The Art of Dying

by Ambrose Parry

  As he rang the bell, he thought about who might answer, the faces he was about to see. He thought about Jarvis, Simpson’s redoubtable butler, whose very politeness towards Raven was itself a means of conveying how much he would like to turn him out onto the street for a wretch. He thought about Mrs Simpson, perpetually in mourning for the young children she had lost and vigilantly dedicated to the care of those who survived. He thought of her unmarried sister, Mina, left heartbroken after she mistakenly believed her search for a husband had finally come to a happy end. Foremost in his thoughts, however, was Simpson’s housemaid, Sarah Fisher.

  Hers was the image he had most tried to conjure throughout his travels: her pale complexion, her honey-coloured hair, the soft touch of her hand as she administered ointment of her own making to salve his wound. He remembered the smell of her – lavender and fresh linen – the way she carried herself, her smile. He remembered also her withering disdain, her sharp intelligence and her tendency to let her frustrations talk her into trouble. Most of all he remembered the kisses they had shared, the swell of feelings he had not known around a woman before – or since.

  He shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. Such reminiscences had been in equal parts a comfort and a torment over the past year. They had been thrown together by circumstance, but propriety dictated that to pursue any kind of relationship would have been damaging to both of them. There had been no contact between them since he left. Deliberately so. He had written letters to her during his time in Paris, and again in Vienna, but they had never been sent. He was a doctor, a physician. She was a housemaid. Anything other than a professional relationship was surely out of the question. What possible future could there have been for them? None that he could see. He had tried to explain as much to her before he left, but she had been reluctant to accept the intractable realities before them; strong-willed and argumentative to the last.

  He had been sure that a period of separation would cool his ardour for her, and there had been interludes during his travels when she seemed far distant in time as well as space; a treasured step on his journey, but one he had been ever progressing away from. However, as he stood on the doorstep, he was conscious of an increase in his heart rate, an excitement of the body in defiance of anything his mind might wish to deny.

  It was more than an excitement: it was a longing. And the closer he drew to seeing her again, the more imperative that longing became.

  He was therefore quite unprepared when it was not Sarah but another young woman who answered the door.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked, peering up at him from beneath her cap.

  ‘Yes. I am Dr Will Raven, the professor’s new assistant.’

  Raven’s pride in being able to announce himself this way helped conceal how crestfallen he was suddenly feeling. The girl stood aside to allow him to enter. He handed her his hat and gloves.

  ‘Very good, sir. I was told to expect you.’

  ‘You are new here, are you not?’ he asked, peering past her down the hall in a search for more familiar faces.

  ‘Been here almost a month now, sir.’

  ‘Is the professor at home?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Mrs Simpson?’

  ‘Mrs Simpson and the children are out visiting.’

  ‘And Miss Grindlay?’

  ‘She is at her father’s house in Liverpool.’

  Raven thought again about Mina and her marital disappointment. He had hoped she would by now have found a suitable partner, but some things, as he well knew, were not meant to be. He looked up the length of the hallway again. Everything was preternaturally calm, causing him to feel uneasy. He decided he could stand it no longer.

  ‘Where is Miss Fisher?’ he asked.

  ‘Miss Fisher, sir?’

  ‘Yes, she is a housemaid here. Or was,’ he added. Sarah had received a promotion of sorts before he left, and he was unsure how he ought to refer to her now.

  ‘There is another housemaid here besides me, sir, but none called Fisher.’

  She stared blankly and Raven suppressed a sigh. The girl had evidently replaced Sarah but was by no means a substitute for her.

  He smiled benignly at her.

  ‘Perhaps you know her simply as Sarah.’

  A realisation passed across her face like a shadow.

  ‘Oh. You must mean Miss Fisher as was, sir.’

  As was? Raven was gripped by panic, his disappointed heart thumping again and his guts churning. What had happened to Sarah? Was she dead? He would surely have been told if something catastrophic had befallen her. Then he remembered all of his unsent letters. Perhaps no one would have thought to inform him. After all, they had endeavoured to keep their connection concealed.

  His palms were suddenly moist. In that instant it all came flooding back and he understood that far from fading, his feelings for her had merely been suppressed by time and distance. Then he noticed that the girl was smiling.

  ‘She is no longer Miss Fisher, sir. She is now Mrs Banks.’

  FIVE

  arah had got to her feet and begun placing teacups and saucers on a tray when a hand reached out to stop her.

  ‘Sarah. There is no need for you to do that. Ring for Mrs Sullivan.’

  ‘Of course. Force of habit,’ she added, offering him an apologetic smile.

  It was the second time this morning that she had forgotten her recently elevated status. The first instance, at least, had gone unwitnessed. She had caught herself making up their bed, and as she was already halfway through the process, she had seen no reason not to complete it.

  She still tended to wake early and could not get used to the fact that she did not have to rise immediately and commence a slew of tasks.

  Sarah sat down again and gazed out of the window. She was distracted, and she knew why.

