by George Mann
“So, as you were saying,” said Petunia.
“I wasn’t saying anything,” protested Amelia.
“Well, at least tell me a little about this man you have squirreled away. Nobody’s seen him yet. A knight of the realm, I hear? You’re keeping him locked up so no one else can get to him, is that it? It’s terribly unkind of you.” Petunia placed the tip of her cigarette holder between her lips and took another long, deep draw. “Although I can’t say I blame you,” she added, smoke pluming from her nostrils.
“It’s not like that at all,” said Amelia, embarrassed.
“I understand he’s terribly dashing.”
“Where did you hear that?” said Amelia.
“Oh, you know, from the girls.” Petunia waved her cigarette around theatrically, taking in the entire carriage. “I understand he caused quite a stir at the Gare du Nord.” She pronounced the last three words with an impeccable French accent. Inwardly, Amelia groaned. “And what about all of this business with the guards being called to your cabin?”
Amelia was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Her cheeks were now burning. Was this really what people on the train were discussing? How did people know about that? She supposed the guards must have been gossiping. She couldn’t blame them, really. She had given them quite a show.
Petunia laughed. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, reaching across the table and patting Amelia’s hand, in what Amelia supposed was intended as a reassuring gesture. “I quite understand. If I had a man like that, I’d want to keep him hidden away from all of these excitable ladies, too.”
Amelia sighed, relaxing a little. “It’s not that,” she said. “More that he’s a trifle unwell, and he’s using the journey to recuperate.”
“Ah, now that I can understand. My husband, Julian—he’s a sickly sort, too.”
“I hope he’s recovering well,” said Amelia.
Petunia smiled and nodded, but for a moment there was a flash of something in her eyes, a momentary look that told a different story. Perhaps, Amelia considered, her husband was more seriously ill than she was letting on. She decided against prying; the woman would volunteer the information if she wanted to.
“Well, look at the two of us. Leaving our men to their own devices and getting on with things.” Petunia stubbed the end of her cigarette in the ashtray as she spoke, and Amelia felt a wash of relief. “Still, it offers us an excellent opportunity to gossip, does it not?”
“I suppose it does,” said Amelia, “but as I explained, I have very little to gossip about.”
Petunia gave her a sly look. She placed both of her hands on the table, palms down, and leaned closer. “Surely you must have noticed there’s something going on?”
Amelia swallowed. Her throat was dry. “Whatever do you mean?” she said.
“Things aren’t quite right on this train. People are sneaking about. The guards are whispering to one another in the passageways.” She grinned conspiratorially. “There’s something in the air. Can’t you feel it?”
Amelia shrugged. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said, affecting her best air of nonchalance. “What is it that you suppose is going on?”
Petunia was about to respond when the waiter arrived with their consommé. She paused until he was once again out of earshot. “I believe the staff know something that we do not,” she said. “Things aren’t quite adding up. They look nervous. We missed our last scheduled stop.”
“We did?”
“Yes. Sailed on straight through. No explanation.” Petunia picked up her spoon.
“Might it just be that there were no passengers intending to alight or join the train there?” said Amelia.
“No,” said Petunia. “This isn’t one of those provincial little railways we get in England. A scheduled stop is a scheduled stop. They’ll have been planning to exchange mailbags and refuel. Mark my words—either there’s a scandal brewing, or an important passenger who hasn’t been announced.”
Amelia smiled indulgently. These were just the wild imaginings of a woman who’d spent too long reading the gutter press, or gossiping in the tearooms of London. She took a mouthful of her consommé. “Surely if that were the case, they’d warn us?” she said. “If we were in any danger whatsoever, wouldn’t they want us to know, to prepare us?”
“Not if they thought they could contain it,” said Petunia, “or they were considering their reputation. It wouldn’t look good for them, a blot on their record. Heaven forbid they had to issue refunds. This is the finest transcontinental engine there is, patronised by the wealthy elite of Europe. Reputation is everything.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Amelia. She eyed Petunia over the top of her spoon. “So how have you heard all of this?”
