‘My confession?’ Mrs Roseplucker laughed, a hollow grating sound like a gate swinging in a sepulchre. ‘It’ll take a week to tell it and you’ll need a river of ink. And it won’t fit into that there box when I’m done, neither. I’ll need me own box!’ Mrs Roseplucker stood up. ‘I’m not telling my life story to you,’ she said. ‘Who’re you to take that from me?’
‘It is customary for the confession to be taken by me, or by one of the medical staff,’ said Dr Birdwhistle.
‘Who, exactly?’ I said.
‘Any of the medical men on board the Blood,’ he said. ‘Usually I take them down, but as there is a great deal of overlap between that institution and this it is sometimes taken by a medical man. They often employ the girls afterwards, of course. I deem it appropriate for them to be involved with us as much as possible because of it.’
‘Looks to me like you got the pox!’ said Mrs Roseplucker. There was a murmuring of agreement from amongst the girls. ‘That’s one overlap you wants to get sorted out. I see your eyes, sir, and I know what that means well enough. So do some of the girls. Annie?’
‘Yes, Mrs R,’ said Annie. ‘I saw it.’
‘Ask Mr Flockhart here. He’ll sort you out. And until you gets sorted out, you don’t deserve my confession, nor that of anyone else, neither!’
But Dr Birdwhistle was not listening. ‘Where’s my key?’ he snapped. ‘Who’s taken it?’ He pointed to Annie. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? I know you for a light-fingered besom. You took it!’
‘No, sir,’ said Annie.
‘Is this it?’ I said. I held up the key, less than an inch long, slim as a matchstick, with a heart-shaped head and an intricate cut-away square jutting from its base, that I had found in Aberlady’s stomach. It would take a desperate man to swallow such a thing.
‘Yes!’ cried Dr Birdwhistle. ‘Yes, it is. How on earth—’ His face coloured. ‘Did you steal it?’
‘I found it,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere unexpected. I was wondering what lock it might fit.’
‘It fits this lock!’
‘Perhaps you might open the box, Dr Birdwhistle—’ but he had already sprung across the room and snatched the key from my fingers. White faced, he shoved Mrs Roseplucker aside as he made for the fireplace. We heard the quiet click of a well-oiled, finely crafted lock. Dr Birdwhistle flung open the box – and fell back with a cry.
‘Gone!’ he screamed. Backing away, he caught his foot in the ragged festoons of Mrs Roseplucker’s skirt and lurched against her.
The girls, who had been sitting about stiffly, seemed curiously liberated by the news. They began chatting to one another in huddles. One or two were crying, others had their arms around each other; some of them were laughing together, their hands on their hips, just as they used to when they were on the streets.
‘Girls, please!’ cried Dr Birdwhistle. ‘Silence! Girls!’
In the midst of the noise and confusion I saw Mrs Roseplucker grab Annie and one of the other girls by the wrist, and sidle from the room.
‘Well,’ said Will, while the uproar continued. ‘At least we know what the key was for. But where’s the inner box?
‘Another mystery,’ I said. ‘But we will find it.’
‘And I believe I have made sense of something else too,’ said Will.
‘Icorisss?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are your thoughts?’ I said.
‘It is not a word, it is a biblical reference. One Corinthians, chapter fifteen, verse fifty-five. It’s not an “I” it’s a “1”, not an “s”, but a “5”.’
‘My thinking exactly,’ I said. We grinned at one another.
‘The verse is well known. I’m surprised we didn’t think of it before.’
‘We were stupid, Will, stupid not to see it – but we must speak to Dr Rennie. We must speak to him now. Before it’s too late.’
I look for her everywhere, but no one has seen her. It’s not unusual for girls to run away, to decide they have had enough of Siren House with its rules and restrictions, its tedious domestic chores and bogus respectability. The grinning lechery of Dr Birdwhistle is wearisome – does he think the girls haven’t noticed the tenting of his trousers as he stands amongst them? The righteous superiority of the ladies’ committee, the bustling, pinching tyranny of Mrs Birdwhistle – it is not a route everyone can bear. A number of the girls have found work on the Blood, and some have vanished from that place too – back to the streets, no doubt. Two of them have been seen plying their trade on the waterfront. The Blood is not for everyone. And so, when Mary vanishes, her disappearance provokes nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders, a shake of the head, a muttered ‘I told you so’.
