The Bone Jar

by S W Kane

  ‘Where was this Narcosis Room?’ he asked, hoping she’d corroborate what Connie had told him.

  ‘In the private ward, Keats Ward.’ Margaret turned to look at Kirby and began reciting a poem. ‘Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul. “To Sleep”, by John Keats.’

  ‘Were there any . . .’ He hesitated, aware that this might be difficult for the retired nurse. ‘Were there any accidents?’

  Margaret fell silent and stared out of the window towards the floodlit pond. Kirby waited patiently, trying to read her face. It was as though her mind were elsewhere. After a few minutes, she slowly began to nod her head and whispered a barely audible ‘Oh yes.’

  Kirby swallowed, feeling like he was on the brink of something. ‘Did any of them involve any of the patients in the letters?’

  A glass of sherry lay untouched on the side table, to which she now pointed.

  He picked up the small glass and passed it to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She took the glass in her bony hand – which he now noticed had a slight tremor – and sipped the golden liquid. He found himself wondering what vintage it was.

  ‘There was a girl and a young boy, possibly others,’ she began. ‘The girl was the daughter of one of Brayne’s cronies. It was all handled very discreetly.’ She wet her lips again with the sherry and passed the glass back to Kirby, who placed it on the table.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘She died during childbirth.’

  ‘At Blackwater?’ Kirby was shocked, unaware that the hospital had a maternity ward.

  Margaret nodded. ‘Pass me those letters again.’

  He took out the letters and handed them to her, and watched as she went through them one by one. ‘This one,’ she said, nodding as she examined its contents. ‘I remember now, Sarah Carswell.’

  Kirby took the letter, which began My Darling Sarah and was signed Your loving Tom. It was the only one out of the fifteen that didn’t have a corresponding name on the envelope. He had assumed that Ena must have lost the original envelope and stuffed it into one she had spare.

  ‘The envelope we found this one in was addressed to Catherine Edwards,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps they didn’t want anyone to know that she was there. As I said, it was all handled very discreetly.’

  ‘You mean covered up?’ asked Kirby.

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘Who was Tom – her boyfriend?’

  ‘I had very little to do with Sarah, but she did have a young man who came to visit her. Different class to her, so I doubt her family approved. It could have been him.’

  ‘Do you remember his surname?’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘I didn’t even remember his name until you showed me the letter. Poor lad, he was smitten with her.’

  ‘What year was this?’

  She thought for a minute. ‘It must have been in the mid-sixties. I can’t be more specific than that.’

  ‘What happened to the baby?’

  ‘He was sent away, to an orphanage. Ena saw to that.’

  Kirby was incredulous. ‘Why on earth did the family allow that – what about the father, Tom?’

  ‘Poor man had no say. The daughter was an embarrassment, and I think the family simply wanted shot of the entire situation. At least, the father did.’

  Christ, thought Kirby. What sort of family did that? ‘Can you remember which orphanage the baby was sent to?’

  She began to move the blanket off her legs as though she needed to get up. ‘I don’t – it was all so long ago.’

  ‘Let me help,’ said Kirby, and he took the blanket and folded it over the back of her chair. ‘You mentioned a young boy—’ Suddenly a commotion broke out, distracting them both, and someone let out a wail followed by breaking glass. Kirby turned around to see an elderly gentleman being led out of the room by two care workers. The man looked distressed and confused. God save me from ending up in a place like this, as posh as it is with its vintage sherry and floodlit bloody pond. He saw Theresa making her way over towards them, tapping her watch, indicating it was time for him to leave. ‘The boy, Miss Halliday?’ he prompted.

  ‘Oh, yes. He was young, about the same age as Raymond, anorexic. He had no family or friends and had come from an orphanage. Raymond took a shine to him. Two lost souls.’ She shook her head. ‘So sad.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I wasn’t privy to the details; all I knew was that he died during the Deep Sleep Therapy. Gregory Boothe was his name. Raymond was distraught. He’d recently lost his mother and then that happened.’

