The Poison Thread

by Laura Purcell

  ‘It’s exposed the weaknesses in the system, Dotty,’ he told me, eyes ignited with purpose. ‘The police of our very capital, flummoxed! It’s an embarrassment. There’s no organisation. They need more men. Good, hard-working men to put the ship in shape.’

  And before I could ask him what this signified, he informed me he had already taken action. Applied to transfer, to work in London ‘where a man can make his name’.

  This is my fault. I told him, did I not, that we should need to relocate in order to marry? That we required a larger income. I have forced his hand, and now I shall be obliged to leave behind my mother’s house, my friend Fanny, Ruth, perhaps even Wilkie . . . However, I must not fret. Not at present. It may all come to nothing. If the Metropolitan Police are truly as inept as he implies, they may make a mistake and reject him.

  Am I selfish to hope that they shall? That by some miracle, I know not how, I am able to retain both the man and the house? It does not seem so very much to ask. But then poor Miriam only wanted a trip on the stagecoach and a meeting with her mother. I can see by these documents how she was served.

  I take a shawl and wander with my papers into the garden. There is a little swinging seat, shaded from the sun. Bees tease at the opening buds of roses and geraniums. A dry, warm scent rises from the grass and I think I will be comfortable out here, with old Jim working at the hedges over the back. Nothing will appear terrible by the light of day.

  I am wrong.

  All these weeks I have wondered why the name ‘Mrs Green’ from Ruth’s story rang a bell in a distant chamber of my mind. A common enough surname; no reason it should stick with me. But of course, it was the colour I remembered, from that year – the season Fanny, Rose and I vowed never to wear emerald green again.

  We discovered that they manufacture the green dyes with arsenic. Some of it is simply brushed on to garments in a liquid solution with no treatment to fix the colour. Sweat activates the mixture, leaching the hue into the skin, and if that skin should peel and blister (as well it might) the arsenic enters the bloodstream. Frightful! To expire like a poisoned rodent!

  Thank God, it never happened to anyone of my acquaintance. Our dressmakers used good-quality dyes, which never hurt us.

  But it happened to Rosalind Green.

  She was enamoured of green: green paper hung in her bedroom and her boudoir; there was green threaded into all that she wore, just as Ruth has said. She meant it as a tribute to her husband and the great wealth he brought her. By all accounts, she was a beautiful creature, suiting the colour so perfectly.

  Until it began.

  At first there were dry spots around the eyes, nostrils and lips: just peeling skin, which she thought little of. But then there came the blisters that burst and left craters. Her fingernails rotted.

  By the time the doctor arrived upon the scene, she was vomiting green waters and passing green motions. Would you believe it, it was even said the whites of the poor girl’s eyes turned green, until she wailed that everything she looked at was tinged with the colour.

  Such a painful death, detailed before me. Convulsions – oh, I remember those well from my own poor mama! – but also foam. Green foam, from the mouth, nose and eyes. Almost as if . . .

  Ruth must know of this.

  She has read the papers; this is another of her ruses, designed on purpose to frighten me. Why, she herself confessed to the marks the dye had made upon her nails and her fingers! Poison, sheer science, killed this girl Rosalind. It is folly to imagine otherwise.

  But why do the hairs on the back of my neck prickle so?

  Rosalind Green was a sad victim of her own mania. It has often been noted that bedbugs forsake rooms papered in bright green. In addition, mould grows between such paper and the wall, releasing an unpleasant-smelling gas. Faced with a combination of poisonous paper and deadly clothes, hour after hour, day after day, it is hardly incredible that unfortunate Rosalind succumbed. A frightful death, to be sure, and one that must have pleased the bitter, vengeful Ruth. But she did not cause it.

  Goodness me, this case! Whyever do I pursue it? I gain neither progress in my studies nor good works for my soul! It seems clear that the prisoner is twisted and stubborn, beyond the reach of redemption. Her head does not change shape.

  I am beginning to fear that evil is unavoidable.

  That I should elope with David, now, before it is too late.

  A bell rings inside the house. I tuck my papers away, and by the time I am done one of our footmen is crossing the lawn, carrying a silver tray.

  ‘Letters for you, Miss Truelove.’

  There are two. One in a cheap, slightly dog-eared envelope addressed in a hand I recognise as Matron’s. The other is lavender-coloured and scented. Bold, blotted letters.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, dismissing the footman with a wave. Pain darts across my knuckles. ‘Bother!’ I have caught one of the buzzing wasps – the blasted fellow has stung me.

  ‘Are you well, Miss Truelove? May I fetch you something?’

  ‘No, no, I am quite all right.’

  I busy myself with the envelopes, resolutely ignoring the swelling on my skin. It itches like a thousand needle-tips.

  Matron’s letter first. News of the approaching trial, perhaps, or another murderer admitted? I rip it open, read the sparse lines.

  I have to blink the sun from my eyes and read again.

  I regret to inform you that New Oakgate Prison has suffered its first death. Jenny Hill expired at six of the clock this morning despite our best efforts. The doctor has been summoned, before this mystery illness can claim more lives.

  Jenny!

