No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  For his part, George stared blankly at his father, then picked up an antique Chinese blue-and-white snuffbox that apparently represented part of the tsar’s armies and proclaimed, “Mine!”

  George then shoved the piece into the furred sporran he wore over his kilt. It was all the rage these days to dress young children as Scottish Highlanders.

  Sidney burst into laughter. “Now, that’s the way to take care of the Russians, my boy!”

  Liz shook her head and smiled. “Florence will think we are raising zoo animals.”

  Sidney rose, lifting the boy with him and holding him up high so that the boy looked down upon him. It resulted in great giggles from George. Sidney was as affectionate with his children as my own father had been with Parthenope and me. I shuddered to think that Liz could ever turn into my mother, but the woman before me seemed to be cut from gentler material.

  A young woman in a starched white apron and collar over a modest, dark-blue dress entered. “Shall I take him now, sir?”

  “Thank you, Molly. Have someone bring tea, will you?” Sidney lowered his son to the ground, and George obediently scampered after his nanny.

  “Now then,” Sidney said to me, as Liz rose to join him. “I believe it important that we talk, before ugly rumors begin. It never ceases to amaze me that, for a city of three million, a false bit of gossip can travel from Paddington to Bromley in the time it takes to pour a cup of souchong.”

  We all sat down. While Sidney and Liz sat together on the settee, I occupied a delicately carved chair with an overstuffed seat.

  “I know from the police that you were the unfortunate one who found Cyril Matthews’s body,” Sidney said. “It must have given you quite a fright.”

  I didn’t wish to be jaded and tell my friend that very little surprised me anymore, so I simply nodded and Sidney continued, “I understand the police believe it was an accidental death from poisoning … by the room’s wallpaper?” He raised an incredulous eyebrow at me.

  I nodded again. “The constable says it is becoming common in rooms with dark-green decoration, what with arsenic being used to make the deep color.”

  Liz’s gaze took in the drawing room, which was done in gold and varying shades of blue. Her expression was one of relief that their home was in no danger.

  “The police say that they believe it to be an accident,” Sidney said. He was obviously well informed, but presumably the death of someone serving as liaison between the government and the Exchange would be of great interest to someone like Sidney Herbert. “However, I am wondering what you think.”

  I may have thought myself impervious to surprise, but I had been wrong. “Pardon me? You want my opinion on Mr. Matthews’s death?”

  We were interrupted by the arrival of tea. With a warm cup flavored with three sugar cubes at my side, I was ready to address Matthews’s death. “There was a letter at the scene—”

  “Yes, we know,” Sidney said.

  I was confused again. How could he possibly know about the note I had concealed on my person before Constable Lyon came? “You do?”

  He set aside his teacup and went to an antique table that sat along one wall. He lifted the top, which was extravagantly inlaid with other woods to create a picture of a tree with wide-spreading branches. He pulled a piece of paper out and brought it to me. “Roderick Alban cleaned out the office and found this.”

  I took it from him, already dreading whatever it was. I scanned the long missive but didn’t comprehend it, although I mentally registered that it was not in the same handwriting as the other notes that had come into my possession. It appeared to be a formal list of accusations against Matthews, and I saw my name mentioned.

  “What is this?” I asked in confusion, handing it back to Sidney.

  “It would seem that Cyril was contriving to involve himself in the Crimea to his own profit. He was urging certain members of Parliament to vote on going to war in the Crimea. Meanwhile, he was setting up several business relationships at the Exchange that would enable him to serve as a conduit for materials and supplies that would eventually be sold to the army. He would have made a hefty profit for himself, but some honest soul at the Exchange wanted to stop Matthews before it went too far. He sent Matthews this letter to let him know that he would reveal him to us if he did not cease his scheming.”

  Liz also put her teacup aside. “Sidney hasn’t found the man yet, since it wasn’t signed, but he has confirmed that Mr. Matthews was indeed conspiring with men both in Parliament and at the Exchange. I’m sure he will eventually find him, won’t you?” She offered her husband a look of utter devotion.

