The Specimen

by Martha Lea

  “That’s no way to talk, ma’am,” Susan said. “I won’t have you catching your death over the want of a bed-warmer.”

  Euphemia looked at her desperately ill guest. At least it is winter, she thought. As long as she dies soon, I will be able to send her body back to London. I won’t have to see to her buried here.

  The light went steadily from the window. The day had become duller and duller, the grey of the sky thickened, and in the gloaming, as Euphemia looked out of the guest bedroom window, she saw fat flakes of snow. Her heart sank.

  That evening Euphemia looked for the book which had arrived months before, without a note. Penelope Coyne had not loaned it, but Euphemia suspected that under the quiver on Penelope’s pout, there was a taste for something sensational. Certainly, a woman like Mrs Coyne would not forget to scribble a line or two when sending a book. Euphemia searched under all the cushions. Susan must have tidied it away. She sat down in the chair Isobel Scales had occupied that morning and closed her eyes. A vivid image of Penelope’s son came to rest under her eyelids. It didn’t matter that her communications with him had come to such an abrupt end. She trusted that he would make new contact with her whenever he was able and give her some positive news about the progress he must surely by now be making with her sister.

  Susan checked on Mrs Scales as often as she was able that first night. She made the fire hotter and replenished the bed-warmers and found an extra eiderdown. She covered Mrs Scales’ shoulders with a fur stole and made the lamps bright in the room. Susan did everything she could to banish death from the house. Every night and every morning for the past five months, kneeling at her bedside, Susan had begged forgiveness for her part in Mr Harris’ lonely passing on the cold kitchen floor. She closed her mind to the rest.

  Mrs Scales had eaten nothing of the syllabub but had taken the honey from the spoon; she had refused the tincture left by the doctor, describing it as an evil poison and told Susan that the doctor was an incompetent fool, that all doctors were incompetent, and that she should never trust them, especially those who were the most trustworthy of all. Some of her talk was certainly muddled. At times during the evening, Mrs Scales drifted off to sleep propped up on the pillows. Then, she would open her eyes suddenly and begin to talk again. Twice, Susan had come into the room with a hot bed-warmer to find Mrs Scales having a conversation with the empty room. Susan did not like this. It was her firm belief that those close to death were able to see ghosts. In this case, she determined to make the room too bright and too hot for any ghosts to find agreeable for very long.

  “When they lock my body away, in that horrible vault,” she said to Susan, “you must make sure that the name carved is my maiden name. Fetch the ink and paper to me.”

  Susan filled the nib and wiped it carefully against the neck of the ink bottle and passed it to Mrs Scales. She spent some time over it. The pen had to be passed back and forth to be refilled, and Mrs Scales’ hand was not steady.

  “This is an instruction to be sent to my solicitor. I have put his address there.” She asked Susan to sign her own name at the bottom of the paper as witness. “I had meant to do this. I have been forgetting and remembering too much all at once.”

  “I’ll see that it’s delivered, ma’am.”

  “I am very grateful.”

  Susan put it aside to dry as there was no blotting paper. Mrs Scales lay back again on the pillows and closed her eyes. Susan checked the time. It was almost ten at night. Susan was reluctant to do the usual things and leave the room. She looked at the messy scrawl and tried to decipher Mrs Scales’ line of thoughts on the paper and was doubtful over it. She filled the nib again and wrote out on a clean sheet what she could make of the instructions.

  At half past eleven Mrs Scales woke Susan who had fallen asleep in a chair near the bed.

  “Miss, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. Will you tell me where he went? I came here to find him, but he wasn’t here. I can’t remember your name. Will you fetch Mr Harris? There is something I have wanted to ask him.” She made a feeble attempt to throw back the covers from the bed and to get herself up. “I think he might be out there.”

  “No one is out there this time of night, Mrs Scales. Not in the weather we’re having.”

  “Nonsense, it is the middle of summer.”

  “It’s blowing a gale of snow, Mrs Scales.”

  “That’s not my name. But, my manners, what do they call you?”

