A Murderous Malady

by Christine Trent

  The carriage was neither pulled completely off to one side of Grosvenor Crescent nor attempting to pull into traffic.

  I found myself slowing my own pace. Was I mistaken to think that the woman was observing my friends’ home?

  It was then that the woman raised a pair of opera glasses to her eyes, pointing them directly at an upper window of the Herbert home.

  I was outraged that someone thought she could spy on the secretary at war in such a brazen manner. I picked up my walking pace, intent on confronting the woman, especially when I considered that this might be the infamous Caroline Norton.

  I neared the landau, not bothering to hide or be discreet, for I wished to catch this spy off guard. “Pardon me,” I said loudly, feeling disadvantaged for being so far below her.

  The woman yelped in surprised and, keeping the glasses raised to her face, lowered them briefly to peer down at me.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” her coachman said to his passenger, having also just taken note of me. “I didn’t see her.” Now he addressed me. “Madam, if I could ask you to move—”

  “Who are you?” I demanded angrily, ignoring the man and not taking my eyes from the woman’s face, which was once again masked by the pearl-handled glasses.

  With long, tapered fingers, she slowly lowered the glasses to her lap. An unusual, tight-fitting gold bracelet adorned her wrist.

  I now stared up at a woman who was quite beautiful, with flawless skin, dewy sapphire eyes, and an erect, almost noble, bearing. Her dark hair was carefully sculpted beneath a large, feather-trimmed, sky-blue hat, which showcased her luminous eyes. She seemed neither flustered nor dismayed by the heat.

  Yet, on closer inspection, I could see that despite her exquisiteness, she was clearly older than me and had pale shadows beneath those eyes. She reminded me of a rose discovered on a vine late in the season: so very beautiful compared to the withered-up blooms around it, but a little desiccated when plucked and viewed in one’s palm.

  The woman blinked twice languidly. “I believe the appropriate question is who you are, madam,” she said, without the least hint of offense at my presence.

  “I am Florence Nightingale, a friend of the Herberts. You appear to be studying their home.”

  She smiled, those rosebud lips parting to show perfectly even white teeth. “You are mistaken. I am not studying their home, only their occupants. I don’t recall Sidney mentioning you.”

  “But I have heard of you,” I said flatly. “I presume you are Caroline Norton.”

  She tilted her head to one side. Naturally, she had a swanlike neck with not even a freckle interrupting its graceful line. “Does he speak of me?” Despite her languorous tone, I sensed an eagerness to her question.

  “Only in a manner that makes me concerned for his good health and happiness. What do you wish to achieve, Mrs. Norton, perched out here like a peregrine falcon, waiting for your unsuspecting prey?”

  Caroline was quiet for several moments, but even from the ground looking up, I could see her mind whirling behind her gaze. “It is impossible for me to wait, Mrs. Nightingale,” she said cryptically.

  “I am unmarried,” I replied. “I do not understand what you—”

  “Of course you are unmarried,” she said. Her voice dripped with the insult, and I confess it was not an insult to which I responded well.

  “But I am no snake in a garden, either, plotting and deceiving against another woman.” I was in a righteous snit, but I realized it was going to lead me nowhere. I took a deep breath as Caroline Norton arched a delicate eyebrow at me.

  “My apologies,” I said, tasting bile. How had this woman so irritated me in the space of seconds? “I am, as I’m sure you understand, concerned for my friend, Liz, who is extremely innocent.” I hoped she understood the implication.

  “Innocent?” Caroline Norton’s laughter tinkled both mockingly and charmingly at the same time. “There is very little innocence in that family. If you are such a good friend, you should know that.”

  Did the woman speak only in cloaked statements? I wished to say so sarcastically, but instead attempted conciliation. “Is there a way I can offer you assistance?”

  “A friend of Elizabeth Herbert, helping me? I hardly think so.” Again that tinkling laugh, like bells on a breeze. “No, I am just waiting for … for certain events to unravel.”

