‘What if he was killed indoors? We don’t know where he went after leaving Mrs Georgeson’s. Several people concerned in the business of the Life House live close by – but the simplest solution is that he went back to the Life House, to help Dr Bonner, from a sense of duty. Any other location would mean the murderer had to transport the body through the street, not an easy thing to arrange, even in the fog. Could he have been killed there? And who changed over the bodies? And when?’
‘There is no note in the record book of him returning to the Life House and he was very meticulous about signing it,’ Fairbrother objected. ‘The walls of the wards are whitewashed and would easily show any traces of blood. Hemsley cleaned regularly and has said nothing about any bloodstains.’
‘But suppose that Palmer did go back, who would have been there when he arrived? Dr Mackenzie, but he had already injected himself and was unconscious, and in any case he had been taken into the chapel. Then there was Mr Darscot – he was travelling by cab and would have got there before Palmer, who was on foot, and Dr Bonner let him into the chapel. But Palmer had the keys and would have let himself in at the main door, and he would quite possibly have been on the wards, alone while the others were all in the chapel. Could someone have entered and killed Palmer without the men in the chapel hearing anything?’
‘I must doubt that,’ said Fairbrother. ‘The wall between the chapel and the wards is not very thick.’
‘But the outer walls, I suspect, are thicker.’
‘They are, very much so. I assume you agree that Dr Bonner cannot have been involved. He is very lame and quite incapable of carrying bodies around.’
‘The road around the Life House is very secluded,’ said Frances. ‘Mr Palmer may have been killed just outside the building by someone who followed him and then struck him down, used his keys to enter, and carried the body indoors. That would explain why he didn’t sign the book, and why there were no blood splashes inside and why the men in the chapel heard nothing.’
Fairbrother nodded. ‘And of course the murderer would have had his cudgel in his pocket and taken it away with him.’
‘But who put the body in Mrs Templeman’s coffin? And why throw Mrs Templeman into the canal at all, when the two bodies might have been fitted into the same coffin and buried together?’
‘That would be indecent!’ exclaimed Fairbrother.
‘More indecent than murder?’ Frances turned to Sarah, who was looking at them with an expression of extreme scepticism. ‘Do you have a comment, Sarah?’
Sarah’s fingers didn’t pause in her knitting. ‘What I want to know is, if nothing of Mr Palmer’s was stolen, why did anyone want to kill him?’
Neither Frances nor Fairbrother could answer that.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As expected, the opening of the inquest on Henry Palmer’s death the next morning was a brief formality in which evidence was taken of identification and the proceedings were adjourned to await the results of the post-mortem examination.
That morning’s newspapers brought an interesting announcement. The Life House would formally close its doors in four days’ time, when the last body was removed for burial. The property had been sold to an investor and once the business ceased, the building would be torn down and the land used to construct dwellings.
Frances realised that if she wanted to look inside the Life House she had very little time in which to achieve it. Dr Bonner had left London, and Dr Warrinder and Mr Fairbrother would not permit any infringement of the rules. She thought about trying to talk her way in when the new orderly, Renfrew, the only man who had not met her, was in charge, but entry was allowed only by application to a director, and entrants must be medically qualified or be medical students.
There was only one way she might achieve her object, she must persuade a doctor to take her into the building and vouch for her, and the only man she could reasonably ask to do this was Dr Carmichael. She would have to avoid any objections that might be raised to her sex by doing something she had promised herself she would never do again. Frances composed two letters, which were duly delivered, and then she and Sarah went shopping.
That afternoon, Frances, accompanied by Sarah who, with her features determinedly devoid of all emotion, was clutching a large parcel, called on Cedric and explained what she had been unable to put in writing.
‘Let me understand this,’ said Cedric, making little effort to conceal his amusement. ‘You wish me to instruct you in the art of appearing masculine.’ Joseph tilted an eyebrow in their direction. ‘I have told you the story, have I not, Joseph, of my first meeting with Miss Doughty, or should I say Mr Frank Williamson, as she seemed to me then.’
