by Deryn Lake
‘This is not one of Dr Crow’s days,’ the voice replied. ‘Mr Burridge is in charge.’
‘Then may we see him?’
‘I will enquire. If you would like to step into the waiting room.’ There was a further dragging of bolts, and then the wicket opened to reveal the figure of a small tremulous being, badly afflicted by what appeared to be some form of palsy, for he shook uncontrollably as he ushered the visitors inside. John took him to be a former inmate, sufficiently recovered to carry out simple tasks.
Beyond the gate, the Apothecary saw that the wall widened out in a semicircle to encompass a pleasant garden, in which several people were already sitting, taking the morning sun. Overlooking them were two warders, one male, one female, the last wearing a striped dress similar to that found on the victim. The man had on a dark blue jerkin and breeches, very plain and serviceable. As John passed close by, going into the main building, several of the inmates looked up, one particularly catching his attention, for she was utterly beautiful, lacking only the divine spark of sanity to make her incomparable. Fair hair, fine as flax, blew untidily round a magnificently boned face, its contours so perfect that it looked to have been carved by a master sculptor. Full and passionate lips curled above a small chin. But the girl’s eyes, a shade of dazzling blue, had no expression in them whatsoever. A dead soul was peeping out and regarding the Apothecary, and it made him shiver as he walked into the shadowy confines of St Luke’s Hospital for Poor Lunatics.
Though efforts had been made to brighten the place, no doubt by the wives of those Christian souls who had founded the asylum, nothing could combat the terrible feeling of despair which pervaded the entire atmosphere. Sitting uncomfortably in the small room into which they had been shown, John and Samuel regarded one another dismally. From a distance, like the murmur of the sea, came the muted sound of moaning, punctuated by the occasional loud cry or scream and the noise of running feet. It was totally unnerving, and the Apothecary found himself wishing that he had never volunteered for such a wretched task.
‘Hope we don’t have to wait much longer,’ said Samuel glumly.
‘It’s not exactly jolly,’ John agreed.
‘In fact it’s downright …’
But the Goldsmith got no further. There was a tap on the door and a warder appeared. ‘Mr Burridge will see you now, he said. ‘If you would follow me, gentlemen.’
They climbed a staircase, slippery with polish, and then proceeded down a corridor. All the while, the sound of muted cries continued, though the two friends could see no one.
John cleared his throat. ‘Where are the patients?’ he asked boldly.
The warder shot him a quizzical glance. ‘There’s some in the garden, some in the saloon, the others are locked in their rooms.’
‘Are those the dangerous ones?’ Samuel enquired earnestly.
‘They’re all dangerous,’ the warder answered shortly. ‘There’s not one I’d turn my back on if they held a pair of scissors. Any of ’em is liable to fly into a frenzy soon as look at you.’
‘So in your view any of them would be capable of killing someone?’ asked Samuel, using the casual voice he always adopted on these occasions.
The warder gave a hollow laugh. ‘Capable of it? Why, most of the creatures in here already have! Believe me, there is no patient of St Luke’s who hasn’t homicidal tendencies.’
‘Even the beautiful girl, the one with the fair hair and blue eyes? Surely she wouldn’t harm a fly,’ said John, shocked.
‘You mean Petronelle? Oh, she’s all right as long as she doesn’t see any children. Then she goes wild and has to be restrained. By more than one strong man as well.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Nobody has any idea, for nothing is known of her. She was picked up off the streets of London, quite crazed, rescued from a life of prostitution.’
‘How old was she then?’
‘Thirteen or fourteen.’
Both John and Samuel shook their heads in sorrow, though neither was surprised, such a thing being commonplace rather than unusual.
Reaching the end of the passageway, they drew to a halt outside an imposing door on which the warder knocked deferentially.
‘Yes?’ came the answer, and the man, cautioning the two friends to wait, went inside, closing the door behind him. There was the murmur of conversation and then the warder reappeared and ushered them into the room with a slight bow.