  ‘Are you nearly done, Inspector?’ said Theresa Bethell, who had now joined them. ‘Only it’s getting late.’

  Kirby would have liked to hear more about Gregory Boothe, but he stood up and turned to Margaret, who was struggling to get out of her chair. ‘Here, let me—’

  She waved him off and stood unsteadily. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Margaret, you know that you should have your frame with you. What have I told you?’ Theresa turned to Kirby. ‘She’s so stubborn,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘You fuss too much. Let me be.’ Margaret held out a bony hand to Kirby. ‘Good night, Detective Kirby.’

  Kirby shook her hand and was surprised by how strong her grip was. ‘You’ve been a great help. If I need to ask you anything else, may I call you here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He thanked the old nurse again and gave her his card just in case. He told Theresa that he would make his own way out.

  He was waiting for one of the staff to unlock the front door when something suddenly occurred to him. He rushed back towards the room he’d just come from as Margaret and Theresa emerged.

  ‘Sorry, one more thing and I’ll promise I’ll leave you in peace,’ he said, putting on his best smile. ‘You mentioned the patients were sedated. Can you remember any of the drugs used?’

  ‘There were so many,’ the old nurse said. ‘Mainly barbiturates . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘I see,’ said Kirby, disappointed. ‘Thank you.’ He was about to go when Margaret stopped him.

  ‘But there was one,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t go amiss here sometimes.’ She cast a mischievous look at Theresa. ‘Long out of use now, of course. Ena swore by it.’

  Kirby found himself holding his breath as Margaret recalled the name.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Mandrax. Or, as the Americans called it, Quaaludes.’

  CHAPTER 30

  It was late when Kirby got back to the boat. It felt like an icebox, so he whacked on the heating and made hot chocolate, the thick Italian stuff you could stand a spoon up in, adding a more-than-generous slug of rum. After his visit to Littledene Care Home, he’d spent an hour or two at Mount Pleasant writing up his report and filling Anderson in on what Margaret Halliday had told him. They’d also done a quick search on Sarah Carswell and Gregory Boothe. Boothe’s name yielded nothing but they got lucky with Sarah. She’d been the daughter of Duncan and Miranda Carswell, both now deceased, and had a sister, Helen. It had been too late to call the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths, so the details would have to wait. However, Duncan Carswell had been a man of some influence and warranted his own Wikipedia entry. And that was where Kirby had found some rather significant information.

  Duncan Carswell had sat on the Blackwater Asylum board of governors and had been a keen supporter of Alistair Brayne’s work, doing much to facilitate his career. The bit that caught Kirby’s eye, however, was where the Carswells had lived – Marsh House.

  Kirby plonked himself on the sofa and put his feet up, spooning a mouthful of the thick, rum-infused chocolate into his mouth. The stuffed three-legged fox eyed him as he went over in his mind what Margaret Halliday had told him. First off was that Ena had lied to her colleagues at the hospice about visiting her, which meant that Ena had been deceiving people right up until the day she died. Then there was h
er relationship with Dr Alistair Brayne. Whether or not he really was the father of Karen ‘Onesie’ McBride was open to speculation, and given Ena’s propensity for lying it could easily have been another one of her fantasies. The death of Sarah Carswell, however, was most definitely not a fantasy. Exactly what Ena’s involvement had been in that tragedy he had yet to discover, but if it turned out that Ena had been responsible in some way, then Sarah’s boyfriend Tom Ellis, the father of her child – not to mention the child itself – would both have a motive for killing her. Gregory Boothe had apparently had no family or friends, which if true ruled out that connection. And then there was the Mandrax. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that Ena kept her patients sedated with Quaaludes, only to be permanently silenced by them herself?

