by S K Rizzolo
“He had a number of legal options. As to why the family wishes to isolate Miss Garrod, this may be a preparatory step to a hasty marriage once she has ‘recovered’ from her illness or a means of preventing any marriage at all. Or perhaps I’m wrong—and they lock her up because they do not wish to draw further attention from another death.” Buckler contemplated Lewis. “They may have believed it necessary to remove her before she could fall in love or elope with someone else.”
Penelope stepped closer. “Can they do this? Can they confine her against her will?”
The warmth of her arm pressed against his reminded Buckler that he must throw off his gloom. “They can. Tallboys is her legal guardian. He will have given his authorization, which is strengthened by his role as magistrate. The family may also have obtained a doctor’s certificate.”
“A medical certificate?” said Lewis. “What rot! No sane person can be treated like this in a free country. Sir, what’s the writ, the one you and Mr. Thorogood used for that man who had been imprisoned? You can try something of the sort for Marina, can’t you?” Again, he appealed to Buckler, and Buckler, seeing the concern behind the boy’s anger, fumbled for an explanation that might satisfy him.
“A writ of habeas corpus. It is seldom successful, and we have no legal standing. We are not relatives or even close friends of the family. Tallboys may intend private confinement for a single ‘lunatic,’ which is not subject to the same regulation—”
Lewis cut him off. “There must be something we can do. You give up too easily.”
“Lewis. Let Edward speak. You’re being rude,” cried Penelope.
“It’s fine,” said Buckler. The boy did not know about the fear that haunted him—the thought of that gently bred girl forced to live among strangers, perhaps treated cruelly, unable to make the smallest decision to govern her own life. He hid his shaking hands by thrusting them into his coat pockets, but he managed to answer with composure. “We may be able to get a judge to order an examination by a doctor of our choosing. This kind of thing does happen. Pretended friends, mercenary relations, and impatient heirs—they have all been known to arrange for the disappearance of people who stand in their way. There has been some progress: the registration of patients, visitation and licensing requirements, restrictions on the power of the madhouse keepers. Not enough. Secrecy and a family’s right to privacy often make oversight difficult. The relations may use a false name for the victim, for instance. And once confined, the victim is denied writing materials and sometimes…restrained. What must a rational mind suffer under these conditions?”
He gave a harsh laugh and when no one seemed inclined to comment, he continued. “Many of our finest medical minds seem convinced that we have a positive epidemic of insanity in England, especially, some say, among the youth and the poets. This, they claim, can be traced to English indulgence in luxury, our spirit of competition, even to an abundance of…love or a passion that maddens the soul.”
His voice choked on this last word. He saw that Penelope had tears on her cheeks, that Lewis seemed bewildered, that Chase did him the service of a friend by waiting calmly for him to finish while affecting not to notice anything wrong. It was this last kindness that steadied him. He got to his feet and wrapped an arm around Penelope. He kissed her cheek. “Enough talk. We must act before it is too late. John, will you see Tallboys again, or shall I? I’ll force feed him some law, if you think that will help.”
Chase frowned. “That won’t do any good. I’ve an errand in town that I hope will uncover the purchase of the poison. With more information, I can convince Tallboys to delay.”
“What makes you think he would stand against the family?” said Buckler. “If there’s a conspiracy, he may be one of the guilty ones. Penelope tells me he seems damnably fond of Anne Yates and Beatrice Honeycutt. None of them can be trusted to stand Miss Garrod’s friend.”
Chase rose, thrust his hat on his head, and looked around for his walking stick. “What choice do we have? I must try.”
Lewis said, “May I go with you, sir? I feel I must be doing something.”
Penelope smiled at Chase. “Yes, John. Let us do something.”
“Return to Laurentum and pack your things. Make your farewells in a leisurely fashion but arouse no suspicion. If I’m not back after an hour or so, go home and wait for me there.”
“What about me?” said Lewis.
Chase directed a stern look at him. “Go with your sister. Watch Miss Garrod’s door to see if any visitors are admitted. You may contrive to strike up a conversation with the guards. By God, Lewis, don’t make me sorry I trusted you.”
