No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  Her health was of paramount concern, not the dressing down her overbearing brother so desperately needed.

  He watched intently from the doorway as I helped Hester get herself situated in the room. Once that was done, I invited her to accompany me on a walk through the courtyard gardens. I did not believe that being shut away in a room—no matter how airy—was beneficial for her.

  Once again, her gaze sought out her brother, who said, “My sister could use some rest. The journey was tiring for her. And I would like to speak to you in private, Miss Nightingale.”

  Hester Moore bobbed her head meekly up and down in agreement. The poor woman was so nondescript next to her brother that I was certain that the moment I walked away from her, I would forget what she looked like. Dunstan, however, filled the room with his swarthy features and full, dark, close-cropped hair and beard only mildly tinged with gray. The two siblings could not have been more different, either in personality or looks. Dunstan might have been an Arab and his sister from the far reaches of Norway, so opposite in complexion were they.

  As he and I left the room together, I noticed Hester go to the partially raised window and lean her forehead against a pane of glass. I couldn’t see her expression, but her resigned posture told me she was deeply unhappy.

  Dunstan followed me down the corridor to the lobby and then up the stairs to where my study was. I sat behind my desk and invited him to sit across from me, but he instead chose to pace, reminding me of a prowling panther I had once seen in Regent’s Park Zoo.

  “Mr. Moore,” I began. “Customarily we should have advance notice of an inmate’s arrival.”

  He paused long enough to airily wave a hand. “My sister is well known to this place. She won’t be any trouble for you. I need to go out of town for a short time and this is the best place to leave her to be cared for.”

  I stared at him open-mouthed. “Sir, do you believe the Establishment to be a nursery? Or an orphanage? If your sister is not genuinely ill, then I must insist that you—”

  The hand flipped back and forth dismissively again. “Of course she is ill, Miss Nightingale. Has been for as long as I can remember. Hester was hardly cured when Dr. Killigrew sent her home last week, was she? She needs more care, and I was impressed with what I have seen since you have taken over the Establishment. So I decided to bring her back to see what you can do for her.”

  Silkily stated, I thought. He would pay the full going rate for his sister’s stay. “Why did you wish to see me privately?”

  Dunstan had moved over to the window of my study, which also overlooked the courtyard, and gazed out, his profile to me. Instead of sharing his sister’s sad stance, though, he looked hungry and determined. He turned back to me and finally sat down in a chair across from me. “I chose to bring my sister back here for the reason I stated, but I do have some concerns. Specifically, I have heard about the death of one of your nurses.”

  I nodded. “Nurse Bellamy, yes. I can assure you, Mr. Moore, that her death was not related to the inmates here and was likely just a random—”

  He waved his hand again. The motion was becoming irritating. “Did you find the body yourself?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, suddenly wary of why he should ask.

  He leaned forward. “What are your thoughts about her death? Suicide or murder?”

  How bluntly queried. I cleared my throat and said tactfully, “The police believe it’s a suicide.”

  He sat back, elbows on the chair’s arms as he templed his fingers together. “So you believe she was killed. Do you have in mind a suspect?”

  This was altogether uncomfortable. “Mr. Moore, again let me try to assure you that your sister is perfectly safe here. I hope the unfortunate incident will not shake your faith in the Establishment.”

  “Would I have brought her back if I thought you incapable of nursing her?” He rose and began his feral pacing again. “What I wish to know is whether you have any idea who might have done it. Man or woman? A stranger or friend?”

  I was quiet as I puzzled out what the man’s interest was. I sat back in my chair. The seat creaked in the silence.

  “Are you a detective, sir?” I asked.

  He looked at me quizzically. “You know that I am working with Brunel on the Leviathan.”

  Ah, yes. I had forgotten that he was a mechanical engineer in the employ of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. If he was deaf, it was probably because he had spent too much time in locomotive yards and on shipbuilding docks, having his hearing assailed by the screeching, clanging, and banging that accompany such monumental endeavors.