“My husband and I are in the first carriage,” said Petunia, as if this explained everything.
“The first carriage, indeed?” said Amelia. She’d noticed this when she had boarded the train in Paris, and had assumed the rather grandiose-looking suite on the other side of the dining car would be reserved for royalty or travelling dignitaries. Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure that Petunia and her husband were not.
“Is it terribly impressive?” said Amelia.
Petunia laughed, perhaps a little unkindly. “It cost an arm and a leg,” she said, “but then, you only make trips like this once in a lifetime. You must come and visit us for tea, so you can see it for yourself.”
“I’d like that very mu—” started Amelia, but stopped short when she saw the startled expression on Petunia’s face. She sensed a quiet murmur ripple through the other diners as they set their cutlery down and all turned to look toward the carriage door.
“Here you are, you see,” whispered Petunia. “I knew there was trouble brewing.”
With a mounting sense of trepidation, Amelia twisted around in her seat.
A small woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, had stumbled into the dining car. She looked stricken, like a pale ghost, one hand held over her mouth, the other bunched into a tight fist by her side. Her eyes were wide and glistened with tears. Her dark hair, which had previously been tied back from her face, had begun to come loose, falling in strands around her shoulders. She looked pleadingly from face to face, as if searching for someone.
“Florence?” A young man from two tables away got slowly to his feet, his brow creased in concern. “Are you quite well?”
The woman gave a stifled sob when she saw him, and he rushed to her as she collapsed into his arms.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Whatever’s wrong?”
“Blood,” said the woman. “I saw blood.”
There was another murmur throughout the carriage as the possible implications of this registered.
“Blood, you say?” said the young man levelly.
The woman, Florence, gave a short, sharp nod. “In our carriage. It was pooling under the door of our neighbour’s cabin. There were guards, and talk of murder.…” At this she burst into fitful sobs, burying her face in the young man’s arm.
Amelia’s mind was whirling. A murder. Pooling blood. Might this be related to the body she and Newbury had found dumped in their rooms? Or could it be a second, related death, enacted by the same killer? She had to get back to Newbury and tell him immediately. If this was related to the Cabal, then he had to intervene before anyone else was killed.
She turned back to Petunia, who was staring at her, agog. “A murder!” Petunia said. “How thrilling.”
“I fear there’s very little thrilling about it,” said Amelia, testily. “What about the poor victim?”
“Who’s to say they didn’t deserve it?” said Petunia.
“I don’t believe anyone deserves that,” said Amelia. She retrieved her napkin from her lap, dabbed the corners of her mouth with it, and stood. “Excuse me.”
“Where are you off to?” said Petunia. “Don’t tell me you’re running away just as things are starting to get interesting?”
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“I must talk to Sir Maurice,” said Amelia. “Make him aware of what has occurred.”
Petunia leapt to her feet, almost spilling the remains of her consommé over the table. She grabbed Amelia’s arm. “In that case, I’m coming with you. We can explain it together. Besides, I’m eager to meet this secretive man of yours.”
Amelia sighed. She could see that Petunia was not to be dissuaded, and she wasn’t prepared to expend any more energy fighting the woman off. She seemed harmless enough, although Amelia was already beginning to find her overbearing attitude a little wearing. Newbury wouldn’t be pleased, either. Still, she didn’t want to delay getting word to him.
“Come along, then,” she said, resignedly. “This way.”
CHAPTER
15
“God, I detest this place,” muttered Bainbridge. “I’ve never been able to understand how human beings can tolerate living in such squalor.”
“I don’t suppose they have a great deal of choice,” said Veronica, attempting to rein in her exasperation.