Lewis flushed a little. “I won’t, sir.”
“I appreciate that,” said Chase curtly. Penelope said nothing more. She left Buckler and went to give her hand to Chase. She bid them both goodbye, and Buckler read the tenderness in her face for both of them. Putting on her bonnet, she paused in front of the mirror above the hearth to assess her reflection with a small grimace, as if readying herself for a performance. She followed Lewis from the room.
His heart aching, Buckler watched her until the door closed behind them. “What can I do?” he said when he and Chase were alone. “Give me something to do to help that unfortunate young woman.”
Chase’s eyes went to Buckler’s black coat. “You will pay your respects to the memory of Hugo Garrod at the funeral. I imagine his lawyers will be present on this occasion.” He consulted his watch and restored it to his waistcoat pocket. “Draw them aside and drop a word in their ear about Miss Garrod’s plight. Make them listen. And find out if Ned Honeycutt knows about the plan to take Miss Garrod away. I’ll join you at the house as soon as I can.”
“Got it,” said Buckler. Some of his depression lifted. Together they would achieve some good, he thought. His friend, eager to depart, was already in motion.
But as Chase reached for the latch, the door flew open. The surgeon Aurelius Caldwell stood on the threshold, his face beaming with enthusiasm. “The landlord told me I’d find you gentlemen here.”
***
The graveside service over, Edward Buckler waited in the churchyard while a long line of carriages withdrew down the road back to London. He looked around. Some of the mourners lingered among the graves of the seventeenth-century victims of the Great Plague nestled among those of Roundhead soldiers killed in a battle fought near Clapham. Buckler had positioned himself next to Hugo Garrod’s altar tomb, trying to catch a word here and there of the conversation between the Reverend Samuel Tallboys, Ned Honeycutt, and a trio of lawyers, two of whom were the men who had waited in vain to see Garrod in his final hours. Tallboys had put off his cassock and surplice and now stood arm-in-arm with Honeycutt. The younger man’s face was pale and anxious, and Buckler had observed several stormy glances sent the clergyman’s way. But Honeycutt stood patiently under his grip and spoke when called upon to his uncle’s business acquaintances, friends, and the sprinkling of local gentry.
At another time, Buckler might have been eager to explore the churchyard’s antiquities. This was not the modern parish church of Holy Trinity, where Garrod had taken seats for his family to attend divine worship. Instead, the ceremony had been held in the older church, a thirteenth-century structure taken down except for one of the aisles and the transept. Still used for burials, this church had drawn a sizeable crowd today.
Buckler tried to seem lost in respectful contemplation of the inscription on Garrod’s black marble memorial tablet that must have been carved in advance. He hadn’t been able to get close to Honeycutt during or after the service. Now he watched him step into the family coach followed by Tallboys. Leaning from the door, Tallboys maintained a stream of apologies to the men within earshot. He was sorry, he said, about the lack of a cold collation at Laurentum since the family still suffered from the effects of the tragedy, Miss Garrod, in particular, being in poor health. “You will exc
use us, sirs,” he repeated over and over as he shook hands.
“Shabby, isn’t it?” Buckler heard a gentleman in a tall beaver hat whisper as he passed by. “When we’ve come out here to pay our respects.”
“Who do you suppose gets all the money? Is it to be the colored girl, after all?” responded his friend in a voice he likely thought was hushed but wasn’t.
“Shh…If so, they’ll marry her off right quick, you mark my words,” said the first.
“Pretty young lady,” said the other, “but not just what would take my fancy.”
“Lord no. A strange filly. No breeding, of course, on either side. Not sure I’d be tempted either, unless she came well gilded.”
