No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  I tossed about all night on my pillow—stuffed with common duck feathers and certainly not goose down—but in the morning made myself presentable enough to appear confident before my staff.

  I started by summoning Miss Jarrett, the librarian, to my study. Although small, it contained a glass-paned door that let in light from the corridor wall sconces and led to a small balcony overlooking Upper Harley Street.

  I was particularly curious as to why Miss Jarrett had not been at her post the previous day. The librarian trudged her way into the study, her eyes downcast as if on her way to her own execution. I immediately wondered if she was hiding something and decided to try to startle it out of her.

  “Sit down, Miss Jarrett. I shall be forthright with you. I found Nurse Bellamy yesterday afternoon in the library, the space that you manage. I should like to know where you were for so long that she could have been brought in there and hanged without you knowing of it.”

  “I-I-I was in the basement, ah, I was a bit thirsty and decided to seek out a bit of tea, you understand…” The librarian shifted nervously in the oak armchair she occupied.

  I frowned at the librarian. “That’s all? You left your post to fetch tea?”

  Miss Jarrett dared to look up at me. “I was also hungry, Miss Nightingale. I hadn’t had anything since breakfast…” Her voice faltered.

  I would have to add strict staff mealtimes to my list of hospital improvements. But for now, I needed to know about more than the librarian’s eating habits.

  “How well were you acquainted with Nurse Bellamy?” I asked.

  Miss Jarrett shrugged. “Not very, Miss Nightingale. She wasn’t too friendly.”

  “Do you know if she had any family?”

  The librarian wrinkled her nose as if in careful thought. “Not that I can remember. She sometimes wore a locket around her neck. Maybe it had an image in it of her mum and dad … or maybe a beau?” she added hopefully.

  I couldn’t recall that Bellamy had been wearing any jewelry when I had found her body, but perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed. However, a photograph would have been a frightfully expensive item for her to have been carrying around. I would have to see whether she still wore this locket.

  “What did the other nurses think of her?”

  Miss Jarrett considered this for a few moments, finally meeting my gaze as she spoke. “She was a peculiar sort, you know?”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “A bit of a loner. Didn’t want to associate with us much. Some of us planned to go see The Barber and the Beadle at the Pavilion Theatre about a week ago, and she wouldn’t go. Said she was too busy for the likes of us.”

  I was skeptical. “She said it just like that?”

  “Well, maybe not exactly so. It was right snippy, I will say that.”

  “Were the others offended?” I wondered if Miss Jarrett was either being overly sensitive or if she was trying to provide me with a story she thought I’d like.

  “I can’t say, Miss. I do remember that Nurse Wilmot told Nurse Bellamy that it was her last invitation.”

  Wilmot! That was it, not Wilson or Williams. I made a surreptitious note on a piece of paper at my elbow.

  I asked a few more questions, but the librarian seemed to have nothing else to offer. It would probably be the other nurses who would be able to give me real insight into Nurse Bellamy’s life.

  I considered admonishing Miss Jarrett again for not being at her post the previous day but saw no point in it. Instead, I instructed the librarian to ask one of the nurses to come to my study.

  “Which one should I fetch?” she asked.

  “Anyone; it doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “Anyone?” She looked doubtful. “Just … tap someone on the shoulder?”

  “Yes, yes, just bring up one of the nurses.”

  She rose to leave. “And Miss Jarrett,” I added, more kindly this time. “Please go straight there.”

  The librarian blushed furiously and nodded. I doubted she’d be able to refrain from disobeying the order by stopping off to see what our cook was doing. Actually, my own stomach grumbled at that moment, and I began to wonder myself what Mrs. Roper might be working on.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nurse Wilmot sat before me about fifteen minutes later. Unlike Miss Jarrett, who had studiously contemplated the floor for most of my interview with her, Nurse Wilmot was pert and bold. I disliked her more with each passing moment, especially since being in an enclosed space with the woman was bringing tears to my eyes. Did the nurse not realize her own stench?

  I stood and went to the balcony door, throwing it open to let in air. I figured I stood a better chance of surviving the smuts that were sure to come swirling in than I did the poisonous miasma Nurse Wilmot was emitting. How was it that a young woman who couldn’t possibly be more than twenty-five years of age was already so repugnant?

  I knew that Wilmot had come to the Establishment through typical circumstances: both parents dead and distant relations tired of supporting her. The Establishment provided a room and a wage, and it was of no relevance to the family whether Nurse Wilmot was suitable for the work.

  It was difficult to tell yet the extent to which Nurse Wilmot was one who resented her circumstances and expressed it in a brash personality, or if that brashness had played a part in her relatives’ decision to scuttle her off somewhere.

  The gaze from her sharp brown eyes was one of challenge. “You sent for me, Florence?” she said with impudence.

  “Miss Nightingale,” I corrected her. Already Wilmot was testing the bounds of my patience. “You will not be so familiar with me, Nurse.”

  Wilmot lowered her gaze briefly, but I knew there was no sincere remorse in it. I would have to watch this one very carefully.

  “I suppose you know why you are here?” I prompted her to start the interview.