  I wished I could climb up into the carriage to face her evenly. But I couldn’t climb in without an invitation from her and some assistance from the coachman in pulling out the steps and helping me up. Mrs. Norton was showing no inclination to share her seat with me.

  “Events?” I asked. “Do you mean those occurring in the Crimea that the secretary is handling?”

  “War.” She wrinkled her nose. “I experience that on a daily basis, Miss Nightingale. No, I don’t concern myself with men’s affairs among themselves. I am more interested in domestic matters.”

  “Sidney will not leave his wife for you, Mrs. Norton,” I said. “He is devoted to her.”

  Her lips curled in secretive delight. “He just needs a little time. And society will need a little time to adjust.”

  I had completely lost control of this conversation. “The Herbert family has enough worries right now, madam, what with the attack by a madman on Mrs. Herbert’s carriage a few days ago. Is this perhaps something you know about? Someone shot at her but missed the mark and ended up killing their coachman.”

  I had clearly given her a valuable piece of information, for she smiled at me in gratification, then spoke so sharply and quickly to her own coachman to move on that I was barely able to jump out of the way in time to prevent the rear carriage wheel from running over my foot.

  I stood there helplessly as her carriage moved into traffic and disappeared. Caroline Norton still sat erect and regal in her seat, the only movement coming from the feathers adorning her hat.

  All in all, it had not been my finest Christian moment. I had been agitated, outraged, and blunt. Moreover, Caroline Norton had presented herself as someone who had some sort of secret knowledge critical to my investigation, and I had let her simply roll away.

  Mary was going to be very smug when I told her about all that had transpired.

  CHAPTER 16

  I was still shaking as I was shown into the same parlor at Herbert House as on my previous visit. I waited for Liz near the brightly burning fireplace, holding myself steady on the mantel as I replayed my encounter with Caroline Norton in my head. As I did so, I gazed up at the Madonna-and-child painting of Liz and little George on the wall above me. My nerves were entirely too taut, for I could have sworn Liz was frowning in disapproval from above me.

  I forgot about the painting as I heard a strange, erratic thumping that drowned out the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock.

  What was that?

  That was when I noticed Alberto curled up on a settee, rhythmically wagging his tail against the back of it. He wore some sort of miniature wool jacket, and the dog was shivering from the outdoor dampness that seeped into every home after a good soaking. Apparently not even the fireplace heat could remedy the chills for him.

  He also had a damask pillow under his paws, and a clutch of feathers in his mouth. I shook my head at him, and he lowered his jaw to the torn pillow, looking at me pitifully with worried brown, doelike eyes.

  “You’ll not get forgiveness from me,” I told Alberto. He whined and thumped his tail faster.

  To my surprise, it wasn’t Liz who greeted me, but Sidney. He carried a folded newspaper in one hand.

  “Flo!” he exclaimed, grabbing me and kissing both cheeks, as was his custom.

  I don’t know whether Alberto was as pleased to see Sidney as Sidney was to see me, or if the pup was just a little jealous, but the little greyhound whined, jumped down from the settee, and excitedly bounced up against Sidney’s leg several times.

  Sidney bent down to chuck the dog under the chin, then pointed back to the settee. “Off with you now. I hav
e business to conduct.”

  As Alberto slunk back to his resting place, Sidney noticed the destroyed pillow lying on the seat. “Not long ago, that would have been cause for great concern on Liz’s part. Now it appears we are subject to every manner of canine terror and destruction.”

  Sidney’s expression belied his stern words. He was obviously as besotted with Alberto as everyone else in the family.

  He sat down next to the dog, who immediately nosed his way into his master’s lap.

  Sidney tucked the newspaper at his side as he invited me to sit in a chair across from him. “Have you information for me?” he asked as he scratched behind Alberto’s ears.

  “Some.” I briefly outlined for Sidney most of what I knew thus far, including what Davies had told me about Afghanistan.

