Mr. Matthews’s appearance, though, was inconsequential compared to the room in which I now stood. The exterior and public interior spaces of the Exchange were impressive. Mr. Alban’s rooms were … fascinating. The walls were papered in a busy swirl pattern of dark moss green, and the draperies covering a window that—if my bearings were correct—looked out over the courtyard were made of green velvet a shade deeper than the walls. The hissing chandelier above us illuminated the chair placed on the other side of the table that I was obviously to occupy. It, too, was overwhelming in alternating olive and mint stripes.
At the sound of a masculine throat clearing from Roderick Alban, Lady Canning squeezed my hand and returned to the right-hand seat behind the table. The three chairs behind the table matched my own, but at least the bodies in them blocked the gaudy fabric upon which they sat. She invited me to sit down, but I hesitated. It seemed as though it would put me at a terrible disadvantage to be seated there while the three of them sat like vultures on a branch across from me, hoping my flesh would begin rotting before them.
“Don’t worry, Miss Nightingale, we won’t eat your head off,” Matthews said mildly, as if he were reading my soul. A faint Welsh accent tinted his speech, softening his severe expression.
I sat down, hoping my hands didn’t tremble as I arranged my skirts. I folded them in my lap and lifted my straightforward gaze to theirs. Lady Canning’s own gaze had become sympathetic, Matthews’s was curious, but Alban looked as though he would happily break my neck.
What had his wife told him about our meeting?
“You are looking well, Miss Nightingale,” Lady Canning said. “I am glad to see it, considering the difficulties—”
Alban interrupted her. “Yes, considering the difficulties the Establishment is now experiencing. Thus far it’s been kept out of the papers, but it’s only a matter of days before The Illustrated London News or some other tripe rag grabs hold of it.”
I wondered whether I should just resign now to save us all the trouble. But then I remembered Nurse Bellamy slowly twirling at the end of a rope. I remembered her swollen face and cut wrists. I thought of how she seemingly had no one in the world except an anonymous donor who was also perhaps her anonymous lover. I thought of how she would have absolutely no one seeking justice for her if I left the hospital. It was enough to strengthen my resolve, and I decided that if I was going to be terminated, it would be with good cause and not with me weakly protesting my innocence.
I kept my hands folded and stared directly at Alban. “Well, sir, if they ‘grab hold of it,’ as you say, it will at least prove that someone in London actually cares about that poor girl’s death other than me.”
Alban glared at me, but I refused to look away, even though I thought he might have the power to fry me where I sat, like a magnifying glass over a black garden ant. It helped to see Cyril Matthews out of the corner of my eye, a balled fist over his mouth to conceal a smile.
Alban quickly regained his footing. “We wish to know what progress you have made in discovering who may have harmed the girl, this Caroline Bellamy.”
I maintained my level gaze. “It has been reported to me that Nurse Bellamy may have had a gentleman caller at inappropriate moments.”
“Dear girl,” Lady Canning said, an eyebrow arched. “There is no appropriate moment for the nurses to be visited by men.”
I felt heat creeping up my neck, as the underlying comment was that I had not gained control of my staff in the short time I had been there. “Yes, madam, although I have this on the hearsay of another nurse and did not witness it for myself.”
A few silent moments ticked by, and then Matthews asked quietly, “Is that all?” He put his elbow on the table and rubbed his temple with two fingers. I thought it might be exasperation with me, but he closed his eyes briefly and I realized he must have a headache.
“Well, no, but I don’t know how significant anything is because, quite truthfully, I know so little about the young woman. Perhaps, Lady Canning, you can tell me how Nurse Bellamy came to be hired at the Establishment.”
“Hmm,” Lady Canning murmured, tapping a finger on the table. “I seem to recall that hers was a sad story. She was running away from an abusive husband. I thought it might be trouble to bring in a nurse who might be visited by a jealous or unruly spouse, but the superintendent then didn’t think he would find her.”
