No Cure for the Dead

by Christine Trent

  That information stopped me. “I thought you were grieving your dead husband. You implied that he was a great loss to you.”

  She gave me another of her serious looks. “A desperate woman is willing to do anything to protect herself. Besides, it was not truly a lie. The man I married was not the man he turned out to be, and I did mourn the husband I thought I had wed. And I had heard how dangerous London was. A knife would protect me from both the city and the brute, if he found me.”

  I tried to imagine Richard turning into anything other than what he was. I could not conceive of it.

  “Why was the knife bloodied?”

  She shrugged. “I took it out of Ralph’s possession. I’m sure it had seen the scruff of many animals.” She winced and put two fingers to the bandages wound around her own neck. “Although I believed I could get lost in London, I was also not naive enough to think that Ralph wouldn’t attempt to find me.”

  “Is Clementina Harris really your name?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It is common enough, and I didn’t think I had enough deception in me to learn to respond to anything else. I gambled that Ralph would never look for me to be working in a hospital in Marylebone. Thus far, it has worked, since my only enemy has been another nurse.”

  “Why do you suppose Nurse Frye had such loathing for you?” Was there no low point to people’s anger and hate?

  “I think because I knew her secrets—the liquor, the medicines—and she knew none of mine. She wanted to know that she held something over me, but I never permitted it. I was never surprised when she spoke out against me, although I admit I was taken aback when she found my knife and gave it to you.”

  There was still another unanswered question. “John Wesley overheard you once while hiding in the secret room. Charlie was saying he could protect you, and then, according to John Wesley, you kissed Charlie.”

  Harris looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed lightly. “Hardly. I told Charlie that Nurse Frye enjoyed persecuting me, and he believed he could be my bulwark against her. Very chivalrous, I suppose, but unnecessary. As though a slattern like Margery Frye would frighten me. To distract Charlie, I suggested we have slices of Mrs. Roper’s leftover mincemeat pie. No doubt what John Wesley heard were sounds of enjoyment. As you know, Charlie’s room is downstairs, and sometimes he would wait for me, knowing I would be down to fulfill some patient’s request for food or tea. It was always innocent, of course. He was ostensibly just looking for a tool or cleaning something from the garden or some such thing. But it was almost as if he knew the sound of my footsteps on the staircase.”

  “Why did you not report him to me?” I said.

  “Report what, Miss Nightingale? That Charlie Lewis was lovesick?” She shrugged. “I didn’t wish to embarrass him. As long as he committed no harm against my person, I had no quarrel with him.”

  Charlie Lewis must be admonished to leave the nursing staff alone, no matter to what extent he thought he treated them with respect. I would not have my nurses molested by unwanted attentions. Perhaps it was time to consider another manservant, although at this point practically my entire staff was turning over. Nurse Harris, though, I would keep and protect as best I could.

  EPILOGUE

  August 1854

  I picked up the brown paper-wrapped package from the afternoon mail. The postman had beat on the door with his truncheon before shoving it all through the large slot and letting the pieces scatter to the floor. I had repeatedly asked him to just leave the mail and not announce his presence for fear of disturbing napping inmates, but he completely ignored me. Twice a day or more, then, I heard the thump-thump-thump of his arrival, then the creaking of the mail flap as he tossed in letters and packages.

  A year had passed since Persimmon Jarrett had been dragged away from this entry hall. I still vividly remembered her protesting her arrest loudly and with vehemence, screeching at the officers that she had been most justified in her actions.

  I had been summoned to testify at her trial, another sad spectacle that I worried would bring unwanted notoriety to myself and the Establishment. Instead, it served only to make us famous.

  After Jarrett’s short trial and inevitable hanging at Newgate—which was private rather than a public exhibition thanks to Dr. Killigrew’s intercession—I had received a note of recognition from the queen herself. Moreover, Sidney Herbert now sought my advice regarding medical improvements for soldiers now being sent to the Crimea. Poor, brave lads. Herbert’s plans had all come to fruition. How good for England that Mr. Matthews’s plans, meanwhile, would not be realized.