After quitting Madam Gloria’s insalubrious establishment, they’d come directly to the rookery of St. Giles, a foetid, labyrinthine warren of slums, close to the heart of London. Here, deprivation was simply a way of life; two, sometimes three families living on top of one another in the same room, children quite literally dressed in nothing but threads. No running water, no sewers. It was demoralising, to say the least, to see people living like rats—a debasement of all that was human and civilised. Veronica knew that these people had no other option, of course. This is what they were born into, without the means of escape—no money, no jobs, no purpose. Her disgust was not with the people themselves, but with those in government who should allow such a place to exist.
“I understood there was a program to clear these streets,” said Veronica, as they walked along side by side, avoiding the filthy puddles. “To move these poor people into more sanitary facilities.”
The streets here were narrow, a maze of soot-blackened houses. The stench was near overwhelming, causing Veronica to hack and splutter. But what else were people to do but empty their chamber pots into the street and hope the rainwater would carry it away? She cringed at the sight of a dead cat lying in the gutter a few feet from her. Its fur was matted and wet; its body mangy. It had probably died from eating rancid scraps, or worse. Now its carcass would continue to feed the cycle of death and decay.
“It takes time, Miss Hobbes,” said Bainbridge, “to deconstruct a place such as this. I know that work has begun, but I wish they’d get a damn move on. The city is hard enough to police as it is, without warrens like this. Once we lose the trail of someone in one of these streets, we’re done for. The place shuts up, closes ranks. Here, they look after their own.”
Veronica raised her umbrella a little, and glanced from side to side at the dilapidated houses. People of all ages crowded in doorways, or peered suspiciously from behind broken windowpanes, watching them, sometimes nervously, sometimes with outright aggression, as they traipsed along in search of the address they’d taken from the nurse’s pocket.
“You really expect us to find a hospital in a place like this?” said Veronica. It seemed to her like the last place one would expect to look.
“I admit to having my doubts,” said Bainbridge. “Although I’m not altogether dissuaded. I’ve seen such things before—charitable projects, missionaries, that sort of thing.” His voice was tinted with scepticism. “You know, someone trying to do their civic duty.”
“Surely that’s laudable,” said Veronica. “Think of the difference it could make to these people.”
Bainbridge sighed. “I used to think like you, Miss Hobbes, but perhaps, to my discredit, I’ve grown too weary and cynical in my old age. A single hospital—it couldn’t make a difference to a place like this. These people need more than a two-bit doctor operating in his spare time. They need hope, and reform.”
“And who’s going to offer them that?” said Veronica.
“Precisely,” said Bainbridge. “Someone needs to ring the bells of change. I have a notion that time is coming. Ah, here we are.” He raised his cane, indicating a filthy street sign on the corner of a nearby building. “Percy Street. That’s what it said on the slip, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Veronica. She retrieved the note from her jacket pocket and unfolded it, smoothing it out. “Percy Street, that’s right.”
“Come along then,” said Bainbridge. “Let’s get this over with.” He started down the narrow lane. Veronica hastily stuffed the slip of paper back into her pocket, hoisted her umbrella, and followed after him.
Here, in similar fashion to the surrounding streets, the houses were arranged in narrow terraces, although the brick shells had now been complemented by ramshackle wooden outbuildings and lean-tos, in an effort to create more shelter.
Veronica and Bainbridge picked their way through the detritus. She was beginning to think they’d made a terrible mistake; that their efforts amounted to nothing but a wild-goose chase—when Bainbridge called to her from a few yards ahead. “Here, this looks like the place.”
Veronica wandered over to join him. At the far end of the lane was a civic building that had once, she surmised, been a community hall or theatre. It had originally been grand, but time hadn’t been kind, and now it was as dilapidated as the rest of the rookery, its windows streaked with brown grime, its brickwork filthy and stained.
There was no sign above the peeling door, but Bainbridge was right—it had to be the place. It was the only building large enough on Percy Street to house the sort of establishment they were looking for. Although, judging by the look of the place, Veronica didn’t hold out much hope. She’d seen plenty of hospitals in her time; this did not look like one of them.
