No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  I poured him a second cup of tea while he finished his bread, thickly lathered with pork gravy left over from the day’s earlier luncheon. I ventured onto the topic of the dead nurse, first verifying that he had heard about what had happened. When he nodded solemnly that he had—at this point, who in all of London didn’t know?—I broached my concerns.

  The typically jovial man turned very serious as I described for him the manner in which I had found the nurse. I elaborated further about the contents of the letter I had found, my interviews with Miss Jarrett and Nurse Wilmot, and Alice Drayton’s claim that Nurse Bellamy had been trying to poison her. I held back the fact that Roderick Alban had verbally annihilated me, as there was no point in humiliating myself a second time in the retelling of the incident, nor did I wish to risk the appearance of disparaging Alban.

  “Where, exactly, did you find your nurse?” Killigrew asked. We rose from our finished meals and I showed him the alcove, where everything had been set back in order again, as though the grisly death had never happened.

  “How well did you know her?” he then asked.

  I sighed. “Truthfully, sir, I didn’t even recognize her when I first found her. The past week of my employment had whistled by like the East Coast Main Line train from London to Edinburgh. I’ve hardly gotten to know the inmates, much less the staff. An unhappy circumstance I regret at this moment.”

  “So you don’t personally know whether she was in a quarrel with anyone else here?”

  “Based upon the letter I found, I would say she was in a quarrel with someone, but I cannot say with certainty that it is someone located here on the premises.” It chilled me to imagine that there might be such squabbles and spats going on inside the building’s walls that would result in murder.

  Dr. Killigrew continued to question me, as if by staying in his role as a physician and simply eliciting some critical piece of information he could eventually come to the right diagnosis. “Have you overhead anyone talking about Nurse Bellamy? Had she been employed here more or less time than the other nurses? Was she well liked among the inmates?”

  I shook my head in frustration, as I had few answers for him. “As I said, I hardly knew her. The librarian claims that Nurse Bellamy was very standoffish with the others. Nurse Wilmot implied that Nurse Bellamy had inappropriate gentleman callers in the middle of the night. But that’s all hearsay, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps. Did Nurse Wilmot tell you who the gentleman callers were?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I had the impression that Nurse Wilmot may have just been spiteful.”

  “Hmm,” Dr. Killigrew mused again. “Or maybe not. Perhaps someone else saw the gentleman—or men—in question coming or going.”

  Dr. Killigrew seemed fixated on this point. Did he believe that a romantic interest of Nurse Bellamy’s might have killed her in some sort of crime of passion?

  “I don’t know. When I resume my questioning tomorrow, I can make further inquiries.”

  He seemed satisfied at that. Killigrew squinted now as he looked around thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “If I were a murderer, why would I hang my victim in the location known to be the favorite of the Establishment’s new superintendent? It seems as though someone was making a point, doesn’t it?”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, and I shivered at the thought.

  “You believe Nurse Bellamy was murdered to prove something to me? But then what of the letter I found among her belongings, which suggests that whoever it was had a complaint directly against her?”

  “True.” Killigrew stepped out of the alcove and I followed him, happy to leave it. This would certainly no longer be my favorite location in the Establishment.

  “May I ask where the letter is? I should like to see it for myself,” he said.

  “I have it in safekeeping among my things.” Leaving him alone in the library once more, I went to my room and retrieved it, mindful that I needed to remove it from the premises at the first opportunity. I brought the badly creased square down to the doctor, who read it in mere seconds.

  “The writer would appear to be both uneducated and enraged, eh? That could implicate any number of people, both inside and outside your doors.”

  He folded it up again and started to hand it to me, then stopped.

  “You know, I have a friend with the Metropolitan Police who might take this a bit more seriously than the constables who came and took down the body. Perhaps I could take this letter to him and convince him to open an investigation.”

