by Emily Organ
“You and your men are quite at liberty to examine everything we have here. You may explore our records and visit the dissecting room if you so wish. We have nothing to hide, and my only regret is that I ever trusted Mr Hicks. That is also my greatest crime.”
I thought of Connolly and Sawyer, and how their supposed deaths from heart failure could actually have been a product of poisoning.
“If someone had died of poisoning and been sold to your medical school,” I asked Dr Macpherson, “would the cause of death be obvious when the body was dissected?”
“It would depend on what the poison was, Miss Green,” he replied. “Some poisons leave more of a trace than others. On the whole, however, I would say that signs of poisoning would not be strikingly obvious to our students. Most of the cadavers are dismembered quite soon after being admitted here, and the students tend to concentrate their study on particular body parts.”
“So it’s possible that a victim of poisoning could go undetected in a school of dissection?”
“I sincerely hope that a victim of poisoning would not find its way here, and would instead be subject to a thorough inquest, including a post-mortem!”
“But if it did,” I ventured. “The cause of death wouldn’t necessarily be noticed, would it?”
“It might not be, but this is becoming rather a hypothetical conversation.”
“Not necessarily,” I replied. “I can think of two men who may have been poisoned whose bodies were sold for dissection.”
“Well that is dreadful indeed! I sincerely hope that the men behind this vile act will soon be caught. Do you have proof that this has happened?”
“Not yet,” replied James. “It’s a theory we’re working on at present. Have you ever visited Shoreditch Workhouse?”
“Oh yes, a number of times.”
“May I ask why?”
The doctor gave a sigh. “For the same reason that I visit all workhouses. We have to do what we can to acquire cadavers for the medical school. I’m only too aware that the Shoreditch Union chooses not to sell unclaimed bodies and to bury them instead. I’ll freely admit that I have visited on one or two occasions and politely requested that the policy be reviewed, but the poor law guardians are quite steadfast and I respect their decision. Please rest assured, Inspector, that all of my work is carried out to the letter of the law.”
Chapter 43
“We’re within the jurisdiction of the City of London police here,” said James as we left the medical school. “I need to call in at Old Jewry to request their help in examining the records at the medical school and in ascertaining whether Dr Macpherson has committed any wrongdoing.”
“Do you think that he has?”
“I struggle to believe that he had no idea Mr Hicks was up to no good. Just a quick glance at that undertaker suggests that he is capable of criminal behaviour, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I prefer not to judge whether someone is a criminal or not based on their appearance,” I said with a smile.
James laughed. “How worthy of you, Penny! As do I, as a rule. A police officer cannot be too quick to judge or make up his mind about someone. However, Dr Macpherson is an intelligent man, and I think his proclaimed innocence has more to do with turning a blind eye than anything else. Your impression, when you first spoke to him, Penny, was that he was quite desperate to source unclaimed corpses, was it not?”
“Yes. It seems as though all the medical schools are.”
“Before I go to Old Jewry, then, I should like to take a quick detour.”
We walked north through the hospital grounds, sheltering from the sleet beneath James’ umbrella. We passed Smithfield market and then turned right into the pleasant green of Charterhouse Square, beyond which lay the Tudor Charterhouse buildings with their pointed gables and mullioned windows. Once a medieval priory, the site was now home to a school.
Once we had crossed Goswell Road, however, we found ourselves in a very different place from the peaceful cloisters of Charterhouse. Tall, narrow buildings cast their shadows over a maze of narrow streets, where a layer of white sleet was quickly turning a dirty brown. The sound of hammers and saws from the workshops joined the cacophony of shouts from street traders and dirty-faced children, all of whom were keen to encourage passers-by to part with their precious coins.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said James. “Have you received any more of those books wrapped in newspaper?”
“Thankfully, not since the Guide to the Profession of Writing was delivered to the office. I think Mr Lennox must have been behind it, as I don’t think I’ve received one since he ran off to Wales.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Yes. I think the sender must have other things to worry about now.”
“Let’s hope so.”
We stopped at a lodging house that was advertising a night’s stay for a mere sixpence. Inside, a rough-faced woman greeted us with a puff of tobacco smoke from behind her desk.
James introduced himself, then said, “If one of your lodgers were to pass away while staying here, what would you do?”
“I’d get the boy to fetch sawbones.”
“The doctor?”
“Yeah. But if it’s a murder I’d send the boy ter the p’lice.”
“And a natural death?”
“Sawbones’d deal with it an’ tell the coroner as ’e sees fit.”
“And if the body remains unclaimed? Say, for example, that the unfortunate individual has no friends or family. What happens then?”
“The coroner’d see to it.”
“Have you ever been visited by Dr Macpherson of St Bartholomew’s Medical School?”
“Oh yeah, we gets ’im in ’ere.”
“And what is the purpose of his visits?”
“’E’s always after the bodies, but I tells ’im the coroner’s seein’ to it.”
