by Jim Eldridge
‘Oh?’
Where is this heading? wondered Abigail.
‘He has told me about the expedition he plans to take to Egypt next year, with you leading it.’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘It is a great honour, and I only hope I shall be up to the task.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Tussaud. ‘The thing is, as you know, he and I have spent some time together while I’ve been preparing his wax model, and on those occasions this expedition has featured much in his conversation.’ He paused, and they both realised that his hesitancy was because he was unsure of how to continue.
‘If there is anything that Mr Doyle has told you that you feel impacts on my role in the expedition,’ said Abigail, ‘I would be very grateful if you would disclose it to me. I would hate to be tasked with leading the expedition if Mr Doyle has doubts about me.’
‘Heavens, no!’ exclaimed Tussaud. ‘Indeed, the exact opposite is true. No, it’s just that in the conversations he and I have had, I get the feeling that his motives for undertaking this expedition are not from a purely archaeological interest.’
‘Oh?’ questioned Abigail.
‘I’m not sure how much you know of his wife’s health.’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s not a subject that has arisen between us.’
‘Her name is Louise, although he calls her Touie, his affectionate nickname for her. About three years ago she was diagnosed with tuberculosis and she suffers terribly with her lungs. Early last year Mr Doyle moved them to Davos in Switzerland in the hope the air there would offer some relief, and it did. He then heard from a friend of his who had consumption that he’d been cured thanks to the air and the soil in Hindhead in Surrey. Mr Doyle immediately returned to England and bought a plot of land in Hindhead and arranged for a house to be built there, before he returned to the continent to re-join Mrs Doyle, whereupon they headed to Egypt for the winter in the belief that the climate there would help Mrs Doyle’s condition.’
‘Yes, he told us they’d spent most of the past year in Egypt,’ said Abigail.
‘At first the climate seemed to help, but then she found the heat out there too much for her, and so they returned to England. But I know he worries for her. The reason I’m telling you this is because I’ve gained the impression that Mr Doyle’s interest in the pyramids of Egypt is more to do with the restorative powers they are supposed to have. I may be wrong, but I feel that’s his real motive in undertaking this expedition, to try and find out if there is truth in the idea of the life-enhancing properties of the pyramid, and if so that there might be a way of utilising it to improve his wife’s health.’
Abigail nodded thoughtfully, before saying, ‘Thank you for telling me this, Mr Tussaud, and I promise you I will not divulge what you’ve told me to Mr Doyle, nor to anyone else. I’d already come to feel that Mr Doyle’s intention with this expedition stemmed not so much from archaeological interest, but from an interest in the occult religion of the ancient Egyptians.’
‘Of course, I may be completely wrong and may have misinterpreted what Mr Doyle said in casual conversation,’ Tussaud put in hastily.
‘No, I don’t believe you are, Mr Tussaud,’ said Abigail. ‘And I’m grateful for you having told me. It helps me to understand what Mr Doyle’s aim is in this forthcoming quest. It also helps me to think about how I should address it with Mr Doyle.’
‘Without mentioning our conversation, I trust,’ said Tussaud apprehensively.
‘I promise you, Mr Tussaud, that will never come into it. As I said, from things Mr Doyle has said to me I’d already become aware that his interest was more towards the occult rather than the archaeological. That’s what I will use as the basis for any conversation I have with him.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Daniel walked away from the offices of The Whistler in Bethnal Green, annoyed that his visit had been a waste of time. His hope that the staff of The Whistler would be radically minded and eager to dish the dirt on the elite of society had been wrong. In fact they had no political inclinations of any sort; their aim was to dig out sensational stories, the more lurid the better, and suitably exaggerate them to titillate their readership. The aim of the owner of The Whistler was to make money, not to educate the public, or hold the establishment to account. As soon as they realised that he was the same Daniel Wilson who’d been Abberline’s sergeant during the Jack the Ripper investigations, that had been all they’d wanted to talk about, eager for him to name names, especially if they were titled, and particularly to give them suspects with royal family connections. He soon realised that to try to talk to these people about the Nightingale Fund was a waste of time, they weren’t really aware of the existence of the fund, and they didn’t care about it. What they wanted was gore, violence, and illicit sex; that was what sold, as far as they were concerned. The apparent political or social concerns that they espoused were just to give the impression that they were a caring newspaper.
He made his way back to Scotland Yard, relieved that he was no longer persona non grata, and was pleased to find that John Feather was still in his office, now accompanied by Sergeant Cribbens and his infernal-smelling pipe.
‘Daniel.’ Feather smiled. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘I need your help,’ said Daniel.
‘This is your digging into the – er – person of interest we were talking about?’ said Feather. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve filled Sergeant Cribbens in on everything that came up at the meeting, so he knows all about your interest in Caroline Dixon.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said the sergeant with the shake of his head. ‘You read about her in the papers and the good works she’s doing.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But not everybody is what they seem.’ He turned back to Feather. ‘Which is why I’m looking for a radical organisation who oppose the establishment, and especially loathe and despise the rich.’
‘That’s not my department,’ said Feather. ‘You need Special Branch.’