  ‘Is all well, darling?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Yes, quite well,’ she told him, though she knew that she could not hide her unease. Archie was a close reader of her mood, one of the many things she liked about him.

  ‘It’s just, you seem a little restive. Could it be your mind is already at Queen Street?’

  Sarah felt exposed by the suggestion, then realised what he meant. Although they had taken rooms in Albany Street, Sarah was still attending Queen Street every day. She had rendered herself indispensable, having become adept in the administration of chloroform. Dr Simpson was assessing its usefulness in all manner of complaints, from dysmenorrhoea to biliary colic. Working with the professor was something she had not been prepared to give up, and that had, as a result, formed part of their agreement.

  ‘Yes. I am thinking of the patient we have coming in today. Dr Simpson warned me that it might be a trying consultation.’

  Sarah’s words sounded hollow emerging from her own mouth. What she said was true, but that didn’t alter the fact that she was concealing the real reason her mind was already at Queen Street.

  Raven.

  He was due back today and would most probably be there by the time she arrived for work that afternoon.

  She had not given him much thought in such a long time. Why would she, with all that her life had become? But since finding out that he would be taking up the position vacated by Dr Keith, his return had loomed ever larger in her thoughts.

  She didn’t see quite why it should. Perhaps it was not so much Raven himself as what he represented that seemed so vivid in her memory: the time not only of Dr Simpson’s great discovery, but of all that had attended it. She had taken great risks in joining Raven to unmask the most murderous villainy and deception. When people are thrown together in fraught circumstances, it is possible for them to confuse the heightened emotions they are experiencing as feelings for one another.

  Although it had been less than two years ago, it felt like a different time. So much had changed. She had been but a girl then. Now she was a woman. Now she was married. Now she had Archie. Though it was Raven who had drawn her into danger
and had forced her to appreciate what she might be capable of, Archie was the man who had truly transformed her life.

  She looked over at her husband, Dr Archibald Banks, who was sitting in an armchair by the window, squinting at the front page of the Scotsman. He owned a pair of reading glasses but rarely wore them. He said they made him look like an old man, something he was sensitive about given the age difference between them. He was thirty-six years old but could pass for a man several years younger. Sarah hoped that his youthfulness would work in his favour.

  She had met him when he came to Queen Street on his quest to consult with the great medical minds of Edinburgh. He had encountered Dr Simpson back when they were both students, and they had remained friends since. He was handsome, lively, articulate, well read, and, as a medical man, fascinated by the role Sarah had, the fact that there was no title that encompassed all that she did. He was not in any way bemused by her scientific curiosity and her determination to better educate herself. When they first spoke at any length, he had listened as though he might learn from her. She could not think of another man who had ever done that.

  He was a wealthy man from a good family and yet had no qualms about associating with her. They often walked together in Queen Street Gardens when the weather permitted, discussing matters as diverse as current affairs and the contents of medical journals. They attended public lectures at the Assembly Rooms, listening to speakers discussing everything from philosophy to phrenology. They traded novels and eagerly compared their impressions.

  She could not help but compare his attitude to that of Will Raven. When their relationship deepened, he had sought to put distance between them. He became too busy to spend time with her; the work for his MD thesis had to come first. And as the end of his medical studies drew near, he seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable with what he perceived as the gulf in social standing that lay between them. He had left her in no doubt that he thought their relationship to be impractical, impossible and ill-advised.

  Then he left for Europe and she had not heard from him since.

  In contrast Archie seemed to care little for how their attachment might be perceived. Idle gossip held no fear for a man with his perspective. ‘Life is too short to be held back from pursuing one’s wishes by something as vapid as what other people might think,’ he said. ‘True opportunity is by its nature fleeting and must be seized before it evades one’s grasp.’

  Life is too short. Words to live by, indeed.

  Nonetheless, it had come as a surprise to Sarah when Archie proposed marriage. Though it constituted an ever-decreasing share of her duties, it was still as a household servant that she was perceived. It was one thing to have a friendship with such a woman, but quite another to marry her.

  Archie had made his feelings clear: ‘I no longer need to care about whether someone’s patronage is jeopardised by my conduct, or contingent upon acceptable behaviour and opinions. I know what it is to truly live in a way most men never will.’

  Most significantly, he had made it clear that he did not expect her to give up her cherished work at Queen Street. Unlike some, he did not regard it as pointless for her to expand her knowledge in an area from which she was effectively barred. In the circumstances, she had found it difficult to refuse his generous offer.

  Sarah not having any surviving parents, Dr Simpson had taken the role of giving her away, and any residual feelings she had for his one-time apprentice were soon forgotten as Archie took her hand at the altar.

  It was easy not to think about Raven when he wasn’t there, but she was about to discover the truth of the corollary.

  The rustling of newspaper brought her attention back to the room, the breakfast things still littering the table. Sarah stopped herself stooping to clear them once again and this time reached for the bell.