“Has Dr Macpherson ever removed any bodies from this lodging house?”
She narrowed her eyes, puffed out another cloud of smoke, then lowered her voice. “A few of ’em, yeah.”
“Recently?”
“Nope, not recent. ’E’s allowed to, though, ain’t ’e?”
“If the body is unclaimed he has some permissions, yes. Has he ever given you any money in return for the bodies?”
“Jus’ summink for me trouble. It’s a lotta trouble when someone’s gone an’ died. I gotta get ’em moved an’ then fetch sawbones.”
“How much does Dr Macpherson give you?”
“Just nuff for the trouble, as I says, Hinspector. But I know as some people make harrangements direct.”
“With Dr Macpherson?”
“Yeah, or the undertaker. They gets sixpence. If a family can’t get no poor relief they sells ’emselves. Some of ’em don’t mind it. I’ve knowed some women as would sell littluns.”
“Really?” I was sickened by this thought. “Their babies?”
“They ain’t got no poor relief.”
I took a deep, smoke-filled breath and was unable to focus on the remainder of James’ conversation with the lodging house owner. Instead, I dwelled on the desperation of a destitute mother who might be forced to sell her deceased child to a school of dissection because she had no money for a funeral.
“Are you all right, Penny?” James asked once we had stepped back out onto the street.
“No,” I replied. My throat felt tight and tears were spilling out of my eyes.
“Here.” He pressed a clean handkerchief into my hand.
I removed my glasses and wiped my face, but the tears kept coming.
“Sixpence.” My voice cracked. “They get sixpence! And what does that give them? A night’s stay in a miserable lodging house. And yet a medical school will pay an undertaker or workhouse up to twelve pounds for a young woman or child! A child, James! Or even a baby!”
He put his arm around my shoulders until my sobs began to subside.
“I’m sorry I bro
ught you here,” he said. “I should have thought better of it.”
“Don’t apologise,” I snapped. “I need to be aware of these things.”
“I’m not sure you do, Penny.”
“I’m a reporter! I need to understand what happens and why.”
“Only to a certain extent.”
“I shall be fine; it was just a shock.”
I thought of the rough-faced woman and how calmly she had informed us about the people who sold themselves and their children directly to the medical school. She had clearly experienced enough hardship in life to be unfazed by such things.
“Perhaps you need to work on something else for a day or two, Penny. Investigations like this can take their toll after a while.”
“We need to find out who is behind all this, James.”
“We do indeed.”
“So I can’t stop working on it. Not now that I’ve put so much effort in already. I should still like to go back and examine the records at the workhouse.”
“How about you do that tomorrow? This case is not an easy one, Penny. Surely you’d like a bit of time to work on something different. Perhaps Mr Sherman has tasked you with something suitably superficial for the ladies’ column this week?”
I finished drying my eyes. “He has, actually.”
“Then work on that for now. I shall remain here for a little while longer and make some more enquires before speaking to the City of London police at Old Jewry. Would you like me to hail you a cab?”
“No, I shall walk to the office. It’ll only take me fifteen minutes from here.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right Penny?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be fine.”
“Take my umbrella with you.”
“Thank you, James.”
Writing about the stage costumes of actress and socialite Lillie Langtry for the ladies’ column that afternoon proved to be a welcome distraction. As I described a white velvet ball dress with large gold leaves on the skirt teamed with a pale pink bodice and train, I pictured what I might look like in such a garment. Then I pictured how James’ face would look if he saw me wearing such a dress, and I smiled.
“Are you all right over there, Miss Green?” asked Edgar.
“I’m fine thank you, Edgar. Did you know that Lillie Langtry has a green velvet dress trimmed with Impeyan pheasant feathers?”
“That would make me sneeze terribly,” he replied. “If Mrs Fish decided to wear a gown like that, our evening would be ruined.”
“All because of a few feathers?” said Frederick.
“Yes, just one is enough. Mrs Fish has a hat with an ostrich feather in that has to be kept in a hatbox in the attic. If I get even just a sniff of it, I’m finished.”
Frederick laughed. “You clearly need to be made of stronger stuff.”
“Feathers are my only weakness.”
“Are you sure about that, Fish?” queried Mr Sherman, who had just marched into the newsroom. “What about your weakness when it comes to failing to complete articles by deadline? Your article on the school board budget was due in five minutes ago.”
“I have it right here for you, sir.”
“Five minutes late!”
“It was ready on time.”
“Then why didn’t you hand it to me on time?”
“Miss Green distracted me, sir, with her talk of feathers.”
“Then there is another weakness of yours, Fish. You’re easily distracted.” Mr Sherman turned to face me and dropped something onto my desk, “A telegram has arrived for you, Miss Green.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The telegram was only brief:
I have news. Please visit me tomorrow at St Monica’s.
