No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  “Dr. Killigrew,” I said, going to Miss Drayton’s fireplace and stoking the smoldering coals as I considered my words. I didn’t wish to cause trouble but was very disturbed by his planned treatment. Once the flames were flickering again, I put the poker back on its stand. “Do you not think that the miasma caused by her urine will further aggravate her condition? Not to mention that what you propose is rather … repulsive.”

  Fortunately, Killigrew took no offense. “Most medical advances are borne out of what is repugnant to our sensibilities, Miss Nightingale. We shall consider this an experiment. If it works, then thrush sufferers will happily drink their own waste. If it doesn’t work, we shan’t bother trying it ever again.”

  I could find no argument against what he had suggested, so I went into the hall where I had the misfortune of finding Nurse Wilmot. However, she did obey my instruction to fetch a glass half full of sugar water with a minimum of fuss. By this time, Alice was finished draining her bladder.

  “Miss Nightingale,” came the plaintive cry from behind the screen. “Is there no one to help me back to bed? I’ve been waiting for hours, and even a dying—”

  “Yes, Miss Drayton,” I replied, cutting her off to save Dr. Killigrew from this repetitive complaint. I went behind the screen with her, ensured she was tidily arranged, then escorted her to bed. Then I emptied a portion of her chamber pot into the glass of sugar water that Wilmot had delivered. She had done so without breathing heavily upon me, for which I was grateful.

  For his part, Dr. Killigrew sat in Alice’s chair and watched me perform my work. It is the way of gentlemen doctors that they mostly instruct without ever doing. It is why I believe nurses are far more important to a patient’s recovery than doctors.

  He did, however, stand next to me as I administered the drink to the patient. Miss Drayton blinked in concentration as she took her first gulp. To my great relief, she didn’t spit it out at me, although she did grumble about every mouthful. “Even a dying person wouldn’t drink this and instead would wait for hours for a glass of water.” Dr. Killigrew offered comforting words while I continued to offer her the cup, and eventually she drank it all.

  “Not so bad, was it?” he encouraged her. “Before I go, you must answer this riddle for me. What is that which a young lady looks for but does not wish to find?”

  Alice did not even attempt an answer, and I was worried that she suddenly looked a bit unsteady and pale.

  If Dr. Killigrew noticed this, he did not comment but instead finished his joke. “A young lady looks for a hole in her stocking, even though she does not wish to find one, is that not right, Miss Drayton?”

  She smiled weakly at him, and within a few moments I could see that color was returning to her fleshy face.

  I heaved a sigh of relief and was about to tell her that I would check on her within an hour when Miss Alice Drayton suddenly belched, loudly and open-mouthed. It was as if a sewer had just exploded in our faces. I attempted to maintain a steady gaze at her, but my eyes watered from the stench. Even the good doctor took several steps back as I retreated to the window and pushed up against the sash handles to open it even further. The old Georgian window squealed against my weight but went up another six inches, and I breathed deeply of the outside air. It was full of coal smuts but fresher than what existed in the room.

  How could Dr. Killigrew doubt for even a moment that bad smells carried disease on them?

  * * *

  I accompanied Dr. Killigrew as he went to visit another patient, Mrs. Ivy Stoke. She had had periodic asthma attacks, and a recent one had been so severe that her husband had insisted she come to the Establishment in hopes of a cure. She was unlike Alice Drayton in almost every way imaginable, except that they both flitted from topic to topic. However, Ivy was at least ten years younger and was a tiny hummingbird of a woman. She was inclined to quick movements, as if she were darting from flower to flower and inserting her needlelike beak into each one to taste what was there.

  Despite the fact that she could change subjects without warning, it was never in a completely insensible manner, as could be true with Alice Drayton. Sometimes I wondered if it wasn’t simply that Mrs. Stoke was highly intelligent and didn’t care whether other people in the room were capable of keeping up with her varied interests. One of her particular interests was death, although I suppose that is common for people who have engaged with death on their dance cards and are waiting for the band to strike up the tune that will waltz them to their graves.

  No doubt some of Mrs. Stoke’s more serious asthmatic episodes had made her think she was embarking on those complicated dance steps. However, she certainly kept the building lively.

