A Murderous Malady

by Christine Trent

  I saw that this was another way to make inroads with Mr. Davies. “Could you remind me of what happened there?”

  Another laugh without a hint of mirth in it. “Women never understand war. And well they don’t. It is an unspeakable horror.”

  I stiffened. “Sir, I can assure you that I have witnessed my share of blood, pus, and misery.”

  That elicited a genuine laugh from Davies. “You’ve seen nothing, and I wouldn’t wish it upon the worst criminal, much less a lady such as yourself. But if you wish to know it so badly, I’ll tell you, though how the knowledge can be of any use other than to give you night terrors, I know not.”

  I braced myself, and Mary sat poised over the notebook that lay open on the table.

  “I was still in Wales when the agitation began in ’37. Nearly twenty years ago, if you can believe it. To put it as simply as possible, the result of gamesmanship between Great Britain and Russia was the war.”

  That sounded unsettlingly familiar.

  “A special mission in the East is what Russia considers herself to have, to conquer much of Asia; mostly Central Asia and China. Great Britain interprets this as including British interests in India.

  “Don’t misunderstand. The Russians don’t like Great Britain and its liberal democracy, but only to the extent that they find us strange, not that they seek an invasion of British colonies.”

  I stopped his story. “You seem well versed in the Russian mind-set. How is this so? Were you an officer in the Army? Have you political experience?”

  “Shush your noise,” he said drily. “I was one of countless, nameless privates whose meager pay could let me live like royalty in a place like Afghanistan. So even if I was interested in studying war strategies and tactics, it was in my own best interest to keep my learning to myself.

  “Now, I’m sure you are well aware of Great Britain’s far-reaching influence across the world.”

  “Of course,” I said. Every schoolchild knew the British Empire was the most impressive the world had ever seen, encompassing such far-flung places as Australia, Canada, and India; and she continued spreading her influence.

  America had been a terrible loss in the previous century, but perhaps we were better off as friends with them. They were now struggling violently with the ugly issue of slavery, and why should Great Britain have to spend treasure to help them untangle themselves from it?

  “And the East India Company manages the jewel in the crown—India,” he said. “With the encouragement of the half-wits in Parliament, the Company concluded that Russia was attempting an incursion into the Crimea, and that Afghanistan’s emir was welcoming Russian influence.

  “The Company tried to replace him with an old ruler that had been deposed because he was so terrible. Sit well with the Afghans it did not. Imagine if someone wanted to replace our queen with, I don’t know, Napoleon Bonaparte. There was rebellion, but we crushed them, and the emir was sent into exile. They set up the old ruler in his place, but believe me when I say the Afghan tribes are wild and vicious and were not about to put up with an imposed leader. Particularly one who took orders from a foreign power.”

  Davies rose and returned to his spot behind the bar. Mary and I dutifully followed. Davies continued his story. “Constant insurrections there were. A spark here, a little flame there, and soon we were trying to put out multiple conflagrations of pure hatred and defiance. The Company seemed helpless to stop it. We were eventually contained in a swampy garrison northeast of Kabul. Apparently Major-General Elphinstone could find no better quarters for over sixteen thousand people, which included twelve thousand camp followers. And he compounded the problem by positioning supplies in a fort over three hundred yards away. A scrut, the man was.

  “Living in a swamp is fine for soldiers, but for women and children? But what was to be expected by a tired old man who was bedridden with gout and rheumatism?”

  Davies removed a box from behind the counter. He opened it to reveal a small treasure trove of coins. He began counting them as he spoke. “By late 1841, the Company realized that the tribesmen had grown very powerful and determined. Time for us to leave the capital city it was, and Elphinstone decided to lead us out en masse. The Afghan tribes had promised safe passage.”

  Davies finished the count. He appeared to be writing it down on something and did not speak for several moments, as if stalling while he decided what to say next.

  “Surely they did not attempt to stop you from leaving since they wanted you gone so badly?” I asked.

  “Stop us? That sounds so … mild … compared to what happened. No, no, stopping was not what happened. In January 1842 did we begin our march and had to help women and youngsters make their way through snowbound mountain passes. We didn’t have enough tents, or blankets, or food for the trip, and frequently had to scrape a place in the snow and lie down hungry in the intense wind and cold.”

  Davies shook his head at the abominable memory. “No more than a few miles per day could we make, and the constant ambushes by the Afghans we had to repel, despite the promise of safe conduct. In one instance we were in such close contact with our attackers that there was no time to load weapons and we fought solely with bayonets. That’s how this happened.” He touched his bandaged ear.

  “We eventually came to the Khurd-Kabul Pass. It was five miles long and so narrow and shut in on either side that the sun could barely penetrate through the gloomy cavern through which we traipsed. It was there that …”

  He stopped, and I realized that my heart was pounding so erratically I could feel it in my throat, dreading what he was to say next.

  Finally, Davies resumed in a resigned tone. “Once we were essentially trapped in the pass, the real attack occurred. They spared almost no one. Any breathing British or Indian man, woman, or child was worth murdering to them. Many were injured and left to freeze to death in the pass. A few of the women and children were scooped up to be made part of the tribal families. Some of the Indians managed to escape by offering to be sold into slavery. At least there was a blizzard that night to cover up the mangled bodies that we had been unable to protect.