  Sarah Carswell seemed to Kirby to be the key to all this – or rather, the only key he had. One question, in particular, had been rattling about in his head ever since he left Mount Pleasant, and that concerned Charles Palmer’s recently deceased mother, Mrs Linehan – was she a Carswell? The Carswells could have sold up years ago, the house changing ownership every bloody year for the past thirty, for all he knew. He flipped open his laptop and typed Helen Linehan Carswell into the search engine, and clicked ‘Return’.

  A smile tugged at his lips as he read the results, and he gave the fox the thumbs up. Richard Linehan MP had, in 1967, married Helen Carswell, daughter of Duncan and Miranda Carswell of Marsh House, Battersea. So Helen had been Sarah’s sister, which in turn made Charles Palmer Sarah’s nephew and a cousin to her mystery son. Margaret Halliday hadn’t been able to remember the name of the orphanage that he’d been sent to, but perhaps Charles Palmer could.

  Kirby scooped out the last drops of chocolate and was thinking about having another rum, straight up this time, when his phone started ringing; it was Isabel.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I saw your lights on.’

  ‘Yeah. This Blackwater case, it’s . . . complicated. How’re you? Been out?’

  ‘Just a few drinks at the studio.’ She paused. ‘You want me to come over?’

  Kirby closed his eyes and did his best not to think about what would happen if she did. ‘No – I mean, yes, I’d love you to, but . . . sorry, Isabel, this case . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, don’t worry. How was your mother – did you manage a visit?’

  ‘Yeah. She was, well, weird.’ He’d been so caught up in the case that his visit now seemed like days ago.

  ‘Did you find out what’s wrong?’

  ‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m worried it’s dementia.’

  ‘In that case, she needs to see a doctor, Lew. Will she go?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Good. Changing the subject, you’ll never guess who I have a meeting with next week,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Patrick Calder.’

  ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ asked Kirby, impressed.

  ‘I’d like to say it’s because of my persuasive personality, although I doubt it. I don’t actually know – he just changed his mind. Who cares, he’s agreed to meet and that’s what matters.’

  ‘Maybe he’s found a way he can use the situation for his own ends.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  Kirby laughed. ‘No, is it that obvious? But it’s good he’s agreed to talk to you. I’m pleased.’

  After chatting for a while longer they said goodnight, and he thought about calling his father but it was late by now. He’d tried a few times during the day and had the distinct feeling his dad was avoiding him. So, instead, he googled ‘Deep Sleep Therapy Blackwater’ and was surprised when an article popped up about unexplained patient deaths during treatment. Mostly it referred to institutions in America, but one section mentioned Blackwater in some detail. It seemed that several incidents had taken place there over the years, not just related to DST – unexplained deaths, the suicide of a young nurse, allegations of abuse – none of which, as far as he could make out, had ever been proven. One thing that did strike him was how confident and charismatic Brayne had been. The doctor had evidently been a maverick, but it was only after his death and the passing of time that people had begun to voice their concerns about his unorthodox – not to mention experimental – methods. No wonder he’d taken all his files with him when he retired. Photographs showed him to be somewhere between Charles Dance and Christopher Lee, and Kirby had no problem picturing him walking among his sleeping patients with the coldness of a vampire.

  After another hour trawling the internet for information about Alistair Brayne, Kirby eventually crawled into bed. The river was still, the boat barely moving, but he could still detect the feeling of suspension that being on board gave him and that he found so comforting. He thought of Isabel, on her own boat at the end of the pier, and a pang of longing surged through his body, which almost had him up and running along the jetty. Instead, he focused on his next move – tomorrow he’d try to trace Tom, the man Sarah Carswell had run off with and who had fathered her child, as well as trying to trace the child itself. The obvious place to start was with Charles Palmer.

  With no family and no medical records, Gregory Boothe was more problematic. And then there was Ena’s involvement with Deep Sleep Therapy. It was all but forgotten about in the public domain, but the laying out of the body in Keats Ward suggested someone hadn’t forgotten. The question was, who?