‘But Special Branch are unlikely to talk to me. I’m an outsider. You’re inside Scotland Yard. I know Special Branch are a difficult bunch, but there might be someone you know who’ll talk to you.’
‘There might be, depending on the mood he’s in,’ said Feather. ‘What particularly are you looking for?’
‘Anyone who has an axe to grind over the Nightingale Fund.’
‘You’re going for Caroline Dixon through the money?’
‘I am,’ said Daniel. ‘Which is why I’m looking for some radical outfit who are opposed to the whole capitalist system, the rich in general, and Florence Nightingale in particular.’
‘Well, that’s specific enough.’ Feather grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Sergeant Cribbens puffed at his pipe, his face showing obvious disapproval.
‘I still don’t think it right,’ he said. ‘A good woman like that. If you ask me, we need more like her.’
‘And if you’re right, Sergeant, I shall make amends in some way,’ said Daniel. ‘But right now I’m following the doctrine that Fred Abberline drummed into me: trust no one, suspect everybody.’
Abigail was reading through her diaries of her previous expeditions to ancient Egypt when Daniel arrived home.
‘Preparations for the big trip?’ asked Daniel.
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘Although there might be some doubt about it.’
‘Why?’ asked Daniel. ‘Have you seen Mr Doyle again and he’s expressed doubts?’
‘No. I talked with John Tussaud.’ And she told him about her conversation with Tussaud about Doyle’s wife.
‘So you were right,’ said Daniel. ‘You said you felt that Mr Doyle had his own motive for wanting to mount this expedition, one based on the supernatural. Now we know why. It must be awful for them, her suffering such a dreaded illness in this way, and both of them wondering how long she has. It may not be scientific, but when someone you care for deeply is suffering from something
with no cure, people will turn to anything to find a solution. It’s no different to those who follow Mary Baker Eddy and practise Christian Science, believing that all illnesses can be cured by the power of prayer. Or those stories of voodoo practitioners and other forms of magic.’
‘But the stories about the pyramids having supernatural powers of restoration have no basis in reality,’ said Abigail. ‘If that is why Mr Doyle is going, I feel I need to tell him the truth. He needs to know that he won’t find the answer to his wife’s illness in the pyramids.’
‘You’ll take that hope away from him?’ asked Daniel.
‘It’s a false hope,’ said Abigail. ‘It would be cruel to lead him along that path without being told.’
‘And if he decides as a result to cancel the expedition?’
‘Then so be it,’ said Abigail. ‘I hope he doesn’t, but I couldn’t live with myself if I gained this as a result of not advising him of the reality. It would be wrong of me to encourage his delusion in order to achieve the leadership of the expedition.’
‘Unless there is something to it,’ said Daniel. ‘Many people attest to the power of prayer. And that includes some highly intelligent people: scientists, thinkers. How certain are you that you’re right and they’re wrong?’
‘You sound like Mr Doyle. He told me that he’s a member of the Society for Psychical Research, that he’s attended seances, and seems to hold all manner of supernatural beliefs.’ She looked at Daniel accusingly. ‘I thought you felt the same as I,’ she said, annoyed. ‘I’ve never heard you say anything to suggest you have a religious belief.’
‘I don’t,’ said Daniel. ‘But I’ve learnt that it helps to keep an open mind. After all, who’s to say that a strong belief in something can’t in itself make things happen? There are stories about holy men in India who achieve amazing feats simply by thinking. Levitation. Walking across a pit of burning coals.’
‘And that’s all they are: stories,’ said Abigail dismissively.
‘Can you be so sure?’ asked Daniel.
Abigail regarded him, curious. ‘Are you suggesting I should say nothing to Mr Doyle about my concerns?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘All I’d suggest is that you temper it, give your own view, but don’t destroy any hope he might feel. After all, she might live longer than others for a variety of reasons.’
‘And if he attempts to do something, like perhaps recreate a pyramid at their house in Surrey, and she still dies?’
‘Then he tried. What’s the harm in that?’
Abigail fell silent for a while, before replying, ‘Perhaps you’re right. We all need hope in our lives. I’ll raise it with him, but in a diplomatic fashion.’
Daniel chuckled. ‘You? Diplomatic?’
‘I can be,’ said Abigail indignantly. ‘The difference is I don’t need to be diplomatic with you. With you, I’m honest. Because I love you and I know that you love me, warts and all.’
There was a knock at the door, and Daniel opened it to find John Feather standing there.
‘John,’ he said. ‘I thought there was no need for subterfuge any more.’
‘This isn’t subterfuge, it’s the information you were after from Special Branch.’
‘Special Branch?’ asked Abigail as Feather joined them in their living room.
‘I asked John to enquire about anarchist organisations who might be able to let me have any dirt on Caroline Dixon’s finances.’
‘I thought you were going to ask the people at that rag, The Whistler,’ said Abigail.
‘I went there and it was a waste of time,’ said Daniel. He turned to Feather. ‘So Special Branch turned up trumps?’
‘They keep tabs on all of these radical outfits, however small and mad they might appear, because they’re never sure which one might suddenly start bombing or shooting people. The one they suggest that fits the bill for what you’re looking at is an organisation called the Pure of Heart. Actually, “organisation” might be an exaggeration. I get the impression they’re just a handful of disenchanted radicals who operate out of a room in Whitechapel.’
