I had carried the creature in my skirts to one of the benches along the green’s perimeter and was attempting to nurse the poor thing—who didn’t long survive my ministrations—when Mrs. Clarke came up to me. She carried a twine-wrapped butcher’s package in her arms and innocently asked what I was doing.
With a bloodied, squeaking, dying rabbit in my lap, I couldn’t very well claim that I was in the midst of signing out a book. In my panic, I blurted out the truth and begged her not to repeat it to her husband.
Now that I thought about it, I never had gotten in trouble for it, despite arriving home disheveled with my clothes bloodstained and no book in sight.
“Well, Mrs. Clarke,” I said now. “It seems you do indeed have a talent for secret-keeping. That is what I can use here at the Establishment.”
Mary Clarke nodded sagely. “To keep confidential the conditions of the patients here.”
I smiled thinly. “Actually, no. I have something else in mind for you. But first we need to fix where you will reside.”
Mrs. Clarke’s relief at my acceptance was palpable, as if she didn’t realize I had little choice in the matter if I wanted to keep peace within my family.
I escorted her to my rarely used lodgings in Wimple Street so that she could unpack the small bag she had brought with her. She said she would send for her other belongings. Having her in my lodgings would ensure that Mother would be satisfied that Mrs. Clarke could keep an eye on me, but provided me with space to breathe. I could remove her from my person each evening, like unhooking a tight-fitting corset. Yet during the day I would have the advantage of her assisting me in maintaining the form and posture my mother wished everyone to see.
“Now we will return to the Establishment so you can perform your first task,” I said.
“Shall I make you a nice pot of tea, then?” she asked brightly.
“Hardly,” I replied. “You will take notes while I interview a woman who might be a murderess.”
Poor Mrs. Clarke. I know it took all of her intestinal fortitude not to collapse in a faint on the floor at my pronouncement.
Was it too terrible of me to be a little pleased that I had so shocked my mother’s dictated companion for me? The unfortunate woman had yet to hear the sordid tale of Nurse Bellamy.
* * *
As soon as we were back at the Establishment, I issued an instruction for someone to find Nurse Margery Frye and send her to my study. Before Frye arrived, I already had Mrs. Clarke perched on a wood chair in a corner with a notebook and freshly dipped ink pen in her lap.
Frye frowned at seeing a stranger in my study and seemed even further irritated that not only did I not introduce Mrs. Clarke, but the older woman remained hunched over her notebook and did not make eye contact with her.
I could see that Frye desperately wanted to know who Mrs. Clarke was but didn’t have the nerve to ask. All of a sudden, out of the comfort of her own room, Nurse Frye wasn’t so confident, and was in fact disconcerted. I was learning that picking your own battlefield was helpful in winning a war, if it could be said that I was at war with my own staff.
“Nurse, please sit down,” I said, extending my hand to the chair across from me. Frye sat slowly, giving Mrs. Clarke a final dubious glance before fully concentrating on me.
“Yes, Miss Nightingale,” she said dutifully.
“I understand you once worked for Allen and Hanbury’s.”
Frye’s eyes narrowed. “How did you come to know that? Did Polly tell you?”
Was Polly Roper her confidante? That was interesting. I hoped Mrs. Clarke was making note of it. The pen was in her hand, flying across the page, so I had to assume she was.
“It is of no matter who told me. What is of concern is that you apparently had access to all manner of pharmaceuticals. Did you by chance handle arsenic?”
“You mean rat poison? Like what ol’ Charlie uses around the edges of the building to control vermin? Sure,” she shrugged. “Caught my own rat that way, didn’t I?”
I remembered the dead rat in her room. Why hadn’t she told me then that she had killed the creature?
“Where do you keep it? In fact, where do you keep all of the medicinal supplies you possess?”
She shrugged. “Here and there. Some down in the kitchens.”
Polly Roper’s domain.
“A bit tucked away in my pillowcase. A few hidey-holes I’ve found. I’ve given some to Charlie.”