  “How is Jasmine feeling today, Mrs. Stoke?” Dr. Killigrew asked, once more setting his bag down, this time on Mrs. Stoke’s chair.

  Jasmine was the woman’s Blue Persian cat, without which she refused to go anywhere. It spent most of its time draped over its owner but had been known to pick off a rat or two down in the kitchens, so I had no objections to its presence. It currently lay curled up in its owner’s lap and blinked in irritation at the interruption.

  “She is having a little trouble sleeeeping, sir,” Mrs. Stoke said, a faint wheezing emitting from her as she exhaled.

  “I see. She is perhaps having the same symptoms as her mistress, yes?” Dr. Killigrew said. He withdrew an ear trumpet from his case and handed it to me. Not only did physicians not perform the sort of manual labor involved in touching patients, but they particularly did not have contact with female inmates. I or another nurse assisted the doctor regularly on his visits.

  Mrs. Stoke brightened at the suggestion. “I’ve always thought Jasmine was very empathetic.” Mrs. Stoke coughed repeatedly but eventually caught her breath. “I told John that she could probably be of service to a meeeeeedium, sensing spirits in the room and such, although I’d never give up my darling girl for it. Have you ever been in contact with the dead, Miss Nightingale?”

  John and Ivy Stoke owned a reasonably successful pet shop. The business specialized in Blue Persians, which were well known as Queen Victoria’s favorite breed, thus attracting many people and their purses to the shop. So consumed were the Stokes with caring for their animals that Mr. Stoke had not yet been to the Establishment to visit his wife, and Mrs. Stoke spoke of her husband only in connection to whatever feline enterprises were in progress.

  Ignoring her question, I sat at the edge of her bed, thus jarring the offended Jasmine, who mewled in feline disdain at me and jumped off the bed. Her fluffy gray tail switched back and forth as she stalked off through the open door.

  “Mrs. Stoke, if I may?” I held up the foot-long ear trumpet and she nodded. I leaned over and placed the flared end of the wooden tube against her chest and set the narrow end at my ear. As I moved it to different locations, I heard the distinct whistling sound that was uniquely Mrs. Stoke’s whenever she was in an asthmatic episode. I handed the ear trumpet back to Dr. Killigrew and stated, “I believe Mrs. Stoke is in some distress.”

  Killigrew tucked the equipment back into his bag and frowned. I had read of a newer trumpet that used a flexible tube to both ears, which was reportedly more effective. Dr. Killigrew, though, tended to be more experimental with treatments than with diagnostics.

  The doctor frowned. “Dear lady, have you been smoking your Potter’s cigarettes, as I instructed?”

  Mrs. Stoke made a face and shook her head, her burnished blonde curls flapping about her face. “I don’t like them, sir. They taste dreadful.”

  Dr. Killigrew made an exaggerated face right back at her. “I am not interested in your satisfaction with your treatment, madam, but in curing your symptoms. I know Miss Nightingale has a devil of a time getting you to obey my instructions. However, I have been given a new recipe for cigarettes by a fellow physician, which we shall try to see if you like it better. Some American has invented it.” He dug around in his coat pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He thumbed through
them until he found the one he wanted and handed it to me. “You will see that the chemist prepares this?”

  “Of course.” I examined the new concoction as he continued to address his patient.

  8 parts stramonium leaves

  8 parts green tea leaves

  6 parts lobelia leaves

  2 parts plantain leaves

  The leaves were to be minced, moistened in a combination of potassium nitrate and water, then packed in an airtight jar.

  “You will smoke one cigarette of wrapped leaves each night before settling down to sleep, but no more than one, do you understand?” The doctor then directed his patient, “Smoke it slowly, inhaling the smoke as deeply as possible. It will excite the airways, you see, and help you to breathe. If I see that after a week you are breathing better during the day, I shall send you home with the recipe.”

  As with Alice Drayton, I was concerned that the smoke would create a miasma that would aggravate someone in Ivy Stoke’s condition, but I rarely argued with a physician. I would simply keep her room aired out as much as possible.

