The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  Unfortunately, he did not leave for quite some time. He preached at considerable length, though had nothing to say about ether. He talked much of humility whilst his tone, demeanour and indeed every physical gesture emanated self-importance, his permanently serious expression admitting no hint of levity.

  Sarah thought it must be exhausting to be constantly dismayed by so many things.

  ‘Pride makes men fools,’ he said, his voice surprisingly loud for a small man. ‘Vanity makes them seek glory in their own reflection, and they do not seek that reflection merely in the looking glass, but in the admiration of others. How they wish to see it in the faces of their peers, but worst is how they crave to see it in the faces of women.’

  His voice dropped as he said this, as though the word itself were obscene.

  ‘And in this, the worst of women are complicit, for they are the tauntresses. Their pride is served by this. Their pride escalates that of men. They paint themselves, they dress themselves, these jezebels. Not only the fallen ones upon the night-time streets, but in their husbands’ homes too. The proud man seeks their approval. And he seeks that approval manifest in physical knowledge. That is why the greatest sin of a woman is to feed this pride in men, to encourage it. For to do so is to be the occasion of another’s sin, to lead another into temptation.

  ‘The good wife is modest. The good woman is modest in her appearance and in her manner. It is modesty that I commend, modesty to which I entreat you. As the Lord’s mother was modest.’

  Raven leaned towards Sarah and spoke softly as the service ended and the congregation began to disperse.

  ‘And yet Jesus chose the company of prostitutes over that of preachers.’

  Sarah had to stifle a gasp, concerned that his remark might be overheard. However, she suspected that to shock her had been his intention, so she decided to respond in kind, albeit more quietly.

  ‘I don’t believe your own such dalliances put you closer to the Lord. Was it the sin of pride that made you seek out a woman of the night?’

  ‘As I recall, the sin of lust was adequate to the task. I cannot pretend to the Reverend Grissom’s modesty, but perhaps he has greater reason to be modest than I.’

  Sarah made her way smartly out onto the Cowgate, where worshippers were gathering to trade their Sunday greetings. She and Raven stood close to the doors, the ideal vantage point for interception.

  ‘You had best keep your distance,’ Sarah told him, watching Mr Sheldrake lead his family down the aisle towards the vestibule. ‘Milly is not going to be very candid with a stranger in our company.’

  Raven’s attention appeared to have been taken by something else in any case.

  ‘Yes, certainly. I’ll meet you back here,’ he said, swiftly departing through the crowd.

  Sarah saw Mr and Mrs Sheldrake stop in the vestibule to talk to Reverend Grissom, Milly continuing towards the exit. She stepped into her path and offered a conciliatory smile.

  ‘Sarah!’ Milly said, surprise in her voice. She sounded meeker than usual, her tones more nasal. Sarah could tell she had cried a great deal in recent days. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I got permission from Dr Simpson to worship here today. I wanted to see you and to tell you how sorry I was to hear about Rose.’

  Milly swallowed, looking as though her eyes might fill again. She nodded. ‘Thank you. It has been difficult.’

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine. I felt so guilty.’

  ‘Guilty? Why?’

  ‘Because when I was told she had absconded, I was envious, imagining some exciting life she might have escaped to. I had heard rumours she was seeing someone and had run away with him. Was this true?’

  Milly cast an eye to the side, towards the Sheldrakes. It was innocent enough for her to be talking to Sarah, a fellow housemaid, but she was clearly concerned not to be overheard. For the moment, they were not in earshot.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Milly replied. ‘Rose had secrets, and there was a man involved. That much was inescapable.’

  Sarah thought this an odd choice of word.

  ‘Inescapable how?’

  Milly glanced again at her employers. She looked afraid she had given something away.

  ‘I shouldn’t speak further. I’ve said too much as it is.’

  ‘You can trust me, Milly,’ Sarah implored.

  ‘I do. But it’s not you I’ve said too much to.’

  Sarah placed a hand on her shoulder. The poor girl looked like a hollowed-out shell where once there had been so much more.

  ‘You must let me know about the funeral,’ Sarah said, trying to keep her talking.

  This seemed to burden her even more, tears threatening again.

  ‘I do not know that there will even be a funeral. And it is my fault.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘A policeman came to the house to ask us questions. An Irishman, McLevy. I was only trying to be honest, but because of what I told him, he is of a mind that Rose killed herself.’

  ‘For what reason would Rose possibly take her own life?’

  Milly’s eyes swept to the side again. The Sheldrakes had finished speaking with the Reverend Grissom and were moving towards the door.

  ‘She was sure she would be dismissed, and she did not know what else she could do.’

  Sarah gripped Milly’s arm in case she should walk away.

  ‘Dismissed for what reason?’

  With Mr Sheldrake imminently in earshot, Milly’s last words were but a breath.

  ‘She was with child.’

  Twenty-Five

  Raven had just been told to keep his distance when his eye was drawn to something on the other side of the Cowgate. At first he couldn’t be sure because he only glimpsed them through the departing congregation, but as he moved beyond the crowd and the pair drew close, there could be no mistake. Walking westward towards the Grassmarket was the woman who had recently come to him with such horrific bruising, accompanied by a scowling and ruddy-faced man.

