‘I saw her briefly when I first visited George Porteous,’ Raven replied. ‘A slight woman with dark hair. She sounded as if she was from Glasgow.’
He tried knocking a second time.
‘I don’t think anyone is home,’ he said.
‘I thought I saw someone at the window, but I might have been mistaken. Perhaps we should leave a message asking her to come to Queen Street, if indeed this is the right address.’
As she said this, Sarah heard movement from within. She and Raven shared a look, a moment of renewed optimism.
A moment later the door was opened by a bespectacled woman in a wool dress and knitted shawl, fair hair spilling from beneath a lace-trimmed cap. She was a little portly, an ample bosom filling out her dress.
‘I am sorry to keep you,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting visitors.’
‘Not at all,’ said Raven. ‘We are the ones who should apologise for calling on you unannounced. We might even have the wrong address. We are in search of a nurse by the name of Mary Dempster.’
The woman wore a regretful expression, shaking her head in a way that had Sarah preparing her weary feet for the walk to Charlotte Street in Leith and then all the way back to the New Town.
‘My sister is not at home,’ the woman said.
‘But this is her house?’ Raven inferred, optimism in his voice.
The woman’s brow furrowed in brief annoyance.
‘It is my house. I am Martha Dempster. Mary is my sister.’
‘I see,’ said Raven. ‘We were told a recent employer had procured Mary’s services by means of the Post Office directory, but the M. Dempster listed there is you.’
‘Indeed, though my sister does live here. Well …’
She seemed about to elaborate then changed tack.
‘Do you seek her for nursing work?’
‘No, though we do wish to speak with her concerning some of her previous patients. I am Dr Will Raven and this is my associate, Mrs Sarah Banks. May we come in?’
Miss Dempster seemed reluctant, fetching a glance behind her as though perhaps the house was in a state of disorder.
‘It is a matter of some importance,’ Sarah added.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But allow me a moment.’
She closed the door, leaving them on the threshold to ponder the delay.
‘Why would she keep us here?’ Raven asked, his impatience evident.
Sarah wanted to tell herself it was because he was desperate to save future patients from this new ailment, but she knew his motivations were less altruistic. Raven did not share all of the less admirable traits of his fellow professionals, but he was a medical man nonetheless, and he had the scent of glory in his nostrils.
She was more sanguine about the reason for the wait.
‘She is house-proud, I imagine, and we have caught her unawares. Tantamount to being intruded upon half-dressed.’
A short time later, they were shown inside, through a neat hallway into a bright parlour at the back of the house. Sarah surveyed it with a maid’s eye for what might have been urgently tidied away, but nothing leapt out at her. Her gaze was more pressingly drawn to the herb garden she could see through the window, as the relationship between plants and medicine had become a passionate area of study. The beds looked carefully tended. She spotted mint, sage and rosemary as well as yarrow and comfrey, suggesting that whoever tended this garden shared her interest in medicinal plants. There was one plant which looked familiar that she could not identify.
‘Is Mary expected home soon?’ Sarah asked as she took a seat.
There was uncertainty in Martha’s expression, as though she was not sure quite how to answer.
‘She tends to reside with the patients she works for,’ Martha said. ‘She left a few days ago to take up a new appointment. I do not know how long she will stay.’
‘Do you know where this appointment is and who it is with?’
Again the uncertain expression.
‘She does not always discuss these matters with me. Suffice to say she comes and goes, but I seldom have notice of either. What is this matter you wish to discuss with her?’
Raven sat forward in his chair, that eagerness animating him once again.
‘We have reason to believe that three of the patients she recently attended might have died from the same illness. We are concerned that she is at risk from it too, or that she may somehow be unwittingly instrumental in transferring it.’
Martha visibly bristled at this last, and rightly so. Raven really ought to have phrased this more delicately, but his enthusiasm for his theory over-rode such considerations.
‘My sister is an excellent nurse, and much sought-after,’ she said. ‘I am sure nothing that she did would have played a part in this.’
Sarah knew she had to ameliorate the situation, and quickly.
‘Mary’s reputation indeed precedes her. She was spoken of most highly by the doctors who worked with her in these cases.’
Raven picked up on her tone and attempted to make amends of his own.
‘Quite. It appears that these patients died of a new disease, not encountered before in this city. Mary is therefore the person best placed to provide accurate accounts of how the disease progressed in each case. She is in a unique position. She may be able to provide evidence vital to our understanding.’
Martha’s demeanour softened a little.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mary did mention a young man who had died soon after his mother. She was most upset about it, as they had both appeared to grow stronger under her care, only to decline and then succumb. It was distressing for her. She is very particular in her care and takes pride in her work. We both do.’
‘You are a nurse too?’ Raven asked. Once again, he could have moderated his tone to perhaps sound less incredulous.
‘Yes. It was not the life I envisaged for myself, but I had to find a purpose after everything that happened.’
She looked away briefly, as though her thoughts had gone elsewhere.
‘You have a fine house,’ Sarah said. If Raven was going to express his surprise at the incongruity between her job and her surroundings, she reasoned she ought to balance things by complimenting the latter.