  John Wesley had largely recovered and talked incessantly about joining the army, when he was old enough, “to thrash them Russians.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was many years away from a uniform and that his permanent limp probably wouldn’t allow him to do much beyond sitting at a desk.

  Nurse Harris, too, bore permanent marks. They were covered well beneath her collar, and she carried on as ever before, if perhaps with a bit more reserve.

  Naturally, only Harris and Hughes remained of the original group of nurses. Wilmot and Frye, as well as Polly Roper, were still in Bridewell Prison, and I had replaced them all. I had sternly lectured Charlie Lewis, and his contrition was sincere enough that I was certain he would give Harris a permanent wide berth.

  Roderick Alban had also decided upon a wide berth, but that was beneficial for me. I never saw him again after the day Jarrett was arrested. As a result, I was given a free hand in the running of the Establishment. I had instituted strict rules regarding nurses’ behavior to avoid any of the chicanery I had experienced. We now had Hughes’s revised uniforms, and I insisted that they be clean and starched at all times.

  All of my nurses knew how to prepare meals, manage linens, give injections, clean wounds properly, and keep rooms aired and clean. The Establishment smelled fresher than I had even intended it would that first week I arrived.

  The expansion to the attached rear building had taken place, so now there was a proper surgery and more inmate rooms. No longer would people be operated upon in their beds.

  Mary was helping me create a nursing manual, which was still just pages upon pages of my thoughts on the care of invalids. Despite her weak constitution, she had quickly become a true friend to me.

  I hefted the small package in my hand. It weighed less than a pound. I untied the package’s string and the paper fell away. Inside was a red-leather volume only slightly longer than the length of my outstretched hand. In gilt lettering, I read:

  The Hanging of Nurse Bellamy:

  An Accurate Account of a Curious Murder in Marylebone

  By

  Dunstan Moore

  That certainly explained the man’s overwhelming curiosity.

  I flipped through the first few pages. The book was dedicated to me.

  For Miss F.N., who never surrendered, neither to danger nor evil

  I smiled. I supposed I could understand why Moore never let on what he was about, for without question I would have thrown him out on his ear.

  I decided that I would begin reading his book that very evening in the library—my library, now a peaceful place with no dead bodies and no murderous librarians.

  I did not think we needed to hire a replacement for Miss Jarrett.

  Nor did I think we would henceforth have any further troubles at the Establishment. After all, once one has dealt with two murders, what surprise or turmoil could possibly throw one into any upheaval?

  The other bits of mail that caught my eye were an official-looking envelope and an envelope in very familiar handwriting. Both stood out among the rest of the scattered pieces on the floor. I placed Moore’s book on the entry table and gathered the remaining mail. I tossed it all onto the table with the book except for the two pieces that had piqued my curiosity.

  I realized who had sent the letter in such familiar handwriting. It was from Richard. My hands developed uncontrolled tremors as I picked it
up. I was torn between wanting to run to my bedchamber with it to read it in secret and not wanting to waste another moment before tearing it open. My mind ran wild with what it could contain. Had he received an important posting somewhere? Had someone died? Please God, don’t let it be an announcement that Annabella is with child.

  My impatience asserted itself over my desire for privacy and I opened the envelope right there in the entry hall, scanning the contents quickly. He had enclosed a poem, not for me per se, but for me to read and critique.

  I had a dream of waters: I was borne

  Fast down the slimy tide

  Of eldest Nile, and endless flats forlorn

  Stretched out on either side,—

  Save where from time to time arose

  Red pyramids, like flames in forced repose,

  And Sphinxes gazed, vast countenances bland,

  Athwart that river-sea and sea of sand.