  Brunel was currently constructing an enormous ship, which would reputedly carry four thousand passengers to places as far-flung as India and Australia and back without having to stop to take on more coal reserves. The ship’s design had been mocked in the papers, what with its extravagant cabin appointments. What society man or woman, they said, would be satisfied being trapped on a three-month voyage without ever stopping at points traditionally visited on the Grand Tour? Brunel was merely creating a luxurious cargo ship and it was certain to fail.

  “I did not recall that you were working on such an immense project,” I said.

  “Problems have arisen with the new double-hull system Brunel has developed, so we will spend some time at Napier Yard overseeing construction.”

  Napier Yard? “Isn’t that here in London, on the Isle of Dogs?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I cannot be distracted by Hester’s hysterias. My mind will be set at ease if she’s here.”

  I sighed. “Mr. Moore, I will allow it this time, but you cannot simply deposit your sister here each time you find her inconvenient. You can hire a private nurse or companion for her.”

  “No, she must stay here.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigar, and held it up to me. “Do you mind?”

  “In fact, I do.” It was time to end this conversation. I didn’t want him lingering for the time it would take him to smoke the roll of tobacco.

  He grunted and put it away. “I’ll go say good-bye to my sister, then.”

  I was glad the odd conversation was at an end. I was beginning to think there was almost no one associated with the Establishment who wasn’t peculiar in one way or another.

  “By the way,” Dunstan said casually as he put his hand to the door latch. “I remember Caroline Bellamy.”

  “Yes?” I said. Perhaps Nurse Bellamy had served his sister in his presence. I couldn’t remember.

  He nodded. “It’s hard to forget a girl dressed in hand-me-downs who claims she is on the verge of becoming wealthy.”

  I paused, all of a sudden not as eager to see him leave. “Pardon me? How did she claim she was to acquire this wealth?”

  Moore grinned, and I didn’t care for how self-satisfied his expression was. “Nurse Bellamy said that she wouldn’t be a nurse much longer. She said that she would soon be in much better circumstances, thanks to her own clever planning.”

  That could mean anything. “She didn’t tell you what she had planned?”

  He shook his head. “At first, I took it as just the bragging of a young woman disenchanted with her lot in life. After she died, though, it seemed to me that whatever plans she had made were perhaps not so clever after all.”

  That, or someone else was far more clever.

  * * *

  I was reeling from one shocking pronouncement to another at this point. I retreated to the library with some of my papers for peace and quiet. Ivy Stoke was there, sitting in a chair in a corner. In her lap, a book lay open atop a blanket that reached down to the floor. Jasmine was curled up on top of the book, so I figured it must be the cat who was reading, not Ivy. I nodded absently to the inmate, not willing to engage in chatting while I needed to empty my mind of all that was racing through it.

  As my first task, I sketched out the design for a nurse’s uniform. The result was a plain dress in drab gray containing two deep pockets for carrying around bandages, sc
issors, and other common supplies. I drew it topped with a bleached white apron and accompanied by a close-fitting white cap, under which all of a nurse’s hair—even Nurse Harris’s—would fit. I would want two versions, one in wool and another in a lighter fabric for summer wear. Nurse Hughes could select it.

  Satisfied, I moved on to my chart that I had started regarding Nurse Bellamy’s murder and added in what little new information I had gleaned in my conversations with Lillian Alban, Dunstan Moore, and my nurses.

  I admit my own chart was becoming complex and confusing, so I decided to reduce it to what statements I could make about Nurse Bellamy, although most of it was simply hearsay from others.

  Nurse B— was seen by Nurse W— with a gentleman friend (or friends?)

  D— M— says Nurse B— claimed to be about to come into money

  Someone paid for Nurse B—’s funeral.

  L— A— suspects her husband of infidelity

  Nurse F— believes Nurse H— to have murdered her husband

  A—D— certain Nurse B— trying to poison her. Reliable?