Her answer suggested that she held it all so loosely that anyone in the building might have access to it. So was it possible that it actually was Nurse Bellamy who had attempted to poison Alice Drayton? Or was that idea still borne out of Miss Drayton’s confusion?
“You will look among your ‘hidey-holes’ and in your pillowcase and wherever else you have put them and bring them to me for safekeeping until the matter with Nurse Bellamy is sorted out.”
Frye’s jaw dropped. I really disliked viewing the rotting interior of her mouth.
“But they are mine, Miss Nightingale. I risked a lot to get them.”
“Yes, undoubtedly,” I said dryly, but Frye did not catch my sarcasm. “Mrs. Clarke here will accompany you as you gather them up.”
Now Mary Clarke’s expression was one of surprise as she looked up from her scribbling, but she didn’t challenge me.
“While you’re at it, give Mrs. Clarke any other gin bottles, too,” I added.
“But Miss Nightingale, I told you they belonged to Clem—”
“Nurse Harris. Yes, I know you did. And do you know”—I leaned forward—“I don’t believe you.”
She continued to protest. “I showed you her murder weapon. You should be after her, not persecuting me.”
I almost felt sorry for Mrs. Clarke, who was swallowing repeatedly as her complexion turned pale. Still, she did not speak up to refuse the task. I confess I was pleased.
Margery Frye, however, was not so pleased. “I’ll not be treated like a mangy cur, kicked in my hindquarters by a mean master. You can’t—”
I held up a hand to stop her, as Cyril Matthews had recently done to me. “I am not kicking you, Nurse. I, as superintendent, simply won’t allow you to have your own supply of medicines inside the Establishment. Particularly while I am investigating Nurse Bellamy’s death.”
I was even more determined now because of her defiant attitude to make sure those medicines were off the property. I would store them at my off-premise lodgings that Mary now occupied so as to prevent any theft of them from the Establishment.
Frye crossed her arms and leaned back, sulky now. “The other superintendent didn’t mind.”
“The other superintendent is no longer here. I am.”
Frye blinked several times at my pronouncement, then tried another approach. “I told you about Nurse Harris and her husband. You should have her arrested. If anyone would be guilty of a murder, it would be her. Instead you go after poor innocent women like me.”
Once more the urge to dismiss the insolent harpy was overpowering. Not yet, I counseled myself. “I will worry about Nurse Harris. For now, you should be concerned only with yourself and how you measure against the standard I am setting.”
I released her from the room and nodded my head to Mrs. Clarke that she should follow the nurse. My new companion scuttled out behind Frye, her notebook tucked under her arm. She reminded me of a goose who willingly follows the farmer to the block, even knowing what will happen next.
Poor Mrs. Clarke would have to learn quickly that being at the Establishment meant enduring many such awkward, uncomfortable moments, particularly as the rank and file were brought in line.
* * *
While Mary followed Margery Frye around to collect the nurse’s potions and powders, I decided to check on my nurses. My hope was that they were tending to patients.
I found Nurse Wilmot on her hands and knees in Ivy Stoke’s room, reaching one arm under the bed while Mrs. Stoke crouched behind her, offering encouragement.
&nbs
p; “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” I asked.
Wilmot froze, her rump no longer wriggling as she reached for an unseen object, while Mrs. Stoke jerked up in surprise at my appearance.
“Miss Nightingale!” the patient exclaimed. “This nurse is helping me capture Jasmine. My sweet girl got spooked by something and flew in here, racing right under the bed.”
I reminded Wilmot that Ivy Stoke would need to smoke one of Dr. Killigrew’s new cigarette blends, then shook my head and left them to what they were doing.
I nearly bumped into Nurse Hughes, who was carrying a stack of linens into Alice Drayton’s room. Atop the sheets and blankets was a precariously placed tray containing a steaming teapot, cup and saucer, and the other makings for proper tea. After placing the linens at the foot of the bed and the tea tray on the desk, Hughes helped Alice from the bed to the chair so she could change the bed linens.
