No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  She made me wait for an answer, taking the time to glance around the room as if disinterested, but I sensed that she was secretly memorizing everything about the place. “I understand my husband recently made a visit to you.”

  I wondered whether Roderick Alban had actually told his wife of his visit or if she was merely probing me to find out. “Yes, that is true,” I replied.

  “What was the nature of your conversation?” she asked, absentmindedly twisting the ruby ring with the thumb and forefinger of her other hand.

  A prickle of alarm ran up my spine. How much did Mrs. Alban know about the Establishment being home to a murder? Some husbands shared all with their wives; others considered very little to be their spouse’s business.

  “You may know that we had a death here…” I started, hoping she might pick up the thread and tell me what she knew.

  “Hmm, yes, a maid or something,” Mrs. Alban said with a dismissive hand wave.

  “Actually, it was one of my nurses, Caroline Bellamy,” I said. Somehow I felt insulted that she had referred to the young woman—albeit one I had hardly known—as a “maid or something.”

  Lillian Alban flicked away some invisible lint from her bodice. “Poor dear.” She said this as if hearing about a dog’s tail having been stepped on. “Why did my husband need to speak with you about it?”

  I was growing irritated with this woman. I might be under her husband’s oversight, but surely this woman realized I was of equal social stature to her. Her attitude suggested I were a mere chimney sweep, hardly worth a glance. I decided, however, to be diplomatic.

  “I am the superintendent here, madam, and Nurse Bellamy was in my charge. As for Mr. Alban’s visit to me…” I paused. His visit had occurred only the day before, and yet so much had happened. “He seemed most concerned about the reputation of the Establishment in light of the nurse’s death. He has apparently been a great patron of the hospital.”

  She raised her chin. “Thus we have been great patrons.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Alban.” I tried not to roll my eyes as the knot of irritation tightened inside me.

  The knot began to choke me when she suddenly demanded, “Miss Nightingale, I would know the nature of your relationship with my husband.”

  “Relationship, madam?” I said, confused. “He is a member of the men’s committee for the Establishment. I only first met him a few weeks ago before Lady Canning brought me in to run this hospital.”

  What was the woman implying? I had denied myself my greatest heart’s desire in Richard, and she believed I would debase myself by—

  “If not you, then who is it?” Mrs. Alban implored. “For I know it’s someone here, and you are the most gentle-born of the staff. If a woman had the guile to lead my husband astray, surely it would not be some lowly maid.”

  Even Lillian Alban was unable to make such an accusation with an air of boredom, and I heard the rising tone in her voice. Perhaps it wasn’t that she had a hidden crack but that she was made of altogether brittle material.

  “I will find it out, you know. Whether it is you or someone else. I will destroy her. I will personally snap her neck.” Mrs. Alban twisted her balled fists in opposite directions to emphasize her intent. Her motions were incongruous with the elegance of the jewelry adorning her hands.

  There was a light tap at the open door, followed by Mrs. Roper’s entrance with a tea tray. “Here’s your—” she began before glancing at Lillian Alban’s wild expression. The cook blinked twice and hurriedly set down the tray on a table near me, then walked out as quickly as she could without breaking into an open run.

  I used the interruption to calm Mrs. Alban down. “May I pour you a cup?” I asked. Although my instincts screamed that I should get her out of my presence as quickly as possible, my logical side whispered that Mrs. Alban might have information about the Establishment—or even my dead nurse—that I could glean from her.

  She began winding her rings around her fingers again. “I don’t believe I should.”

  Was that the tiniest bit of a waver in her voice? “Please, madam, it isn’t likely that I shall drink the entire pot, and it would be a shame for it to get cold and go to waste.”

  In the time it took me to pour a cup for her, Lillian Alban had settled back into her bland, distracted persona. How much effort must be required for a woman to preserve her sanity against a wayward husband?

  Unless, of course, the husband had a roving eye because of his wife’s insanity.

  We sat down, and I watched as my visitor raised her cup with trembling hands.