  “So you believe my father-in-law should have known what the dice inscriptions are, and purposely hid that knowledge for some devious reason?” Sidney’s disbelief was palpable.

  I hesitated. “I would say he did so for an as yet unknown reason. Truthfully, my primary purpose in coming here today was to talk to the General, not you. But there’s something else …”

  Sidney gave Alberto a final pat on the head and shifted the dog from his lap. Alberto whined once, then slithered to the floor and went bounding out of the room.

  Sidney leaned back, an arm across the back of the settee. “What is this ‘something else’?” he asked.

  I willed myself to display more decorum than I had outside Herbert House. “Are you aware that Caroline Norton has been loitering outside in her ostentatious landau, observing your home—no, excuse me, observing the occupants of your home?” Was I being too harsh?

  Sidney sat still for several moments as he registered what I had said. He cleared his throat. “I had no idea. I shall immediately see to it. I cannot have Liz upset.”

  I huffed disapproval. “I hardly think that a visit from you will convince Mrs. Norton that you are not interested in her. Moreover, you said you do not know where she is.”

  “Yes, quite right, I did say that. What I meant is that I can make some inquiries as to where she might be. I saw no reason to do this before, but this is quite a different situation.”

  Why was I suspicious that he was lying about her whereabouts? Had my inopportune confrontation with Caroline Norton finally convinced me that Mary’s theory was correct?

  “Sidney, given your past attachment to the woman, might it not hurt Liz more if you were to meet with Mrs. Norton? Perhaps I should meet with her again.”

  I had quite enough to do and did not want to be dragged into correcting Sidney’s mistakes. But I also did not wish for Liz to be hurt emotionally in addition to the trauma she had experienced in the attack.

  He rubbed his chin with his free hand. “Yes, I suppose that would work. I’ll write down her address for you.”

  I nodded as he retrieved writing materials, disappointed to learn that he knew exactly where Caroline was and had lied previously when we had spoken about her. “It is my hope that Mrs. Norton is not responsible for anything,” I said.

  Sidney made no comment to this as he handed me the slip of paper with Caroline’s address on it, but instead changed the subject entirely. “You may wonder why I met you instead of Liz. She’s in the nursery with the children and will be down shortly. I told her I needed to speak with you first.”

  He pulled the Times from the settee and unfolded it, holding it up so I could see the blazing headline.

  Her Majesty’s Army in TATTERS before hardly engaging the ENEMY

  He extended the paper to me and I read the article, which described the appalling conditions the British Army was encountering in their initial days in the Crimea.

  Roughly a hundred men a day were dying of starvation and disease due to the swamp of filth in which they were living. Ponies and camels were joining their owners in swampy graves.

  A woodcut drawing accompanied the article. Its being a mere drawing did not diminish the horror it portrayed.

  It depicted part of a brick building. In front of the structure were soldiers, some sitting on the ground, some seeming to hobble around, and others apparently making sleeping spots on the dirt.

  I pulled the newspaper closer. “Sidney, these men lying prone on the ground—I believe they are dead. Is this real?”

  Sidney nodded and looked away, spots of color on his cheeks. “Yes, I had no idea. But now with the new photographic processes that exist, artists can now accurately sketch out the disaster occurring from the photographs that are sent back. Even worse, the general public sees it all before we do.”

  I finished reading the article. “This suggests that the Army is poorly equipped and that there is a shortage of nearly everything—food, clothing, and bandages. More men are dying in the hospital than in the field.” I handed the newspaper back to him. “What have you permitted to happen, Sidney? Are you letting our poor boys needlessly suffer?”

  The color on his cheeks heightened, even as he bristled in indignation. “Of course not! Our generals here simply didn’t know the extent of the squalor. Our bureaucracy means that photographs like this are arriving long before filed reports.”

  If the British public were only half as outraged as I was at the moment, the entire War Department might soon find itself being whipped out of London.

