Eliza stood before us. She was soaked with rain; her hair plastered to her head, her dress leaking water onto the floor. She was shivering, but whether it was from cold or anger I could not say.
‘Dear girl.’ Mrs Magorian held out her hands.
‘Don’t.’ Eliza stepped back, ‘Don’t come near me.’
‘But I’m your mother—’
‘You’re not my mother.’ Eliza’s face bore that closed, pinched look. Her gaze crossed to the boot I had stolen from Mrs Magorian’s dressing room which now lay on the table beside my chair. And then she looked at me. ‘Did I help you to bring us to this?’ she said. ‘Was that why you asked for my help, so that you might come into our home and take our secret things?’
‘I would never do anything to hurt you.’ My words sounded hollow, even to my own ears. Had I not taken the boot in the full knowledge of where it might lead? Did I not know that by doing so I would bring forth the truth, and with that cause her the most terrible pain? ‘It’s the truth, Eliza,’ I said. ‘The truth at last.’
‘Well, I don’t want it.’ Her eyes were dry of tears, her face cold and hard. ‘I don’t want the truth – not any of it!’
‘Oh, Eliza,’ cried Mrs Magorian. She stepped closer.
Eliza backed away. ‘You murdered her. You murdered my . . . my mother. My brother.’
‘They died,’ said Mrs Magorian, ‘in childbirth. I took you and brought you up as my own. You would have died too without me.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Would you have been happier in the poor house? Or living in some dirty corner of Prior’s Rents? Or on the streets?’ Her voice was sharp now. ‘You’d be a drunkard and a whore, just like your mother – if you’d lived that long. But instead you’re a lady. You’ve no cause to recoil from me.’
Eliza was silent for a moment. ‘And those other girls?’
‘Street girls.’
‘And their babies?’
‘We had to know. We had to understand why. Those girls were doomed. If the gin didn’t get them, then the pox would. Your father—’
‘He is not my father.’
‘He loves you as if you were his own daughter.’
‘He hates me.’ Eliza’s eyes were dark and furious. ‘He hates me because he wants me. He has always wanted me.’
Mrs Magorian frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you?’ said Eliza. ‘Don’t you know what I mean? Perhaps I’m not so far from the gutter as you think, for it is he who’s dragged me into it; he who’s made a whore of me. He loves me like a husband, not as a father. He’s done so since I was a child. Do you understand me now?’
Mrs Magorian gaped at her. She could not comprehend it. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the horror of the world. I had guessed as much, but my mind had revolted to accept it. She had denied it when I had asked, but there had been something hasty in her refutation, and her confidence, her knowledge of intimacy had given the lie to it.
‘Oh, he hated me for it – for tempting him – and I was duly punished with a beating. But I am a whore, and my true nature cannot be beaten out of me any more than it can be smothered with silks and fine manners.’ She stood there for a moment. ‘That’s what he used to say to me. I always wondered what he meant.’ She looked down at her hands, the neat nails, and clean, starched, white cuffs of her dress, and a tear ran down her cheek. Her small upright figure seemed to dwindle, to grow smaller. Her face darkened and her lips drew back over her teeth. ‘I owe you nothing, Mother,’ she said. ‘And I will tell the world what you have done.’
‘Eliza!’ Mrs Magorian sprang down the stairs after her, the poisoned book forgotten in my lap.
Outside, the rain was falling again. I emerged just in time to see Mrs Magorian vanish through the gate that led to the churchyard. I raced out after her. There was a glow in the sky to the west, but the place would soon be as black as a glove. Ahead of me, I saw Mrs Magorian’s pale blue bonnet, darkened with the rain, bobbing amongst the graves. I heard her voice, faint against the roaring darkness. ‘Eliza! Eliza!’ But I could not see Eliza at all. Beneath my feet, the ground was uneven, sagging and mounded with bodies that had yet to be exhumed. Up ahead the great flanks of the bone mound were silhouetted against the inky sky. The stink of it filled the air. The men had stopped work hours ago, and the place was deserted. The night was growing wilder; I saw the tarpaulin that covered the tools billow like a great flap of skin as the wind caught it. I had to find Eliza, to explain – what? That all would be well? That I would save her from the cruelty of the world and the judgement of men?