  CHAPTER 31

  Early the next morning, Kirby was at his desk at Mount Pleasant, eating a bacon sandwich ‘Anderson style’ – mustard, no ketchup – as he waited for Births, Marriages and Deaths to call him back. He’d spoken to them as soon as he’d got in, and they’d promised to call back with information on the Carswell family. He’d also called his father, who still wasn’t picking up at home – or on his mobile. Where the hell was he?

  Kirby’s phone rang and he grabbed it without checking who it was, hoping it might be his dad.

  ‘It’s Linda Maltby from Births, Marriages and Deaths. I have the information that you requested.’

  ‘Great. Hang on.’ He grabbed a pen. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Duncan and Miranda Carswell were married in 1932 and had their first daughter, Sarah, which is the one you specifically asked about, in 1942. Their second daughter, Helen, was born five years later, in 1947.’

  Kirby scribbled the dates down on a notepad. ‘Okay, so no other children, just the two girls?’

  ‘That’s right. Sarah died in 1964, the same year that she gave birth to a son, Ian Thomas Carswell. We have no other records for him, just his birth certificate.’

  ‘Does it say where he was born?’ asked Kirby.

  ‘Let me see . . . Blackwater Hospital, Battersea. The father wasn’t noted.’

  ‘What about cause of death for Sarah, are there any details?’

  ‘None. They weren’t always noted back then. You’d have to look at her medical file for that information, which, as I’m sure you know, would be confidential.’

  Kirby underlined cause of death on his notepad twice. ‘What about the other sister, Helen? What do you have on her?’

  ‘Let me see . . . Helen married a Richard Mark Linehan in 1967 and there were no children. Richard died in 1998.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Kirby thought he’d misheard her. ‘Did you say no children?’

  ‘That’s right. And she died last year, December 17th.’

  ‘Does it say where she died?’

  ‘Marsh House, Battersea. Sounds like a care home,’ said Linda.

  ‘And there’s no other family?’

  ‘Not immediately obvious, no. Duncan and Miranda Carswell were both only children. Helen’s husband, Richard Linehan, had a brother, but he died a bachelor in 1995.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. What about Gregory Boothe?’

  ‘Born in 1951 to Alice Boothe, who died a month later, and the boy himself died in 1968. Father listed as unknown.’

  ‘Thanks, Linda – you’ve been a great help. Can you ema
il me this information?’ He gave her his email address and hung up.

  Kirby remained still for a long moment staring at all the notes on his pad. Eventually, he got up and walked over to the window. In stark contrast to the day before, today was bright and sunny and the sky a brilliant blue. An aeroplane came into view, leaving an Arctic-white vapour trail in its wake. The post he’d seen on the small table in the hall at Marsh House had been addressed to Mrs H. Linehan, who Palmer had said was his mother. Kirby stood and watched until the vapour trail had disappeared completely, which could have been seconds or minutes, he had no idea. He went back to his desk just as the office door flew open, almost banging off its hinges.

  Anderson’s strides could eat a room whole, the small floor space of the Mount Pleasant office gobbled up in three easy movements. ‘Oh, morning,’ said Anderson, flopping down at his desk opposite Kirby’s. ‘You’re in early. That an Anderson Special?’ He nodded at the half-eaten sandwich on Kirby’s desk. ‘I thought you were more of a bircher muesli man – keep you fighting fit for that new girl of yours.’ Anderson’s eyes caught sight of the notes scribbled on Kirby’s pad and he pointed. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘BMD called about Sarah Carswell,’ said Kirby, glad to be off the bircher muesli subject. Anderson had an irrational hatred of the stuff and had ribbed him mercilessly ever since he carelessly mentioned he quite liked it. ‘She had a sister, Helen Linehan.’

  ‘Hang on, Helen Linehan. Remind me . . . Palmer’s mother?’

  ‘Yes – and no.’

  Anderson frowned. ‘The bacon’s turned your brain, you’re not making sense.’

  ‘Yes as in he told us she was his mother, but no because she didn’t have any kids.’

  ‘Maybe Palmer was adopted.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘What about Sarah’s son, anything on him?’