The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  Sarah offered another sip, though he barely had the strength to take it in. Most of it dribbled down his chin, and when he spoke again, his voice was dry and faint.

  ‘I was sore afraid. I feared it would bring all hell crashing down upon me if it was found out what was being done here. I had to get rid of her, so I took her to the water and dropped her in. But I didn’t kill her. God as my witness, I didn’t . . . kill her . . .’

  With these words, his voice became a pitiable whisper and his head rolled forward onto his chest.

  ‘He is gone,’ Raven said.

  Sarah looked ashen, but it was not merely the sight of a dead man that was troubling her.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Leave. Quickly.’

  ‘Just abandon him here? Shouldn’t we alert the police?’

  ‘Only if you feel confident about explaining your role in all of this to McLevy.’

  This silenced any moral qualms Sarah might have about his suggested course of action. They looked left and right out of the back court to ensure nobody had seen them, then slipped quietly down the same narrow lane by which they had approached.

  ‘Why would Anchou kill him?’ Sarah asked as they walked briskly but not in a conspicuous hurry back towards the anonymity of the busy dockside.

  ‘I know not, but I fear it was our actions that brought her knife down upon him. She knew we were investigating her, and there was something she feared Spiers might tell us.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he? He gave us nothing of any great import.’

  ‘Perhaps there was something she merely feared he knew, and could not take the risk.’

  Sarah suddenly pushed Raven against a wall, her hands upon his chest. He could feel his heart thump against her fingers, his whole body still trembling from what he had just witnessed.

  ‘What is—?’ he began.

  ‘I cannot be seen,’ she said urgently. ‘I am supposed to be in the town on errands. I could be dismissed.’

  ‘Seen by whom?’

  ‘Do not look,’ she insisted. ‘Keep your head down.’

  But by that time he had already spotted the problem. Walking south along Leith Shore was the man who was these days affecting to call himself James Matthews Duncan.

  ‘What is he doing down here?’ Raven wondered aloud.

  ‘I don’t know. Just take care he doesn’t see you.’

  As though to ensure this, she pulled his head down nearer to hers. She was close enough that he could smell that familiar aroma, like fresh linen. His thoughts returned to their encounter the night he had run home in the rain. Many times since, he had revisited the memory of her hands against him as she helped take off his shirt.

  They stayed like that a while. Raven saw Duncan pass from view, but was long in saying so, for he did not wish the moment to end so soon. In time, it had to though.

  They broke apart, an awkwardness between them as though they did not know how to acknowledge what had just happened. Fortunately, there was plenty to talk about.

  ‘You were vindicated in your thinking about Rose,’ he said. ‘What Spiers told us would explain why the police surgeon found her not to be pregnant.’

  ‘Yet clearly, she died in the same way as Kitty and your Evie. If she had successfully rid herself of the baby, why would she take the same pills?’

  Raven had been asking himself this question too.

  ‘Perhaps she did not take them voluntarily,’ he suggested. ‘It might be that she had discovered something about Madame Anchou that the midwife wished to keep hidden.’

  ‘Or about her partner. Could it be that he is the one who actually carries out the procedures, while she brings in the business with the allure of having trained in Paris and worked for the French aristocracy?’

  This was an astute supposition, in keeping with the mystique that allowed her to charge exorbitantly.

  ‘Not to mention of being a woman and therefore earning their trust,’ Raven added. ‘Such an arrangement would allow a doctor to practise this dark art without the risk that would attend advertising such services.’

  They strode south in the direction of the city, the crowd thinning as they moved further from the water. Raven could not help but search ahead in case he spied that black hood, while he suspected Sarah’s eyes were still concerned with the whereabouts of Dr Duncan.

  ‘In recent months there have been several cases of young women dying following abortions,’ Raven said.

  ‘So they might all have been the work of Madame Anchou and her partner?’