  Although I had sought out—and valued—Killigrew’s advice, I had no desire for that sort of intercession unless it could come from on high. I took the letter from him and tucked it safely into my skirt pocket. “Thank you, but no. I’m afraid this is my own problem to sort out.”

  He inclined his head toward me. “As you wish, Miss Nightingale. And now I have my regular patients to see, so I will bid you good day.”

  It was only once he had gone that I realized he had left without completing his visitation with the rest of the inmates inside the Establishment, and so they would all have to wait until next week for their evaluations.

  * * *

  I remained quietly secluded in my room for the remainder of the evening. I attempted to calm my nerves by adding to my chart of employees at the Establishment, now including not just staff but inmates and regular visitors like the doctor. I left spaces for any information I could glean in my interviews, filling in what little had been told me by Jarrett and Wilmot. Finally, as my eyelids drooped heavily with sleep, I put the chart away and retired to bed. I could not really call it resting, though, as my night’s sleep was fitful.

  In the morning, I quickly did my ablutions and donned one of the few stylish day dresses I had brought with me from home. It was my intent to have a regular, somber uniform at the Establishment, but I saw no need to attire myself like a nun, wearing the same bleak clothing no matter where I was. In fact, it quite lifted my spirits to be wearing my bold plaid skirts of cranberry and gold, topped with a cranberry velvet cloak over my starched white shirtwaist. The bonnet I settled atop my head was new, a cream-colored, ruffled confection edged with gold ribbon.

  Once I checked on all the patients, most of whom were still sleeping, I could finally spend the rest of the morning in a visit to my friend, Elizabeth Herbert. She had followed a very different path in life, yet I admired the steely strength that lay behind her delicate, genteel features.

  First, though, I returned to my room for my reticule, gloves, and the threatening letter, which I intended to drop off at my nearby lodgings.

  My bag and gloves were in my wardrobe, where I always left them. The letter, however, was gone.

  CHAPTER 7

  I spent a half hour combing repeatedly through all my possessions looking for the letter, but I knew from the start that it had been lifted from my room in the hour I had been downstairs checking on the inmates. Other than the doctor, though, who knew I had found it?

  I supposed it would be natural for the killer to think I had it if it was no longer among Nurse Bellamy’s things. Dear God, that meant that anyone in the building might have taken it out of my room. I would have to start locking my door as a safeguard for my valuables and, quite possibly, my person. I made a mental note to have Charlie Lewis, the Establishment’s manservant, install a secure lock. I then decided to keep my plans to visit Elizabeth so as not to make anyone think I was upset or agitated.

  It was two miles to her home in Belgrave Square, which I chose to walk even though I could have easily afforded a cab. Being this far outside my parents’ reach made me feel like a fledgling chaffinch, having taken wing out of the nest in an attempt to fly. My mother would have said Nurse Bellamy’s death was a sign that I was still dependent on parental care in the nest, but to mingle among the crowds in this congested part of London made me feel both alive and free. It was as if I were soaring above the treetops, even though I was just a tiny flotsam of flesh in a sea of human
ity.

  I made my way out of Marylebone and down along the edge of Hyde Park, getting yelled at twice by arrogant young men dashing around in their smart, two-wheeled curricles with no regard for pedestrians. Even that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for being out on my own.

  I paused before passing by Wellington Arch, that grand piece of architecture behind Buckingham Palace and on the edge of Hyde Park. A bronze of the duke himself on a noble steed sat atop the grand, columned structure, which faced the corner entry to Hyde Park and served as an outer entrance to the grounds of Buckingham Palace. Many holidays of my youth had I spent in other countries, admiring iconic palaces, statues, and other structures. My parents were great lovers of travel. In fact, the first two years of their marriage had been spent traveling in Italy. My sister and I had been born during this time, Parthenope having been born in Naples but named for its Greek title. I, of course, was named for my own city of birth.