John led the way, then drew back, realising he was just a second or two too early. For the man in charge of St Luke’s was in the very act of slapping a serviceable wig on to his head and adjusting his cravat into a more fashionable knot. Hearing them come in, he turned and smiled somewhat sheepishly, revealing a large pair of loosely fitting false teeth which he raised to gum level with a sucking sound.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said heartily. ‘And what may I do for you?’ It seemed clear from his manner that he either knew nothing about the missing member of staff or had not connected John with the matter. So it would appear that the news had not yet been broken.
Coming straight to the point, the Apothecary said formally, ‘I am here on behalf of Mr John Fielding of Bow Street, Sir. This is his letter of authorisation.’ And he handed Mr Burridge the document that the Blind Beak had given him before they parted company on the previous night.
The older man pushed his spectacles up his nose, thus magnifying his eyes which suddenly loomed, blue and bulbous. As he scanned the contents, his toothy smile vanished and his features became decidedly grumpy. ‘What is all this?’ he asked sharply. ‘Mr Fielding requests my cooperation? Regarding what, pray?’
‘Regarding a case of murder,’ Samuel answered, stung to speak thus by the man’s sudden irritable manner.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mr Burridge retorted nastily.
‘Murder,’ replied John coldly. ‘Last night, Sir, the body of a woman was found in the Fish Pond on the Peerless Pool estate. The state of deterioration of the corpse, or rather the lack of it, suggests that she had been thrown in quite recently, probably the night before. The victim was wearing the uniform of one of your wardresses. So I must ask you, has any of your employees not appeared for duty today?’
Mr Burridge’s expression changed from surly to shaken. ‘Why yes,’ he answered uncomfortably, ‘now you come to mention it, Hannah Rankin has not been seen this morning.’
The Apothecary continued ruthlessly, aware that he had the advantage. ‘And would this Hannah Rankin be in her late forties, possessing dark hair streaked with grey, and brown eyes?’
Mr Burridge removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a serviceable handkerchief ‘Yes, that’s her. But I’m afraid I don’t understand. You have the advantage of me, gentlemen.’
‘That is a description of the body raised from the bottom of the Fish Pond last evening. The victim had been severely beaten, then weighted down and thrown in to die. The Public Office is looking into the manner of her death, Sir, and I am assisting Mr Fielding in this. Now, what can you tell me about the woman, presuming for the moment that it is one and the same person?’
Mr Burridge sat down behind his desk, rather swiftly John thought, and reaching into a drawer, poured himself a small tot of brandy from a bottle kept within. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘For shock,’ then gulped the draught in one. Mopping his brow, he sucked his false teeth into position.
‘She hasn’t worked here long … Hannah Rankin, that is,’ he said rapidly, looking anxiously at the Apothecary.
‘What do you mean? Six months or less?’ John asked, taking a seat opposite while Samuel settled himself into a chair near by, his look intent.
‘No, a little more than that. About a year or so.’
‘And where did she come from? Do you know?’
‘Originally from Bath I believe. As far as I can recall her references bore an address somewhere within that town.’
‘I see.’
Samuel spoke up. ‘Do you still have those re
ferences, Sir? They could be of vital importance in tracing the woman’s background.’
Mr Burridge looked relieved, probably because he could answer positively for a change. ‘Oh yes, yes indeed. All facts of that kind are kept on record.’ He half rose. ‘Would you like me to trace the papers now?’
John shook his head. ‘No, Sir, pray sit down. That information is very helpful in its way but what I am looking for is something more recent. For example, was Hannah Rankin married, and where did she live? Did she have enemies here on the staff? Or is it possible that she could have fallen foul of one of the patients?’
Mr Burridge took another surreptitious tot of brandy, then leant his elbows on the desk. ‘You do realise that it is Dr. Crow himself who employs the warders?’
‘No, I didn’t know that. But what …?’
‘Simply put, he knows their background better than I. I do not hobnob with the staff, you understand.’ Realising that he was implying that the worthy doctor did just that, Mr Burridge attempted to cover his error. ‘Of course, Dr Crow is quite right in being on friendly terms with one and all. Ha, ha!’