Buckler heard no more. He returned his attention to the tomb. Under an arch supported by white marble columns was a medallion carved in stone, which framed a recumbent white marble figure in Roman dress. The medallion showed Garrod in profile, a laurel wreath on his head and a solitary mourner at his feet: a woman with large, doe-like eyes and a mouth eloquent of sorrow. In humble posture, she inclined gracefully toward the deceased, extending a skull in one palm. The mourner, Buckler had seen at once, was intended for Marina Garrod, bound to her father in death, as he supposed Penelope was bound to the living father who attempted to control her life from Sicily. What would be the end of it for Marina? Whether or not Samuel Tallboys had any inkling of a conspiracy against Miss Garrod, he would do nothing to help her unless confronted with indisputable evidence. Buckler saw this clearly and knew that the same would be true of the lawyers—narrow, efficient men who would not see beyond their duty to their client. It was likely they would refuse to speak to him at all.
Watching the remaining mourners file by, Buckler’s anger grew. Mixed with this anger was determination, a welcome feeling, for it did away with the sense of futility that had overcome him when Chase explained the girl’s plight. Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayers but spare us, Lord most holy, Tallboys had intoned during the service. What were the secrets of Hugo Garrod’s heart? He had released his daughter from slavery, cherished her, given her ease and luxury. And yet in his sugar cane fields in Jamaica, the dark men and women toiled on; they filled his coffers with more and more and more wealth. If her father’s heiress, Marina Garrod would own hundreds, perhaps thousands, of human beings. Buckler had read the abolitionists’ pamphlets. Like everyone else in England, he had consumed the stories of cruelty—the nightmare journeys across the ocean, the shackles, the whippings, the daily indignities inflicted on these people. All of this ought to sicken the heart and torment the conscience. Were he honest, he’d admit that he read the pamphlets, put them aside, and went on with his life. But now he wondered: did Hugo Garrod deserve to be spared? Had anyone ever bothered to ask this question?
At long last Tallboys vanished into the coach, and the three lawyers, apparently having decided to stretch their legs, set off on foot for Laurentum. Buckler followed.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Let me tell you how it was, Mr. Chase,” said Aurelius Caldwell, gesturing with his hands and pacing back and forth on the hearthrug. During Garrod’s final illness, Chase had learned to consider the surgeon a sensible and reliable man. He still did. But it seemed that science enraptured Caldwell like nothing else. Though Chase had sent Buckler to catch the lawyers at the funeral, he needed to leave on his own errand.
“Explain yourself, sir.” Chase pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time again, not concealing his impatience.
“Of course. You’re a busy man. First, we noted that the powder was gritty and had a milky whiteness.” Caldwell launched into a description that involved his friend the chemical gentleman tossing some of the sugar from the teapoy’s cut-glass bowl onto the fire. “There it was,” said Caldwell. “The distinctive garlic smell.” When Chase looked blank, he hastened to add, “Assuredly, it was the garlic smell. Then we saw the most remarkable thing, sir. My colleague Mr. Holt—a talented man of science—took a few grains of the powder and set them atop a penny, which he balanced over a candle flame. Indisputable. Unequivocal. When cooled, the coin bore a silvery sheen laid down by the fumes. In short, we saw Addington’s white flowers,” he finished in triumph.
“Cut line, Caldwell. I’m in a hurry.”
“I quite understand. We are fortunate in that the science has advanced since Mary Blandy poisoned her father’s gruel, yet Holt thought it appropriate to begin with the older tests. Addington observed the white flowers when he threw the powder on a hot iron and held cold iron over the rising fumes. The deposit resembled a burst of blooms, you see.” Caldwell saw that Chase was already at the door. “Shall I accompany you, sir? All will be made plain directly.”
Chase motioned him into the corridor, smiling with a grim humor. “You can do more than that. Have you got your gig with you?”
The surgeon seemed taken aback, but even that could not stem the flow of words. After they had hurried through the coffee room and spilled out into the yard, Caldwell said, “My friend Holt was not satisfied there, no indeed. He next did the color test—the silver nitrate—which resulted in a glorious yellow cloud that turned the solution the most distinctive shade of yellow you’ve ever seen.”