‘Thank you. Mary and I moved here after my parents died. I was fortunate enough to inherit some money. We could not hope to rent such a place on a nurse’s earnings, though certainly private nursing is far better paid than in the hospitals.’
Sarah wondered at her reference to ‘my parents’, rather than ‘our’.
‘I encountered your sister briefly at the Porteous house,’ Raven said. ‘I might be mistaken, but by her accent I took her to be from Glasgow. And yet you sound—’
‘Edinburgh born and bred,’ Martha interrupted with a proud smile. ‘I ought to clarify: Mary came to us when I was thirteen and she was twelve. She was in an orphanage in Glasgow.’
‘She is your adopted sister,’ Raven stated.
‘Yes. Though it amused us down the years how often people would say we had a resemblance while they thought we were true sisters. Introduce an idea into someone’s head and they will soon start to paint a picture around it.’
How true, Sarah reflected, her mind inevitably turning to poor Miss Grindlay, Mrs Simpson’s sister, who had paid a high price for painting just such a picture.
Quiet settled upon the room, and with it the awkwardness among people with nothing left to say to each other. It prompted Raven to get to his feet. He produced a card and handed it to Martha.
‘I would be obliged if you would ask your sister to contact me at her earliest convenience when you do see her. It is particularly imperative that she speak to me should she or any of her patients exhibit similar symptoms to those of George Porteous.’
‘Of course, Dr Raven.’
As Sarah stood, her eye was caught once again by the plants in the garden, particularly the one she was unable to name.
‘I see that you have some medicin
al plants in the garden, but there is one I cannot identify, to the right of the rosemary.’
Martha had a look through the window, her expression strained.
‘Mary is the one who has a passion for horticulture. Having grown up in a Glasgow slum, the very notion of a garden has always held great appeal. I think the plant you are referring to is potatoes.’
‘Of course,’ Sarah said, feeling rather foolish. She ought to recognise potatoes. Perhaps it was her own instance of painting a picture around an idea. She had been searching her mind for something medicinal and missed the obvious as a result.
Martha showed them to the door, assuring them she would pass Raven’s card on to her sister as soon as she returned. He seemed relieved to have made a form of contact, but Sarah could sense his frustration at not being able to speak to Mary directly. Sarah had a portion of that too. She wanted to amass all possible evidence in Dr Simpson’s favour.
There was definitely rain in the wind as they retreated down the garden path.
‘When did you get those cards printed?’ Sarah asked, unable to keep a note of amusement from her voice. ‘May I have one?’
Raven looked self-conscious, as though she had caught him in an affectation. He handed over a card.
‘Why doesn’t it say “Wilberforce”?’ she chided him.
‘Only my mother gets to call me that.’
‘It looks a little sparse. Did you not think to print a little raven silhouette on there?’
‘As a doctor, it behoves me to eschew symbols synonymous with death.’
‘Perhaps you should have considered that when you changed your surname.’
‘I dropped my late father’s name and took my mother’s. That was as wide as the choice extended. Though I do take your point. It is a pity her name was not Goodfellow.’
‘No. That would be fraudulent. You are no more a good fellow than you are a raven.’
He smiled, something she had seldom seen him do since his return from the Continent. She had missed it.
‘I knew a fellow at medical school by the name of Slaughter,’ he said. ‘I cannot think that will enhance his practice.’
Sarah glanced back at the cottage for a moment.
‘What did you think of Martha?’ she asked.
‘Pleasant enough. But under the circumstances, a poor substitute for her sister. I may have to return to Dr Fowler in case he knows which family she might have gone to work for now.’
‘I got the impression she was holding something back. That she and her sister do not have an easy relationship.’
‘Adopted or not, which pair of siblings does?’ he replied.
Sarah thought of that look of uncertainty in Martha’s expression before she answered questions. Thinking back, it seemed not so much that Martha was unsure of what to say than that she was worried about what she ought to say.
As though concerned her sister might be listening.
She wondered again about that flash she saw at the window. Could it have been a dark-haired woman? Or was Sarah painting another picture?
THIRTY-EIGHT
arah entered the downstairs waiting room to find the new housemaid filling the coal scuttle.
‘Morning, Lizzie,’ she said, her greeting startling the poor girl and causing her to spill a few lumps of coal onto the hearth rug.
Lizzie bent to pick them up and then rubbed at the area with a rag, causing the coal dust to become more deeply embedded.
‘You’ll need to lift that and beat it,’ Sarah said. Lizzie looked up at her and scowled. ‘I’m trying to help you,’ Sarah explained, surprised by her surliness.
Lizzie said nothing. She tucked the rag into the pocket of her apron, then lifted her brush and the bucket containing the rakings from the fireplace.
‘Remember to sift the cinders out of that,’ Sarah said, indicating the bucket. ‘Mrs Lyndsay hates to waste anything.’ She smiled at the girl, hoping that her advice would be accepted with good grace rather than discarded out of hand. Sarah felt that the girl was in need of an ally and would be happy to fill the role if Lizzie was willing to let her.