Samuel cut to the heart of the matter. ‘So when is the doctor coming back to St Luke’s?’
‘Not till next week, I fear. We alternate. I am an administrator, he a man of medicine.’
‘So you cannot help us further in the matter of Hannah Rankin?’
Mr Burridge endeavoured to look genial but his eyes were unsmiling. ‘I think, gentlemen, you might be better off talking to Forbes, the man who showed you in. As Chief Warder he is fully cognisant with all that goes on. I shall send for him.’ And without further argument he picked up a small handbell and rang it.
With an alacrity that convinced John the man had been listening at the door, Forbes appeared. ‘You summoned me, Sir.’
‘Yes, my good fellow, I did. As you already know, these two gentlemen are here representing Mr Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street. It seems that a woman resembling Hannah Rankin and wearing the uniform of this hospital met with an unfortunate accident in the Fish Pond near the Peerless Pool. They would like to ask you some questions about her.’
‘Very good. Sir.’
‘It was something more than an accident,’ said John forthrightly. ‘It was in fact deliberate murder.’
He stared into Forbes’s face, looking for signs of surprise. There were none, but that, of course, could be accounted for by the fact that he had overheard the entire conversation rather than by any prior knowledge.
The Apothecary turned to Mr Burridge. ‘May I claim your indulgence, Sir. May I speak to Mr Forbes in private?’
The administrator looked predictably put out. ‘Well, really, I …’
‘The reason is that a man does not feel as free to speak in the presence of his employer; that is a known fact and one in which Mr Fielding would bear me out.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Mr Burridge replied testily, and strode from the room, fuming.
Instantly John took his place behind the administrator’s desk and produced paper and pencil from his pocket. ‘Now, Mr Forbes, if you would be so kind as to tell me everything you known about Hannah Rankin, I’ll take a few notes.’
‘I suppose,’ said Samuel practically, ‘that she hasn’t reappeared? I mean to say, we are talking about the right woman and not heading up a blind alley, aren’t we?’
‘Hannah has not reported for work, if that is what you are asking, Sir.’
‘When did you last see her?’ asked John.
‘Not yesterday, which was her day off, but the day before. In the evening. She was going home at about eight o’clock. I called out goodnight to her but she didn’t answer, just went hurrying away.’
‘How do you organise your work here?’ the Apothecary enquired, genuinely curious. ‘Are there warders present throughout the night, or do you all go off duty?’
‘Most goes home, Sir. The apothecary comes round after the lunatics have been fed and doses ’em up good and strong. Then the violent ones are tied to their beds and locked in. The others are just made secure in their rooms. There are no dormitories, it being too difficult to control a group of ’em if trouble should break out.’
‘How many staff remain here?’
‘We have found three warders to be enough. Two men and Mother Richard. She always does night-times. She likes it, you see.’
‘And who is Mother Richard?’
‘The midwife. She needs the extra money for gin, being very partial to the stuff.’
‘She sounds highly unsuitable to be nursing the sick.’
‘Well, the lunatics ain’t exactly that, now, are they, Sir? A firm hand and a few chains are what they need.’
‘I thought this place was meant to be more caring than Bedlam,’ John answered, sighing.
‘It is. We don’t allow sightseers, for a start.’
The Apothecary shook his head, not knowing how to answer. For the fact was that for an entry fee of two pence, visitors were allowed into the Bethlehem Hospital to stare at the disturbed and suffering inmates, a circumstance violently deplored by the artist William Hogarth, who had painted a terrible scene depicting conditions within the asylum.
Thinking it better not to argue, the Apothecary said, ‘Tell me about Hannah. Was she a married woman?’
‘No, Sir. She lived alone in Ratcliff Row.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not far from Pest House Row, near to the French Hospital.’
‘My God,’ said the Goldsmith, jumping to his feet. ‘Do you realise where that is, John?’
‘No.’
‘Pest House Row runs directly behind the Fish Pond.’
