by Karen Odden
I kept my face neutral. “Well, at least he brought her here.”
“Yes, and the doctor has done his best, o’ course. I imagine she’ll pull through.” She checked her gold pocket watch. It was an unusual thing for a woman to carry, but I knew it had been a gift from her father. “The doctor’ll be taking his tea shortly.”
“Yes. He asked me to meet him in his office.”
She pursed her lips again. “Perhaps you can make him take more than ten minutes for it.”
I smiled. “I’ll try.”
DR. EVERETT’S OFFICE was as familiar to me as a room in my own house, for I had often come here to read or study as a child. As I got older, I would sometimes help him with his books or notes for his research. Glass-fronted cabinets held shelves filled with sturdy white skulls, delicate eye sockets, and brains in clear jars. On the walls hung framed drawings of the muscles and nerves of the face. Standing on a black marble pedestal in the corner was an old phrenology head done in plaster, its parts labeled with Roman numerals, which Dr. Everett kept as both a curiosity and a humbling reminder of how fallible science could be. Along one wall were cases of books, several of which he or his colleagues had written. Some discussed mental diseases and their treatments, while others outlined the merits of a practical education for boys and girls alike. Along the other wall stood wooden files full of case histories.
One of those histories belonged to my mother, Frances, whom the doctor had treated for two years before she abandoned us to pursue a career as a pianist in Europe.
I had no memories of her, as I was only an infant when she left, and my father refused to speak of her afterward. But when Dr. Everett felt I was old enough to understand, he explained that there was a disease, first described by Aretaeus of Cappadocia in the first century, in which mania and melancholy alternated with each other. He had let me read the scientific papers by the French doctors Jean-Pierre Falret, who had identified it as “circular madness” in 1851, and Jules Baillarger, who in 1854 named it “folie a double forme.” By all accounts it was often passed down from parent to child, bred in the bone or the brain, as it were, but Dr. Everett believed he had discovered some means for countering it. That was why he had drawn up a curriculum for me, which limited my literary reading and piano practicing to works that were cheerful and pleasant, and he had spoken to me regularly about the importance of avoiding excesses of emotion. As he explained to me, any situation that caused either fright or great excitement could be the initiating event in a cascade that might devolve into the illness that lay latent in my mind.
So all my life I had tried to tamp down my feelings, as if with an inward una corda pedal, which on the piano shifts the action so the hammers strike one string instead of two, or two instead of three, making the sound softer. I often found myself having to strive for the equanimity that came more naturally to Matthew, but I did my best. The one area in which I skirted the doctor’s advice was my music. I hadn’t limited myself on the piano to lullabies and the like, though I was careful to keep that from him.
“Good afternoon, Nell,” came his pleasant voice behind me. “Contemplating Mr. Stirling’s brain, are you?”
I turned away from the cabinet to smile at him. “Admiring his lovely cerebral cortex.” I came forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, Doctor.”
He was a rather short and sturdy man, neatly dressed, with small, deft hands, a head of thick graying hair, a tidy mustache and beard, and silver-rimmed spectacles. He nodded appreciatively at the table. “Our tea. I’m glad of it, as I haven’t had a bite since breakfast. It’s been a busy day.”
Beside the tea tray lay the mail—several circulars and, on top, an envelope that bore colorful foreign stamps with little moons. For as long as I could remember, Dr. Everett had collected an array of peripatetic friends. As he described them himself, they tended to be eccentric, in both their mental habits and their foreign travels, which made them all the more interesting.
He removed his coat, hung it carefully on the back of his chair, and sat down.
My eye was caught by his cuff links, which looked Oriental in design and had a red stone in the middle. Usually the doctor wore only the plainest sort. “Are those new?”
He glanced down, and his expression changed to an almost bashful smile. “A gift from a former patient. Aren’t they intriguing?”
“They’re beautiful.” I drew my usual chair closer to the table, so I could reach the tea things. “I saw Nurse Aimes just now. She was with a new patient.”