  ‘Spiers admitted they turned out the sick ones so that they did not die at the tavern. And if Rose was deliberately poisoned, it could have been either of them who killed her. We came here seeking one anonymous malefactor and depart in search of two: Madam Anchou, who may or may not be the Frenchwoman she pretends, and a doctor of little conscience or humanity.’

  Forty-Eight

  Sarah maintained a respectful distance while the parish clerk dealt with the fellow who had arrived at St Cuthbert’s just ahead of her. He was a young man but looked as though he carried the weight of the world upon his sloping shoulders. He was attempting to hire the parish mortcloth for the burial of his mother, but there appeared to be some issue over the fee.

  The clerk examined the pile of pennies that the man had deposited upon his ledger. He separated them with the end of his pen as though reluctant to sully his fingers with the contents of the young man’s pockets. He sighed and then frowned.

  ‘This is insufficient. I suggest that you return with the fee already stipulated or your mother must be buried without the parish cloth.’

  Then he smiled at the bereaved man with a chilly politeness and dismissed him as though they had been discussing a frippery of no earthly significance. The man said nothing, rendered mute by the clerk’s unbending adherence to his ecclesiastical price-list. Christian charity evidently did not extend to the parish’s funeral shroud. He turned and shuffled out of the clerk’s office, back into the body of the church.

  The clerk watched him leave with a tiny shake of the head, as though other people’s poverty was an affront, then turned his attention to Sarah, peering over the top of his spectacles.

  And anyway, what can you do about it? Raven had asked when she told him about her suspicions regarding Beattie. It had been a rhetorical question, to his mind. She would show him otherwise by answering it.

  ‘How may I help you?’ the clerk asked, in a tone that suggested he had little intention of doing so.

  ‘I come at the behest of Dr James Young Simpson,’ Sarah replied, hoping that the mention of the professor’s name would oil the wheels of cooperation.

  It seemed to have some effect, as the clerk stood a little more upright and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. His tone became oleaginous and a ghost of a smile appeared upon his thin lips.

  ‘How may I be of assistance to the professor?’

  ‘A woman has died at the Maternity Hospital,’ Sarah said. ‘Her child lives. The woman’s name is known but not that of her nearest relative. There is a need to find someone to care for the baby, to see it baptised and properly raised. The professor requested that I consult the local parish registers to see if she was married, and who her parents are, if they are still alive.’

  The clerk briefly brightened at the mention of baptism but snorted at the suggestion of a marriage. It was well known that many of the women treated at the Maternity Hospital were not in possession of a spouse. He wrinkled his nose as though assailed by an unwelcome smell.

  ‘I am surprised such an important task has fallen to you. Has the professor not an apprentice or some other suitable person to do it?’

  ‘Indeed he has,’ she replied. ‘But they are all so busy, what with the recent outbreak of typhus.’

  The man immediately sought out his handkerchief and held it to his nose as though the mere mention of the disease would cause it to arrive. He looked at her for a while, weighing up her
request. She perhaps should not have mentioned the Maternity Hospital. Or typhus.

  ‘The information you request will take some time to find,’ he said at last. ‘And I should point out to you that our records are far from comprehensive: those who are not prepared to part with the necessary fee often do not bother with registration at all.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Sarah. ‘I can see you are a very busy man and I have no wish to impose upon you. Perhaps you would permit me to look through the book myself.’

  He looked at his pristine ledger and then down at her hands.

  ‘My hands are clean, sir,’ she replied. ‘Dr Simpson insists upon it.’

  The mention of the professor’s name again seemed to tip the balance in her favour.

  ‘You’ll have to look through several of the registers. The current one only goes back to 1840.’

  Her search did indeed take some time, and bore no fruit. As the vestry began to darken, she tried not to think of what Mrs Lyndsay would say upon her return, what punishment she would have to endure as a result of her tardiness. A suitable excuse would have to be found or her clinic duties would be severely curtailed.