‘Many times,’ Joseph murmured.
‘It was not something I did willingly and I do not do it willingly now,’ said Frances firmly. ‘I know it is a grave risk, but I am driven by necessity. I am aware that if I am to do it, I should do it the best way I can, which is why I have asked your advice. I suspect that at my first attempt I was a very feminine boy.’
‘Oh, you were, you were,’ said Cedric nostalgically, ‘but really I can’t imagine why you feel you need lessons in being the man. You have obviously been practicing it since, and you already have the art.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘But I espied Mr Williamson only the other day and I thought he cut a very masculine figure. I decided not to hail you as I thought you might be about some secret task, but you were very convincing.’
Frances stared at him. ‘You are mistaken. I have never, since the time we first met, donned gentlemen’s clothing.’
‘Oh? But I was quite sure it was you! The features, the walk, it was so like. If it was not you it must have been a relation.’
Frances was suddenly dry-mouthed and spoke with an effort. ‘And – what was this man doing when you saw him?’
‘Boarding a train at Paddington station.’
‘To what destination?’
‘I couldn’t say. My dear Miss Doughty, you look quite unwell. Please be seated and Joseph will bring you a glass of sherry.’
Frances told him then – not all that there was to tell, as there were some things she could hardly bear to speak of. She said that she had not long ago discovered that her mother, whom she had supposed to be long dead, was quite possibly still alive, and that she had a younger brother, Cornelius Doughty, whom she had never met.
‘Of course, I would like to know my family, but I am so afraid that they might not wish to know me that I have as yet made no attempt to discover where they are living. You will think me a coward, now.’
‘Not a bit of it!’ said Cedric. ‘You are the bravest lady I know and how I wish I had hailed the young man I saw, or taken more notice of his train. But I promise you that if I see him again, I will not make that mistake. Now then, I see a little colour return to your cheeks, so let us talk about what you require me to do. Does that parcel contain the suit you wore previously?’
‘No, that belonged to my late brother, Frederick, and was, I realise now, an indifferent fit. I have purchased a new suit of clothing that I believe will be better and Sarah can undertake to make any necessary adjustments.’
‘I see, and – er – now this is a delicate question so you must forgive me – do you wish to have the garment altered so as to conceal your sex, or would you prefer it to be of a masculine nature but of a feminine cut?’
‘Why would a woman want to dress as a man, but appear to be female?’ said Frances in surprise.
‘Indeed,’ said Cedric solemnly. ‘I am sorry to have mentioned it, how foolish of me.’
‘I wish to masquerade as a man for professional reasons and must, therefore, appear to be a man. I would like you to instruct me on my gait and carriage.’
‘Of course. Well, if you could retire to my dressing room and transform yourself we will set about it.’
Cedric’s dressing room was a small marvel, with rows of tastefully cut suits, snowy shirts, brightly polished
shoes, jars of scented pomade to sleek their owner’s unruly blond locks, crystal spray bottles of cologne and trays of discreet masculine jewellery. ‘I do not think,’ said Frances, as Sarah helped her dress, ‘that however hard I was to try I could ever be such an elegant gentleman as Mr Garton.’
‘You look good enough to me,’ said Sarah.
‘He is quite the old-fashioned dandy!’
‘Oh?’ said Sarah. ‘I didn’t know they had a name for it.’
‘Still, since I am to represent a medical student, a certain economy of attire would seem to be appropriate.’
Eventually, after forcing her long hair into a hat, Frances emerged, and stood before Cedric. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now you must advise me on what else I need to do.’
He gazed at her for a while, an unreadable expression in his eyes. ‘Very little,’ he said at last.
‘But does she look like a man?’ demanded Sarah.
‘A youth,’ said Cedric. ‘A handsome youth with all the promise of young manhood before him. Well, let us proceed.’