Father Keane
Chapter 44
I arrived at St Monica’s shortly after eight o’clock the following morning. Inside, the nun with the owl-like eyes was tending to the altar beneath the rose window.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid he’s been taken ill,” she replied earnestly when I asked for Father Keane.
“When?”
“Last night.”
I pulled the telegram out of my carpet bag. “He sent me this at about half-past four yesterday afternoon. He must have been taken ill after that.”
“Yes, he was at the workhouse for much of the day yesterday and was due to lead mass at seven o’clock yesterday evening. We began to worry, of course, when he didn’t arrive back in time, and then we had a nurse from the infirmary visit to tell us that he had been taken ill.”
“Which infirmary?”
“The one at the workhouse.”
“He was taken ill at the workhouse?”
“No, it was after he left. Father O’Callaghan knows more because he went with the nurse to see Father Keane at the infirmary. I understand he was on his way here from the workhouse when he was taken ill in the street. He was clearly well enough to send you the telegram. I imagine he must have done that from the telegraph office on Hoxton Street, which would have been on his way back here from the workhouse. He was found collapsed outside the Bacchus public house at about five o’clock.”
I considered this. “So he sent this telegram to me about half-past four, presumably on his route here from the workhouse. I cannot understand why he should suddenly be so ill.” I felt a sense of alarm begin to rise. “I shall go and visit him now. Thank you, Sister.”
“Tell him I am praying for him,” she said in reply.
It was a brisk ten-minute walk along Hoxton Street to the workhouse. Shopkeepers were setting out their stalls for the day, and the pavement outside the Britannia Theatre was being swept clean following the previous night’s performance.
I passed the Bacchus public house where poor Father Keane had been found, and about a minute’s walk beyond it was the telegraph office from which the priest had no doubt sent his telegram the previous day.
Father Keane’s sudden illness sounded extremely suspicious, and my worst fear was that he had been poisoned. The more I considered it, the more likely it seemed. He had clearly happened upon something important because his telegram had told me he had news. Was it news that someone wished to keep covered up?
My heart thudded from the exertion of striding along the street, but also from a serious concern that Father Keane had been fatally harmed. Had I put him in danger by enlisting his help? I feared that I had.
I hurried on to the workhouse entrance and explained to the warden that I needed to visit a patient in the infirmary as a matter of urgency. When his face suggested that he was about to deny me permission I showed him the telegram from Father Keane and impressed upon him the fact that I knew Dr Kemp well.
The warden gave a low sigh. “You’ll have to obtain express permission from Dr Kemp before entering the infirmary. We can’t just let anyone wander in from the street.”
“I realise that,” I replied. I continued to explain why I was there, making sure to mention the names of James and Inspector Ferguson, and how I had been reporting on the recent scandal at the workhouse.
The warden soon became bored enough to admit me without any further trouble.
I found the senior nurse, Miss Turner, outside the medical officer’s office in the infirmary.
“Father Keane,” I said breathlessly. “How is he? He sent me a telegram.”
I was in no way reassured by her concerned expression. She stared at me as if she wasn’t sure how to answer, then glanced around her as if looking for someone else who could help.
“He is here, isn’t he?” I continued. “I was told he had been taken unwell yesterday evening. He was found by the Bacchus on Hoxton Street. Do you know who found him?”
Footsteps behind me announced the arrival of Dr Kemp. I turned around, but the relief I felt on seeing him was immediately tempered by his sombre expression.
“You bring bad news about Father Keane, Doctor?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. He passed away about two hours ago.”
> My eyes sank to the floor.
“Miss Green?” I heard someone speaking my name, but the voice sounded far away. “Miss Green?”
I felt a hand on my arm, and I was led into the office, where Dr Kemp seated me on a chair.
“Miss Green,” he said again, crouching beside me so that his face was in view. “Are you all right?” I caught my breath and shook myself, as if trying to shrug off the news I had just been given.
“How did he die?” I asked. “He sent me this telegram yesterday afternoon.” The piece of paper was quite crumpled in my hand. “I think someone may have harmed him. He found out something and someone has done something to him.”
“I think you’re right,” replied Dr Kemp sadly. “I think he displayed signs of poisoning before he died.”
“So you agree? Then we need to find this person urgently! Did Father Keane tell you what he had found out?”
The doctor shook his head. “He was quite insensible by the time he reached the infirmary.”
“What were his symptoms?” I asked. “Do you think it might have been the aconitine?”
“He was struggling to breathe when he was brought in, and he was vomiting, which reflects the body’s need to purge itself from the poison. I cannot expressly say at this moment that it was aconitine poisoning, but I have no doubt that it was poisoning of some sort.”
“It must have been the aconitine,” I said. “It’s still missing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Father Keane had agreed to help us find it, and I wonder now if he had done so, because his telegram told me he had news.”
“Inspector Ferguson and his men are already investigating his death,” replied the doctor. “And a post-mortem will no doubt be carried out, which will give us the answers we need.”