  Fortunately, each patient room inside the Establishment had a window in it, even if they did not all have fireplaces. Although the main floor of the mansion had been hastily carved into various patient rooms, there had at least been an eye to ensuring that each one incorporated one of the building’s many windows. It made for some inconsistently sized rooms, but the windows were far more important than room design. I firmly believe that only through the constant circulation of fresh air can a patient improve, no matter what his disease or condition.

  The paints, wallpapers, carpets, and many of the pictures belonging to the previous owner had also remained behind. At least, the prints and paintings that were of little value endured. Rectangular dark areas stained the walls where long-hanging portraits and landscapes had been removed to settle in with their owner at his country estate in some far-flung county.

  Ivy affirmed that she had understood Dr. Killigrew’s instructions, but was immediately distracted by other thoughts.

  “Where is Jaaaaasmine?” the woman wheezed, laboring to breathe.

  “Probably down in the kitchen for a bit of Cook’s veal, I imagine,” I told her. “Or maybe she’s cleaning out the vegetable larder of rats.”

  “She’s a good girl,” Ivy said. “She saves on the expense of rat poison, doesn’t she?”

  Tins of poison were cheap compared to feeding and housing our inmates, but I did agree that the cat had her uses. “Jasmine is quite a help downstairs, saving Cook time from setting so many traps.”

  Ivy’s breathing was easing, although it would be only a matter of time before she had another attack. I would have to have the doctor’s recipe fulfilled right away, but first I went to the fireplace to quickly stoke the coals before Dr. Killigrew and I took our leave. The area above the narrow mantel was dominated by a chipped, but detailed, porcelain crucifix. The Christ figure gazed down at me in sorrow, and I involuntarily shuddered.

  But Mrs. Stoke wasn’t finished with us yet.

  “Tell me, Miss Nightingale, have you experienced any more deaths here since that nurse was found?” she asked.

  My hand froze while stoking the coal. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the doctor had also stilled in the midst of picking up his case. Naturally, he would have been aware of Nurse Bellamy’s demise.

  “Why do you ask, Mrs. Stoke?” I replied carefully, replacing the poker in its stand and turning to face her.

  “Father Bradshaw says there is no absolution from murder or suicide,” she announced, blinking innocently at me. “Anyone who dies of anything other than old age, accident, or disease creates a moral burden for someone somewhere, is that not so?”

  My mind was whirling. Did she know something about Nurse Bellamy? Or was she merely repeating a theological discussion she had had with Bradshaw, a man of the cloth who I had been told spent considerable time at the Establishment visiting the inmates? Mrs. Stoke and her husband were devout Catholics. Catholicism had made a resurgence in England over the past couple of decades, what with Parliament granting the Catholics full civil rights in 1829. Just three years ago, Pope Pius IX had reinstated Roman parishes and dioceses, and the religion was now flourishing.

  Flourishing enough, in fact, that many people were disturbed by it. Lady Canning, a staunch Anglican, had declared that no Catholics could be permitted entry into the Establishment and that it would treat Protestants only. However, I had made it a strict condition of my employment that we would treat any sick middling-class woman without question as to her worship. A Unitarian myself, I dance along the edge of Protestant theology and am probably one flip of a Bible page away from being sent to Coventry, as they say. I find that the whole lot of Anglicans, Lutherans, Methodists, and Presbyterians are so focused on arguing their doctrines that they never act out what they purport to believe. In my opinion, God watches what we do, not what we say, as the former speaks to our character and the latter speaks to our weakness.

  “Father Bradshaw has a mind for deep matters,” I replied neutrally to Mrs. Stoke.

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed, waving her hand in the air. “Father and I speak on many topics. Where is Jasmine? Have you been reading the latest serialization by Mr. Dickens, Bleak House? So engrossing, isn’t it? He certainly writes fiction with a social purpose. So many people die in his books, though, don’t they?”

  I had little time for reading novels, but I knew that Mr. Dickens was also a proponent of miasma theory, so I considered him to be a like-minded soul. I understood that many of his books focused on London’s poor and beleaguered, living in unsanitary conditions, who did tend to bear the brunt of most diseases. Of course, cholera had been springing up in various places over the past year, and that disease had no respect for social station.