While she did so, I held my breath and examined Alice’s throat. To my utter surprise, Dr. Killigrew’s cure actually seemed to be working. The ulcers had clearly diminished. Remarkable.
I continued to check on the inmates, raising windows, opening doors, and flapping sheets wherever I could to stimulate fresh air.
I reached the end of the hospital’s modest ward, satisfied that all was well, and made my way to the library to wait for Mary to return with Margery Frye’s medicine collection.
As I reentered the main hall, it occurred to me that I should talk to Polly Roper once more to question her about her relationship with Nurse Frye.
I headed to the rear of the building to use the servants’ staircase. There was a window providing light to the narrow, winding stairwell, but the day had grown overcast, so the light was minimal against the yellow walls. At least Lady Canning had had the foresight to have a rail installed. At Embley Park, my parents had no such bar for servants to hold, as such extravagances were usually reserved for the resident family and the main staircase. Nurses and other staff alike had cause to come down this way to the kitchens, so the rail was beneficial to all.
I took the rail in my right hand and my skirts in my left, feeling my way onto the first creaking oak step. I wished I had thought to bring a lantern along with me. Perhaps I needed to return to—
I heard the briefest scuffling behind me, but before I could turn to see who was there, the shadowy form of a hand appeared in front of my face and I felt a cloth pressed against my nose and mouth. The sharp, sickly sweet smell of chloroform was overpowering. What was happening?
I instinctively grabbed at the hand holding the cloth over me, but whoever it was had a tight grip on me. I had no idea if it was a man or woman who clutched me so tightly, but the hold was firm enough that I couldn’t manage to effectively claw or bite my way out of his—or her—control.
It is strange how in the panic of looming death, one can have a plethora of unrelated thoughts in the space of mere seconds, none of which have anything to do with recapturing life.
I thought about the queen, who had delivered her eighth child, Leopold, back in April, with the use of chloroform. Prince Albert had thoroughly interrogated the doctor proposing its use before permitting it to be used on his wife. What a kind husband.
I thought about Polly Roper finding my lifeless body at the foot of the staircase and how inconvenient it would be for the inmates’ dinner preparations.
I thought of poor Mary Clarke, here for only a few hours and already facing tragedy.
Nurse Bellamy’s revolving corpse rose up in my mind, with the realization that no one in the world—except for perhaps Cyril Matthews—cared about justice for her, and so my death would end the pursuit for her killer.
Urgent whispering from somewhere behind me caused my attacker to release me, then push me forcefully between my shoulder blades. In my drugged state, I was unable to find the rail, and I pitched forward in an ungainly manner as my skirts tangled beneath me. As I plunged downward along the stone steps, with justice for Nurse Bellamy still on my mind, I knew exactly why I was being murdered.
I had somehow stumbled into knowledge about the murder of my nurse, even though I did not yet realize what it was.
CHAPTER 11
I awoke to a distant buzzing, as if I were near a beehive. No, that wasn’t it. I strained to listen more closely to determine what was humming in the room. The effort made me realize how terribly my head was pounding. It didn’t help that the ground beneath me was so hard.
I was also thirsty, as if I had gone days without water. I tried to swallow, but my tongue felt like a gigantic obstacle in my mouth. Had I survived an attempted murder only to be perishing of dehydration?
The buzzing was now splintering into distinct sounds, and it wasn’t long before I realized that I was hearing voices.
Were they imaginary? Was I insensible?
I felt light against my eyelids and attempted to open my eyes. I barely managed to flutter my lashes, but in that moment caught sight of someone leaning over me as if waiting for me to speak.
Then all was black again.
* * *
The next time I awoke, my mind was a little clearer, and I knew I was somewhere else. The ground was softer and the air was quiet, no longer full of irritating buzzing.
I felt a moist cloth pressed against my forehead and then against my lips. I jerked my head away, terrified that I was under attack again, although I didn’t smell chloroform this time.
“Are you awake, Miss?” came a female voice from above me. “You took quite a fall. Dr. Killigrew is here and wanted to be notified immediately when you awoke. You are awake, aren’t you?”