I cannot forgive myself. Where has she gone? On the streets? On the road? Wherever she is I have driven her there. Had I not forced myself onto her, dragging her into my bed and wrapping myself about her like some monstrous sea creature she would still be near me. She submitted to my advances, but in her heart she had loved someone else. I look for her everywhere. Up and down the streets and lanes I go, in and out of vile courts, up and down the steps of Houses. I see only Mr Aberlady – my brother’s friend, and a man of principle who has his own secrets to hide. Far worse than mine, they will land him in gaol if he is caught. I see him on Spyglass and I know what he is looking for. We exchange a glance. Should I ask him about Mary? But he does not have eyes for girls, and so I say nothing, and after a while, I go home. I go home, and I wait for her to come to me – which is what I should have done all along.
I would have waited forever with my heart broken rather than see her as she is that last time, dead and cold in that dank and wretched place. I wish I was there beside her, dead too, so that I might keep her company in the grave, at least. But then the medical men come, and even that dream is taken from me.
Chapter Twenty
By now the fog had closed in on us so thickly that it was impossible to tell whether it was morning or evening. We made our way, half blind, along the dockside to the Blood. The steps that led up to the deck were slick with moisture, the rope handrail slimy and cold beneath our hands. A shadow passed across the deck on silent footsteps. I could not see who it was and they did not declare themselves, or call out a greeting. The lamps near the severed main mast were out, the foggy darkness thick and choking, the silence unnatural. Somewhere out on the river, we heard the gentle splashing of oars, and the faint rhythmic clang of a bell.
‘Six o’clock,’ whispered Will. At our feet, the hole in the deck that led down to the wards yawned.
Below, the atmosphere was thick as broth. Lamps had been lit, stoves belched out heat, and the windows shuttered to keep out the fog. The men lay listlessly in their beds, smoking and playing cards, just as they had when we first arrived. At the prow, near the nurses’ station, I could see Mrs Speedicut sitting beside the stove, her own pipe clamped between her few remaining teeth, shuffling a pack of cards. It had been no different at St Saviour’s. Once she thought there was no likelihood of any of the medical men returning for the night, she had reverted to her old familiar ways – lazy, drunken, greedy. Deep in the gloom, a figure went from bed to bed, bottle and spoon in hand. We continued on down, through the middle ward, and then down again to the lower ward. The men turned to us as they heard our footsteps on the stairs, their faces rising up, pale as jellyfish in a dark and murky ocean. But there was another deck below this that was far worse. It was below the waterline, with the Thames, that great body of sluggish stinking water, kept at bay by only a few inches of ancient oak and tar. It was here that Dr Rennie made his home. I had not been down to it, but Will had.
‘I don’t know how he bears it,’ he said. ‘I suppose it must be what he’s used to.’
Once, the orlop deck had been a wide space, beneath the gun decks and crews’ quarters, where the quartermaster had his lair. It was where supplies of rum and powder were kept – at least, that was what I had assumed,
for I had to admit that I knew little about the layout and operation of a ship. What I did know was gleaned from my glances through Gabriel’s penny bloods – the lad had a weakness for pirate stories, and I would be the first to admit that ‘Dick of the Bloody Cutlass’ was probably not the most authentic text. But even to my untrained eye it was apparent that the space where we now stood had undergone modifications. A wall had been fitted from port side to starboard, so that it was no longer an open deck, but had been turned into a long windowless cabin. The dark greasy beams of the ceiling were low, little more than five feet high in places, and we could not stand upright at all – enough to deter all but the smallest visitors.