At that moment a dark shape detached itself from the surrounding blackness. I saw a white face, sunken eyes beneath a shadowy brow, the dark wings of a cloak caught in the wind. I took a step back to brace myself, to throw him aside . . . But he was too strong. In an instant I was on my back. Above me, his face was tight lipped, his eyes invisible in shadows. I thrashed beneath him, my legs kicking impotently, but he sat astride me now, pinning me to the ground. Was this what he had done to Eliza? Had he pinned her down and forced himself upon her, or had he wheedled and coaxed – I felt his hands about my throat, squeezing. The rain poured into my open mouth, my staring eyes. I squirmed beneath him, the ground churning to sludge and rising up about my face as he pushed me into the earth. There was a roaring in my ears and the darkness that closed in upon me was the colour of oxblood.
As if from far away, I heard shouting. Above me I felt Dr Magorian jerk. His hands slackened and my vision cleared, though I could not move. My breath rasped against my bruised and bloody throat.
There were two of them now: one in a black cloak, the other in a brown oilskin. They wrestled with one another, plunging this way and that, rearing up before me, locked together as they struggled to bring each other to the ground. I tried to stand, but I could not. And then the oil-skinned one fell sideways, flung against a tombstone. He lay there, unmoving, twisted upon the rain-soaked earth like a rag doll, while his adversary, dark and terrible in his great billowing cloak, vanished into the night.
I crawled forward, the rain drumming on my skull. My voice was raw, my neck torn and bruised, my throat swollen.
It was Will, dear, loyal Will. I cradled his head in my lap. At his temple, a bloody gash told where he had smacked his head against the stone. Not Will, I thought, please, not Will. I threw my head back and screamed my grief and despair against the wind. What hope, what chance of redemption could there be if he too was taken from me? I pressed my fingers to his throat with hasty imprecision. But the mud and rain, cold and slippery, defeated me, and I could feel no pulse. I bent over him and kissed his face. How lonely I had been before he came. And now? Now I had no one. No one at all.
‘Jem?’ his voice was a whisper, as close as a lover’s in my ear.
‘Oh!’ I held him tight then, tight against the rain and the darkness. ‘I’m here. You’re safe.’
‘And you? Are you safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Eliza? Where is she? Where is Dr Magorian?’
I looked up. Ahead, against the shadow of the mountain of bones, I could see movement. I pointed.
‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Gabriel is coming. I sent him for help.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll find me.’
Faint and far away, snatched by the wind, I heard a voice. I made Will comfortable against a gravestone, and then, with a last glance back, I abandoned him, following the sound, heading north across the graveyard. I stopped and listened, peering into the rain, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. My head throbbed and my breath came in sharp, raw gasps; I felt sick and dizzy, and I staggered forward onto my knees, holding onto a crooked headstone for support as I vomited onto the ground. My throat blazed.
I heard the cry again and I wiped my lips and stumbled on. And then, there, in front of me, were the bones, and the pit from which they had come. I stared up, shielding my eyes with my hand as the rain st
ung my face like nettles. They gleamed white, skulls and ribs glistening with rainwater; amongst them, slimy strips of flesh and hair, fragmented coffins, tattered winding sheets and streaks of dark, sticky earth. And all about was the sound of gurgling, bubbling water, as though the ground itself was laughing. As I looked, the bones seemed to move. I dashed the water from my face and blinked. There it was again. I could not make it out . . . and then I realised. There was somebody there, on that great mound, climbing.
Eliza.
I tried to call out, but the sound was no more than a rasp. At the foot of the mound stood the tall, hooded figure of Dr Magorian; beside him, the small, boy-sized shadow of his wife.