  I was still confused. “But what does it all have to do with me?”

  “You were part of his plan, Florence.” Sidney glanced down at the letter as if to pick up details. “He intended to be the sole purveyor of medical supplies to the army and thought that he might also round you up in that. Knowing that you were friends with us, he planned to express a great deal of interest in your work so that he could inspire your confidence in him. Then he would use you to influence me into making him into the powerful mogul that he so desired to be.”

  I could hardly believe that the pleasant man I had met was in reality so abominable. I would have more easily suspected it of Roderick Alban.

  “It would seem that the arsenic poisoning, which must have been happening gradually over the course of the time that he was using Alban’s offices, finally did him in.” Sidney picked up his cup of tea once more. “Anyway, I wanted you to know about it from me personally, lest you hear anything different from members of the Establishment’s board.”

  I had much to contemplate. First, though, I need to show Sidney what I had. I silently pulled the one-line note from my skirt pocket, where I had kept it for safety. I unfolded it carefully and showed it to him. Liz read it over his shoulder.

  Sidney drained his cup and returned it to the tea tray. “What is this?” he said. Now it was his turn to show surprise.

  I explained to him how I had come into possession of it, fearful that he might bark at me for concealing it. However, he merely grunted and gave it back to me. “So perhaps it wasn’t arsenic poisoning and someone did us a favor. After all, he would have eventually ended up in a noose for what he was doing.”

  Sidney seemed to consider the matter closed, but my mind was bedeviled by questions. Presumably the man who had sent the list of complaints to Matthews was not the same man who had sent the death note, for if murder was the intended result, why bother with the litany of complaints? No, I did not think the writer of the one paper was the writer of the other. The handwriting was similar, but I didn’t think it the same. So had Cyril Matthews been coincidentally suffering from slow arsenic poisoning when he was confronted by a murderer who killed him in an undetectable fashion? It was simply impossible to know.

  Undetectable fashion.

  Fashion.

  I felt a mental nudging, as though someone were trying to offer me the correct physic to cure my own ailment of feverish ignorance.

  An image of Dr. Killigrew flashed through my mind. He had said to me that the motive for the murder had to be among the seven deadly sins and had ticked them off for me. “Lust, pride, and wrath,” I had said, helping him with the incomplete list he had formed.

  Perhaps the motive included all three of those sins.

  More images flashed through my mind. The attacks on me, John Wesley, and Miss Jarrett. Nurse Hughes’s ghastly uniforms. Not to mention Alice Drayton’s belief that she was being poisoned by Bellamy. And the stolen floor plans. Oh, dear heavens. What a complicated web, but it had a pattern I should have understood the moment I first walked into Roderick Alban’s rooms at the Exchange.

  CHAPTER 19

  I did not yet understand everything, but I knew I had to return to the Establishment. There was a murderer in the hospital’s corridors who might still strike again, for there was one person who surely remained a threat.

  I stood abruptly.
“I must leave,” I announced. “I believe Nurse Bellamy’s killer might attempt another murder in my absence.”

  “What?” Liz cried. “Whom do you believe to be the murderer?”

  “I cannot be sure,” I said, hesitant to make an accusation until I had confirmed my fears. “But I am certain that someone else is in danger.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Sidney said, also jumping up.

  “No,” I said. “Your presence will only confuse my staff.” I was already heading for the front of the house without waiting for a servant escort.

  I rushed through the streets like a Bedlamite to get back to the Establishment, attempting to puzzle out what I truly knew against what I suspected. I sincerely hoped that I was wrong, but when I considered Nurse Hughes’s fabrics, Roderick Alban’s activities, and Cyril Matthews’s death—well, I could not be blamed for alternately shaking and sweating during my mad scramble back to the hospital.

  I burst through the front door like a violent storm. The building was unusually quiet, although that may have just been my mind playing tricks on me.