The door was ajar. Will knocked. ‘Dr Rennie?’ There was no reply. ‘Dr Rennie?’ Will pushed at the door. It swung open on well-oiled hinges.
‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome.’ Dr Rennie was sitting in a wooden captain’s chair in front of a small iron stove. The chimney vanished up through the ceiling, through the wards overhead to emerge, smoking darkly, above the cookhouse wall. The room was furnished with a bed, hard up against the hull, a washstand, and some apothecary drawers. Bookshelves lined the walls. Beside the books were familiar rows of jars and bottles, containing what appeared to be chunks of wounded flesh, ragged from where musket balls, shrapnel and wooden splinters had torn through.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Rennie, when he saw my interest. ‘I collected them from the wars. Various military wounds. The damage inflicted by the different types of ordnance is a fascinating area. I’ve written two monographs on it.’
‘Dr Rennie is a great authority on the subject,’ said Will. ‘As well as being an expert on crustaceans, and animals without backbones. His specimens are in the British Museum, and collections all over the country. He has written a book on them too.’
The place was boiling hot, though Dr Rennie seemed not to notice, for he was dressed in a heavy nautical top coat and tricorn hat, not unlike those Nelson might have worn on a cold day. He eased himself to his feet. He had taken off his eye patch and without it his face looked curiously incomplete, the right eye blinking and watery, the left eye completely absent. The cheek and the socket where his eye should have been were sunken and ruined, an area the size of the palm of a hand blighted with a tangled scar of stitched skin, white and shiny.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, plucking up his painted mask from the table top. He tied it in place, rendering himself at once familiar and bizarre. ‘I have no chairs to offer you,’ he said. ‘Only that stool. No one comes down here, you see. Not since that young fellow. What’s his name?’ he frowned. ‘Used to come here for a smoke and to get away from the others upstairs. Nice fellow. Owned a snake.’
‘Aberlady?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He shook his head. ‘Laudanum. Opium. That was his weakness – one of his weaknesses, at any rate. I’ve seen it before, of course.’ He gestured at the rows of preserved wounds, at his own face. ‘The black drop is an old friend of mine too. He used to come down here. Him and the other chap. What’s his name?’
‘Proudlove?’ said Will.
‘Proudlove, that’s it.’
It was going to be a long and difficult conversation – at least it would be if we stuck to recent happenings. I sighed. The place was making me feel lightheaded. I was uncomfortable being in small, enclosed spaces. The opium I had smoked had not entirely finished with me, either, for every now and then I was assailed by thoughts and images of the most macabre and unsettling kind. The walls seemed to close in on me if I did not keep my eyes fixed upon them, and yet when I did the smoke curling up from Dr Rennie’s pipe took on the shape of a woman. She turned and raised her arms and I saw she had the face of Miss Proudlove. The walls, lined with their bottled wounds, their preserved fish specimens, worms, crabs and spiders heaved towards me.
‘Oh!’ I gasped.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Will.
‘Nothing.’ I gulped. ‘I’m quite well. Do go on, Dr Rennie, sir—’
Will took Jenny’s drawing from me and spread it out upon his knee. He passed it to Dr Rennie. ‘Do you know this, sir?’
‘He’ll never remember,’ I murmured.
‘Of course he will,’ said Will. ‘It’s the present he forgets. The past is as clear as a bell. And, if we’re lucky, he might just remember what it is he’s been trying to tell us the last two days.’
‘Has he been trying to tell us something?’
‘Of course he has. Didn’t you notice? My grandfather was just the same. But we must be patient. It will come. It’s in there somewhere, we just have to help him to reach it.’
‘Ah!’ said Dr Rennie, peering at the drawing with his watery eye. ‘Yes, yes, why, you’re not the first young men I’ve told about this. But it was a long time ago now. Look!’ He struggled out of his voluminous coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. On the thin white flesh of his upper arm was a tattoo. There were the keys, the broken chain, the bound skeleton, and the code. It was written clearly here, for all that it was crudely done, and faded and blurred with age: I. COR. 15. 55.