  Wilmot nodded. “Because of Nurse Bellamy.”

  “Yes. You knew her?”

  “We all work together here, don’t we?” A very caustic response, one I would ignore for the moment.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Mebbe a year. It’s not real important, is it?” She lifted a shoulder to let me know how inconsequential the question was. That shoulder was covered in a chartreuse yellow poplin that had seen better days but was still serviceable. I imagined it had been a parting gift from her exhausted and guilt-ridden relatives, although the putrid shade of it—making the nurse’s already sallow complexion even more waxy—practically implied that her relations had been playing a joke on her with such a hideous gift. Perhaps I was judging Nurse Wilmot a bit harshly, given the woman’s circumstances, but it was difficult for me not to meet the woman’s sarcasm with invective of my own.

  “Do you happen to know when Nurse Bellamy came to work here?” I asked, maintaining my temper, which was attempting to claw its way out and swallow me whole.

  “She’s newer than me. She’s been here about six months. Oh, she was here about six months. I guess she no longer is.” She offered a toothy smile, which demonstrated that one of her front teeth was much shorter than the other, as though its development had been stunted. Much like her manners.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “And what did you know of her personal habits? Did she have many friends? Were there any gentlemen interested in her?”

  “She weren’t much for friendliness. As for a beau, I remember once seein’ Caroline—I mean, Nurse Bellamy—slippin’ out through the kitchens one evenin’. Her room is next ta mine, and I heard her return in the wee hours of the mornin’. I always wondered if she sneaked out ta meet someone.”

  This revelation deserved further questioning.

  “How did you happen to see her leaving through the kitchens? What were you doing down there at night?”

  Wilmot was nonplussed for only the briefest of moments before responding carelessly, “I remember I was a bit green around me gills that day. I skipped me dinner but was hungry later. That’s how I en
ded up there.”

  Was she telling the truth? I couldn’t be sure.

  “You said your room was next to hers, so you must have seen her frequently. Did you notice anything else that Nurse Bellamy did?”

  “I had me own business; she had hers. I’m not one for pryin’ inta others’ affairs.” Wilmot sat back in her seat, supremely satisfied with her performance.

  It was then that I noticed the nurse’s fingernails, which were encrusted with dirt. Quite unacceptable. I was quickly growing weary of this chit, no matter what sort of discontented background she might have. Nurse Wilmot was in desperate need of training, and her lessons would begin immediately.

  I folded my hands on the desk and said quietly, “Nurse, are you of the impression that I am an idiot?”

  The question startled her. “What?” was all she managed to say.

  “Do you believe that I am so foolish that I would permit you to behave like a churl in my presence without any repercussions for you?”

  “I never said that, Miss Nightingale.”

  “Is it your opinion that because I have not been here long I am not fully aware of when I am being flimflammed by someone? Do you also think that I am not capable of discipline?”

  I leaned forward to make my next point. “If you wish to be sent back to your family in disgrace, I am more than happy to oblige.”

  Wilmot shifted once more in her seat, this time uneasily, but kept her gaze steady. “It wouldn’t matter to me, Miss Nightingale, whether I remain here or go back ta my aunt and uncle. Either place means me drying up an old spinster.”

  Wilmot rose without permission, thus concluding the conversation. After she was gone, I stayed at my desk a considerable time, thinking, with no regard to the layer of coal dust settling down over my desk.

  That girl was going to be trouble.

  * * *

  After Nurse Wilmot, I chose to remain alone for a time to gather my thoughts. As was my nature, I pulled some sheets of paper from my desk and uncapped my fountain pen. I am a firm believer that by collecting data and compiling it into tables, one can analyze and come up with the answer to nearly anything. I am, in fact, quite certain that disease outbreaks can be halted by studying the characteristics of who becomes afflicted, where they live, and what is in the air they breathe.

  I had explained my methods on many occasions, but few in the medical community were doing more than patting me on the head as though I were a puppy who had just fetched and dropped a toy at its master’s feet. Among other goals that I kept to myself, it was my great hope that in my new position as superintendent of a recuperation facility, I could finally prove the value of my tables and charts.

  For now, though, perhaps I could make sense of Nurse Bellamy’s death using my methods. I plotted out one chart with a list of the Establishment’s employees down the left side, and their responsibilities—nurse, cook, manservant, etc.—across the top. In the intersections I would indicate whether the employee was friendly with Nurse Bellamy. As I interviewed more of the staff, perhaps I could establish that the nurse tended to associate with certain types of people or in certain areas of the hospital.

  It was a weak start, but most of my charts began that way.

  I was suddenly reminded of having seen Nurse Hughes coming down the hall away from the general direction of the library just before I discovered Bellamy’s body. Was it possible the nurse knew something or had seen anything? Nurse Hughes would be next on the list of interviewees.

  As I put down my pen, a face appeared in the doorway. I checked the watch pinned to my dress. The undertaking company had been punctual to a fault ever since my family had known them, which is to say since Graham Morgan’s grandfather, then his father, and now the young man before me, had been serving us.

  I greeted him cordially. “Ah, Mr. Morgan, thank you for coming. We have a sad situation here, I’m afraid.”