  ‘My goodness,’ said Archie, smoothing down the page in front of him. ‘Four members of the same family fell ill and died over a period of two weeks. Dreadful. There is always some poor soul worse off than yourself.’

  ‘Were they very old?’ Sarah asked, still fighting the urge to take the tea tray down to the kitchen herself.

  ‘The oldest was in her sixtieth year, but her son, his wife and their daughter perished too, all of them previously healthy.’

  Sarah looked up, suddenly concerned.

  ‘What was the cause? Not cholera again?’

  Everyone was terrified of its return after the last outbreak.

  ‘There is no mention of cholera. All natural causes.’

  ‘Where was this? The Old Town?’

  Sarah thought of the squalor she had witnessed there, how easily disease could ravage the unfortunates forced to inhabit the cramped and unsanitary tenements.

  ‘No, Trinity. A fine house with a view of the Forth, apparently.’ Archie looked over at her and smiled. ‘I wonder who’s to inherit? Whoever it is, I’d be checking their pockets for arsenic.’

  Sarah laughed, though she still felt an instinctive wariness of inviting disapproval in doing so. She could not have said whose: it was a legacy of her years as a housemaid. Archie was aware of it, and thus relished her response to his remark.

  Archie laughed all the time, despite everything. It was one of the reasons he and Simpson got on so well.

  He folded up the newspaper, put it down on the table and picked up the Monthly Journal of Medical Science. Sarah had noticed that, since he had started taking small doses of morphine for the pain in his throat, he could seldom concentrate on any one thing for long.

  He turned the pages and sighed. ‘Oh dear. Another letter.’

  ‘Not the mattress dispute again?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Who is it this time?’

  ‘Professor Miller. It really is unconscionable. Such spats do the profession no good at all. And I don’t believe the pages of the medical journals are the place to air such petty and personal grievances. They really should know better.’

  ‘It is little more than gossip. What evidence do they have to support such accusations?’

  ‘The upholsterer, Mr Hardie, has seemingly confirmed that the patient’s mattress was stained with blood.’

  ‘That is hardly conclusive. If they are claiming that she died of haemorrhage, the quantity of blood is more pertinent than its mere presence. The most apposite organ in this matter would appear to be the spleen, and I do not mean that of the late patient.’

  Archie smiled and nodded his agreement, a sight that warmed her. She liked to make him happy. They liked to make each other happy. But as always, when she thought of that happiness, it prompted a corresponding sorrow.

  She wondered how long they would have together. Perhaps all married couples did that, from time to time. But not every day.

  SIX

  f I made a mistake, it was in killing four members of the same family.

  I can appreciate in retrospect how that might have seemed conspicuous. Perhaps I was blinded by my desires, but in mitigation, such a tragedy would not necessarily be deemed worthy of note. People in the same household die all the time. Whole families died when the last epidemic swept the city.

  I suppose complacency becomes inevitable when one’s actions go so long undetected. For years my deeds were shielded by people’s incredulity that a woman could be capable of such things. She is the angel of the house, entrusted with the care of those around her. People would not believe that I was killing their loved ones because they simply could not afford to. Where would our society be were women to resist our given roles, to slough off what we are told is our gentle nature?

  But do not make the mistake of thinking me uncaring, incapable of feeling, incapable of love. No, I am not a mother. But I know what it is to care for a child, for I have been charged with the care of many, most recently little Eleanor. I understood how her fragility and vulnerability made her all the more precious. I understood the hope that she represented to her parents, the essence of themselves they saw reflected in he
r features. I had a profound appreciation of just how much she meant to them. Otherwise how could I have derived such a sense of power and accomplishment by taking it away?

  Nobody knows the value of a life who has not ended one. And there is nothing so precious as snuffing out the life of someone so young, someone uncomprehending of the enormity of what is happening to them, or of how much they are about to lose.

  I loved little Eleanor. Who could not? She was such a darling. I still picture the sparkle in her eyes, the energy she had, the joy her curiosity and mischievousness brought to her parents. She was a clever girl, strong-willed and with good instincts. She fought me, in her own unknowing way. But her parents were recruited as my allies, not hers, as they urged her to do as I bid.

  ‘You have to take the medicine,’ they would insist.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Eleanor would say. ‘And I don’t like her.’

  ‘She just wants to make you better.’

  But I did not.

  To me, other people’s grief is like fine wine, and I do not mean merely that I savour it; I appreciate the many different flavours and textures, the subtle notes that distinguish one variety from another. When Eleanor died, her parents’ grief was a powerful thing to witness. You might well have found it intolerable to behold, in which case you might say it was a mercy then, on my part, that I would soon bring it to an end.

  I killed her mother, and shortly after that her father. Last of all, I killed the matriarch of the household, her grandmother. I wanted her to witness this devastation before she was taken too. She deserved to suffer. I had encountered her sort before. But we will get to that, in time.

  I do not fear anyone’s judgment. You might endeavour to understand me, and I do wish to be understood. But first you must grasp that if you think me some abomination, some kind of monster, you will understand nothing.