  As she sipped and the warm beverage appeared to calm her agitation further, I said, “Mrs. Alban, you should know that I have a sacred trust with the inmates here, to keep their business private so that the world does not know of their afflictions and disfigurements. Although you do not have any disease to speak of, I believe your heart to be broken and ailing. I extend my same assurance of confidentiality to you if you wish to unburden yourself.”

  She set the cup and saucer in her lap and smiled grimly. “You see yourself as a priest in a confessional, Miss Nightingale?”

  I hadn’t intended to elevate myself in such a manner. “In no way, madam, but the scriptures do tell us to confess to and to encourage one another, even as we perform our primary duty of working for social good and lifting up the worth of every human being. I am happy to be of encouragement to you if I can be so.”

  I had made things worse. Mrs. Alban frowned in displeasure. “You sound like one of those Unitarians.”

  At least my words matched my inner beliefs in the eyes of others.

  “Yes, well,” I said, clearing my throat. “Mrs. Alban, what makes you believe that your husband is engaged in an, er, escapade? I am especially curious to know why you believe the woman is here at the Establishment.”

  Mrs. Alban was silent for several moments, tapping the side of her cup with a finely manicured nail. Finally, she sighed as if reaching a momentous decision. “Very well,” she said, putting the cup aside on the table. She brought forward the ebony satin bag strapped to her wrist and reached in, withdrawing a folded piece of paper. Wordlessly, she passed it to me, and I read it.

  My heart stopped, and not merely because of the contents.

  Toonite at the usual place

  It was in the exact same handwriting as the letter I had retrieved from Nurse Bellamy’s room, and it also had no signature.

  I carefully refolded it but kept it in my hand. “I certainly understand why your suspicions fell on the hospital, and particularly on me,” I said. “But I assure you I am not this illiterate.”

  “That had occurred to me before I came here, but I needed to know,” Mrs. Alban said. “The question remains, who wrote this to my husband?”

  Wasn’t that answer obvious? “I imagine your husband would be able to ascertain who the culprit is if you simply asked him.”

  Lillian Alban visibly shuddered. “No, no, I couldn’t bear hearing it from his lips. I plan to discover who the harlot is, ruin her, and cause her to disappear from his life.”

  The words, stated with her now-resumed nonchalance, were more chilling than if she had spewed them in violent anger.

  “Madam,” I said, tapping the letter against my knee. “Might I keep this temporarily? I would like to see if I might figure out whose words these are.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, probably still not entirely convinced I wasn’t the enemy. “I suppose that would be all right.”

  “Thank you. And let me ask, how did this come into your possession?”

  Mrs. Alban lifted a shoulder. “The usual way. I went through his jacket.”

  Clearly her husband didn’t suspect her of such behavior or he wouldn’t have left the note in a place where she might so easily find it.

  However, the note itself did beg a comment. “May I suggest that this is not necessarily a love letter?” I said. “After all, it says very little and isn’t overly romantic.”

&nb
sp; Mrs. Alban grimaced. “I found this in Roderick’s overcoat last night, and it smelled quite distinctly of hyacinths. Assuredly, Roderick is strictly a bergamot man.”

  I lifted the paper to my nose and agreed that it carried the fading scent of hyacinths. I had to admit that was suggestive, but it wasn’t conclusive. A woman with a headache doesn’t necessarily have a tumor, after all, and women tend to scent everything, from handkerchiefs to gloves to hair pomades. In fact, whoever had written the note might simply have had a stack of stationery sprayed with her favorite perfume so that everyone she wrote received scented correspondence.

  I started to say so, but she interrupted me. “Miss Nightingale, you are not married, correct?”

  “No, I was unfortunate in—”

  Mrs. Alban held up a hand to halt my explanation. A charm bracelet slid down her arm. “Then you cannot possibly understand a wife’s instincts. They are infallible.”

  I did not think Mrs. Alban’s instincts were necessarily infallible, but she had left me no room for argument. Despite her continued crass treatment of me, I attempted a conciliatory tone once more. “No doubt you know much more about our male counterparts than I do. How long have you and Mr. Alban been married?”