“Perhaps he did,” I said, wondering why my employer hadn’t gotten word to me about this important piece of information sooner. It was knowledge to add to my growing list of seemingly unrelated facts.
“I have been gathering as much information about her as I can.” I reached into my reticule and retrieved my folded papers. I unfolded them slowly and deliberately in my lap, so that they might all see that I had been working diligently. On one hand I ticked off the seemingly unrelated and inconsequential events that had occurred since Bellamy’s death: the anonymous donation to her funeral, Alice Drayton’s accusation that Bellamy was trying to poison her, Nurse Wilmot’s claim that Bellamy had secret gentleman callers, and so forth. I omitted the strained and awkward visit from Mr. Alban’s wife.
I folded my papers and put them away. From three stories below, a roar of laughter rose up and penetrated through the window. Nothing inside the room was particularly amusing, though, and the onslaught of green covering every surface was beginning to nauseate me.
To the unasked question hanging in the air, I said, “Thus far, I see very little that links these disparate facts and claims together.”
“Perhaps there is some way in which we can assist you in the matter, Miss Nightingale?” Matthews asked, now steepling his hands on the table.
Before I could respond, Alban jumped in with outrage. “We cannot possibly sully our hands in this, Cyril! Can you imagine the damage to our reputations if we allow ourselves to be involved? I have banking interests, and you have your own business concerns, as you well know. No, the superintendent must solve this matter on her own. I suggested to Charlotte that we should simply dismiss Miss Nightingale, replace her with someone new, and forget about the unfortunate death, but she is adamant.”
Lady Canning nodded at me. “As I said, Roderick, I selected Miss Nightingale myself upon Mrs. Herbert’s recommendation, and I’m not about to throw her in the rubbish bin only a week after she’s arrived. Besides, you offer no logical reasoning for why replacing her would somehow save the Establishment’s reputation. I would think that if she got to the bottom of the matter, that would rescue any damage done. ‘Hospital’s superintendent solves murder.’ It would enhance our standing in the community, I would think.”
“Not only that,” Matthews said. “There is the moral absolute of the poor little bird requiring justice.”
Finally. Someone who understood. I was warming up to the Welshman. “Thank you, sir, yes.”
He smiled at me. The smile was avuncular and welcoming. “Despite this puss face’s complaining”—he cut his gaze over to Alban briefly—“you should know that your reputation preceded you into the Establishment, thanks to Mrs. Herbert’s glowing recommendation. We all readily agreed to your appointment when Charlotte suggested it. Even Roderick.”
Lady Canning nodded again, while Alban sat stone-faced.
“I find your idea of changing the status of nurses quite compelling,” Matthews continued. “May I ask what you have implemented?” He leaned forward in interest, and I noticed he was rubbing his temple again.
“Well, sir,” I began. “I was present only a short time before—”
He held up the hand that had been massaging his head. “Of course, of course. What was I thinking? I would be most curious to hear of your progress in this area as it occurs.”
“Naturally you would be interested, Cyril,” Alban spat scathingly.
Matthews ignored him. “Roderick very generously allows me to use his office space for conducting some of my own business until the rooms I wish to use are vacated by the current tenant. I
do find, though, that Roderick tends to not spend much time here anymore.”
Alban’s expression suggested he wasn’t much enjoying sharing his space. Why, then, did he do so?
“Perhaps, Miss Nightingale, you might return in, say, two weeks? Once you have cleared up this other sorrowful matter. I wish to know how you envision nursing in the future, and what specifically you are doing to see your vision through. I might be able to assist you.”
He raised those dark eyebrows in question, and I happily accepted his offer.
Alban hadn’t finished his grumbling, but now he directed it at Lady Canning. “He gets a minor post on the stock exchange and he believes he is the Lord Almighty himself.”
But Charlotte Canning was becoming irritated herself. “Roderick, why so much invective, both at Cyril and Miss Nightingale? If I didn’t know better, I would think you to be a jealous suitor.”