  “Why do you show me this? It is an abomination on our country,” I declared.

  “Yes.” Sidney rose and went to a wide flat table, done in intricate marquetry, and opened the top, flipping through papers until he found what he wanted before closing the table.

  “Join me,” he said, spreading out several drawings.

  They were pencil sketches of both the interior and exterior of an enormously long brick building, with seven-story towers at each corner. It looked almost like a prison, except it was large enough to have held the entire criminal population of England. “What is this?”

  “This is our hospital in Scutari, Turkey, a ferry ride away from Istanbul.”

  Sidney pronounced it “Skoo-tuh-ree.” What an odd name.

  “They were previously barracks for the Turkish army,” he explained to me. “The Turks allocated it to us to house troops on their way to the front, but we have quickly turned it into a hospital. What we didn’t realize when we moved into it was that the building had been long in disuse and disrepair. Not to mention that all we really did was tear down some walls to create long wards, as you can see in this drawing.” Sidney pointed to a sketch showing two long wings attached to one another by two shorter wings, which formed the perimeter of the building’s vast rectangle. “It’s roughly six hundred by eight hundred feet. There are three floors on three wings, and only two floors on the eastern wing because of the inclined terrain.”

  I frowned. These were extraordinarily long wings. How could doctors and nurses walk along them without suffering pure exhaustion?

  But Sidney made me realize the problems there went much deeper. “Ironically, cholera has erupted inside the hospital as well as here in London, and it is already devastating our troops. Not only does it hamper our ability to quell Russian ambitions, but the dreadful publicity being generated by these photographs is going to turn the public against what we are trying to accomplish.”

  “It is also a problem for the soldiers themselves,” I added drily.

  He gave me a wounded look. “Flo, I am not insensitive to their suffering. But in my position, my first responsibility is to the effective prosecution of the war.”

  As usual, I was being overly harsh. “I apologize. I know you would not purposely see good men sent senselessly to their graves. Please forgive me.”

  “It’s nothing,” he murmured. “But I wish to seek your good counsel.”

  Sidney picked up one of the interior drawings and offered it to me. “Can you advise me on what should be done to improve the hospital?”

  I waved my hand in refusal. “It would be difficult for me to do such a thing.”

&nb
sp; “Didn’t you just advise the doctors at Middlesex Hospital how to make improvements? In fact, you completely overhauled the Establishment, remember?” He thrust the drawing at me again.

  I shook my head, ignoring it. “I walked through those properties myself. This is merely a drawing. It tells me nothing about the interior conditions of it—how medicines are stocked, the cleanliness of it, the food inmates receive. I know nothing other than what you’ve just told me.”

  “This is all I have. The field reports don’t give me any information, because the officers do not ask the doctors their opinion on anything. After all, troop movements are not dependent upon the hospital’s struggle with cholera.” The sketch continued to hang between us.

  I wavered. How could I tell Sidney that I was interested—beyond measure—in what he was asking me, but my mind was nearly overcome with other concerns? That those concerns included working for Sidney, and I had made very little progress in that area? I contemplated his pleading expression for what seemed an eternity.

  I sighed and held out my hand for the paper. I spent several minutes studying the drawing and finally pointed to one long wing. “There seem to be a great number of windows here. Can they open? Fresh air is very helpful to recovery.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He opened a drawer further down in the desk and removed pencil and paper. He scratched out a note. “I shall recommend that Dr. Hall there consider opening the windows if possible.”

  “Also, I believe the men should be separated according to the severity of their injuries. Put the injured on one floor and those with disease on another.”

  He continued writing as I spoke. “The wards must be smaller with nurses assigned to each one, so that the women don’t have to traverse miles of corridors visiting patients.”

  Sidney’s expression stopped me. “What’s wrong?” I demanded.

  “I’m afraid there are no nurses at Scutari.”

  “None? At all?” I said, aghast. “What about doctors and orderlies? How many are there?”