  “Let me see.” The manicured nail tapped the arm of her chair as she contemplated my question. “Daphne is twenty-one and Roddy is twenty-five, so it will be twenty-seven years next March.”

  “More than a quarter century,” I murmured. “A long time.” They had been married when I was a mere girl of six.

  “Hence you understand when I say that I have certain instincts about my husband.”

  “Has your husband—did Mr. Alban ever—” I grasped about for the right words. “Is this the first time you have suspected your husband of infidelity?”

  “Of course not. He is a fine specimen of a man, isn’t he? The cut of his trousers, his confident stride. What woman wouldn’t want him?” Mrs. Alban swallowed, as if regretting offering me such naked truth.

  “He is a handsome gentleman,” I agreed, unwilling to consider him favorably in any other way. “Has he admitted to infidelity?”

  “No, he never does. He says I am unnecessarily jealous and lose all semblance of reason when I confront him over his peccadilloes. Then he disappears to his club for a few days. For me to calm down and regain my senses, he says. But I can’t really even know that he’s ever where he says he is, can I? Perhaps he isn’t at his club but off with Miss Illiterate Hyacinth or someone else entirely.”

  For the briefest moment, I had sympathy for what Roderick Alban must be enduring at home, for surely his wife was a bitter, volatile pill to swallow each day.

  “How did your husband come to sit on the men’s committee of the Establishment?” I asked.

  “Oh, that.” She was bored again. “I suppose Lady Canning knew of his work on the boards of the Charity for the Houseless Irish Poor and the Home for Incurable Children. Roderick is very charming and persuasive and is able to secure donors with a crook of his finger, so it is no wonder she asked him.”

  Presumably Mrs. Alban was not jealous of the vivacious Charlotte Canning. Of course, Lady Canning was renowned for her devotion to her own husband, Charles, as well as her devotion to Queen Victoria. Lady Canning had the honor of serving as a favored lady of the bedchamber to the queen, while her husband toiled ambitiously in Her Majesty’s government as postmaster general.

  Lillian Alban looked at me speculatively. “I should ask you the same question, Miss Nightingale. How did a gentle-born woman from a respectable family come to engage as a nurse, of all things? Is there something wrong with your person that you were unable to marry well?” She pointedly tapped the side of her head twice. “Did you bring shame to your family, necessitating that you leave home and make your own way in the world?” This time she put her hand to her stomach, spreading it for emphasis, which had the further effect of flashing an unusually large diamond ring at me.

  How dare she suggest such a thing to me, even in private? I was at least as well born as she was, I was sure, and she was speaking to me as if I were a trollop or else thoroughly demented. She was, though, the wife of a committee member hand-selected by my employer, so I could not do what I truly wished to do: slap Mrs. Lillian Alban smartly across the face.

  I took a deep breath and attempted to mold my features into neutrality, as she was so expert in doing. It did not come naturally to me, and I’m sure my grimace made me look as Jasmine might if she were being strangled.

  “Nothing of the sort,” I replied. “I chose this work, over the very vocal objections of my family. In fact, I refused more than one marriage proposal in hopes that I might one day end up in a situation such as this one.”

  Mrs. Alban’s expression was incredulous. “You wanted this? When you could have had a husband, a home, a family? What manner of woman are you?”

  There was no use in explaining my divine visit to her, nor my conviction that Christian principles must not just be argued but put into decisive action. Instead, I merely told her, “The sort of woman who would bring you back to health should you fall ill of a fever, madam.”

  Mrs. Alban responded with a laugh. “We have a doctor to tend to us in the event of sickness.”

  I clasped my hands in my lap and leaned forward, saying forcefully, “I have worked with many physicians while caring for friends, family, and villagers in the past. They are expert in prescribing physics, that is true. But when was the last time a doctor brought you a bowl of nourishing bone broth, or opened the window to provide you with fresh air, or changed your bed linens? Doctors prescribe, nurses care.”

  The struggle for control over my tongue was an eternal one. No doubt Mrs. Alban would return to her husband—who loathed me—with this bit of tattle, and he would go directly to Lady Canning and report me as insolent and undermining of Dr. Killigrew.