“Yes, an awful case. Poor young woman.”
I settled the cups into the saucers and lifted the lid on the pot to be sure the tea had steeped fully; the doctor liked it strong. “Why is she in the children’s ward?”
“She was put there last night, and there’s no reason to move her just yet. She’s small and slender, but her craniofacial bones suggest she’s at least sixteen or seventeen. And her muscular development is unusual, as if she were a ballerina, perhaps, or accustomed to strenuous physical practice.”
I poured tea for us both. “You’ve no idea who she is?”
“No. The cabdriver who brought her had no idea at all.” He reached for his teacup.
“But she’ll recover, won’t she?”
I’d sought to keep the urgency out of my voice; still, he shot me a curious look before he dropped two sugars into his tea and stirred. “I hope so. Her vital organs are fine, and that’s in her favor. A ruptured spleen or a punctured lung would be very serious, especially given that she’d been out at night and her body temperature was below normal when she was brought in. She has a badly wrenched shoulder, some severe injuries to her face and her back, including a possible fracture in her jaw, cuts and contusions on her wrists and hands, and four cracked ribs—but those will all mend in time.”
“Are her eyes all right? I saw they were bandaged.”
“That’s only to avoid aggravating the symptoms of concussion.” He shifted in his chair. “From her injuries, it seems that she rolled into a ball to protect her torso for as long as she was conscious. Of course, it meant that whoever did this had access to her head, and there is evidence of several strong blows. I had to put twelve stitches in her scalp.”
Twelve stitches, I thought, feeling sick. No wonder there was so much blood.
His eyebrows rose over his spectacles. “Much to my relief, there was no sign that she was violated.”
My breath caught in horror at the thought, but I said only, “Thank goodness.”
“What is a bit curious to me, from a medical standpoint, is that the nurse spoke to her in English this morning, but although she seemed to understand, she replied in French.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, this suggests that her brain has broken partially free from its usual connective fibers. She probably also has a hemorrhage, and she may lose her sight or her speech for a few days—and part of her memory, possibly even permanently.”
Suddenly the tea was bitter in my mouth, and my stomach turned. I set down the cup abruptly, keeping my eyes averted and refolding my napkin to conceal my agitation.
He seemed not to notice and reached for a triangle of sandwich. “I’m just glad she was brought here and not somewhere else. There’ve been half a dozen articles in the Lancet the past year describing various hospital treatments for concussive injuries—most of them inane, based upon nothing more than meager instincts and inchoate knowledge. Giving ice-cold baths, hanging people upside down, administering potions verging on poisons. Pfft!” His eyes sparked behind his spectacles. “Do you know that Dr. Freyn has been sticking magnets up people’s noses, with the idea that it will realign the compass that he thinks is in the brain?”
“That sounds particularly absurd,” I agreed.
“Of course it’s absurd—not to mention dangerous!” He bit into his quarter sandwich rather more energetically than necessary.
“What will you try first?”
“Rest. I’ve given her some laudanum for the pain, so she
can sleep. And we’re monitoring her objective symptoms, of course—blood pressure and pulse and so on. In a day or two, she may be able to speak. I don’t want her to attempt it yet; if her jaw is fractured, that could injure it further. Time enough when she’s better to find out what happened.”
“Provided she remembers,” I said, feeling apprehensive.
He dabbed his mouth methodically with his napkin. “If, in fact, there has been damage to the parts of the brain that house memory, the best thing we can do is to find someone familiar to her, usually a relation, to help recover it. But of course, we can’t find that person until she’s able to speak. It’s rather a conundrum.”
My heart skipped a beat. Last night, I’d only thought to find Sebastian so that I might let him know that Marceline was alive and in the hospital. But now, there was a second reason to find him: to help Marceline recover.
But how? And what if he had been beaten as well—perhaps left for dead—
And then, suddenly, a thought that cut through me like a rush of cold water: What if Sebastian was the man who had been killed by the docks?