  “About a hundred of us made it through the pass and then through the thirty miles of treacherous gorges and passes lying along the Kabul River afterward. Down to about twenty working muskets, a little bit of ammunition, and some bayonet knives we were. Ironically, with most of the women and children gone, we were free to more effectively fight, but we hadn’t eaten properly in weeks and had very little constitution to fight with.”

  Mary’s pencil scratched along the pages of her notebook on top of the bar counter. I suspected she was as riveted by his story as I was. So many people killed in such a fruitless effort.

  But was this not a story played out year after year for millennia? Even the ancients were known to have gone marching across deserts and mountains to engage in bloody battle, with no more reward than a mass grave full of rotting corpses.

  “Some of us had also lost limbs to frostbite at this point and were unable to wield a gun properly anyway.” He held up his left hand and waggled his remaining fingers. “A rumor started that we were to be captured as hostages, as the goat herders figured the East India Company would pay good ransoms for our freedom. Addled as he was, Elphinstone was ready to believe that after all that slaughter, they had changed their minds and now just wanted a tribute payment.” Davies shook his head.

  “So you dropped your weapons?” I guessed. “And they attacked you anyway?”

  “Not hardly,” Davies replied. “A scrut Elphinstone may have been, but the rest of us were not. Those who could still manage weapons held on to them tightly. I was at least able to swing mine around by the barrel and use it as a club. They attempted to slaughter the remainder of us, but we held strong. There was a Captain Shelton who was so fierce a fighter, who personally cut down so many Afghans, that by the end of the day they refused to fight him anymore. But it didn’t change the outcome of his bravery. Those of us not k
illed were taken captive. A few of us managed a later escape and endured the entire experience of fleeing again, except this time warm at least the weather was. We made it back to India and from there got transport home.”

  That was surely a tale in itself. “How did you come to employment at Lion Brewery?”

  Davies shrugged indifferently. “Wandered about the Hampshire countryside for a while, then spent several months in Andover workhouse doing bone crushing. Fled that the minute the warden wasn’t paying attention, and I came to London. Mr. Huggins put up a notice in the streets around here that he wanted some clean, responsible workers. None too clean was I at the time, but I knew how to be responsible. Started in the back, breaking hops and barley; now I manage the brewery for them.”

  His truly was a remarkable story. Very few people escaped workhouses. To have escaped both a workhouse and certain death in war suggested that he was either very lucky or very determined.

  “Was everyone else as fortunate as you were?” I asked.

  Another shrug. “Not sure about most others. Elphinstone died as a captive and as far as I know was buried in an unmarked grave. He was elderly, indecisive, weak, sick, and utterly incompetent. Deserved his fate, he did.”

  I was silent, for I had no retort to such a statement. But I did wonder, “Was that the end of it all?”

  Davies grunted. “No. That was not an insult to be tolerated. Once the weather warmed, more troops went into Afghanistan and inflicted a crushing defeat at Kabul. The remaining prisoners were rescued, and the city’s bazaar was demolished. It is sadly amusing to me that a vast and flourishing empire such as ours would so greatly desire to wield power against a barren land of desert and mountains that offered no reward for the trouble.”

  Mary had stopped writing and was instead gaping at Davies in naked sympathy.

  “You have suffered greatly,” I said, unsure what else there was to say.

  “No more than any other man there. The worst moment was sitting on the iced-over ground in Khurd-Kabul Pass after one of their attacks, trying to recover myself, and having another man’s head land in my lap. Damn, but those goat herders fight nasty. We should have never been there, should have understood the enemy in the first place. The Afghans were never going to be subdued the way the Indians were. They had no army, no real government, no leadership … but they had fire in their bellies. And a good reason to hate us.”

  “Because of our imposition of a leader, you mean?” I asked.

  “No, because we were guilty of—” Davies seemed to draw the line on his confession there. He compressed his lips, and what was exposed of his cheeks reddened again. “Kabul is a graveyard for our soldiers that no one can visit,” he said cryptically. “And that, Miss Nightingale, is all you need to know.”

  It was all a fascinating story, one I’m sure Sidney would have never revealed, but I had the feeling that I needed to know much more, as several interesting possibilities were swirling around in my head.

  I recalled my main theory that Liz had not been the intended victim at all, but that perhaps it was her father, General à Court, who had been targeted. I needed to know what part he might have had in the Disaster in Afghanistan. Were there more men out there like Davies, who had seen indescribable horrors and who now needed some sort of atonement? Or revenge?

  I tried in various ways to encourage him to tell me more, but he became as stony and immovable as a castle wall.

  I thought it was time to offer the man a service for all the revealing he had done to me. “You have been very gracious in telling us all of this, Mr. Davies. I’m sorry you weren’t able to shed any light on the dice I presented to you. As a nurse, I am also most concerned about the cholera outbreak here in Soho. May I ask, have any of your men experienced choleric symptoms that require attention?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. All of my men here are fine.”

  That surprised me. “How many workers are in the building?”