  They were both dressed for church, heading home from worship. Her head was bowed low, as though reluctant to meet anyone’s eye, while he walked with his chin thrust forward, his peering eyes seeming to challenge the world around him to explain itself. It was Sunday morning, but Saturday night was still etched across his visage, a drinker’s face with pudgy pink skin and a bulbous nose. These were the only parts of him that appeared soft. The rest of the man resembled a coiled spring.

  They had passed by the time Raven made it across the road. ‘Mr Gallagher!’ Raven hailed him, making sure he had the right person.

  The man turned around, his expression conveying irritated curiosity when he failed to recognise who had called him. His wife, by contrast, had a look of fear as she immediately identified the man approaching them. She was evidently terrified of the repercussions should her husband learn what Raven had deduced, or maybe even the mere fact that she had visited a doctor.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, looking Raven up and down. There was evident disdain at being summarily apprehended by some young upstart, though Raven noted that his eye lingered a moment upon the scar.

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Then speak.’

  Mrs Gallagher’s head remained down. Raven was sure she was trembling.

  ‘It concerns a delicate matter, inappropriate for discussion in front of your good lady wife.’

  Mr Gallagher looked confused and dismissive, instantly relegating anything Raven might say in terms of its potential relevance.

  ‘Please, I’m sure what I have to impart will be greatly to your benefit. Let us step somewhere close by where we might enjoy some privacy.’

  Raven led him off the Cowgate into a narrow close between two buildings, the hubbub from the Free Church congregation immediately softer.

  ‘Well,’ Gallagher said impatiently, ‘out with it.’

  ‘I am your wife’s medical practitioner. I thought we ought to discuss a chronic condition
that has been afflicting her.’

  His suspicious eyes narrowed further. ‘What condition is that?’

  ‘Please do me the courtesy of not thinking me a fool. She endeavoured to conceal the source of her injuries for fear of more. But I understood what I was looking at all too well.’

  Gallagher looked outraged at Raven’s impertinence. ‘She doesn’t pay attention. She gets distracted. A man works all day, then comes home to find the last of the flour’s been ruined. What business is it of yours how a man runs his house or disciplines his wife?’

  ‘Oh, we’re talking about discipline? Is that the same mettle you require to say no to another whisky when you’ve already drunk your fill and spent the wages your wife needs to live on?’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you’re addressing, boy?’

  ‘I am acting in my patient’s interest.’

  ‘No, you’re sticking your neb where it ill belongs. So you should mind it doesn’t come to some harm.’

  Raven noticed Gallagher ball his right hand into a fist. It hadn’t taken much. He knew a thing or two about men like this.

  Raven put up his palms in a placatory gesture. ‘Very well, Mr Gallagher. It is your business how you discipline your wife. Just as it is my business how I treat her affliction. And having identified that affliction as the lump of shite standing in front of me, I hereby prescribe a remedy. I am going to ask her to come and see me regularly, and if I see further evidence of your hands upon her, I will find you and I will knock seven bells out of you. That way you get to handle your business and I get to handle mine.’

  Rage built up in Gallagher, but he did not move. Yet.

  ‘I’ll do what I will with these hands, son, including beating you to a pulp if you ever cross me again.’ Gallagher made another fist. He was getting there, but something was holding him back: the very fact that Raven was not afraid.

  ‘Why wait? I’m in front of you right now. Come now, you’ve shown great vigour in hitting a woman. Why don’t you show me how you hit a man?’

  ‘I won’t do this on the Sabbath.’

  Raven put his hands by his sides, leaving himself open. ‘Does that mean your wife can burn the scones with impunity today?’

  That was the tipping point, the moment Gallagher’s rage overcame his cowardice. He swung for all he was worth, launching his fist towards Raven’s face. But Raven was quick; quick enough for a drunk like him. He moved his head in a twinkling and Gallagher punched the wall, with all his weight behind the blow.

  Gallagher dropped to his knees, letting out a guttural moan as he looked in horror at the mangled fingers, broken, bloody and raw. The only thing he had beaten to a pulp was his own hand.

  Raven stood over him and held his chin, forcing him to look up.

  ‘Remember I did this without even touching you. Strike her again and that will change.’

  Twenty-Six

  Sarah looked about for Raven, unable to find him in the throng that had spilled out of the Reverend Grissom’s service. The Sheldrakes had gathered their staff and were proceeding in the direction of Blair Street, Milly walking with her head bowed. She did not glance back.

  Sarah located him emerging from a close across the street, his countenance a grim contrast to the departing worshippers’. Their expressions befitted those who believed they had just communed with the Lord, while Raven’s intimated dealings altogether less holy.

  Sarah felt vindicated in her instinctive impression that there was something restless and impetuous in Raven. She estimated that both of these traits had played their part in whatever had led to his face being wounded, but she also doubted he would tell her the truth about it. There was a swirling fog of dark secrets behind his hazel eyes.