I slowly opened my eyes and peered through the slits that formed. “Nurse Harris?” I asked. My voice was but a croak.
Harris came back into view again. Her expression was somber and her green eyes were full of worry. “Indeed. Wait here while I fetch Dr. Killigrew.”
Where did she believe I was going? I attempted to arise after she left the room. I managed to struggle into a seated position. I was worn out from my efforts but at least better understood my location, which was a patient room. The room had a faded oval on the red toile wallpaper, where a portrait of a long-dead family patriarch had likely once hung. There was also a large, jagged-edged scorch mark on the wood flooring in front of the fire grate, no doubt the result of a clumsy ash-clearing in the past. It was difficult to shake the feeling that this was still a living, breathing family home, despite the age-old decay that remained.
This room was at the end of the ward and had not been used since my arrival as superintendent. How ironic that I was to be its first occupant.
I looked down at myself. I was covered loosely with a sheet and still wore my day clothes. Did that mean I had been unconscious only a short time? In truth, I was glad my nurses had not attempted to change my clothes. I wasn’t sure I entirely trusted all of them with touching my person.
What a horrid thought. But I suppose truth can be a horrid thing, raw and ugly and showing no pity for the weak or unaware.
Once more I remembered how thirsty I was. I noticed a glass and full water pitcher on the room’s desk. I made mental approval of Nurse Harris’s attention to detail.
As I made the decision to attempt to go to the desk, Nurse Harris returned with Dr. Killigrew. The good doctor wore his usual beaming smile, although I found it a little forced in my presence. My status as a patient probably unnerved him as much as it did me.
“It is splendid to see you alert, Miss Nightingale,” he boomed, while Nurse Harris—bless her—instinctively poured a cup of water for me.
She held the cup to my lips and I drank like a greedy child, both of my hands covering hers. She removed the empty glass from my lips and I felt rejuvenated. It was extraordinary what a bit of liquid could do for one’s mental and physical states.
“Nurse, I should like to have—” I began.
“A bowl of bone broth. Yes, Miss, I will tell Mrs. Roper immediately.” Having thus peered into my mind once
again, Harris returned the glass to the desk and left the room.
Killigrew watched her retreating figure, then turned back to me. “Quiet, that one, but competent, eh?”
Yes, she was.
I found myself yawning and covered my rudely gaping mouth with a fist. I felt better, but achy and exhausted.
“You took quite a tumble down into the kitchens,” Killigrew said, sitting down in the room’s chair. “The staff weren’t sure if you might be dead, but fortunately they sent your boy to fetch me, and I had you removed from the floor up to a proper bed.”
I wondered if anyone had thought to give John Wesley a penny or two. I nodded my thanks to Killigrew, who pulled the desk’s chair around so that it was positioned next to the bed, facing me. He sat down heavily, his smiling expression mixed with concern.
“Tell me of any symptoms you believe you have,” he said.
I told him of my powerful but recently sated thirst as well as my overall soreness.
“Minor afflictions given that you might easily have broken your neck,” he said. “I suggest not looking in the mirror for the next few days. You face absorbed a lot of the shock, I’m afraid. Your Nurse Harris was very insistent that she be your sole attendant up here. I don’t believe she left the room for hours. It would seem that she is at least somewhat responsible for your good recovery thus far.”
Until this moment, Dr. Killigrew had not enthused over any of my nurses.
“I shall inform her of your praise,” I said. Perhaps she would be a motivating example to the others.
He nodded. “She will want to know that she is esteemed. Now,” he said, slapping his hands on his knees. “Can you tell me what caused you to fall? You don’t strike me as ungainly in your movements, and surely you were holding the rail as you went down.”
I was torn. Should I tell Dr. Killigrew what had happened, thus bringing him into my confidence? Was it a matter better left for the police? Or perhaps I would risk telling no one as I continued to ferret out who Nurse Bellamy’s killer was. Clearly I had come close to the answer, else I wouldn’t have been attacked.
No Cure for the Dead Page 13
