I was relieved to be away, I could see that Will was too, though I knew we had to go back. We had to talk to Tom Golspie. Where had he been? Did he have any memory of his deeds? I could not believe so kind and gentle a man had been transformed into a murderer. And yet there was more to hashish than might be guessed – and he had eaten such quantities! Beside his chaise I had found the package I had brought up from the apothecary. It was quite empty. As far as I was aware he had consumed a massive twelve drachms of the sticky green paste in less than six hours. The stuff was so bitter I could not imagine how he had managed to ingest so much without being sick.
‘How long before Dr Golspie is lucid?’ said Will.
‘A while yet. He gravely underestimated the stuff, though I told him what to expect.’
‘Did you tell him he would go raving mad? That he would not even know his friends?’
‘I said it was imperative that he approach it with extreme caution, perhaps taking a little more each time until he had achieved the effect he was looking for. And I told him always to take it when someone was with him. The first time we saw him, when Rutherford had him confined, I think his wits were quite within reach. When we found him in his room with his vein sliced open he had clearly taken a much larger dose – on top of what he had already ingested. The effects speak for themselves.
‘Hashish has an interesting providence. Its excessive ingestion is associated with states of extreme violence in some eastern cultures, though I suspect there’s much that’s apocryphal in the interpretation. Of course, there are other variables – whether alcohol had been taken, the body weight of the patient – the usual things one might consider whether trying to ascertain the correct dose of anything. All these might make its effects more unpredictable.’
‘It’s an oriental concoction?’
‘No more so than opium. Culpeper mentions cannabis as a remedy for inflammations and as a general analgesic. The seeds can be beneficial for headaches.’ I put my hand to my brow. ‘I could do with some now.’
Will looked at me askance. ‘I hardly think so, Jem!’ He drained his coffee cup. ‘We have to go back. We have to talk to Tom. Oh Jem, I wish you’d never given him that package.’
‘Yes, well, what’s done cannot be undone.’
‘Do you think he murdered Dr Rutherford?’
‘I cannot say. You spoke to the basement attendant, I suppose? You spent the devil of a time down there.’
‘Yes,’ said Will. ‘Though what he said amounts to very little. Edward Eden spent three days in the same cell last week. Without the gag. It seems he had plenty to say against Dr Rutherford for killing his mice and putting him down there.’
‘There are many fingers pointing to Edward Eden. He hated Rutherford. He had a set of keys and could have gone wherever he pleased. He was, by his own admission, at large about the asylum all evening.’ I sighed. ‘I saw his mouse creeping into the mouth of one of Rutherford’s phrenology skulls.’
‘Not forgetting the fact that his handkerchief was covered in blood.’
‘Yes. But to kill a man? To mutilate the body? I cannot believe it of him any more than I can believe it of Tom Golspie.’
‘Some might say that both of those actions are more likely to be the work of a mad man than a sane one. Dr Hawkins intimated as much, and as the crime took place in an asylum, well, that in itself suggests an inmate as the most likely perpetrator.’
I said nothing.
‘You think it unlikely?’
‘I think it seems rather simple,’ I said. ‘Perhaps too simple, and because of that I think solving this riddle will, in all likelihood, be extremely difficult. But there are elements of all this that are so singularly grotesque that we do at least have some hope of uncovering the truth. It’s the unusual that sets a thing apart and makes it notable, and easier to explain. The commonplace, by its very ordinariness, is the most perplexing. But perhaps we might start with some obvious questions. How many people were involved, for example?’
‘You think this is the work of more than one?’
‘I’m not sure. Not yet. Perhaps there were two people. One who killed him, and one who mutilated his body.’
‘So we can’t assume them to be one and the same?’
‘Certainly, we can’t,’ I said. ‘Though the fact that the body was set out so neatly would lead me to assume that either one person is responsible for everything, or that the murder and the mutilation were carried out by individuals closely associated in some way.’