‘Eliza!’ I heard the call once more, a high-pitched keening sound, followed by a terrible anguished sob. Mrs Magorian sank to the ground at her husband’s feet. I watched as he raised her up with both hands. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her close. He bent his head and whispered something to her; he smoothed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, and kissed her face. And then he too began to climb. Eliza stopped and looked back. I saw her start. Her foot slipped and she slid back towards him. The doctor put out a hand to seize her boot but Eliza scrambled away. I heard her shouting, screaming, but I could not hear what she said. If I followed them, I might bring the whole heap sliding down. And yet, if I waited – what then?
Even as I watched, the bones began to shift and fragment, arms projecting, legs extending, as if the Trumpet had sounded and they were compelled to rise up at once. I stood, transfixed. What could I do but watch? They moved out, and down. Slowly at first, but then faster. Mrs Magorian cried out. I saw her raise her arms, calling to her husband. He turned and reached out to her. But the landscape was changing, bones grinding upon bones, jostling, plunging, surging, down towards the hole from which they had come.
I saw Eliza standing tall, silhouetted against the dark glow of the vanished sun; and then she was gone.
‘Eliza!’ I sprang forward. But mud was upon me too now, and my feet were swept asunder. I tried to stand, but I could not. Ahead, I saw Dr Magorian leap towards his wife. He put his arms about her as if to lift her clear, to throw her out of harm’s way, but instead he held her close. For a moment they stood there, unmoving, clasped together as the bones seethed and rolled, and then they vanished from sight.
I cried out, but the rank earth stopped my mouth. And then all at once I was being pulled; someone was hauling at my arms, dragging me free. I choked and gagged, too weak to do anything but try to thrash my legs clear. The air was filled with an immense roaring sound, like a great shovelling of coals. And then there was only silence, and the sound of the rain pouring down upon a sea of bones.
I opened my eyes. Above me, I could see that the mound of excavated bodies had collapsed, surging towards the pit from which they had been removed. I turned my head. How it throbbed! Beside me, Will lay, unconscious. His temple bore a great dark bruise, his right eye swollen shut. But I could see that he was safe, and alive. For a moment, I watched him breathing, in and out . . . in and out. He had done so much for me that evening. I stretched out a hand, and wiped the dirt from his face. Some distance away, Dr Magorian was also visible, half buried beneath rags and mud. I saw his head move from side to side, and his arms rise up. His wife was nowhere to be seen. Someone would come, soon, and get us out. Someone would find her. I tried to shout for help, but my voice was gone.
I heard her before I saw her: boots floundering, slipping, slithering as she clambered across the wreckage; the slap of wet fabric as her heavy skirts dragged at her legs. I did not see where she had come from, and she had not noticed me lying there, covered in mud and unable to speak. But I saw her. I saw her run towards Dr Magorian. He was calling his wife’s name now, his voice desperate, frantic. He turned his head from side to side, trying to see where she was, trying to sit up, to pull himself free. He saw Eliza, coming towards him across the wreckage as quickly as she could, and he gave a sob and held out his arms.
She knelt down beside him. Once again I tried to call out; I tried to pull myself up, but my strength had deserted me. The moon slipped out from a break in the clouds and I saw her look down at him. Her hair was bedraggled, her dress torn at the neck so that both shoulders were exposed, her skin streaked with brown. She smoothed the dirt from his face with tender fingers, her expression unreadable.
‘Eliza,’ I heard him say. ‘My dear—’
And then, as I watched, her face resolved into an expression of such fury I could hardly believe that I was looking at the same person. She did not speak, did not make a sound, as she cupped her hands about the back of her father’s head, and forced his face into the mud. He gurgled and heaved beneath her, writhing this way and that, but he was trapped from the waist down in the grip of the graveyard and he could do nothing to escape. His arms flailed. I saw Eliza’s knees part beneath her soaked skirts, both hands now pressing hard upon her father’s head. I saw her arch her back, her eyes closed, all her weight bearing down upon him as he bucked again, and then again . . . and then was still.
Chapter Nineteen
I hardly know what happened next. Beside me, Will groaned. I could not move to help him, could not move to help myself. I turned my head and tried to whisper something encouraging. When I looked back, Eliza was gone.