  Well, I had uttered it and couldn’t shove it all back into my mouth now. To be truthful, I felt a glow of satisfaction in having spoken my mind.

  For her part, Lillian Alban stood, and I rose with her. “Miss Nightingale, it is obvious that you are mistaken in your impression of what I am capable of wreaking in your life. Have a care for your person.”

  She stalked out of the room, and I resisted the urge to slam the door behind her.

  * * *

  I still had so much to do—speak with Graham Morgan, interview Margery Frye again, and investigate who might have written the two letters I had read, even if only one was now in my possession. Moreover, since I still had to make headway on my improvement programs, I had no time to dwell on Mrs. Alban’s unfortunate visit. But before I could start another endeavor, I was interrupted yet again by the arrival of Charlie Lewis.

  “Miss Nightingale, I was outside and saw a carriage p-p-pull up. I’d say you have another i-i-inmate.”

  I frowned. Usually word was sent along that a woman wished to enter the hospital, to ensure the availability of one of our rooms and so that the superintendent could review the case to be sure that the patient was a proper sort for the Establishment. Moreover, someone needed to be on hand to greet the new inmate.

  “Very well,” I said briskly. “I will need your help.”

  Charlie followed me to the front door of the building, where he easily loped down the steps to meet the woman who stood next to a trunk while a gentleman paid the hack driver. I stood on the stoop with my hands folded in front of me, waiting to greet them.

  The pair ascended the steps while Charlie lifted the straps of the trunk to lug it around to the back of the building. I immediately realized this was not a new inmate. This was Hester Moore, accompanied by her brother, Dunstan. She had been discharged from the Establishment just a few days before, right before I had found Nurse Bellamy.

  Dr. Killigrew had determined that Hester’s melancholia was of her own devising and that no amount of physic in the world would help her, so we had summoned Dunstan to retrieve her.

  As I have mentioned, I do
not like to go against a doctor’s orders, and I had obeyed Dr. Killigrew to the letter in the matter. However, Hester Moore had experienced a horse’s kick to the head many years before while serving as a governess in Surrey. I thought that might explain why her brother had reported her to have these periodic bouts of low melancholia, as opposed to the idea that her condition was self-imposed and thus self-controllable.

  “Miss Nightingale, we have returned, as you may have expected.” Dunstan’s voice boomed inside the confined area under the portico. Perhaps he was partially deaf.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Moore. I confess I did not expect you. Mrs. Moore, how do you fare?” Hester Moore had never been married, but we extended the title to her as a courtesy, given her age and position.

  Hester Moore glanced nervously at her brother. “I have not been myself lately,” she said.

  I should say not. She was practically trembling. “As luck would have it, your previous room is still open,” I said. “Perhaps the familiar surroundings will be helpful for you.” I led them into the Establishment’s lobby, which had once been the previous owner’s grand entrance hall.

  By now, Charlie would have the trunk upstairs, and I hoped he had had the instinct to place it back in the room Mrs. Moore had just vacated.

  Hester opened her mouth to respond, but her brother answered instead. “Yes, I like the idea of Hester having the same room. A nice window overlooking the courtyard, right?” He tucked his sister’s arm in his own as he now walked past me, as if he were now leading me to the room.

  “Yes, it is a pleasant view, and I encourage Mrs. Moore to sit in front of the open window, if not in the gardens themselves, as much as possible until Dr. Killi—”

  “Here we are, dear sister,” Dunstan said in an overly jovial tone as we reached her room. “Your trunk is already here and I’m sure Miss Nightingale will arrange for a vase of flowers and some books for you. You’ve always talked of learning to paint, haven’t you? Miss Nightingale could probably hire an art tutor for you, as well.”

  Hester smiled wanly at her brother while I restrained my temper for the hundredth time in the past few days. Whatever Dunstan Moore might think, the Establishment was a hospital, not a finishing school for middle-aged women. There was no point in upsetting his sister, though, who reminded me of a fragile swallowtail butterfly with one shimmering blue wing about to break off.