
Chapter Thirteen
I had not visited the excavations in the churchyard for a couple of days and I could hardly believe what I now saw. Will had directed the proceedings with meticulous attention. The gravestones had been stacked like dirty dishes against the church, and a deep trench sliced into the earth following the line of the churchyard wall. It ran from one side to the other, six feet deep and ten feet wide. The occupants of the trench had been removed systematically, one layer at a time, as far as this was possible, as some disorder was evident the deeper the excavations went. They had been set out beside the trench to be loaded into carts and trundled away across the city. But it was clear that the number of bodies and bones were more than the carts could manage, and a great mound of rags and corpses had risen up on the greensward beside the excavated pit.
‘Initial
ly this mound comprised only the most recently disinterred,’ said Will as we approached. ‘But getting rid of them has involved one delay after another – carts, cabs, people, animals – the streets are choked with obstructions, and the rain has caused nothing but delays and accidents.’ He sighed, and passed a hand across his eyes. ‘The number of bodies removed from the ground far exceeds the number who might conceivably be taken away in one day. And so the corpse mountain grows daily in size, and disorderliness.’
‘Surely the trench is almost empty,’ I said.
‘It’s only one trench,’ replied Will. ‘We’ll have to dig at least four of them to empty the earth. And the ground is little more than bones, with soil squeezed in between.’
I peered into the pit. The sticky clay walls were studded with human remains, like chunks of suet in a Christmas pudding. At the bottom, more bones, rags, skulls and bits of wood protruded.
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