“It looks rather abandoned,” she said. “Perhaps your philanthropist has given up.”
“Perhaps,” said Bainbridge. He crossed the street and tried the door. It was locked. He rapped loudly three times with his cane. “Hello?”
There was no sound or movement, other than a startled pigeon, fluttering away from an upper-storey window ledge. He rapped again. “Hello? I say, is there anybody there?”
The moment stretched. Still no answer. “Well, I suppose that’s that, then,” said Veronica morosely. The trail, it seemed, had grown cold again. She wanted nothing more now than to return home for a soak in a hot bath.
“I’ll be damned,” said Bainbridge. He took a step back from the door, turned his body slightly, and launched himself forward, ramming it with his shoulder. The rotten wood gave almost instantly, and the door burst open, swinging back on its hinges and overturning something on the other side, which clattered noisily to the floor.
“Right then,” he said, dusting flecks of peeling paint from his jacket. “After you?”
“How kind,” said Veronica, with the sweetest of sarcastic smiles.
Inside, it was clear the building had seen recent use. There were signs of industry in the reception hall—heaps of paper files and empty teacups littered the oak desk, and a trolley bearing medical implements and kidney bowls had been abandoned in a doorway. The immediate impression was that whomever had recently occupied the place had simply upped and left, leaving everything just lying in situ.
“Looks like the right place, then,” said Bainbridge, indicating the trolley.
“It’s a miserable sort of hospital,” said Veronica. “I can’t say I’d want to be treated here.” It had clearly never been an affluent establishment. The filthy windows allowed only a thin, watery light to filter in from outside. There was a thick reek of effluvia, but additionally, the hint of something sweet and floral, like perfume. To Veronica, who had grown accustomed to the interiors of sanatoriums, hospitals, and morgues, it seemed oddly out of place. Veronica wondered what sort of treatments they’d been carrying out here.
“Hello?” called Bainbridge again. “Is there anybody here?” His voice echoed through the dark, tiled
corridors, but provoked no response. He crossed to the desk on the other side of the lobby. Veronica watched him rifling through papers. “Patient records,” he said, holding aloft a sheaf of files. “Some light reading for later this evening. But where the hell is everybody?”
“Something’s very wrong,” said Veronica. “It’s as if everyone was in a hurry to go. Can you feel it?”
Bainbridge nodded. “Yes. I most certainly can. The hairs on the nape of my neck are standing on end. You know I don’t go in for all that mumbo-jumbo that Newbury’s so fond of, but something here feels out of sorts.” He placed the files back on the desk. “Keep your wits about you, Miss Hobbes.”
“We’d best take a look around,” she said.
Bainbridge nodded. “But let’s stick together for once, eh?”
“Very well,” Veronica didn’t require much encouragement. “We should check the wards. I’d wager they’re over here.” She indicated the set of heavy wooden doors to the left of the reception desk.
The floral perfume she’d noted was even more potent on the other side of the doors, which opened into a small ward, lined with empty beds. Again, it was clear that they had not been abandoned for long; they were neatly made, with clean white linen, the corners folded down as if ready to receive incoming patients. The porcelain tiles that covered the floor and ceiling had been washed down with disinfectant. Further trolleys topped with kidney bowls, bottles, bandages, and scalpels stood at the ready. At the far end, another set of double doors led on to what Veronica supposed would be a second ward.
“Do you suppose they encountered financial difficulties?” she said, glancing at Bainbridge. “They couldn’t keep up the rent, perhaps?”
“A possibility,” said Bainbridge, with a shrug. “I can’t imagine they were frequented by many patients with the means to pay. Perhaps we should find the offices, see if there’s any other paperwork that might give us a clue.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Veronica. “Allow me to just check through here.” She approached the other set of double doors and pushed one of them open, then recoiled in horror, stumbling back and almost falling over a nearby bedstead.