‘An area I know well from my time with Abberline,’ said Daniel. ‘Thankfully, this time I won’t be confronted with the mutilated bodies of women. Who are the Pure of Heart?’
‘Despite the name, they seem to be a bunch of very angry anarchists. The clincher was that they certainly have no love for the Nightingale Fund. They think the money should go first to the poor and needy. Also, from what my contact inside Special Branch tells me, if they had their way, they’d slaughter the rich and privileged and have their blood running down the gutters of Park Lane.’
‘And yet they’re still free and on the loose?’
‘I gather Special Branch prefer it that way. They can keep an eye on them and people they mix with.’
‘So my visit to them will be reported.’
‘I suppose so. I assume you won’t be using your real name.’
‘No, I shall be Joe Dawkins, a carpenter who has been robbed of his living and his meagre inheritance by the ruling classes.’
‘My contact suggests that if you want to get any dirt from them on the Nightingale Fund, you mention Mary Seacole and compare her favourably to the revered Florence.’
‘Who’s Mary Seacole?’ asked Daniel.
‘She was a nurse in the Crimea at the same time as Nightingale,’ put in Abigail. ‘She’s dead now, she died in 1881. She was originally from Jamaica.’
‘White Jamaican or black?’ asked Daniel.
‘Black,’ said Feather.
‘She must have stood out in the Crimea.’
‘She stood out in many ways,’ said Abigail. ‘By all accounts she was an excellent nurse, but when she applied to the War Office to be included in the second contingent of nurses being sent to the Crimea, following Nightingale and her first lot of nurses, the War Office rejected her. They also rejected her request for financial assistance to travel to the Crimea from Panama, which is where she was then living. So she paid her own passage.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Daniel.
‘Because, as a woman who had to battle to be accepted in a man’s world such as archaeology, I’m always interested to hear of other women who overcame similar obstacles in their own chosen paths. Mary Seacole was a very determined lady and became hugely popular among the soldiers, but there was a noticeable lack of warmth towards her from Nightingale.’
‘Why?’ asked Daniel. ‘Are you suggesting some kind of racist bias from the Florence?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘No, I think it was more about social manners. Seacole came from a very different background to Nightingale, who was the product of an upper class, very English background. The stiff upper lip, that sort of thing. Mary Seacole spent her life in the West Indies and Panama, where attitudes were very different, with much less emphasis on class distinctions. Nightingale was caring but relatively austere, as opposed to Mary Seacole, who was more liberal in her approach to the wounded men. Nightingale insinuated that Seacole drank and acted improperly with the soldiers. Not that there was any evidence ever given to back up the accusations. Seacole herself felt this attitude towards her came about purely because she was black. There have always been elements of racism in the British upper establishment.’
‘So when I talk to the Pure of Heart, it’s Nightingale bad, Seacole good,’ said Daniel.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Feather. He hesitated, then added, ‘But do take care, Daniel. They might appear to be just a bunch of radical idiots, but there are some dangerous elements among them.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Daniel assured him.
After Feather had left, Abigail looked at Daniel with concern. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right with these people? The Pure of Heart? From what John said, they sound like they could be dangerous.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Daniel reassured her. ‘What are your plans while I’m digging for dirt among the revo
lutionaries of Whitechapel?’
‘I thought I’d seek out Mr Doyle.’
‘About his wife’s illness?’
‘I can’t say anything about that because I promised John Tussaud I wouldn’t. But I thought I’d try and say something indirectly. I’ll tell him, from my own experience of the pyramids, that there is no truth in the idea that a pyramid can actually restore the dead back to life. Without actually saying so, I’ll let him know that a pyramid, along with the whole business of Egyptian religions about raising the dead and healing the sick is not a real option.’
‘And if he decides to abandon the expedition as a result?’
‘As I said, so be it. But he’s too decent a person, with too good a heart, to be taken advantage of, which I’d be guilty of if I didn’t make that clear to him.’
Daniel pulled her close to him and kissed her.
‘You are the best person I’ve ever known, Abigail,’ he said. ‘You talk about Doyle having a good heart. No one has a better heart than you.’
‘You do,’ she countered.
He shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I wish I had, but there’s too much of the policeman in me. It keeps me austere. You’re Mary Seacole, and I’m Florence Nightingale.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
John Feather sat in a luxurious leather armchair in the bar of the private Burlington Club. He always felt slightly awed and intimidated in surroundings such as these, the dark oak woodwork of the walls, the waiters who moved silently about serving drinks, collecting empty glasses and ashtrays. His companion, Hector Bullard, a writer on the Financial Times, held his glass of whisky aloft to Feather in a toast. Feather responded by raising his own glass and taking a sip.
‘This place is better for any meeting than the members’ room,’ said Bullard. ‘In there is a rule of absolute silence, which has to be maintained. Even rustling the pages of a newspaper is received by disapproving frowns.’ He looked at Feather enquiringly. ‘Walter said you needed some advice on financial dealings, but not your own.’