‘Once the fellow was dead one might assume that the main objective – his death – had been achieved. And yet—’
‘Exactly!’ I sat forward. ‘You have put your finger right upon it, Will, for in this case death was not enough. Instead, someone felt moved to disfigure the corpse, and to do so in an elaborate and systematic way. Is there a message here? A warning, perhaps? Or a sign of justice completed? Is it a ritual? If so, then at whom is it aimed? At one person? A group? And why kill Dr Rutherford at all? Was it something he did? Something he heard or saw? What do we know of the man? For the sake of Edward Eden, we must also ask whether anyone would really do such a thing to avenge the death of some pet mice.’
‘If they were a lunatic they might.’
‘But Edward Eden is not mad, he is simple. A more kindly fellow one is unlikely to meet with. Oh, it would be easy to blame him. But whoever it was who stitched and sliced made sure to remove all traces – there were no scissors, no needles, no thread. Are the mad so inclined to orderliness?’
‘Some of them,’ said Will. ‘Edward is fastidious.’
‘So was Dr Rutherford.’ I shrugged.
‘And we must not forget that . . . that thing, whatever it was, that you took from the fire.’
‘Yes,’ I said. I could feel it, still warm in my pocket, though I was reluctant to discuss what it might signify – at least, not until we had seen Dr Golspie again.
‘And the photograph—’
I took the image from my pocket book and passed it over. I could tell he was intrigued, puzzled. ‘Is there something—?’ I said.
‘I’m not sure.’ He stared at that curious ruined picture – at the awkward half-slumped posture, the grotesque tangled posy – ‘I’m certain I have never seen this before – who would forget if they had? And yet there is something—’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it will come to me. May I keep it?’
‘Of course.’ I sat back and watched the smoke from my pipe coil upward in a tall blue question mark. ‘Our reasoning should be based around what we know already – the real and concrete facts of the matter. We must be logical. And yet as the motivations that make human beings act in extreme ways are rarely rational, we must also bring our imaginations into play.’ I rubbed my hands together. I could not help it. I had no love for Dr Rutherford, and although I could not applaud the manner and circumstances of his death it presented me with an opportunity for thinking and reasoning, for detection and inquiry that suited my inquisitive mind. ‘We can leave nothing to chance. We can make no assumptions about anything or anyone. Whoever did this must be supremely confident – brazen almost. And clever. We should be in no doubt at all about that.’
‘But we will catch him,’ said Will. ‘For we are cleverer still.’
I said nothing. It was a mistake I had made before – allowing my arrogance to cloud my judgement, assuming that I would always be one step ahead of my adversary. My conceit had led me to the foot of the gallows. ‘“Him”?’ I said at last. I shook my head. ‘Nothing is certain, Will. Not even that.’
Angel Meadow Asylum, 18th September 1852
There was lampblack and tallow in sacks and barrels, and kegs of turpentine the size of hogsheads sitting in the yard. Goblin dragged these into the factory and positioned them about the hot cauldrons of boiling polish. I gathered shoes and boots – collecting the most dried-out specimens I could find – and dumped them about the floor as mounds of kindling. Upstairs, in the office, Mr Knight and Mr Day lay
where they had fallen. Mr Knight with the cobbler’s last beside his head, Mr Day with the sharp spike of the boot-maker’s awl projecting from his eye. A row of long black stitches sealed his mouth closed.
The factory and the workshop were dried out with years of warmth from the steam-heated blacking vats and they caught fire in an instant, the flames roaring and crackling. We watched the spectacle from the other side of the river, crouching out of sight as the place exploded. The smell – of burning fat and scorched leather – was fierce. The smoke was thick and black, acrid, and reeking of charred flesh.
Soon, small crafts appeared on the river, and shouts could be heard across the water. We saw men running along the bank – nightwatchmen from nearby warehouses. Would the flames devour the whole of the waterfront? But then there were plumes of water spraying onto the inferno. There was another explosion, and a ball of flame rose into the heavens, reflected like a gigantic red moon in the river’s dark waters. Inflamed by our night’s activities, the two of us danced like demons, our shadows black as devils on the ground behind us.