Another thick, uncomfortable silence descended over the room, while more laughter floated up from the Exchange floor.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Alban, sir, your rooms here are decorated very … unusually. Did your wife do it?”
“Er, no,” he replied, and I thought he was being evasive. “I had them redone recently by a … er, friend … of some talent who wished to experiment in the latest colors. I like to stay on top of such things,” he added, as though that explained it.
“The color selection is certainly the most unique I’ve ever seen,” I said, hoping he might soften a little more.
Instead, Cyril Matthews laughed softly. “Dear lady, ‘unique’ and ‘unusual’ are very diplomatic terms. You should consider a career in ambassadorial service instead of nursing.”
Alban harrumphed. “As I said, the Lord Almighty himself, bestowing positions and titles. They call it Schweinfurt Green, Miss Nightingale. With the bright light of kerosene and gas lamps becoming commonplace, we don’t need all of those drab, pale wallpapers anymore to reflect candlelight. The most fashionable homes and buildings are using dark wallpapers now, I am told.” I couldn’t tell if he genuinely believed it or had simply wanted to please whoever had done this to his rooms.
Matthews clapped Alban on the shoulder. “Be of good cheer, Roderick. No one challenges your status in society … nor on the men’s committee.”
Charlotte Canning sighed and rose to conclude the meeting. “Miss Nightingale, thank you for coming. We will be checking in on you prior to your meeting with Cyril to be sure you are making progress on hospital improvements. This is, after all, what you were hired to do. I am inclined to give you as much time as you think necessary, but not everyone on the women’s and men’s committees is as generous. It is imperative that you determine quickly what has happened, else I fear the committees will become … restless … about your position.” She offered me a sympathetic look.
I kept my expression neutral at this pronouncement, although I was actually relieved not to be dismissed outright.
Of course, that relief lasted only as long as it took to return to the hospital, where I had terrible news waiting for me.
* * *
At this point, I should have known to simply not open any letters proffered to me. But this one was accompanied by a mousy, older woman whom I vaguely remembered from Holloway, Derbyshire, where my family’s first home, Lea Hurst, was, although I couldn’t quite place her.
We sat together in the library, the woman occupying the chair so recently vacated by Mrs. Alban. She said she had arrived at the behest of my parents, who now believed I needed a companion, and then introduced herself as Mary Clarke. “You do remember me, don’t you, Miss Florence?” The wire-rimmed glasses she wore slid down her nose, and she pushed them back up again.
I ignored her question and opened the missive, written in my father’s precise script.
Darling Flo,
I am sorry to tell you that your grandmama, Mary Shore, has died. It was with a minimum of fuss, so you need not think your absence in her care led to her downfall. She was, after all, 95 years of age.
The thought of Grandmother Shore brought back bittersweet memories. Grandmama had been fierce in her opinions, whether on parliamentary reforms or the proper flowers to plant in the garden. She would argue to the death like a gladiator in the arena over either one, too. Being right was paramount to her.
I have waited to send you this notice, and forbade Parthenope from writing to you, until my mother was in the family plot. After you had finally escaped us, I did not want you to feel obligated to return so soon to attend her funeral. Besides, your mother and sister might have physically restrained you from leaving again, eh?
I would eventually have to return for a visit though, wouldn’t I? The idea was almost appealing at the moment, what with events seeming to bear down on me, ready to crush me on both sides as though I were a sea urchin in the claw of a lobster. But Papa was right, I had to remain here and figure out how to solve Nurse Bellamy’s death without my family finding out about it. If my mother knew, it would surely result in her dashing to London to yank me back to Embley Park like a lioness dragging her cub to safety.
You will remember Mary Clarke’s husband, Milo, as tutor to you and Parthenope for a short time until I took over your education myself.
Ah, now it came back to me.
Milo has recently died from some sort of stomach obstruction, although he had been suffering from other ailments for quite some time. Mary has no family here, what with her son serving the East India Company off the coast of Burma. Your mother thought Mary would be well occupied—and you well served—if Mary were put into place as your companion.