  Richard had always been disposed to the writing of poetry, ballads, and the like. I much preferred his treatises on church matters. But why was he suddenly desiring my opinion on a few lines of poetry? Was he simply extending an olive branch of friendship?

  I reread the poem slowly. It referenced a dream of sailing along the Nile, a place I had been three years ago. Was he trying to evoke a particular emotion in me, or did he merely want the opinion of someone who had also been there? My emotions were always such a jumble where he was concerned.

  I put the letter back in its envelope to decide upon later. I just wasn’t sure my heart could endure a correspondence with Richard, no matter how innocent.

  All thoughts of Richard were tossed aside in an instant, though, as I opened the second letter. It was from Sidney Herbert’s office at the War Department.

  Elizabeth had been attacked in her carriage by a madman. Could I come right away?

  I trembled, not only for my friend but for myself. Was it possible that my new life meant that I would never be settled and at peace for very long?

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Florence Nightingale (1820–1910), was a remarkable woman of the Victorian era. Her life span was longer than Queen Victoria’s (1819–1901), and she arguably changed the world at least as much as the woman who wore the crown.

  Born into a wealthy family, Florence was named for the Italian city in which she was born while her newlywed parents were still on the Grand Tour. She was destined for a life of ease and comfort. She referred to her childhood home, Lea Hurst, located in Derbyshire, as “charming,” with its thirteen bedrooms, additional coach house, and acres of gardens and grounds. Lea Hurst later became the Nightingale family’s summer home, and Florence returned there in 1856 after the Crimean War.

  Because the Nightingale estates were entailed, her mother, Frances “Fanny” Nightingale (1788–1880), intended that Florence and her sister, Parthenope Nightingale (1819–1890), would deliver the family from eventual financial ruin through brilliant marriages and their resulting children. Parthenope, also named for the place where she was born, was willing but unable to attract an appropriate suitor. Florence attracted many suitors but was unwilling to make a match.

  Fanny nearly lost her mind over her recalcitrant younger daughter, especially when she rejected the proposal of Richard Monckton Milnes (1809–1885), for whom Florence had a genuine and abiding affection.

  However, Florence claimed she had had a divine visit at the age of seventeen in which God told her He was setting her apart for a special task. She never veered from her confidence in this divine appointment, no matter how many tears her mother, and eventually her sister, expended on her. Her father, William Edward Nightingale (1794–1874), also known as W.E.N., actually supported his daughter’s desire to pursue a different path, but Fanny was a force unto herself, and he tended not to cross her directly.

  W.E.N. focused on giving Florence the best foundation he could, taking her education in hand personally and teaching her mathematics, science, and languages. All of this knowledge would serve her well in her lifetime.

  Florence did travel to Egypt and Europe on an extended visit with the Bracebridges and did eventually manage to get a stay at Kaiserwerth to train with Pastor Theodor Fliedner (1800–1864). Upon returning to her family, Florence later said, Fanny and Parthenope acted as though she “had come from committing a crime.” When Florence was invited to become the superintendent of the Establishment for Gentlewomen During Temporary Illness, her mother and sister wept, wailed, and refused food. Her sister began having mood disturbances, and Florence herself became nervous and irritable.

  It was Florence’s friend, Elizabeth “Liz” Herbert, who recommended her to Lady Canning for the post at the Establishment. Sidney Herbert (1810–1861) had married the twenty-four-year-old Elizabeth Ashe à Court-Repington (1822–1911) in 1846, and together they had seven children. They were a formidable and influential match: he was an ambitious politician who became the secretary of war and later the first Baron Herbert of Lea; she was a passionate advocate of Florence’s work. Through Elizabeth, Sidney came to be an advocate for Florence’s hospital reforms.

  As an aside, Herbert ran Wilton House, the Pembroke family estates in Wiltshire, for most of his life. His elder half brother, the twelfth Earl of Pembroke, lived in self-imposed exile in Paris, so the estates fell upon Herbert’s shoulders. I spent several happy hours here in 2013 and can attest to it being a wonderful place to visit. Despite the magnificence of it, the estate feels like a family home, especially since it is still occupied by the Pembrokes (currently the eighteenth Earl and Countess of Pembroke) 450 years after it was built.