But the night was not over yet and we had more work to do. Mr Day lived in a terrace of brown flat-fronted buildings not far from his factory. The street had once been fashionable, its simple façade admired for its classical elegance. But fashions change and it had become outmoded, an undesirable location, the long row of houses as plain as a workhouse. For a while Goblin and I stood at the street corner watching. We were looking and listening for signs of life but Mr Day’s wife and daughter were away – he had told me as much himself and given it as the reason why he could stay late. I knew too that his servants had been given the night off – had he planned to take me home? The thought made me feel sick.
Equipped with Mr Day’s keys, which I had taken from the chain about his neck, we entered his house. Inside, everything felt as though it was coated in a film of grease, as if each evening Mr Day brought home a miasma of boot blacking from the factory. I rubbed my hands on my dress. I could not get the smell and the stickiness off my fingers, and in my mouth the oiliness of the rag still coated my tongue, so that I felt as though I would taste the stufffor ever. If I closed my eyes I could still see the dancing flames of the burning blacking factory against my eyelids. If I screwed them closed tightly, so that the flames were obliterated, I saw the face of Mr Day instead, his mouth stitched shut, the awl sticking from his eye like a spoon from a grapefruit. I still see him now, in my nightmares.
The drawing room was crammed with objects: small spindly-legged side tables, sideboards, embroidery frames, work baskets and chests of drawers. On every surface there were ornaments – vases, figurines, candlesticks, clocks. The mantel was cluttered with more of the same, the walls hung about with paintings and mirrors and murky examples of needlepoint – the ham-fisted handmork of Mr Day’s wife and daughter. Beside the door a tall clock chipped away sullenly at the time, whilst a small yellow bird sat silent in a cage at the window. Goblin and I had never seen such opulence before, and it was as though we had entered a magical cave filled with treasures. And yet we had to be cautious.
‘Take only what is small and valuable, ‘I whispered. ‘Coin and jewels. No plate, no candlesticks. They are too heavy to carry and too difficult to get rid of.’
’I knows a fella that can get rid o’ stuff,’ Goblin said.
I took his hand. ‘No,’ I said. ‘No one must know. It is our secret. You must promise, or all is lost.’
In Mr Day’s bedroom we found a chest. It was easily opened using the smallest key on Mr Day’s chain, and it was filled with coins stuffed into bags and tied with string. We emptied as much of it as we could into our pockets. Next, we visited Miss Day’s room and examined her wardrobe. I took two dresses, both of them new.
Only when we had left, when we had locked the door behind us and flung the keys into a drain, did I feel safe. Once we were back in the streets leading to the Prior’s I stopped. I took Goblin by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘You and I are bound together by blood and fire,’ I said. ‘They will hold us together for ever, ‘and I flung my arms about his neck.
‘I’ll always look after you, Kitty,’ he said, his cheek pressed against mine. ‘Always.’ I squeezed him tight. I was crying, though I would not let him see it. But Goblin could not save me from the thoughts that filled my head: I could still hear Mr Day’s scream echoing there, could still feel the warm spurt of his blood against my hand. His eyeball had put up no more resistance than a poached plum.
Chapter Seven
Despite Dr Rutherford’s death, the mundane commitments of our lives continued. I had prescriptions that demanded my attention and a batch of poke root ointment to make. Will had work to do too, for the plans for the House of Correction could not be avoided for ever. He sat at his drawing board while Gabriel and I worked at the bench. Customers came in and out. We had plenty of them, for the Flockharts had been well respected at St Saviour’s and there were many who were pleased that I had stayed in the neighbourhood after the infirmary had gone. That morning they were more numerous than ever. They knew that I supplied Angel Meadow with remedies, and that I was friends with Dr Hawkins, and the news of Dr Rutherford’s death was common currency about the neighbourhood already. I blamed Mrs Speedicut, aided and abetted by Gabriel, for we had seen the two of them whispering together outside the bakery as we came home. But I was not a gossip, even if my apprentice was, and I spent the morning shrugging off even the most persistent of inquirers. Most of them felt obliged to buy something trifling to cover up their nosiness, and we sold more peppermint lozenges and dandelion cough mixture in an hour than I usually sold in a month.