  What leapt out at me as the most definitive truth was Nurse Bellamy’s funeral having been paid for by some unknown person. I should be able to resolve that with a quick visit to Morgan Undertaking, and then I would—

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Miss Stoke’s book sliding to the floor and landing with a thump. I checked on her and saw her head lolled back in the chair, her mouth agape as she snored gently. Jasmine was simply repositioning herself in the woman’s lap.

  I woke Ivy and escorted her back to her room, with Jasmine meandering behind us. Then I dropped my sketches off to Nurse Hughes, whose gratitude for the project was almost cloying.

  I checked on Hester Moore and discovered her brother in her room, breezily pacing around and smoking his cigar. Hester was smiling at whatever he was saying. I greeted her, ensured she required no immediate assistance from me, then dropped instructions with the other nurses before heading out to see the undertaker.

  * * *

  My hope was that finding out who had paid for the funeral might be a clue as to who Bellamy really was and with whom she was associated. I hired a taxi to take me to Morgan Undertaking in Queen’s Road. For the first time in several days, I found myself actually relaxing. Despite the torn, tufted-leather seats and the jarring, noisy ride of the conveyance, which seemed to have no springs whatsoever, I enjoyed the time alone.

  The hack pulled up to a brick building with wide windows on either side of the deep-green front door. The windows were topped with a glossy black sign with gold lettering. I tried not to be disturbed by the elaborate coffin displays behind the glass. It was certainly a depressing fact that as hard as I might try to bring someone to health, it was ultimately in God’s hands, and many of my patients would need the Morgans’ services.

  The Nightingales had known the Morgan family since before Graham’s grandfather had gone off to fight against the Americans in the second skirmish between our two nations. When old Mr. Morgan had returned and decided to make a fresh start with his business in London, my family had retained his family’s services.

  Graham Morgan’s young wife greeted me, emerging from behind a counter to do so.

  “Miss Nightingale, this is a pleasant surprise. How may I be of service?” Violet Morgan’s tone was mature beyond her years. I felt that sickening, jealous twinge again as I recalled how enamored she and her husband were of each other.

  “Your husband conducted the funeral for my nurse, Caroline Bellamy.”

  Violet nodded her head in agreement.

  “I would like to know who provided the money for it. Can you tell me who it was?” I asked.

  “Let me see.” Mrs. Morgan returned behind the counter, which was full of miniature coffin samples, brass coffin plates, and thick-bordered mourning stationery. She pulled open a drawer in a secretary standing against the wall behind her. From the drawer she withdrew a large, leather-bound ledger. It was enormous in her hands, but she hefted it onto the counter as if it were no more than a gossamer-light shroud.

  Flipping back a page in her ledger, she ran her finger down the entries. “Hmm,” she said, frowning. “This says ‘Twelve guineas, paid anonymously, see receipts.’ Let me check the receipts.”

  This sent Mrs. Morgan to another drawer in the secretary, from which she pulled out a lidded box. She went through the box until she exclaimed, “Aha!” and picked out a piece of paper, which she lay on the counter facing me so I could read it. It was plain, with no engraving or identifying markings.

  Please accept this as payment for a decent funeral for Miss Caro. Bellamy. She deserves the best, but I cannot give it to her.

  It was unsigned. Was this from her mysterious gentleman friend?

  “I remember now,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Graham told me he had heard the door’s bells jangle from the back room, and when he came out, no one was here. But this note, in an envelope along with the money, was on the floor. As if someone had opened the door, tossed the envelope in, and run off. I’m sure my husband will return soon if you’d like to wait for him. He can answer any other questions you might have.”

  I shook my head. I had obtained as much information here as I thought possible, which was to say not much.

  It was oddly comforting to know that Caroline Bellamy had had someone who cared enough about her to pay for her funeral, but why did it have to be done in secret?

  Mrs. Alban’s recent accusations rose up in my mind, and I wondered if the proper victim for her wrath was perhaps a young woman who was already dead.