They mounted into the gig, the surgeon making no objection when Chase picked up the reins. The placid pony trotted down the lane as Caldwell resumed his report. “Unfortunately, the tests on the victim’s stomach contents and the other samples of effluent I had collected were inconclusive.” The surgeon’s face fell for a moment, then brightened. “On the other hand, you’ll be glad to hear that Holt is convinced in regard to the tests on the sugar. I trust his expertise absolutely; of that you may be confident, Mr. Chase. The tests are definitive.”
“Of what exactly?” said Chase, slanting a sidelong look at the man’s eager face with its pointed chin, ragged side-whiskers, and shiny, bald pate.
Caldwell grinned in delight. “Why, the poison was arsenic, just as I said it was.”
“You or your friend will testify to this?”
“Glad to, sir. One or both of us. Whatever you like.”
Chase absorbed the significance of this information. Would it be enough? Yes, he thought it would, for how could Tallboys claim that Marina had used a botanical poison to kill her father if Caldwell and his colleague were willing to swear the agent had been arsenic? Was this one of the reasons why the plans for her removal seemed rushed? Was she to be put out of reach before the test results could exonerate her? Now Chase faced a dilemma: should he hasten back to Laurentum with Caldwell’s testimony or go to London to interview the druggist who had sold the tonic? Logic dictated the former—he had no solid indication that the druggist could tell him anything to the purpose. But if the druggist could…
Swiftly, Chase made his decision, his mind busy with the implications. A thought occurred to him. “What of Miss Garrod’s composing draught?”
The pony whickered at its freedom, the dust swirling around them as they joined the London road. So far, his companion, intent on sharing his own news, had asked no questions. Fanning himself, Caldwell replied, “Oh, the draught is the usual sort of stuff, but it seems to contain more opiate than is wise.” The surgeon gave a cough, frowning. “I must have a word with her guardians about that.” Thankfully, his message delivered, Caldwell seemed content to sit quietly. But suddenly he sat up straighter on the bench. “Where in thunder are we going, sir?” he demanded.
***
Wagons, carts, coaches, and gigs struggled over London Bridge, sometimes pulling in the wrong directions so that all traffic ground to a halt. Pedestrians in long ant trails crossed to and from the Surrey side of the Thames by footpaths. Whips cracked; wheels rumbled on stone; carters and hackney coachmen swore; the river roared and frothed under the human tumult. The noise was so deafening that Chase had to shout to make himself heard. “I need proof of Miss Gar
rod’s innocence,” he said.
“By tracing the purchase of the arsenic?” shouted back Aurelius Caldwell. “Excellent notion, if you can accomplish it. The druggists are not required to record such purchases. They do as they damned well please. Some refuse to sell poisons to those they don’t know; others are not so choosy. Blasted scoundrels calling themselves chemists and druggists—not a one of them has a particle of real medical training.” Once Caldwell had heard the story about Marina Garrod, the surgeon, with quick sympathy, had thrown himself into the spirit of the adventure. However, he must have been conscious of the risk to his professional practice and reputation should he make an enemy of a powerful family.
Chase spoke into his wind-reddened ear. “Are you willing to examine the patient? If you compose a report that she’s lucid, locking her up would look bad for the family.”
“Well,” Caldwell replied, shrugging philosophically, “I suppose I am. But you must know, Mr. Chase, rich people are not so easily turned aside from their purposes. At the very least, I’ll tell them what I think of giving strong opiates to young girls.”
“They wanted her quiet and biddable.” Chase thought of Marina as she faced the crowded coroner’s court and smiled at the memory. “It didn’t work.”
“Got spirit, doesn’t she?”
Caldwell sat back to nurse his own reflections, and they rattled off the bridge, barely avoiding another stoppage when the wheel of a southbound dray snapped and a bed piled high with cabbages tilted drunkenly over the pavement. Chase guided the gig around the vehicle and shook a fist at a rude driver who’d thought to seize the right of way from him, all the while telling himself that he was a fool to take the risk of being gone for several hours. Perhaps he should have stayed at Laurentum, though it was difficult to see precisely what he could have done there, given that he’d been sent about his business. At any rate, it was too late. Shaking off these thoughts, he kept his attention on the road.