  She would admit that there was undoubtedly something kinder in there too, though at Queen Street anyone might seem warm next to Dr James Duncan – or Dr James Matthews Duncan as he was now insisting upon. That one was restless and impetuous also, but driven entirely by ambition and the desire to make a name for himself, as evidenced by his concern that his name itself should be distinct.

  Raven, by contrast, was striving on behalf of a woman who was too dead to thank him for it. Perhaps he was trying to atone for not having helped enough to keep her alive. Sarah knew to be wary of such motives, noble as they may seem. They said the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, and she suspected Raven had the recklessness to take her there with him if she did not step carefully.

  ‘Did you speak with her?’ he asked.

  ‘Rose was pregnant,’ Sarah told him. ‘She feared she would be dismissed as soon as it was discovered. Milly told McLevy as much, and now he is apt to conclude she drowned herself.’

  Raven took a moment to absorb this.

  ‘I have a suspicion Evie might have been pregnant too.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Sarah asked, before realising what the question might imply.

  ‘It would not have been mine,’ he answered evenly. ‘I told you, I was no longer using her in that way.’

  ‘Then what makes you think . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just fits. But what does not is the idea that Rose drowned herself. That would not explain the contortions, similar to Evie’s.’

  ‘You said you suspected they both might have been poisoned. Is it not possible that they took a poison to kill themselves?’

  Raven considered it. ‘Theoretically, yes. But the same one? And one that appears to have racked them with pain? Why choose to die in such a horrible manner?’

  ‘Perhaps they were misled into believing it would ease their passing, like opium.’

  ‘I find it too hard to accept that Evie would end her own life. Why would she need money so urgently if she planned to kill herself?’

  ‘I find it difficult to believe the same of Rose, but how can anyone know what they might do in a position of utter desperation? To be with child but having no means of supporting it or herself once she was dismissed.’

  ‘Professor Ziegler at the Maternity Hospital did say he had known young women to kill themselves,’ Raven admitted, his voice taking on an apologetic tone. ‘In some cases they could not even face the prospect of their families discovering their condition. It seems such a resort of final despair, though.’

  ‘What other resort would be open to a girl like Rose?’

  Raven gave her a look that said she already knew the answer to that question; and knew also that it could not be spoken aloud in the hearing of strangers.

  They increased their pace, putting some distance between themselves and the departing worshippers.

  ‘Desperate women explore all manner of options before self-murder,’ he said. ‘There was a newborn’s leg found recently in a gutter near the Royal Exchange. I suspect the poor mite was done away with by its mother.’

  It was not the first time Sarah had heard of such a thing.

  ‘The mother must have been able to keep her condition secret, though,’ she said. ‘I doubt that would have been an option for Rose. She feared she would be dismissed long before such a horrible course would even have been open to her.’

  ‘There are other desperate measures,’ Raven said. His voice was low even though there was no one close by. It was an invitation to complicity.

  ‘Indeed,’ Sarah replied, by way of accepting.

  ‘Though if they had chosen to go down that route, it might have ended just the same for them. My friend Henry recently encountered two cases of young women who died from attempted abortions.’

  Sarah was trying to imagine the fear and hopelessness Rose must have felt, asking herself what she might do in the same situation. She suspected there was nothing she would not consider. That was when an idea struck her.

  ‘What if they took a poison not in order to kill themselves, but believing it would purge the burden they carried?’

  Raven turned in response. She could tell the notion was not outlandish.

  ‘Women have taken all manner of concoctions in the ho
pe that they might induce a premature labour,’ he agreed. ‘Thus far they have either been utterly without effect or harmful only to the mother.’

  ‘Nonetheless, one could charge a great deal for a pill or a draught that promised to solve such a problem, as long as the buyer believed in it. Could this have been what Evie needed the money for?’

  ‘Evie was no gullible fool. But desperation is often the mother of misplaced faith. I think you could be right.’

  Raven gazed up towards the grey skies, as though answers might be hidden behind the canopy of clouds.

  ‘I just wish we knew what manner of poison she might have taken.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Raven came to in the darkness, his half-waking disorientation suddenly sharpened into alert conscious-ness as he observed that there was a figure standing at the end of his bed holding a lamp. In his startled state and in the poor light, it took him a moment to recognise the intruder as Jarvis, the butler.

  ‘What the devil are you doing?’

  ‘I came to rouse you, Mr Raven.’

  ‘Then why are you looming there like a bloody phantom? Why didn’t you call my name?’

  ‘I have called your name three times, and before that spent some time knocking upon your door, all to no avail. My next resort would have been to fetch a cup of water to throw over you, but happily we have not reached such an eventuality.’

  As always, Jarvis’s voice was calm and implacable, answering questions with patience and yet nonetheless conveying the impression that merely speaking to Raven was somehow beneath him. He hoped he was making some headway in breaking down Sarah’s antipathy, but suspected Jarvis’s disdain would remain a permanent fixture.

  ‘What is the hour?’

  ‘It is a quarter after four. Dr Simpson has been summoned to an urgent case and wishes you to ready yourself and accompany him forthwith.’