  Lady Charlotte Canning (1817–1861) was the driving force behind the Establishment, intending to serve women who were too wellborn to be in a workhouse hospital yet not of enough stature to warrant at-home visits from a doctor. Lady Canning was a lady of the bedchamber to Queen Victoria for over a decade, yet all of that exposure to wealth and nobility did not affect Lady Canning’s passion for serving an overlooked segment of society. Her husband, Charles, would eventually be appointed governor-general of India. While there with him, she contracted malaria and died in her husband’s arms in 1861. Thoroughly shocked by her death, Charles followed her to the grave less than a year later.

  It cannot be overstated how lowly the nursing profession was when Florence Nightingale burst upon the scene in 1853. Long considered work for thieves and drunkards—with some justification—it suffered a reputation on par with prostitution. As such, it is understandable why Florence’s mother and sister were nearly hysterical when she announced her desire to become a nurse herself. To this upper-class family, it was tantamount to Florence announcing that she was going to enter a brothel. She persevered, though, and in a great irony, Fanny and Parthenope would one day be her most enthusiastic supporters. What Florence had failed to do for her family’s future with marriage, she succeeded in doing with her own personal fame.

  The Establishment, as I call it, was founded in 1849 by Lady Canning and a group of philanthropic women. Originally located in Cavendish Square, it was moved to No. 1 Upper Harley Street (now 90 Harley Street) in 1853, just prior to Florence’s arrival. The building now contains a clinic and is in an area that started its great influx of medical professionals in Florence’s day. Although I show the hospital as having only single rooms, it did also have three four-bed wards, known as “cubicles,” which were sectioned off by curtains.

  Florence did not actually enter the hospital as its superintendent but was instead promoted to that position within a year of arriving. However, it worked better for my story that she be in this position of authority right away.

  Yes, cigarettes were considered a cure for asthma. They didn’t work. Yes, drinking urine was a cure for thrush, an oral yeast infection. It did seem to work.

  Florence insisted on having a free hand in the hospital’s management, although she was viewed with suspicion by a great number of people associated with the hospital who were unable to comprehend why a wellborn woman l
ike Florence would wish to engage in such an effort. Florence overcame it all with her willful personality. She was sometimes sharp, sometimes sweet, and always extremely intelligent and curious. She certainly never tolerated stupidity in others.

  Florence was also a lifelong adherent of miasma theory, which held that many contagious diseases were spread through bad air, known as miasmas (ancient Greek for pollution). Even though she was incorrect, as a result of this theory she was an early proponent of throwing open windows and doors to let as much air and light into a sickroom as possible. This was in a time when sealing off a room like a tomb was considered the most effective way to treat illness.

  Queen Victoria would have been among those looking askance at Florence. The queen was not an admirer of women who overstepped their bounds by moving into professions rightfully occupied by men. She, of course, made an exception for herself as the reigning monarch of Great Britain. Victoria particularly did not like women who attempted to enter fields like medicine, although she would later come to mightily praise Florence. That, however, is a tale for another book!

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY CHRISTINE TRENT

  LADY OF ASHES MYSTERIES

  A Grave Celebration

  Death at the Abbey

  The Mourning Bells

  A Virtuous Death

  Stolen Remains

  Lady of Ashes

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  In addition to the new Florence Nightingale mysteries, Christine Trent is the author of the Lady of Ashes historical mysteries, about a Victorian-era undertaker, as well as the author of three other historical novels. Christine’s novels have been translated into Turkish, Polish, and Czech. She writes from her two-story home library, where she lives with her husband, five precocious cats, a large doll collection, entirely too many fountain pens, and over 4,000 catalogued books.