  But never had I had an opportunity—unfettered and free—to admire sights like this. My life had been a continuous circle of my parents, governesses, and family friends holding my hand wherever I went. I knew that everyone loved me, but no one had ever understood that the mind remains cramped until it has room away from others to take wing. My father had filled my head full of math, science, and Latin, but then I was never permitted to contemplate, to reflect, to merely think. Finally though, with my position as superintendent, I had found a way to wing my way out of my nest.

  I neared 49 Belgrave Square, Elizabeth’s own nest. It was a dazzling mansion, built for her and her husband, Sidney Herbert, just two years before. It was constructed as though the architect had thought to place an octagonal tower against a round tower against a third, square tower. Overall, it was four stories of pleasing effect in gleaming white stucco. Unfortunately, Elizabeth’s spacious nest did not permit her much room for thought, either.

  I twisted the doorbell key, and in mere moments after I heard the bell trilling inside, the front door opened. My gloves and bonnet were taken by a servant, and I was ushered into an opulent sitting room that I confess momentarily made me miss the comforts of my parents’ home, Embley Park.

  Ironically, I had met Elizabeth while traveling in Rome five years earlier, when she and her husband had been newlyweds on the Grand Tour. Embley Park was within visiting distance of Wilton, the Herberts’ country home, and our friendship had continued upon our return to England.

  It had seemed natural that our friendship would not long survive Liz’s marriage, given that Sidney Herbert had held the prestigious position of secretary of war for over a year now, while my father had become disgusted with politics early on. However, our friendship had flourished through correspondence, and Liz had brought her influence to bear in recommending me to Lady Canning for the position I presently held at the Establishment. Now that I had moved from Hampshire to London, we could see each other on a more regular basis, even if she and her husband would be fleeing the city for the countryside and its leisurely pursuits come next June. In fact, the Herberts were in London ahead of Parliament’s opening this year, because war was rumored to be brewing against the Russians in the Crimean Peninsula.

  I highly doubted Herbert was even home at the moment, as he was surely locked away somewhere in Westminster with some stuffy generals and heavily marked-up maps in a room full of cigar smoke.

  Liz joined me shortly and we sat together on a long, brocaded settee. After we exchanged pleasantries about my own family and her four children—two girls and two boys thus far, including her husband’s namesake, Sidney, born just six months previously—I quickly pivoted to more serious matters.

  “Is Sidney home?” I inquired politely. I hoped not, as I wanted Liz to myself at the moment.

  Liz laughed. “Of course not. He is planning and plotting with Prime Minister Aberdeen and Home Secretary Palmerston. I expect his career will be boosted considerably by the recent turn of events. You know that the Russians have gathered along the northern banks of the Danube River, don’t you?”

  I had not known this. My interests did not extend too far out from issues surrounding the care of patients and the study of diseases. Although I was aware of world events enough to be cordially conversant about them in society, a conflict with the tsar was of no immediate concern to me. Liz, though, was the daughter of a senior British Army commander who currently held the colonelcy of some Welsh regiment, so such events held great fascination for her and, no doubt, made her a valuable ally in her husband’s career. It was obvious that Sidney Herbert esteemed his wife in return, if the flawless rubies dangling beneath her looped hair and adorning her right wrist were any indicators.

  Such thoughts reminded me of Richard again, and if I dwelt upon him, I would soon forget my true purpose in being here and end up gloomy and morose. Planting him firmly in the furthest recesses of my mind, I once again took up the mantle of storyteller and described for Liz in detail what had happened at the Establishment. As she was a dear friend, I also told her about my unfortunate visit from Roderick Alban.

  Liz listened without interrupting, her large brown eyes silently registering shock and sympathy. When I was done, she reached out a hand to cover mine. “Oh, my dear, how positively dreadful.”

  There was a tapping at the sitting room door, and a maid entered with a tea tray. It was heaped with ham sandwiches, thinly sliced bread, and molded butter in addition to the requisite silver urn, cream pot, sugar bowl, and teacups. She set up a table next to the sofa, and soon we had warm cups in our hands. I put the mint-green queensware cup to my lips, and the steam delivered the smoky aroma of souchong to my nose.