Will groaned as the door slammed closed for the umpteenth time. ‘This place is worse than a fairground this morning,’ he said. ‘I cannot concentrate.’
‘Gabriel?’ I said. ‘This is your doing?’
Gabriel’s face, rosy with the heat from the stove, appeared round the door to the storeroom. ‘Everyone knows that doctor’s dead. That tall one from Angel Meadow.’
‘Really?’ said Will. ‘And what’ve you heard, exactly?’
‘That he died horrible.’ His voice was a whisper and he covered his mouth with his hand. ‘We oughtn’t speak of it. I told Mrs Speedicut she shouldn’t speak of it neither, but she don’t listen to no one.’
‘She certainly shouldn’t have spoken of it to you,’ I said.
‘I’ll not peach.’ Gabriel looked from right to left in a theatrical manner, though there was no one in the apothecary but us. ‘Don’t want to be next!’
‘Why on earth would Dr Rutherford’s murderer be interested in you?’ said Will. He reached for his hat. ‘These matters are no concern of yours.’
Gabriel fell silent, his lips pressed together in a stubborn line. ‘It’s jus’ like Vicious Dick an’ the Accursed Stranger,’ he said. ‘In Tales of Violence and Blight—’
I clipped the back of his head with the flat of my hand. I had enough to think about without Gabriel’s foolish prattling. ‘You and your penny bloods,’ I said. ‘You should spend your money on something else. And your time.’
‘Where are you going?’ I said to Will as he pulled on his coat.
‘The House of Correction.’
I took up my bag. ‘I’ll come with you as far as the Rents. I have some errands to run, and if I get asked once more whether I have been up to Angel Meadow this morning I shall go mad myself.’ I turned to my apprentice. ‘Gabriel, since you’re partly the reason why so many people wish to come in and see us today, I will leave you here to attend to them.’
I had some preparations to take up to Prior’s Rents – mallow and chickweed salve for itchy skin conditions, some wormwood and black walnut powder against worms, and my own special preparation for scabies. Not that I could achieve much lasting improvement with anyone there. If the conditions of their lives remained mired in squalor, filth and hunger, what use were salves and tinctures? Will disliked me going into the Rents on my own, and
when he knew that’s where I was heading he insisted on coming with me.
We entered the place via a dismal, blackened street called Prior’s Fields. Foul alleyways branched off it, giving out onto small pestilent courts, or vanishing, ever deeper, into the crooked and teeming houses. The ground underfoot was a mire of straw, ordure, and muddy earth, scabbed with cobbles but devoid of paving. Pools of stagnant water lumped with refuse and shimmering with flies blotched the thoroughfare. Of lighting there was none, and they were not streets I would ever venture into after dark. Even during daylight the place was dim and murky, the sky overhead squeezed into a narrow grey ribbon. How anyone might live a life of cleanliness and decency here it was impossible to imagine. And yet those who made it their home were people, just as I was, just as Will or Dr Hawkins. Many of those to whom I gave my mixtures would share them randomly with others: any bottle of ‘medicine’ was seen as a panacea, as good for worms as it might be for the palsy, for the pains of childbirth or the hopeless agony of the cholera.
We toiled up steep rickety staircases, past damp walls and rotten doors, stepping over huddled groups of ragged children and piles of refuse. I gave a bottle of iron tonic to a tiny, cross-faced old woman so mounded with scarves and raggedy blankets and bits of ancient sacking that it was hard to tell where she ended and her bedding began. She had been in bed for a week already, enfeebled by a lifetime of bad diet, pestilent air and gin. She snatched the remedy with dirty fingers and yanked out the stopper with her hard wet gums. Sniffing the mixture cautiously, she pulled a face. She would have preferred a bottle of spirits. Perhaps it would have been more of a kindness to have provided one.
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