‘There’s no end to the things that Mrs Lyndsay hates,’ Lizzie replied, spitting the words out. ‘There’s not much that pleases her as far as I can tell.’
‘Mrs Lyndsay is a good woman, but you have to work to earn her favour.’
‘I work from morning till night as it is. What more am I supposed to do?’
‘Just give it a little time.’
Lizzie snorted. ‘Sure, what else can I do? Go back to what I was doing before? Sometimes I think it would be better than this.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘What would you know about it?’
Sarah did not think that her lack of first-hand experience of Edinburgh brothels made her ineligible to hold an opinion on the matter.
‘I know that this is a safe place to be,’ she said, ‘where people will take care of you if you let them.’
Lizzie gave her a penetrating look, as if assessing the truth of what she said.
‘That include the old witch in the kitchen?’
‘Mrs Lyndsay is just a bit set in her ways. She’ll come round. Just show her that you’re a good person.’
‘Perhaps I’m not,’ Lizzie said, walking towards the door, swinging her bucket. As she pulled the door closed behind her, Sarah began to wonder if Mrs Lyndsay was right to be suspicious.
Sarah heard the doorbell ring out and wondered if Lizzie would deign to answer it. She tried to imagine the girl dropping her bucket and rushing to the door, bristling with undisguised hostility. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t. She might get herself dismissed.
Sarah looked out into the hallway and watched with some relief as Jarvis opened the door, his frame blocking her view. She thought she heard the voice of a young woman, timid and quiet. Jarvis’s greeting was, as always, polite and implacable but with a hint of weary stoicism.
‘Dr Simpson is from home, attending a patient. Would his assistant, Dr Raven, be suitable?’
Sarah heard a mumbled response in the affirmative.
‘Do come with me. I will take you to him presently.’
As Jarvis stepped aside, Sarah recognised the woman who was following him in. She was Mrs Glassford’s housemaid. She had a grave look about her, the significance of which Sarah immediately understood.
Sarah found herself following them along the corridor, drifting like a wraith as though propelled by an unseen force. She loitered in the doorway while the maid stood before Raven in his consulting room. The conversation was brief, the young woman stumbling over the few words that were required to deliver the news.
‘Can I offer you some tea?’ Sarah asked her as the maid turned towards the door, though she was barely conscious of the words issuing from her mouth. She felt numb, present but not truly here.
The girl declined politely and went to leave, her errand at an end, her message delivered. She seemed anxious to extricate herself, though Sarah doubted she had any reason to hurry back to her place of work. What future for her, now that her employer was dead?
It was this thought that somehow rendered an abstract notion into something tangible.
Mrs Glassford was dead.
The numbness lifted and she felt a wellspring of grief rise up and engulf her. Raven was by her side now and she leaned towards him. His arms folded around her as tears began to stream down her cheeks. It felt safe there, a place she could let go and give in to what she was feeling. She sobbed loudly, her shoulders heaving. Then she heard footsteps and was aware of a presence nearby.
She lifted her head from Raven’s chest and saw Quinton standing a few yards away. They broke apart, but the speed and suddenness with which they did so served only to emphasise that they were doing something they wished to hide.
Quinton, for his part, looked mortified, both by having intruded and by what he had intruded upon. He had never struck her as a man well equipped to comprehend ot
her people’s emotions, as he barely ever registered any of his own.
‘My apologies,’ he muttered, then turned on his heel and retreated.
Raven beckoned her into his consulting room and closed the door to give them some belated privacy.
‘Sarah,’ he said softly, ‘what grieves you?’
And that indeed was the question. Who were these tears really for?
Mrs Glassford had been an inspiration. She had shown by example that a woman did not have to accept her lot, rejecting the husband picked out by her father and choosing instead a life on her own terms.
Sarah had devoured the book she had given to her, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Mrs Glassford had referred to it simply as the Vindication, which seemed apposite, as it served that purpose regarding so many of the beliefs Sarah had come to hold. How well had it described the diminished lives accepted by even the most privileged of women: ‘Confined then in cages like the feathered race, they have nothing to do but to plume themselves, and stalk with mock majesty from perch to perch. It is true they are provided with food and raiment, for which they neither toil nor spin; but health, liberty and virtue are given in exchange.’
It had made Sarah think mournfully of the wasted potential of Mrs Simpson’s sister, Mina, her talents and intelligence unnurtured as she sought only to marry well. And this was to say nothing of the wasted potential of all those women who inhabited the realm below stairs, where she, until recently, had been confined. How many Shakespeares, how many Newtons – how many Simpsons for that matter – had we lost because they were born of a gender that was denied the chance to shine?
Sarah had been fond of Mrs Glassford. She had only known her a short time, and throughout all of it she had been aware she was likely to die, but the reality of her death was shocking, a portent of a greater loss yet to come.
She looked up at Raven.
‘It is Archie,’ she said. ‘He is dying, Will.’
Raven nodded solemnly.
‘I know.’
Then it struck her: how could he not? Raven had seen him, had spent time with him and was a doctor. He did not need to be told. She had deceived herself about this, and Raven had played along out of politeness.
The Art of Dying Page 16