  Sarah had always considered herself an honest person, and was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the lies she now found herself having to tell on a regular basis. She felt that her concern for Mina justified her current endeavours, but she would have to make sure that this propensity for subterfuge came to an end once everything was resolved.

  Yet even as she thought this, she considered what she was about and contrasted it with the person she used to be, only a few weeks ago. That meek housemaid would not have dared to deceive anyone, far less embark upon clandestine investigations in the realms of abortionists and murderers. There was a comfort and security in knowing one’s place and asking no questions. But she had never felt that a role of meekness and acceptance was her place.

  Sarah was fastidious in her search, but she could find no record of Charles Latimer or of Beattie’s mother. The name ‘John Beattie’ was cited, but the dates did not tally up unless the apparently sprightly young doctor was in fact approaching his eightieth birthday.

  Sarah slumped in her chair, unsure as to what this lack of information represented. She had to admit that it was hardly conclusive evidence that Beattie was a fraud of some kind. Could she be entirely on the wrong track? Were her emotions clouding her judgment, her disapproval of Mina’s choices colouring her view?

  She regarded the stack of dusty registers piled in front of her and wondered if she was wasting her time. Perhaps in a desire to gain something from her afternoon’s efforts, it occurred to her that Raven’s family might be listed among them. He was someone else whose account of his own background rang false.

  Sarah checked for the clerk but he had disappeared. It seemed he was content to leave her to her own devices as soon as he was sure she had no intention of amending entries, ripping out pages or drooling on the paper.

  She estimated Raven’s age to be twenty and so looked at the records for the years 1825 to 1830. She found no entry for the birth of Wilberforce Raven, but she did find a record of the marriage of a Margaret Raven to an Andrew Cunningham in 1826. The surname was familiar but for a moment she couldn’t think why. Then she remembered: it was the name inscribed inside some of Raven’s books.

  Sarah looked at the births registered in the following year and found him: Thomas Wilberforce Cunningham.

  Raven had changed his name. But for what purpose? She tried to think what else she knew about him, what she had been told regarding his background. His mother lived in St Andrews with her brother, Raven receiving letters from there on a regular basis. She knew his father was dead, hence the removal of his mother to Fife.

  Sarah wondered when this tragedy had occurred, from what age Raven had been raised without a father. She turned to the registers again, searching for burials. She looked from the present day all the way back to the year of Raven’s birth. There was no entry for the interment of Andrew Cunningham.

  According to the records of St Cuthbert’s parish, which covered all of Edinburgh and some way beyond, Raven’s father was not dead at all.

  Forty-Nine

  Aitken’s tavern was crowded, a thick pall of pipe smoke coiling up to the rafters. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, the press of bodies elevating the temperature and causing the windows to run with condensation. As Raven returned from the bar, it took him a few seconds to locate Henry, who had managed to find a table in a corner, where he was chatting to a man Raven failed to recognise.

  He wondered again why he had been summoned here. Henry had accosted him as he stood by Simpson’s carriage, waiting to accompany the professor home. Raven had confided in his friend about the French midwife and her medical accomplice, whereupon Henry told him he had news that might be of interest.

  ‘What news?’ he had replied, but Henry wagged a finger by way of denying him.

  ‘This is information I will only share with a tankard in my hand, for it has been too long since we supped together.’

  Raven feared he was being sold a bill of goods, as he would have much preferred to know the value of this information before he traded it for a safe means of conveyance home.

  The man sitting with Henry looked young but exceedingly weary, sporting dark circles beneath eyes that betrayed a profound want of sleep. Raven was unsurprised when Henry introduced him as a doctor at the Royal Infirmary.

  ‘This is Fleming,’ he said. ‘Replaced McKellar, Christison’s resident clerk who died of fever last month.’

  Raven sat down and took a long pull of his beer, involuntarily calculating what fraction of Flint’s debt the price of a round would have redeemed. ‘“The poisoned breath of infection”,’ he said, wiping froth from his beard.