‘It’s one Corinthians, chapter fifteen, verse fifty-five, isn’t it?’ said Will.
‘“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”’ said Dr Rennie. He laughed. ‘Yes. We were young and ambitious – it seemed a clever thing to do, a clever motto, we thought. And you see the picture – the keys and the chain – death’s mysteries unlocked, the bonds broken. And the bound skeleton is death defeated.’ He chuckled. ‘Sackville’s idea. We tattooed each other. “Bound together by blood,” he used to say.’
‘How many of you were there?’ said Will.
‘Four of us – there’s only Sackville and me left now. We were all at Hunter’s Anatomy School, on Leicester Square. Such an inspiring man. Taught us to ask questions, and to find answers for ourselves. He said we should trust all our senses, should experiment, and test our ideas – we all wanted to be like him. He was an old man by then, but nevertheless, his reputation was something to be envied. And there were many who did envy him. Like Hunter, the four of us came from nothing. Morton and Kilbride came from farming stock in the Scottish lowlands. Both are dead now, of course. Sackville was the son of a baker, and I, well, I was the son of a sailor.
‘There are few who are truly great, gentlemen; few who are true pioneers, who change our way of thinking and seeing. The rest of us can only do our best. I was always the outsider, the one who lacked the ambition, the urgency to get on, to be seen and known. It was far less important to me than it was to the others to forge a reputation, and in the end I went to sea. I was glad to get away from them, truth be told, and have no regrets about it. I hope I’ve helped plenty of men. I have saved lives, made good some of the terrible consequences of war, or disease. “What cannot be cured must be endured.” That is sometimes the hardest task of all, finding ways to help people endure.’
He put up a hand, touching his tin eye gently, as if remembering when he had been young, and whole, with his life before him still waiting to be lived.
‘Death is a release for many, and we shouldn’t fear it the way we do, though the quest for ways of prolonging life, or of cheating death, have preoccupied men since the beginning of time. Dr Birdwhistle finds his everlasting life through God. But for those who don’t believe in such things there is only science, and medicine, that can provide us with answers.’ He pulled his coat round his tiny frame as if a cold wind chilled him to the bone. ‘I’m not a brilliant doctor, gentlemen, merely a good one. But I have always tried to help those who were capable. Capable, but without friends, shall we say.’
‘Like Dr Proudlove?’ said Will.
‘Proudlove.’ Dr Rennie nodded. ‘A man of great ability. But it will be a long time before ability is enough to allow men like him to succeed.’ He sighed. ‘He is impatient. Impatient and ambitious and, understandably, resentful of his lack of opportunity. Especially when he sees others getting on while he stays where he is.’ He shook his head. ‘It consumes
him.’
It was clear that Dr Rennie had no idea that Dr Proudlove was dead. I did not enlighten him, for I wanted him to keep talking. ‘And John Aberlady?’ I said.
‘He was a clever man too. And a kind one. But he had his weaknesses. His secrets.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t spend forty years at sea without recognising a man in thrall to that particular vice.’ He shrugged. ‘It couldn’t be helped.’
‘Was there something Aberlady wanted you to tell us, sir?’ said Will.
‘I don’t know,’ said the old man. ‘Was there?’
‘Think, sir. When did you last see him?’
‘See who?’
‘John Aberlady.’
But as we coaxed Dr Rennie closer to the present, his mind fogged. He blinked a watery eye and stared up at us, confused and unhappy. Beside it, his painted eye was gimlet sharp. It was as if the eye that looked to the present was dim and clouded, the eye that looked to the past was clear and unflinching. He frowned.
‘Aberlady’s dead, I think? I can’t recall. And there was something I had to tell someone, but I can’t remember who. It was something important too. Aberlady told me—’ His expression grew puzzled, and anxious. He twisted his hands together as he struggled to remember. ‘Don’t grow old, son,’ he said, blinking up at Will tearfully. ‘It’s a terrible business losing who you are.’
The Blood: What secrets lie aboard? (Jem Flockhart Book 3) Page 28