  Persimmon Jarrett emerged from the corridor where the inmate rooms were located. She moved tentatively, as though unsure of herself. “Oh, Miss Nightingale, there you are. Dr. Killigrew stopped by and told me I should try to walk—”

  I did not care a whit about what Dr. Killigrew had to say. “Where is the rest of the staff?” I demanded.

  Jarrett looked at me in complete bewilderment. “Pardon, Miss? I don’t know—”

  “Never mind!” I snapped. For the moment, the only important thing was John Wesley.

  But I was stopped again by the emergence of Lady Canning and Roderick Alban from the library. “Miss Nightingale,” Lady Canning began. “We’ve been waiting for you. We wish to discuss termination of your employ—”

  I didn’t give a whit about that, either.

  “Later,” I said, cutting them off rudely. I lifted my skirts again and tore down the corridor of the ward, almost barreling past John Wesley’s room. As I feared, his bed was empty.

  I ran back into the hall, shouting to whoever could hear me, “Where is John Wesley? Who has seen him?”

  The boy was not recovered enough to be hobbling about on his own. In fact, I doubted whether he would ever walk again without a limp. Right now, though, I had to ensure his very survival.

  Unfortunately, my disturbance caused not only the staff to come running but the inmates to begin wailing. How stupid of me. Soon they all joined the staff, Lady Canning, and Mr. Alban in the entry, which was becoming very crowded. How ironic that the same scene would be replaying as when John Wesley had first been injured.

  “John Wesley is not in his room,” I said as calmly as I could—another irony, given that I had probably discomfited everyone in fear. “I want everyone to look for him. Yes, even you,” I said in response to the questioning look in Mrs. Moore’s eyes.

  I had my own idea as to where he might be, and the thought twisted my innards into paralyzing knots. Nevertheless, I clasped my shaking hands together and headed to the library, praying I would not find him in the same manner that I had found Nurse Bellamy.

  The alcove was empty.

  I laughed, a little too hysterically, for I was both relieved not to see him there and terrified because I was unsure where else to look. And, for some reason, everyone had simply followed me in here rather than obeying my instructions.

  Charlie Lewis ventured to speak. “Miss Nightingale, m-m-maybe he went for a walk, like Alice Drayton.”

  Miss Drayton bobbed her head up and down. “I’ve been waiting to go for a walk, Miss Nightingale. Even a dying—”

  I had no time for this. “The boy’s knee is damaged. He could barely take a few steps, and only with help.” I looked around. Nan Wilmot was in the room with all of us, so she hadn’t taken him out. I did not see Polly Roper.

  That’s when I knew where to find John Wesley. I pushed through the confused sea of faces and made my way to the servants’ staircase. I grabbed the rail with one hand and my skirts with the other and ran down as fast as I could, the gaggle of employees and patients quacking and making their way down behind me.

  I felt like a duck leading my ducklings to a watering place.

  I did not immediately see the cook downstairs. “Mrs. Roper?” I called out, as everyone backed up behind me at the base of the stairs.

  She emerged from the scullery, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, Miss Nightingale?” She paused in confusion at the sea of faces before her.

  “Have you seen John Wesley?” I said, trying to keep the urgency from my voice.

  “Why would he be down here?” she asked. “He’s injured.”

  “Exactly.” I moved determinedly to where I knew the secret room to be. I didn’t need to remove the apron since it was on Mrs. Roper’s person. I found the depression along the joint of the wall again, and pulled the wall open. There was a collective gasp behind me.

  Inside, John Wesley lay face up on the mattress, unconscious. At least I hoped he was only unconscious. I rushed to him and dropped to my knees, placing my hand on his chest. He was still breathing, but barely.

  On the floor next to him was an open bottle of laudanum. I suppose I should have been grateful that he hadn’t been done in by an overdose of arsenic, which would have been swift but painful. But at the moment I was so filled with rage for the person who would do such a thing that I wasn’t thinking quite rationally.