‘That’s right,’ put in Forbes, ‘it does.’ His eyes glistened. ‘You say that Hannah met her end in that very place?’
‘Indeed she did.’
‘Then she wouldn’t have far to go, would she?’
The Apothecary considered for a moment, then changed the conversation’s direction. ‘Did Hannah have any particular friends that you know of? Either on the staff or outside the hospital?’
Forbes looked thoughtful. ‘No, she didn’t. The fact was that she kept herself very much to herself. Spoke to few; did her duty; befriended no one but fell out with none. She had a way with her, if you understand me, that seemed to discourage comradeship. She was alone and happy like that.’
‘Obviously an austere woman,’ John stated with just a hint of a smile.
‘Very. There was some that were quite nervous of her.’
‘Why?’
‘Only because of that. Because of her forbidding manner.’
‘Might one of the inmates be sufficiently afraid of her to be driven to commit murder?’
Forbes screwed up his face to hide the fact that he was grinning. ‘They hate all us warders, but her they hated most of all.’
John stood up, indicating that the interview was at an end. ‘Mr Forbes, I must thank you. You have been most helpful. However, I’m afraid there is one other thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘If no kith or kin can be found, then someone who knew Hannah Rankin well will be asked to identify the body. Would you be willing to do so?’
Forbes gulped. ‘If nobody else is available, I suppose I must.’
‘I will inform Mr Fielding.’
They walked back down the corridor together, listening to the wail of the wretched patients, glimpsing through one open door a half-naked man, his hands on his genitals.
‘Stop that!’ bellowed Forbes, but the poor creature continued, totally oblivious of the world beyond his own pathetic needs. Very sobered, the two friends stepped through the heavily fortified front door and into the fresh air of the garden beyond, where both drew a deep breath.
‘God grant that I never end in such a place,’ Samuel said morosely.
‘Amen to that,’ John answered with feeling. He looked around him and saw that the beautiful girl, Petronelle, had started a meaningless solitary walk, wandering i
n circles, going nowhere, without purpose. Looking up, she caught his eye and began to head in his direction.
‘Only a shilling,’ she said sadly.
‘Not now, my dear,’ the Apothecary answered.
Petronelle burst into tears. ‘But I need the money to buy food.’
John shook his head. ‘No, they feed you here.’
She looked at him, very puzzled. ‘Do they? What place am I in?’
‘You’re in hospital,’ Samuel replied kindly. ‘Where they look after you.’
Very briefly, a look of cunning came into Petronelle’s eye. ‘Some do, some don’t,’ she answered.
Thinking of the warders’ attitude as personified by Forbes, John inwardly shuddered at the thought of cruelty being meted out to such a delicate creature.
‘Who is unkind to you?’ he asked, determined to take the matter up with Dr Crow himself, should it prove necessary.
Petronelle took his arm, her lovely face staring up into his. ‘She’s gone now,’ she whispered.
‘Who? Who’s gone?’
‘Her. The wicked one.’
‘Tell me which she is.’
‘The one who came for me. Oh, Sir, the one who came for me.’ Petronelle’s beautiful lips quivered and tears glistened in her eyes. ‘Oh, Mama, Mama,’ she sobbed.
John slipped an arm round the girl’s heaving shoulders and was rewarded with a frantic clawing of his coat. ‘You won’t let her take me, will you?’ Petronelle implored.
‘Nobody’s going to harm you. You’re safe here,’ the Apothecary answered, wishing he believed it to be true.
‘She thinks I don’t remember,’ the girl continued in a whisper, close to his ear. ‘She thinks that because I’m grown I’ve forgotten all about it. But I haven’t. I’ll always remember her and the way she came for me.’
So saying, Petronelle’s mood seemed to swing and she wandered off again, her eyes vacant, her beautiful face as devoid of expression as a mask.
‘I wonder what she meant by all that,’ said Samuel, staring after her.
‘I don’t know,’ John replied thoughtfully. ‘But I have every intention of finding out.
Chapter Five