  After accepting his congratulations for my new position, I led him into the hallway. I was surprised to find an attractive, dark-haired woman waiting there, dressed in the layers of black that signified either mourning or the undertaker’s trade.

  Graham Morgan stood behind the woman, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Miss Nightingale, this is my wife, Violet. We were married last week, and she is working with me.”

  Violet Morgan had a surprisingly firm grip as she shook hands with me. I held her clasp for a moment too long, though, as I took in the image before me: the handsome young merchant gazing adoringly on his beautiful new wife. Such an enviable marriage would theirs be, between a husband and wife who would work alongside each other the rest of their days. There would certainly be children and bickering arguments and holiday trips and long nights wrapped up in each other’s arms.

  I imagined myself in Violet’s position, with Richard standing behind me, grinning deliriously in happiness at having made me his bride, as I leaned back against his broad shoulders, letting his spicy cologne envelop me. My eyes misted to think of what had not transpired, what would never transpire. If only that constable hadn’t been here the day before to dredge up—

  “Miss Nightingale?” Morgan asked in concern, breaking into my reverie. “Are you quite all right?”

  I blinked away my useless thoughts and tearful regrets. “Of course. Let me take you to the body.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Nurse Bellamy’s body had certainly not improved overnight, but at least it wasn’t starting to rot. I waited as Morgan and his new wife inspected the bloated corpse, impressed at how fearless the young woman was at the sordid example of death that lay before her. She would have made an excellent nurse.

  “What is your opinion?” I asked, knowing they would understand exactly what I meant.

  Morgan shook his head in deep concern. “This was no suicide, Miss Nightingale.”

  “No,” I sighed. “It wasn’t.”

  I remembered that I needed to check for the locket. Morgan had removed the noose, and it was plain that there was no necklace there. I didn’t bother asking him if he’d found it upon her, since there was no imprint of it on her skin, which would have been readily evident had the locket been trapped under the noose.

  Either the murderer had stolen it or she simply hadn’t been wearing it at the time of her death. I needed to go through Nurse Bellamy’s belongings to search for it. Maybe it would provide me with a clue as to her background.

  “How do we reach her kin?” Morgan inquired, as his wife gently wrapped Nurse Bellamy inside the bed’s blanket.

  “I don’t know of any relations.”

  He gave me a sorrowful look. “So not only unconsecrated ground if she is officially a suicide, but a pauper’s burial.”

  Violet Morgan looked up from where she was gently patting Nurse Bellamy’s face before shrouding it with the blanket, seemingly affected by the ignominious end for the nurse.

  “Yes, it looks as if Nurse Bellamy has been served a double helping of injustice,” was all I could manage.

  Once the Morgans had taken Nurse Bellamy away, I went to her room on the third floor and surveyed it, deciding where to begin my search. However, I had hardly put my hand on the key protruding from Nurse Bellamy’s thickly painted wardrobe when I heard a throat clearing noisily from the doorway.

  I turned, dismayed by whom I saw there. It was Roderick Alban, an influential member of the Establishment’s men’s committee. By the glowering expression on his face, I knew that he had learned of the nurse’s death, and that my life henceforth would become adverse enough to make me envy the now-deceased Nurse Caroline Bellamy.

  “Mr. Alban, how may I help you?” I asked, folding my hands demurely in front of my waist. I hoped my calm voice and demeanor would placate him.

  The fussily dressed Roderick Alban didn’t enter the room but chose to chastise me from the doorway. His dark hair, tinged with gray, was perfectly coiffed. His face was lined from all forty-eight years of his life, but it only served to make him more handsome. And somehow more a
cidic. Mr. Alban was like a bottle of vinegar on a shelf, never decaying or changing composition but always maintaining his bitter bite. While I was glad he didn’t approach me, it was also impossible to escape him.

  “It has come to my attention that a tragedy has befallen the Establishment,” he said. “A tragedy never known in the three years it was located in Cavendish Square. What have you done?”

  I had hardly opened my mouth to respond when he forged ahead, seemingly determined to bring me to heel. “You’ve hardly darkened the door to this place and already there are women committing suicide here. How can we endure the bad reputation that will ensue from this? Do you know how much I have personally invested in this project, not to mention how much I have raised from investors? I ask you again, what have you done to drive them to such despair in only a week?” The man’s voice became deeper as he vented his anger. And yet Alban had a remarkable capacity for appearing civilized and polished. It was disconcerting.

  “It would seem the misgivings I expressed to Lady Canning about employing an unmarried, inexperienced young woman for such a responsible position were well-founded.” His lips curled into a feral smile.

  I had turned thirty-three years old in May, so I was hardly a naive little miss. But even my parents had harbored serious doubts and misgivings about my ability to lead a hospital—no matter how small—not to mention the appropriateness of it all. They had finally given their grudging permission, but only after I had argued with them nearly my entire adult life about my desire to enter nursing. My sister, Parthenope, still sent me letters full of hysterics over my insensitive and coldhearted decision to abandon the family for “the profession of prostitutes.” Nursing had long been considered work that was just a step above harlotry, given that it had no standards whatsoever and was frequently pursued by low women.