“Nell?” Dr. Everett was peering at me, concern on his face. “Are you all right? You look peculiar.”
“Yes, of course,” I managed. “It’s just . . . just quite awful.”
“I know.” He selected another quarter sandwich. “I sent a message round to the Yard first thing this morning, to ask Matthew if anyone had made any inquiries about a missing woman of her description, but he said not. And as we have no idea who she is, there isn’t much the police can do. If the cabdriver is to be believed, he found her on the corner of Brewer Street. Matthew says this is the fifth time in the past fortnight someone has been beaten and left for dead in Soho.”
“Fifth,” I echoed faintly. “Well, I know Matthew has been working a great deal. I barely see him these days.” Suddenly I wanted to drop this topic. “She’ll be safe here, at least.”
“Naturally.” He buttered a piece of scone. “No one will suspect her presence. Tutius est ut invisibilia.”
“Yes, invisible is definitely safer,” I agreed. But I was thinking, Until I find Sebastian, I’m at least familiar. Casually, I added, “I’d be happy to sit with her, if you think it would help. She might feel comfortable with someone her own age.”
“Quite possibly. You’ve always had a good way with patients.” He wiped his fingertips on his napkin and tapped the newspaper at the side of his plate. “Did you happen to see the papers this morning? They published the list of attendees for the August meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science. It’s in Bristol this time, so I will certainly try to go, especially as my friend Dr. Martyn will be discussing his new research on the anatomy of skin. Although I must say, I find some of the topics rather esoteric.” He unfolded the newspaper. “Ah, yes. I think I shall not attend Mr. William Baily’s lecture on a new species of Labyrinthodont amphibia found in the coal at Jarrow Colliery in Kilkenny.”
“Goodness,” I said. “I’m imagining some sort of beastly frog with a maze of teeth.”
He looked at me over the top of his newspaper. “Well, don’t worry, my dear. Mr. Baily is an archaeologist, so I believe it’s extinct.”
I laughed, and with that, our conversation turned elsewhere.
But all the way home from the hospital, my thoughts ticked with the persistence of a metronome between two concerns: how I might go about locating Sebastian without alerting anyone as to why, and—given the attacks—whether I should go to the music hall at all.
Chapter 4
By that evening, I’d dismissed the possibility of not going to the Octavian. Drummond and Mr. Williams would never keep a performer who left them in the lurch. And how would I find another position? It had only been by the best of luck that I’d found this one, walking into the Octavian the same afternoon that the other pianist left.
Besides, I was fairly certain that I could limit the danger by going to the Octavian early—even earlier than Stephen had asked—taking the longer way home, through streets that were better lit, and keeping my eyes sharp about me.
I opened the armoire and reached to the back, groping for my men’s clothes. I hung my dress on a hanger, then took out the long swath of fabric I’d cut from a worn bedsheet. It was nearly a foot wide, and I wound it three times around my chest and tucked the end under my arm. Being thin, I hadn’t much to conceal, but still. Then came my white shirt—the smallest I could find, with a snug, stiff collar. I drew on my trousers and buttoned the placket closed. My hairpins were stored in a jade box that one of Dr. Everett’s patients had brought back from China. Putting my hair up so it would fit under my hat was a tedious process, but at last it was done. Then I donned my coat, took my portfolio from behind some books, and went downstairs.
All of my old sheet music was on a shelf in the study. I sifted through the stack until I found three pieces that I thought Stephen might be able to use and slid them into my portfolio. As I started to leave the room, my eye fell on the desk, and I paused. In the top left drawer, we kept a revolving pistol that had belonged to Father, who had served for years as an officer in the navy. When he was alive, he had assembled a collection of several fine firearms as well as some rare swords. We’d sold most of them the previous year at auction, where they’d brought a good price, but Matthew had kept one pistol for his occasional use. Managing a gun had not originally been part of my logical education, but after Matthew had joined the police, he’d taken me to the country and taught me how to load the bullets into the chambers and shoot with some accuracy.