  He glanced upward, thinking. “Maybe seventy.”

  “They all live nearby?”

  “Sure, most of them,” he said, his expression puzzled.

  “And none of them has contracted cholera?” I pressed.

  “Not thus far, although if King Cholera comes here, ruined will the Huggins brothers’ business be. Plus, there’s more than one ex-soldier hired here, and it would be a right sorry state for them to have survived war and imprisonment only to end up dead in a few hours from cholera.”

  I could hardly believe that not a single man in the brewery had yet been touched by the disease. Cholera tended to dash about a neighborhood from door to door like a juicy tidbit of gossip, taking down anyone who showed the least interest in it until finally everyone was exhausted from it. The disease flared up and died down with amazing rapidity.

  “Well, sir,” I said, withdrawing one of my calling cards from my pocket. “Should you experience any cases here, please send someone for me. Also, Middlesex Hospital is taking on cases.”

  Davies took the card and slipped it into his vest pocket without so much as glancing at it.

  As we stepped back out into the street, a wagon full of stacked beer barrels with a Lion Brewery sign emblazoned on the side of it clattered by. I presumed that each shift meant that finished barrels would soon find their way to points across London and the rest of the country.

  Once the wagon had cleared our vision, another posting of the cholera warning sign was revealed to us across the street. I hurried Mary over to look at it. At the bottom was the repeated announcement that Reverend Henry Whitehead of St. Luke’s Church was offering spiritual comfort to the afflicted.

  I pointed to the line containing Whitehead’s name. “That name again. Goose, we must meet this Reverend Whitehead, because he may have witnessed something that Mr. Davies did not. We are headed to St. Luke’s.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Oswyn Davies’s talk about the horrors of Afghanistan had left me both unsettled and yet determined to ensure that no more horror visited the Herbert family.

  I was also interested to meet this supposed man of God, Reverend Whitehead, to see what he could tell me about where the outbreaks were concentrated. Surely his interaction with those suffering both spiritually and physically would have provided him with that knowledge.

  With that information, my nurses could be better equipped to help, as could Middlesex Hospital.

  I also wondered how well he knew the residents of the area, given that he presumably owned some of the tenement buildings. He might also have information on the assailant.

  It was a two-mile walk to St. Luke’s, whose unique obelisk spire served as a tall beacon to guide us as we neared Old Street. St. Luke’s had its own small churchyard, overflowing with dilapidated headstones. However, this open space to one side and the rear of the church offered a little relief against the barren despair of all the buildings jumbled together around it.

  It was as if one might find hope here, even for a brief moment, before returning to one’s daily squalor.

  The grounds themselves were very damp, despite there having been no rain for at least five days. I felt as though I were walking upon the seashore. We climbed the three steps up to the church’s stoop and encountered a woman and child sitting on the ground in a recess next to the church’s doors. The child, a girl, stood up and mutely held out her hand to us, staring at me with round, vacant eyes. In that ageless custom of alms, I completed our silent transaction by placing a coin in her dirty palm. I did not ask about her circumstances; she did not thank me for the money.

  I was disturbed by the encounter. Were we each so afraid of the other?

  Mary and I stepped inside the stone church, our eyes adjusting slowly to the dimness. No candles or gas lamps burned in the interior. The tall, multipaned windows that ran down each side of the sanctuary were grimy with dirt. The only light was from a stained-glass rendering of the Last Supper at the far end of the building. The panel of Judas had been ironically shattered and le
ft gaping, marring the sacred picture but offering a little more light into the room.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the murkiness inside the church, I became aware of just how many people were currently here.

  Beneath the stained-glass scene, an old robed priest with a flowing dark beard that reached midway down his chest was offering communion to a line of parishioners.

  I squinted my eyes. No, he was ladling out bowls of soup.

  On the other side of the church, another priest, this one so young and clean-shaven that I had to assume he was fresh out of seminary, was offering prayers over a group of women in ill-fitting mourning wear.

  What most dominated the interior, however, were the numbers of people sprawled out on pews, motionless and silent.

  At first, I thought they might all be cholera victims, but I soon realized that they were suffering not from illness but from a deep-rooted ennui.

  The stale, unpleasant odor of long-unwashed bodies hung in the air, in no way masked by the acrid remnants of recently burned incense wafting ineffectively around us.

  I wondered how much succor one lonely little church could offer the members of a parish with so many needs.

  The priest doling out soup bowls noticed us. Handing off the work to a helper standing nearby, he threaded his way down the center aisle to where we still stood at the rear of the church.

  “May I help you?” he asked. Even in the dusky light, I saw that his eyes twinkled with good humor, as though confident that the misery around him would be overcome soon enough and thus that there was plenty of reason for joy.

  I introduced myself and Mary. “I am seeking the Reverend Henry Whitehead.”

  He smiled broadly. The lack of any lines in his face made me realize that this was a fairly young man, probably no older than me. The beard aged him considerably.

  “You address him now. Are you from the Benevolent Friend Society? I can show you the room where we are storing the blankets for—”

  “No,” I said, interrupting him. “I am—” I paused in hesitation. Was I here as Nightingale the nurse or Nightingale the detective?