Can you find a place for her to sleep in your lodgings? I am sure you can find use for her at the hospital. It would ease your mother’s mind to know that you have a companion to add respectability to your position there.
It would also ease my father’s mind not to have my mother constantly carping at him about me.
However, I had no desire whatsoever for the suffocation caused by a companion in my parents’ employ and was tempted to turn her out with a scathing note back to my mother. Then I thought of what my poor father would endure when my mother found Mrs. Clarke on her doorstep, and it made me hesitate.
Mary Clarke looked at me hopefully. Her glasses fell again and she pushed them back up, blinking owlishly at me.
“It would seem you come highly recommended as a companion, Mrs. Clarke,” I said, trying to figure out what in the world to do with her. I had so much already occupying my mind and time without having to come up with busywork for a widow.
“Have you any nursing experience?” I asked. Now it was my turn to be hopeful.
“I was at my darling Milo’s side when he went on, Miss. Such a good man, and I long for his presence every day. You do remember his trying to teach you mathematics? You were ever so much more willful than your sister, he said, but ever so much brighter. He never did have such an unusual child as you for a pupil, and he had taught for many prominent Derbyshire families. Why, I remember Milo once said—”
Mrs. Clarke prattled on about her husband for several minutes while I pretended to have a modicum of interest. My mind was occupied with determining what to do with the woman who sat before me. I hardly remembered her from my girlhood days, as, I suppose, I had met her on only a couple of occasions. I guessed Mrs. Clarke to be in her early fifties. Her hair, still dark despite her age, was pulled severely back from her face with what must have been a myriad of hidden pins. The only break in the severity was a coiled loop at her neck. The black widow’s weeds covering her stout frame were plain but neat.
As I recalled, Mr. Clarke had been a kindly tutor, if so nearsighted that he could hardly read any assignments I put before him. The poor bespectacled man hadn’t lasted long under my constant, if innocent, questioning about polynomial equations and the measurement of planets. When Papa saw that I was mentally torturing the man, he had gently dismissed Clarke with a superb character reference. I vaguely remember Papa talking at t
he dinner table of Clarke’s next position with a family of greater note than ours.
Mary Clarke certainly presented herself modestly, as if my mother had hand-selected her to watch over me instead of her merely being a widow at loose ends. I interrupted her description of a book her husband had been working on when he fell ill.
“Mrs. Clarke, have you any talent at correspondence? Caring for a wardrobe? Housekeeping?”
Her expression became increasingly more worried with each skill I proposed. “Mrs. Nightingale said I was just to be a companion to you, Miss. Read to you, go with you when you go into town, and the like. She didn’t say anything about my being housekeeper, or lady’s maid, or personal secretary.”
So my mother had sent me someone respectable but useless? I shook away the irritation. It would serve no purpose to take out my frustration on this poor innocent woman. I studied her further, and I sensed how uneasy she was under my scrutiny. However, an idea was forming in my mind. I wondered if perhaps she could be of some use to me in my investigation.
“Can you keep secrets?” I asked abruptly.
She looked at me in surprise and reached out a hand to me. “Why, Miss Florence, don’t you remember the time you told your parents you were coming into the village to pick up a book on trigonometry, and I found you at the village green? You asked me not to tell, and I never did. I never even told Milo. Not that he was untrustworthy, bless his soul, but because you asked me not to do it.”
The memory of Mrs. Clarke came back in a rush. I did recall that day. I had probably been ten years old, and I was bored of Milo Clarke’s lecture on the Greek mathematician, Pythagoras. Professing myself to be so enamored of the topic that I needed an additional book on it, I had escaped into town for a couple of hours. I had truly intended to find a book at the subscription library where my father belonged but got distracted by some younger girls skipping rope on the green. I then stumbled upon a poor rabbit who was injured and bleeding. It seemed to me that he had been hit by a sharp stone, probably thrown by some obnoxious little urchin.
No Cure for the Dead Page 12