I heard the sound of voices echoing up from St Saviour’s, the porters’ lanterns bobbing towards us as they ran to see what had happened. We were dug out, and carried home. I can remember little but the touch of hands, the lights of the apothecary, Mrs Speedicut’s face rising up before me like a baleful moon.
Eliza had vanished. At first, it was assumed that she had perished, along with her mother and father. But I knew better. Only Dr Magorian and Mrs Magorian were unearthed, and a verdict of accidental death recorded. After that, events followed a logical sequence: the poisoned book was found in the herb drying room where I had left it. I gave it to the magistrate, along with a pair of gloves, and in its pages the truth was made clear. My father’s innocence, and mine, was established beyond doubt, and he was buried with little ceremony, beside my mother, in that undisturbed stretch of sunny earth at the southern wall of St Saviour’s church.
And I? Like Gabriel I too was now an orphan. I looked after Will while he recovered from his ordeal with Dr Magorian amongst the gravestones. The scar from that evening would stay with him for ever, a peculiar heart-shaped patch of raised, pink flesh at his temple.
‘You’re lucky not to have contracted septicaemia,’ I said. ‘Or brain fever. Or lockjaw.’
‘But I have the best doctor in you, Jem. And the best nurse. I have every confidence.’
I patted his hand. ‘And yet, I could poison you in fifty different ways, if I chose.’ It was true, it was in my power to preserve life, and to bring death. How omnipotent I was! And yet the one simple thing I could not do was forget – my father’s murder, Eliza – and the pain of their loss ate into my soul.
Once he was recovered, Will stayed with us at the apothecary while he completed his work at the graveyard. The hospital governors asked me to stay, to come to St Saviour’s new site across the river. And yet my heart was no longer in my work. I tried to carry on as usual, but every day I watched the crowds on St Saviour’s Street for Eliza’s face. I listened out for her voice, her laugh, though I knew, in my heart, that I would not hear either. In the herb drying room I looked down into the yard hoping to see her walking across it. But, of course, she was never there. I had told Will everything. What had happened between Eliza and I, what I knew of her past, how I had seen her force Dr Magorian’s head into the earth. How could I not have seen how unhappy she was? Why had she not come to me earlier? If I could but find her . . . Questions circled my mind like lazily flapping crows, dark and ragged. I would look up and see Will watching me. ‘There are some people who cannot be saved, Jem.’
The weeks lengthened to months. The graveyard was emptied. St Saviour’s, gradually, was emptied too. The ra
ilway company would not wait; the foundations for the new hospital were laid already, and St Saviour’s was to move to temporary accommodation out to the west. Would I follow them? I could not. Gabriel would manage well enough without me, and a new apothecary might be found easily enough.
Will alone seemed to understand. He had acquitted himself well amongst the corpses and his Master had decided he was to work on a less grisly project: the rebuilding of Brixton Gaol, out to the east.
‘Well done,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘And well deserved.’
‘Perhaps you might think of a new beginning too,’ he said.
‘With St Saviour’s?’ I shook my head. ‘You know my thoughts.’
‘No. Not with St Saviour’s. With me.’
‘You?’
‘We are both alone in the world. Do you not love me?’
‘As a brother?’
He smiled. ‘If that’s your wish, that’s what it shall be. As a brother. You might open an apothecary. Gabriel will be sure to come with us, and you don’t need to be part of a hospital to peddle your potions and pills—’
I shook my head. ‘Perhaps one day,’ I said. ‘But not yet.’
He put his arms about me then and held me close. ‘Well, Jem,’ he said, ‘then I will just have to wait.’
I had never had a friend, not truly, and Will’s loyalty amazed me. Every day, I walked down St Saviour’s Street to the physic garden, though I knew I was not going there to tend to the place. Will came with me. My mind was no longer concerned with physic, and plants and poisons held no savour for me. The gardener and his boy I laid off – if there was to be no hospital, what use was a physic garden? How quickly the place went to seed! We sat on the iron bench and watched the wind blowing the dandelion clocks over the wall and into the city. Would any of them take root in that unfriendly place? No doubt there was a welcoming dung heap somewhere.
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