I opened the drawer and unwrapped the gun from the felt. It slid into my grasp, the ivory handle smooth against my palm, the heft reassuring. But where could I carry it? It wouldn’t fit in my music portfolio or even the pockets of my coat. And what if I lost it and Matthew noticed its absence—which he surely would at some point? That would be impossible to explain. I rewrapped the gun and put it back in the drawer.
As I passed through the hallway, I took the umbrella out of its stand. It didn’t look like rain, but I felt reassured by both its weight and its pointy tip. In the kitchen, I took the key from its hiding place behind a pot, locked the back door behind me, and stepped into the unlit alley. Ours was the second house from the corner, where the alley began. The house to our right was unoccupied at the moment, and I’d never once encountered anyone on my way out.
Small and sedate, Dunsmire Lane was tucked into the fringe of Mayfair. On either side of the cobbled road stood a row of well-kept homes, gracious and inviting, with short sets of mottled marble stairs leading up to glossy black-painted doors. Covering parts of the upper windows were rectangles of fine black ironwork that, as a child, I’d thought looked like lace writ large. Through some lower-story windows I could see chandeliers, luminous and sparkling; elsewhere, the curtains had already been drawn for the night. It was easy to imagine the families inside, dressing for dinner or reading the papers. Where the footpaths met, a few crossing sweeps still lingered, their brooms between their hands, signaling that they were ready to brush the refuse out of a lady’s or gentleman’s way for a sixpence. From somewhere above came the muted sound of a piano, and I recognized the first prelude from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. At once delicate and lively, measured and familiar, it was a fitting accompaniment to the street.
On the other side of Regent Street lay Soho, which, like most of London, was a palimpsest, its purpose having been overwritten several times. Three hundred years ago it was a royal park for Henry VIII’s palace of Whitehall. A hundred and fifty years later, it had become the French Quarter. Now, it was home to people from many different countries, to small theaters and seedy brothels, cheap eating houses, and shops that catered to the poor. Here young boys, their hats tacked with the sticky strips and carcasses of flies, sold flypaper; prostitutes lurked, their slack mouths ready to twist into smiles of false desire; costermongers shouted the prices of their wares from carts and wagons. The street was
strewn with the detritus of the day—horse droppings, decaying fruit, brown paper wrappings, and slats from broken crates, which would be gathered for fuel by nightfall.
I turned down Beakman Street, right at the corner, then left onto Wickley Street.
The farther I went, the more I felt I had frightened myself unnecessarily. There was no sign of danger. Dozens of people passed me, poor but ordinary men and women carrying their bread for dinner, clutching packages to their chests, holding the hands of their children. The lamp man was just lighting the gas street lamps. The cat’s meat man’s hoarse cry came over the wall: “Cat’s meat! Last bits of the day! On a skewer, come and buy!”
I wished I could avoid the dimly lit yard behind the Octavian, but it had been impressed upon me that no matter what the time of day, I was never, ever to enter by the front door. I crossed the empty yard and tried the door, but as I expected, it was locked. I knocked loudly, and when no one answered, I banged with the handle of my umbrella.
Sid Lowry, one of the young men who helped manage the stage properties, pushed the door open a crack. “Christ, Mr. Nell! What the bloody ’ell be ye doin’ ’ere so early?”
“I’m meeting the violinist. We’re going to find some songs for him to play. Why? What’s the matter?”
His eyes were shifting left and right around me. “Nought. Never min’.” He ran a forefinger inside his cheek and flung some foul-smelling tobacco paste onto the dirt. “Old Drummond’s been sittin’ in his office drinkin’ worse’n usual all afternoon. If you know what’s good fer ye, you’ll stay out o’ his way.”
“I always do.”
He gave a snort, and I slipped past him, down the ramp, and up toward the piano alcove.
Behind the curtains, someone was playing the piano. Scales in the key of C, the first one any pianist learns.