  “I’m Susan Wright, ma’am.”

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Susan Wright. I am Isobel Armstrong. Did you know that?”

  “I saw you write it down, ma’am, and I signed my own beneath.”

  “So you did. They won’t call me after him. I don’t want his name after all.”

  “Ma’am, please let me put the covers back up.”

  “Did you just say it was snowing?”

  “I did, ma’am.”

  “Isn’t that a curious thing to happen in the middle of summer.”

  “We’re in the month of February, ma’am.”

  “I see. Tell me about your sister.”

  “I have only brothers, ma’am.”

  “Of course, I remember now. And what about Mr Harris? Who has him now?”

  “The Lord keeps him now, ma’am.”

  “Goodness, how the little man has progressed! Do tell me—Lord whom? Oh, never mind. The next thing we shall hear is that he has been employed to spy on the Queen.”

  Isobel sank into herself as she closed her eyes again. Susan turned away and busied herself with the coal bucket; she didn’t want Mrs Scales to hear her weeping.

  Chapter XXXII

  THE TIMES, Thursday, October 4, 1866.

  MURDER TRIAL AT THE OLD BAILEY.

  WITNESS for the Prosecution, Mrs Fernly surprised the court with her statement. It was and, indeed, still remains unclear whether the Counsel for the Prosecution had prior knowledge of its content: “I have known the accused since the day she first smiled at a handful of May blossom with not yet a tooth in her dear head. What I shall say of my account of the accused shall be this: the dear child [the prisoner] was never an immoral person. Never. And nothing [pointing her finger towards the heavens] will induce me to say that she is an immoral person now. Her conduct throughout her life has been exemplary; her manner with all those around her fine and true, and she never acted on impulse or unkindly. Indeed, she took it upon herself to educate the children of the poorest families in the village, devoting many hours to Bible study with those little souls. To elope is not immoral—misguided in some cases, perhaps—but not the deed of a bad person as has been suggested here. In taking passage to Brazil with that man [Mr Scales], she believed that she was eloping—that she was deceived by him and others is no fault of hers. Her family, and the Pemberton family have a good standing, and I believe will continue to do so, once this ridiculous business is over. Murder! For goodness sake, I never heard anything so outrageous in all my blessed days [crossing herself flamboyantly] and I hope that the Gentlemen of the Jury will see good sense and find in Mrs Pemberton’s favour.

  Chapter XXXIII

  Cornwall. March 6, 1861.

  Susan showed a small, dark-veiled figure into the morning room. Euphemia sat with her back to the sun; the room was warming up already. The little woman positioned herself neatly opposite Euphemia. Both of them waited: Euphemia waited for the woman to lift her veil; Natalia Jaspur waited for Miss Carrick to speak.

  When the carriage had drawn up outside, Euphemia had been pretending that she had not been up all night. She had begun eating a soft-boiled egg as Susan had rushed excitedly into the dining-room.

  “Visitors, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure? It’s barely eight.”

  “It’s a right grand carriage, ma’am. Four-horser.”

  “Horses, Susan.”

  “Shall I ask them to wait, ma’am?”

  “No. I’ll receive them in the morning room, whoever they are.”
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  Euphemia had bolted the last bit of egg and now it was repeating on her. Natalia Jaspur was the first to speak.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Carrick, at this hour, but I have spent a good deal of time trying to locate you and I do not have much left.”

  Euphemia strained to hear every syllable correctly; the woman’s voice seemed to be a hotchpotch of different influences. She cleared her throat quietly. “My usual hours for Contact are more frequently held in the evening, but I am sure if we were to draw the curtains—” Her hands had become clammy.

  “I am not interested in Spiritualism, Miss Carrick. And, if I were, there is no one I would wish to contact. No, the reason I have looked for you is this.” She produced a piece of flimsy paper from a small beaded pouch hanging at her wrist. “It was discovered by one of my staff and brought to my attention. I see from the look on your face you are a little confused. It is a personal advertisement from the pages of the Evening Standard. It bears my name, and also the name of a person I was once in acquaintance with. This is quite old.” She flapped the cutting. “My housekeeper likes to waste nothing; it was packaging, but that is not interesting to you at all. I made enquiries to the offices of that paper which has eventually led me here.”