  Liz finished stirring milk and sugar into her cup and carefully tapped her sterling spoon on the rim. “If Dr. Killigrew is correct in his assumptions about the murder intentionally being committed in your favorite room, who do you think might have a grievance against you so strong as to do this?”

  I rubbed the raised, cream-colored decoration of trailing ivy on my saucer as I contemplated her question. I like to think myself a realist, unafraid to confront truth wherever it lies, but to decide who might be disturbed enough by me to take another woman’s life was almost too much to bear.

  “Since my arrival at the Establishment, I have been a bit strict with the nurses, but they need discipline. You should see how slovenly some are, Liz. One nurse in particular, Nan Wil—”

  Liz cut me off gently with a pat to my cheek. “Florence, dear girl, you needn’t explain to me. I know you wish to make improvements right away, but may I suggest that sometimes you can be a bit … abrasive? You are almost always correct in your observations, but patience is not your strongest quality.” She dropped her hand back down to her cup.

  I bit my tongue on a retort. Leading the Establishment was a difficult endeavor, beset as I was by the nurses, the committees, and my own family. It was a simple thing to accuse me of impatience, not understanding the duress under which I toiled. Liz didn’t have to contend with anything similar; she just had to pour advice and guidance into a husband, who was a willing vessel. Even if I was a bit snappish, how could that possibly be a cause for murder? But Elizabeth was trying to be helpful, and I greatly needed help, so I merely nodded my head. “Perhaps,” I conceded, hoping it sounded gracious.

  Satisfied with my response, Liz also nodded and then completely changed theories. “It seems to me that Dr. Killigrew makes an excellent point about the killer’s motive, but then, the good doctor could also be completely wrong. The police and the coroner believe she committed suicide from a broken heart. But what if it was her lover who had a broken heart and killed her in return? The location of your library may be mere coincidence. Or perhaps the library had meaning for Nurse Bellamy herself.”

  I was mentally adding all of this to my chart as Liz pondered the situation. Could that be true? That Nurse Bellamy was an unfortunate victim of a rejected suitor? It was still a tragic—and unnecessary—occurrence, but I admit it made me feel a bit less worried that th
ere might be a madman—or woman—skulking about with an intent to destroy me or the Establishment.

  “I don’t know how the library would have meant anything to Caroline Bellamy, other than perhaps as an assignation place.” I was revolted to think of my library being defiled in such a manner.

  Liz shrugged, her slim shoulders lifting in the delicate, graceful way that marked all of her movements. “And the significance of the murder’s location isn’t as important as who the murderer himself could be. I think it may be important to ascertain whether she had a beau who lived on the premises.”

  I frowned. “But Nurse Wilmot claims that she witnessed a man leaving through the kitchens.”

  Liz smiled. “Flo, I have been around adulterous men in Parliament long enough to know that they will commit any number of elaborate acts to cover their tracks. The secret exits might be staged for anyone watching. Do you have men living at the Establishment?”

  “Just the manservant, Charlie Lewis.” Of course, Dr. Killigrew and members of the men’s committee had occasion to be in and out of the building. Roderick Alban’s bluster over Nurse Bellamy’s death flitted through my mind. And there were any number of delivery boys, repairmen, and such in and out on a regular basis. But only Charlie lived there.

  “Are you suggesting that someone would make it obvious that he was leaving the building to hide the fact that he really wasn’t leaving?” I asked. I decided in that moment that Mr. Lewis would be sitting in my study as soon I arrived back at the Establishment.

  “I don’t know, but isn’t it a possibility?” Liz poured herself another cup of tea and offered me more, which I declined. My stomach was knotted up in contemplation of all she was suggesting.

  “If the trouble is a scorned lover, whether inside or outside the hospital,” I said, “how in the world do I capture such a killer?”