  Mrs. Stoke shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Death is a mighty terrible thing. Miss Nightingale, you simply must let me know if there are any more funerals to be had. I do so enjoy the solemn services and the incense. I also do believe I am feeling peckish. Might I have a tray? Maybe with a little of that apricot cream Cook made yesterday? Did I mention that I had a bit of a walkabout in the gardens yesterday? Mr. Lewis was pruning back the honeysuckle. Such a delightful fragrance, bringing back memories of my childhood.”

  Mrs. Stoke had caromed off the walls of three topics in under thirty seconds. Perhaps her mention of death had nothing to do with Nurse Bellamy, per se, but with a fascination with funerals. In any case, the Establishment’s cook, Polly Roper, really had quite outdone herself on the molded fruit dessert the previous night.

  “I shall talk to Mrs. Roper straightaway,” I assured her, ready to leave. But Dr. Killigrew had parting words.

  “Mrs. Stoke,” he said, a ready grin on his face. “What is that which a cat has but no other animal?”

  “You mean my Jasmine? Whiskers? No, many animals have those. Claws? No. I know! A sweet disposition.”

  Killigrew shook his head. “A cat is unique among all other animals because it has kittens.” He laughed uproariously, and Ivy Stoke joined him.

  As Dr. Killigrew and I left, Mrs. Stoke sat up in bed, humming. I wished I could be so placid.

  * * *

  I deposited Dr. Killigrew in the library while I went down to the kitchens so that I could request trays not only for Mrs. Stoke but also for Dr. Killigrew and myself. As I had assumed, Jasmine was prowling around under Mrs. Roper’s feet as the cook casually dropped down bits of meat to her that she had pulled out of her burbling stew pot. With her back to me and unaware that I had entered, she cooed and crooned at the cat while stirring and sniffing at whatever creation she was making.

  Polly Roper was unlike any cook my parents had ever hired, for she was as slim as a young girl, despite the fact that she must have been in her midthirties. Her face, though, was incongruent with the rest of her, as it was so chubby that her eyes were nearly blinking slits when she smiled. I attributed this to what she claimed was
Germanic descent. She had once even insinuated that she was a very distant relative of the Austrian emperor, a proposition I highly doubted. She had no hint of an accent, but she certainly did produce some exotic dishes reminiscent of her supposed homeland.

  Mrs. Roper’s face may have made her look like a cherub, but she was anything but an angelic figure. I found her to be overly sensitive to any criticism whatsoever about her food. Likewise, she wasn’t hesitant to offer her considered opinion of anyone who inadvertently slighted her dishes by asking for more salt or daring to leave a morsel behind on the plate. She was yet another problem I would have to find time to address, but she was a fleabite compared to the plague that awaited me regarding Nurse Bellamy’s death.

  I cleared my throat and the cook whirled around, a shred of sauce-laden meat in her hand, which immediately plopped to the ground and disappeared inside Jasmine’s mouth.

  “Miss Nightingale,” she said, while the cat licked the ground at her feet. “I was just in the middle of my goulash for tonight’s supper and didn’t hear you. How may I help you?” The cook smiled, and her eyes almost completely vanished.

  “Mrs. Stoke would like a tray, with some of the apricot cream if there is any left over,” I said. “She was quite enamored of it.”

  The cook preened at this, waving her apron as if to shoo away my fancy compliment. “I’ll have to check the cool pantry. I’ll get her something.”

  I also instructed that trays be delivered for Dr. Killigrew and me in the library. Within fifteen minutes, he and I were seated in front of our plates, as far away from the place where Nurse Bellamy had been cut down as I could manage. As a physician, Dr. Killigrew occupied a high rung on the social ladder, much as I did because of my family’s position and wealth. Hence it was appropriate that we dine together. Besides, I wished to seek his advice on Nurse Bellamy.

  I waited patiently while the good doctor spun a joke about Macbeth being the greatest chicken-killer in Shakespeare’s plays because he committed murder most fowl. I also listened quietly as he speculated on the causes of Ivy Stoke’s asthma. He postulated dust, vegetable irritants, and the climate, then expressed dissatisfaction with all of them.