  Euphemia’s mind was in turmoil and her stomach threatened to dispose of her egg. “You believe I may be of assistance in some way?”

  “The person mentioned along with my name on this paper—that person was not the person who placed the advertisement. It is a delicate matter. I wish to contact the person who did.”

  “Being?”

  “Miss Carrick, I do not have time for obfuscation. I would very much appreciate it if you would let me know the whereabouts of Mr Edward Scales.”

  “I did have the pleasure of meeting Mr Scales on one occasion, some months ago—just before he departed on a trip, an excursion overseas.”

  “Very good. You will give me his address.”

  Euphemia swallowed. “Mr Scales left no forwarding address. Perhaps his family—I believe they reside in London.”

  “I have been there. It is shut. Someone in that house died. The rest have gone.”

  “Then I, I can help you no further.”

  “Miss Carrick, if you please. I do know, for instance, that Mr Scales went to Brazil to catch butterflies and put snakes and other creatures in bottles, and I know that your sister, Miss Gwen Carrick, is an artist who travelled with him. I know that, despite differences, your sister will have sent a letter by now detailing her particulars of residence in that country.” Natalia Jaspur breathed heavily after this, and her thick black veil moved a little. “I have no time to play any games with you, Miss Carrick. I am sure your sister is an honourable woman. I will leave you my card, in case you remember where you have put your sister’s letters.” She stuffed the folded piece of newspaper back into her purse and produced a small, white card, which she placed with a snap onto an occasional table. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must leave this moment to be in good time. The drive back to Exeter is tedious. I will see myself out.” She stood up to leave. “Good day to you, Miss Carrick.”

  The sunshine had brought out a sweat on Euphemia. She wiped her face and neck, and waited until she was satisfied that there had been a crunching of wheels and the woman had gone. She eyed the card left by Natalia Jaspur for a few seconds then picked it up and took it to the study where she chose a book at random and slipped the card between its pages. That this strange, dark little woman had been right there in the morning room was not in itself the most extraordinary thing. If only she could find that missing book; Euphemia felt, for the first time in her life, that she had been speaking to a ghost. Someone in that house died. She went to look for Susan. The kitchen door was wide open to the morning, and Susan was on her knees cleaning the flagstones. Euphemia spoke to Susan’s backside as it wagged back and forth with the effort of scrubbing.

  “Spring is here then, Susan.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and about time, too.” Susan did not stop scrubbing.

  “I’d like a cup of tea, and some more toast. You can bring it up to my room.”

  Susan’s shoulders sagged momentarily, but she did not stop scrubbing.

  Chapter XXXIV

  Edward awoke in his hammock one April morning not knowing if he should concern himself over Mr Coyne’s attention to Gwen. God knows, he thought, how physically lacking in seductive charm she had become in her present state.

  Edward had seen Mr Coyne coming away from the house and walking down the road towards the town. He’d waited for her to mention it, and when he’d asked her how her day had gone she’d said that it had been quiet enough. Gwen still did not mention Coyne over the next couple of days, and he decided to leave it alone.

  Sometimes, he imagined himself telling her that he made it all up. It was different each time. Sometimes, she laughed, and said that she knew and told him not to be a silly. Other times, his mind played out something violent. Gwen threw objects. Ripped up her work. Shouted. Or she packed her things quietly and calmly into her small trunk and left. When his thoughts ran this way he fixed on telling her the moment he next saw her. Things got in the way. She would be talking to Maria, or asleep.

  Gwen did not talk about Natalia Jaspur to Edward. He was thankful for this. The idea of the two of them discussing her at length was too disturbing to contemplate. Edward thought that he must remove himself from the torment of it and the painful silence of avoidance in the house during the evenings after Maria had gone home to her own family.