Although Frances’ limbs were decently enough covered she felt uncomfortable. The fact that the shape of her legs could be seen, and the absence of the accustomed weight and bulk of skirts and petticoats suggested to her that she was proposing to step out in a public street clad in little more than her underlinen. Her previous masquerade had been made out of a sense of desperation, but this was more cold-blooded, more planned, and her buried concerns were re-emerging. Cedric asked her to walk about the room and at first she tried to strut in what she hoped was a manly fashion, but he quickly instructed her to stop and asked her instead to take her natural walk so that he could correct it. Frances found it hard not to think of how she was moving, but as she walked, began to feel once again that delightful sense of freedom she had experienced when she had worn her brother’s suit. How easy it would be, thus clad, to run down the street! How she might be able to jump and climb and ride a bicycle, and a thousand things she might never even have thought of! She could do things that even Miss Dauntless would not contemplate.
It was an hour before Cedric had instilled in her the ability to walk, sit down, stand up, and put things into her pockets and take them out again, as if she had been a boy from birth.
‘It is fortunate that you do not have a high voice, or, as so many girls do, have been accustomed to speaking like small children in order to attract the protection of men. Your voice will do well enough if you are careful.’
‘I am very grateful for your assistance,’ said Frances, ‘and I know I can count on you to keep this secret.’
‘Tempting as it would be to tell all my friends about this afternoon, which would greatly add to my notoriety – if that were possible – I can assure you that you may count on my silence.’
Although the resumed inquest on the death of Henry Palmer was not due for a few days, Frances felt sure that Mr Fairbrother would tell her what she wanted to know about the post-mortem examination if she demanded it with enough confidence, revealing the conclusions before he had the opportunity of wondering whether or not he should.
When she questioned him, however, she found that there was no need for either forcefulness or subtle persuasion; he recognised with a wry smile that it would be simpler for him to comply. Frances learned that there was no doubt at all in Dr Collin’s mind that Henry Palmer had died after being struck on the head three times with a heavy object, perhaps some sort of carpentry tool. Only one weapon had been used. The first blow had probably been struck while Palmer was in a standing position and would have been enough to make him dizzy, but would not have been fatal. In all probability he would have fallen. He had been on all fours or lying down when a second blow had been struck and certainly prone, his face pressed to the ground when the third and fatal blow fell. The skull was not so much crushed as punctured, as if the weapon had a heavy end like a hammer. Fairbrother confirmed that there was no object in the Life House that might answer that description.
Frances was also able to elicit from Mr Fairbrother that he was attending a course of lectures and would not be at the Life House in the next few days, but that Hemsley and Renfrew had matters in hand, and Dr Warrinder would also call. This was a great relief, since the idea that she might encounter Mr Fairbrother during her excursion to the Life House in male attire appalled her. As long as her visit occurred during Mr Renfrew’s period of duty she would be safe as she did not think Dr Warrinder, even if he did arrive, would recognise her if she kept her distance and took care not to face him directly. She asked Fairbrother if he knew the identity of the new owner, but he did not. The sale was very nearly complete and it was anticipated that the keys would be handed over shortly.
The next morning, Frances, as Mr Frank Williamson, medical student, awaited Dr Carmichael. That gentleman, who had been told what to expect, must have convinced himself that Frances had not been serious when she had described her intentions or thought that, on sober reflection, she would abandon the idea. It was with some sense of shock that he saw her in male attire. ‘Have you thought of going on the stage?’ he said at last.
‘Is that the only destination for a woman who dresses as a man?’
‘That and prison, I would have thought. I am really not sure that this should be attempted.’
‘If it is a question of your reputation, I believe I am the least of your dangers,’ said Frances.
‘What have you been told?’ he demanded.
‘It involves chloroform,’ said Frances. ‘Do I need to say more?’
He looked angry, but made no denials. ‘No, you do not. Well, let us get this done quickly. If you are found out I can always say that I was deceived. Your masquerade is sufficiently convincing, no doubt from considerable practice. I am only thankful that your companion will not be accompanying us dressed as a soldier!’