  ‘“A young and early sacrifice at the shrine of professional duty”,’ replied Henry archly. It was a well-worn phrase trotted out by the medical professors when such an incident occurred, which was a little too often in Raven’s opinion. Not for the first time, he felt relief that his present duties seldom required his attendance at the Infirmary.

  ‘We imperil our own health working in that place,’ said Henry’s lugubrious companion, staring disconsolately into his beer.

  Raven wondered why Henry had seen fit to bring him along.

  ‘So what is the news?’ asked Raven, feeling disinclined to tarry. He had grown his beard since last he was in Aitken’s, but the very reason he needed it had stemmed from being recognised in this place on the night he was attacked. Flint had eyes in here, he had little doubt.

  ‘There’s been another one,’ Henry said.

  ‘Another what?’

  ‘Another death. Young woman.’ Henry nodded at his drowsy companion, who was still staring into his beer. ‘Fleming dealt with the case.’ He kicked the young man under the table, which caused him to rouse himself.

  ‘Yes,’ Fleming said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Moribund when admitted. Didn’t wake up.’

  ‘What was the cause of death?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Peritonitis. All the signs of puerperal sepsis but no sign of a baby.’

  Raven could feel his anxiety grow. He had a fear that if he was going to be caught by Flint’s men, it would be due to an avoidable lack of vigilance in the service of an ironically pointless risk. Diverting here merely to learn about yet another victim of their anonymous abortionist definitely came into that category.

  As if sensing his friend’s deteriorating mood, Henry nudged Fleming again. ‘Tell him what you told me.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he responded, as though in his fatigue his brain needed a shunt. ‘She had an unusual smell about her. It was on her clothes when she first came in: a sweet smell. Like over-ripe fruit. And she had unusual marks around her mouth.’

  ‘Abrasions?’

  ‘No, not abrasions.’

  ‘Bruising, then?’ Raven suggested impatiently.

  ‘No, it looked like—’

  ‘
Ligature marks, as though she had been gagged?’

  ‘For pity’s sake, let him speak, Raven.’

  ‘What, then? Why did you drag me here?’

  ‘These looked more like a burn,’ Fleming stated.

  Raven understood. ‘Chloroform.’

  ‘You see?’ said Henry, with a flourish of his hand. ‘This individual you seek has been keeping up to date with new developments.’

  Beyond proving how quickly the new anaesthetic was being adopted, Raven did not see how this assisted in his quest. He took a glum gulp of his beer by way of consolation.

  ‘You seem less than elated,’ Henry observed.

  ‘Why should I be other? This does not bring me any nearer to knowing his identity.’

  The young surgeon’s familiar wily grin informed him there was something he had missed.

  ‘Not at this moment,’ Henry said. ‘But I can tell you where you will find it written down.’

  Fifty

  Sarah stood on Princes Street, peering through the window into Duncan and Flockhart’s. She was choosing her moment carefully, and as she waited for the opportunity she required, she worked on composing herself, because for the first time in her life, she was about to commit a crime.

  She was not going to steal anything, merely borrow without leave, but by the borrowing she intended to facilitate a trespass upon this property. Technically, this would be a burglary, albeit one in which, again, nothing would be taken save information. Nonetheless, though there would be no theft and no damage, she would not wish to find herself explaining it to anyone, least of all McLevy. It might be enough to see her in jail, and would be more than enough to see her dismissed.

  Duncan and Flockhart were the primary manufacturers of chloroform throughout Edinburgh. Every doctor using it was buying their supplies from here, where their purchases were recorded in the druggist’s ledger. Raven had enquired of Mr Flockhart whether he might see who had been ordering the stuff, feigning a curiosity regarding the uptake of the new anaesthetic agent, but Flockhart had told him the ledger had to remain confidential. When it came to the purchase of drugs, customers needed to be able to rely upon their suppliers’ discretion. Yet one of those customers was Madame Anchou’s mysterious confederate, and very possibly the man who had murdered Rose Campbell.