  CHAPTER 10

  I passed another fitful night of sleep. In the morning, I resigned myself to working at the desk in my room for a couple of early-morning hours before assembling Wilmot, Hughes, Frye, and Harris to discuss the day’s plan. As I mentally planned the day’s schedule, there was a soft knock on my door.

  I hurriedly threw a wrapper around my nightdress and opened the door. It was Charlie, who turned red as a strawberry at my dishabille. I was a bit nonplussed myself.

  “Begging your p-p-pardon, ma’am,” he said, turning around so as not to look at me. “This just arrived, and the b-b-boy says he is to wait for an answer from you.”

  Charlie held up an envelope behind his back. I would have laughed, except I was becoming entirely distrustful of what lay inside any sheet of stationery that fell into my hands of late.

  Unfortunately, this missive was no different. It was from Lady Canning and was a summons to meet with her, Roderick Alban, and Cyril Matthews at ten o’clock in Mr. Alban’s offices. The meeting regarded “the recent events.”

  Cyril Matthews sat on the men’s committee with Roderick Alban. Was I about to be removed from my position? Alban had made serious threats against me. Perhaps he had followed through on them.

  I scratched out a note of assent and gave it to Charlie, then began preparing myself for what I was sure would feel like a trip to the gallows. After donning the same cranberry-and-gold plaid ensemble I had worn to see Elizabeth Herbert, I assembled my nurses. I gave instructions for the day—with a restrained admonishment for Nurse Frye’s unkempt hair—and set off for the address provided in Lady Canning’s missive. Was it intuition that caused me to tuck my prepared chart and list inside my reticule?

  Mr. Alban’s rooms inside the walls of the City were inside the Royal Exchange. The hack dropped me off at the taxi stand at the corner of Princes and Threadneedle Streets, and I admired the impressively built stone edifice. The front contained an expanse of eight Corinthian columns topped by a pediment with an elaborate, sculptured frieze running across it. Beneath the frieze was some easily translatable Latin, stating that the Exchange had been founded in Queen Elizabeth’s thirteenth year and restored in the seventh year of Queen Victoria. Two previous iterations had burned down—one in the Great Fire and the second in 1838—and it had been rebuilt yet again a decade ago.

  The Exchange was rumored to have a glass-cove
red courtyard inside where merchants could do business, although presumably the seventeenth-century version had not had such a modern covering. I entered the building only to gasp—my imminent rendezvous with doom momentarily forgotten—as I absorbed the spectacular, paned-glass canopy that illuminated the three stories of column-lined arched windows and doorways beneath it. The sound was cacophonous as hundreds of men in finely finished morning coats shook hands, argued, and shook hands again. I was one of few women here, and although no one even noticed my presence, I felt as though I were invading some private, inner male sanctum. I made my way to a staircase that would take me to Roderick Alban’s suite of rooms on the top floor.

  I was out of breath by the time my sturdy boots clacked their way up so many stairs, and I paused outside the paneled wood door that had Mr. Alban’s name etched in black in a glass inset to calm my breathing. I whispered a quick prayer that I would have the strength to respond gracefully if I was to be instantly dismissed. The thought of my mother’s flapping and screeching “I told you so!” was worse than the idea of actually being ousted from my position.

  With the prayer sent up fortifying me as well as could be, I knocked twice on the door, then entered. Inside, I found three joyless pairs of eyes staring at me.

  At least Charlotte Canning offered me a wan smile from where they all sat behind the table. She rose to greet me with a dry kiss to the cheek. She introduced me to the two men, who remained seated. Of course I already knew Alban, who was in the middle chair.

  On the left was Cyril Matthews. He looked older and harder than Alban, with his balding head framed on the sides by wiry silver hair just above his ears. That hair led to a closely cropped beard and mustache that did much to cover his pale, pitted skin. His eyes, though, were as light a blue as an unclouded sky. They stared at me now in open—but I hoped not hostile—curiosity. Her wore an unusual jacket, sharply cut, in a tight brown-and-gold-checked pattern. It seemed to me that time had been unkind to Cyril Matthews, while it had blessed Roderick Alban.