They travelled up by cab, and on the way Frances explained that she was looking for the location of the death of Henry Palmer. ‘I cannot anticipate the verdict of the coroner’s jury,’ she said, ‘but it is possible that he may have been the victim of foul play. I have heard rumours that he was struck several times on the head by something resembling a hammer. I suspect that he was killed very close to the Life House.’
‘Surely there will be nothing to see after all this time?’ said Carmichael.
‘I fear you may be right, but at least I should look.’
Before they approached the door of the Life House chapel, Frances searched carefully for any sign of a struggle, but there was nothing in the lane that led south to the canal, or any of the little ways around the building or the path that led to the front door. Even if Palmer had been killed there, the passage of time had erased any traces. Carmichael knocked at the chapel door and they were met by Renfrew, a small man who resembled a nocturnal rodent, down to the dark glittering eyes, pale whiskers and pink nose. He said little, but studied the appointment book in his hands and, noting that Dr Carmichael and Mr Williamson were expected, examined the doctor’s card, and nodded approval. They were told to go to the front door and wait, and a few moments later he ushered them in. The office area was mainly occupied by a small desk and a coat stand, and there were shelves of leather-bound books; medical volumes, ledgers and record books. A glass-fronted cabinet held a few restorative items: brandy, a carafe of water, and some smelling salts. So meagre were the contents, so inadequate to deal with the kind of emergencies the Life House might have faced, that Frances felt sure that this was intended not for the use of the patients but visitors.
‘That is only a very small part of what we have here,’ said Renfrew quickly, seeing her expression. ‘On the ward we have an extensive supply of apparatus and materials for the treatment of cases of doubtful death. I am sure you would like to examine them.’
Carmichael said that he would be very interested to do so and Frances nodded her enthusiastic assent, then Renfrew unlocked the door that led to the wards.
Carmichael glanced at Frances with som
e concern, afraid that at any moment the brandy, water and smelling salts would have to be pressed into action, but she had seen and smelled death before, and death, moreover, without the benefit of carbolic. The odour of putrefaction, whatever one did, could never be disguised. It was oddly sweet, but in a way that caught at the back of the throat and however much one resisted, it was like a sickly caress that impelled nausea. Overlying it was the sour stench of disinfectant that stung the nostrils and, thought Frances, helped matters more by providing an unpleasant distraction than anything else.
There was a curtain acting as a partition across the main ward and four beds on either side, but there were only two patients, one male and one female, segregated in the anticipation that a revival might occur. Frances saw that the ‘beds’ were little more than mortuary slabs, although dressed with sheets and blankets. The corpses, for she could not think of them as anything else, were clothed and arranged like living patients, and though the heads were supported on pillows there was a tendency for them to drop back and mouths to sag open in a manner that could only suggest that life was extinct. Around each body was a mass of foliage and flowers, tubs and pots of growing shrubs, plants that climbed and straggled, their tendrils tumbling over the side of the beds and dipping to the floor. Each corpse revealed one naked foot, and tied to the big toe was a long cord leading to a bell that hung from the wall behind, another cord also being connected to a finger.
Renfrew proudly threw back the double doors of a tall cupboard, revealing blankets and towels, sponges, lint, galvanic apparatus, massage devices, hypodermic syringes, ammonia, naphthalene, ether and camphor, linseed meal and linen cloths for making poultices, cantharides blisters, cupping and scarification devices, stethoscopes, equipment for tapping fluid from body cavities, bottles of fragrant oils, suppositories, pessaries, and everything that a surgeon might need for performing a tracheotomy.
Frances looked over the contents of the cupboard, restraining herself from making any observations as she was a little nervous of speaking, but trying to look deeply interested, even impressed. Renfrew hovered beside them, then after a while, seeing that they did not need his assistance, sidled away and commenced his inspection of the male corpse, though Frances thought that testing for pulse and breath on an object with sunken eyes and already showing the darkening stains of putrefaction about the lips, was optimistic.
A Case of Doubtful Death Page 27