  Pemberton had told him about a small place, a village one day’s walk away where he would find Morpho rhetenor. Perhaps, he reasoned, he should go there for a while. The thought of the rhetenor’s alluring blue metallic sheen quickened his stomach.

  He’d lingered longer than usual over his coffee and biscuit. As he readied himself, Maria arrived with the day’s provisions and handed him a letter.

  “I’ve brought you some American pork, Mr Scales, it came in yesterday. Won’t you eat before you go?”

  Edward wavered on the threshold at the thought of bacon. “Thank you Maria, but it will be better for the waiting, I should think.”

  “Letter from home, Mr Scales?”

  Edward looked at the postmark and the writing. It was addressed to him and was from Cornwall. The hand was not his wife’s, though certainly female. There were careful flourishes all over the envelope. He inspected the seal on the reverse, which was also flamboyant and depicted a ship with a “C” curled around it. He put the letter inside his knapsack next to the killing jars waiting for the post-breakfast entomological ramble. He hitched his collecting bag over his shoulder, picked up the birding gun and bid his perfunctory farewell to Maria. Gwen was still asleep.

  Waiting for Maria to cook the bacon, Gwen noticed Edward’s knapsack on the verandah. She picked it up, imagining it slung over her own back. Tucked in with the jars, she saw the letter and pulled it out. She looked at the fancy handwriting which she recognised at once as Susan’s. Her fantasy evaporated.

  Gwen had often found discarded or forgotten lists of things to do and things to buy, scrawled carefully by Susan. Sometimes the lists were personal, and sometimes for the house. She turned the letter over, thinking how long Susan must have practised to get her handwriting so neat. She looked at the seal. Susan must have been rummaging in the library bureau to have found that old thing. Gwen smiled at Susan addressing the letter to Edward, in an attempt to be proper. Gwen knew that the letter inside would be meant for her.

  She tapped the letter on her knuckles before deciding not to open it. She would wait until Edward came back. She left the knapsack on its proper hook on the wall and replaced the letter inside. All through breakfast the thought of Susan’s letter took precedence over everything else until Maria asked her what was wrong.

  Curupíra, the wild man of the forest, mysterious being with various attributes: Edward recalled Gus Pemberton’s description as he headed down the road t
owards the forest paths. He stopped himself from turning to look behind. Sometimes, he heard noises which he supposed might be attributable to the Curupíra. Gus Pemberton and Edward had discussed the propensity of primitive peoples to find unnatural causes to occurrences for which they could not account. Or, rather, after the disagreeable beginning to the conversation, Edward had listened to Gus Pemberton’s ideas whilst trying to listen with half an ear to what Gwen had been saying to Vincent inside and wondering at the extreme effrontery of the man in turning up like that.

  Now, though, as he walked, he heard only Natalia: “You are as curious to me as I am to you. Sometimes I have asked myself: why does a man with a pretty blonde wife spend so many of his hours here? And before my question is finished I answer myself. The two sides of my head in conversation.” She breathed deeply at her own convenience which coincided with Edward’s hand slipping between her thighs. “Because I remind you of what you are not and what your wife is not. It is simple, I think. You confirm our own place in this world by putting yourself inside me. You say nothing. This is because I am right. It is the same with all the people who must come to hear me sing and assure themselves. Your curiosity has never been any different to those faceless people, dropping coins, dropping their jaws at me. I am a freak; yes, I can say this word; but are you not a freak also?”

  At the window a fly had buzzed; Natalia had risen from the bed and crossed the room to kill it. Edward watched her. Her backlit outline glowed in the dirty room at three in the afternoon. He had not cared that she mentioned his wife. That she knew her hair colour did not concern him. Perhaps one night he had told her, after too many glasses of stout. It did not matter, Edward was immersed. Natalia climbed back onto the bed with her fist closed over the fy. Its muted buzzing against her skin sounded in Edward’s ear as he pushed her legs apart with his knee.

  Now, the insects in the forest air butted his conscience, the high-pitched whine mirrored the protracted death of the bluebottle in Natalia’s fist.