  “John Wesley, dear boy,” I said softly, rubbing my hand against his face. Was it too late for him? He moved his cheek just slightly against my hand, although he didn’t open his eyes. You will be well, I thought with relief. I had to get the laudanum out of his system, but I needed him awake enough to vomit.

  “Someone find me a bucket, and I need a nurse to bring syrup of ipecac. I also need a cup of fresh water and some wet cloths,” I commanded, while I worked to bring John Wesley to some sort of consciousness. In a matter of moments, everything was next to me, placed by unknown hands.

  For the next few minutes I massaged John Wesley’s chest, tapped his face, and did what I could to awaken him. He was groggy and barely able to open his eyes, but it was enough to pour some ipecac down his throat and have him swallow it. It wasn’t long before I got the desired result. I grabbed the bucket, which smelled as if it had been storing spoiled fish. I probably could have used this alone rather than the ipecac. Soon, though, he was vomiting his poor little stomach into it.

  When he was done, he collapsed back against the mattress and I wiped his sweating face and mouth with a damp cloth. “Sleep now,” I whispered to him gently, as if he were the son of my own womb.

  Nurse Harris came forward to take over care of John Wesley, but I blew all of my ire at her, stopping her with a sharp, “Stay away! I don’t want anyone near this boy for the moment.”

  She backed away, rejoining everyone who was trying to peer into the narrow room, which was certainly no longer a secret to anyone.

  Now that John Wesley was breathing normally, I rose and turned to face the assembly. I had a murderer to put into the hands of the authorities.

  “There is someone here who has made several murder attempts,” I said, as I walked out of the concealed room as everyone spread away from me and into the kitchen. “Two were successful, although one of those was an accident, missing the intended target. No doubt the murderer believes that the intended target is still within grasp, but I tell you today that the killing is over.”

  Most of the faces in the room were staring at me open-mouthed in shock and disbelief. Ivy Stoke collapsed into a chair at the worktable, beginning to wheeze uncontrollably.

  I stared back at them all, wondering if the guilty party would step forward. A foolish and naive thought on my part, for they stood frozen in their places. Very well, then.

  “I’ve only been here a very short time, but it has been a time fraught with lies and deception. I have many ideas regarding patient care that I wish
to implement, but someone here has thus far prevented it by forcing me to spend all of my waking hours ferreting out the truth about the death of a young nurse, Caroline Bellamy. The first question I had to answer for myself was not who would kill her but why she would be killed. To answer that, I needed to know who she was, but there was little information about her.

  “Lady Canning believed her to have fled an abusive husband. But she was mistaken. Bellamy had never been married, and no one had followed her here. Lady Canning hadn’t purposely lied to me, but it added to my own confusion.”

  I pointed to Persimmon Jarrett. “You told me that Nurse Bellamy was a loner and didn’t associate with anyone. But then you”—I turned to Nurse Hughes—“told me that you had gone to the zoo and to a café for cups of chocolate with the nurse, stating that she was shy but not a complete recluse. It made me even more perplexed as to who Nurse Bellamy really was. Then Mr. Moore”—I turned to Hester—“said that Nurse Bellamy had some sort of quick-riches scheme, another nettlesome piece in this intricate puzzle. But was it possible that Mrs. Moore and her brother were part of that scheme?”

  “I never!” Hester protested. “My brother is an upstanding citizen, a close confidant of Mr. Brunel, and would never—”

  Yes, I knew all about the inestimable Brunel.

  I continued. “But I could see nothing obvious linking the Moores to my nurse. Yet Bellamy did seem to have a secret life. Secret enough that although she had no family to speak of, an anonymous donor gave money for her funeral. How odd. What activities was Bellamy conducting outside the Establishment that this would be so?”

  There were still no sounds in the room apart for my voice.

  “Then there was the repeated tale that she was having strange gentleman callers late at night. That opened up so many possibilities. Had a jilted lover murdered her? That was the theory the coroner put forth. Or had her lover tired of her and she refused to let him go? Had they quarreled? Charlie Lewis lives here. Was it him? Was it the relative of a patient? Someone else?”