  I cross myself, say a prayer for her. The words are like paste in my mouth. How I have forsaken her, abandoned her, to follow my own selfish studies. Now I shall never have the chance to meet with her again. Poor woman. Did she die as lonely as she lived? She was serving time for attempted suicide. How awful that she should be saved, only to pass from the world in this manner.

  I blame myself.

  I blame Ruth.

  It takes me a good while to shake off the tears and put aside personal considerations. Only then can I reflect upon what this will mean for the prison. Of course gaol fevers are commonplace, but we had hoped, with our attention to cleanliness and the new facilities, to avoid this sad misfortune. It seems to have found us, all the same.

  At least the doctor will be able to advise us on the best course of action. It will have nothing to do with the bedsheets.

  It is not Ruth.

  The second letter. Yes, hopefully this will cheer me. I will read it, just to raise my spirits, and then I must dash inside to put cool water on this hand. Bless me, it itches!

  The paper is hot-pressed, thick to hold. My eyes fly straight to the bottom, to the signature, seeking out the owner of this slapdash writing.

  Sir Thomas Biggleswade.

  The garden retreats around me.

  Birds no longer call. Even the pain of the sting becomes dull, detached from me.

  There is only one reason a gentleman would dare to address a young lady.

  He has spoken to my father, he writes.

  He is making an offer of marriage.

  36

  Ruth

  I chose blue. Peacock blue. Could I really pick any other colour?

  It hung neglected, towards the back of the lumber room, almost concealed by worsted and gaudy chintz. But it caught my eye, beckoned to me. And when I ran my hands over the grain, it was like brushing my own skin.

  Perhaps it had been there all along, waiting for me in the room where I last saw my mother. Ma was in my mind as I unfurled ripple upon ripple of that blazing blue. It yielded easily to my scissors; thread and fibre parting to make way for the blade. Pliable. Unlike flesh.

  Was I out of my wits? Maybe. But at least I wasn’t afraid a
ny more. The horror had set me free in a strange way: knowing I’d reached the abyss.

  With the greenish-blue material folded into waves over my arms I marched, determined, through the showroom and into my alcove.

  ‘What’s that?’ Mrs Metyard boomed. It was Mrs Metyard, stripped of her facial hair and, it seemed, the memory of what she’d done. ‘Come here! Girl!’ She flung back the curtain. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Working.’ I sat myself at the table, unfolded my roll of knives. A dark crust remained on the blades. How far I’d come, I thought, from my little cloth book of needles at home.

  ‘There’s plenty of work for you upstairs. Do you think I am going to let you dally about down here, when there’s so much to do for the wedding?’

  I gripped a knife in my hand. ‘It’s not my fault if you insist on killing the help.’

  Something happened to her features then: a swift blast of the captain, fighting to resurface. She mastered him, pushed him down. I don’t know what she would have done next, if Kate’s peevish tones hadn’t stopped her.

  ‘Mother, I need you. Come quickly.’

  She gave me a long, cold stare. Then she left.

  It was time to begin.

  No shoulder straps on this one. Front-fastening, split busk, lightly boned. Lace at the top and bottom. Then over the breasts, and in the curves of the waist, I’d embroider peacock feathers in brown, purple and green. A masterpiece. Like Pa said, the art that was the true me: beautiful and deadly.

  I knew the measurements by sight. That waist of twenty inches. Why not make it eighteen? Sixteen? Squeeze the evil out, crush it, until there was nothing left but a tightly wound shroud of my stitches.

  Blue. Endless blue before me. It might have been the sea for Mim to sail across. She might have been safe and happy, if it weren’t for Kate. Kate must feel her pain. Kate would feel it all, and Mim would help.

  For it wasn’t just whalebone in that corset. I added slithers. Little pieces of Mim’s bone fish, shaved down, pushing back against her oppressor in the only way she could now. Scraps of the old corset, spotted with my own blood. The both of us, against Kate.

  Through all the long hours I worked, my hand didn’t shake. Not once. Nor did my eyes tire. I refused to take meals with the other girls, only creeping to the kitchen to grab crusts of bread and a sip of water when all lay quiet. How could I eat in that place, knowing what lurked beneath?

  ‘What have you been doing?’ Ivy would rail at me, when we went to bed. ‘Too good to work with us now, are you?’

  I laughed in her face.

  ‘She’s lost it,’ Daisy said, edging away.

  ‘Best leave her be,’ decided Nell.

  Not once did they ask what Kate had wanted with me and my tools that day. Not once did they hear Mim’s poor blood, calling out for justice while they ate.

  I wonder if they heard, as I did, the creak that came at night.

  It might have been the old corset, beneath my pillow.

  It might have been the rotting timber of my heart.

  37

  Dorothea

  Am I overexerting myself? I can think of no other explanation for the poor health I have experienced. These past days have seen me harried and muddled in my thoughts. I begin to fear I am becoming nervous – a silly, girlish complaint that I never held truck with before.

  Yet today, as I sat in the carriage with Tilda, I could not concentrate on the pleasant landscape sliding by or the trill of the birds. My gaze was turned inwards, and I did not care for what I saw.

  I touched my hand to my breast, where Sir Thomas Biggleswade’s letter lay concealed. Do not think I have turned sentimental and wish to press it to my heart! But Tilda can be sharp, and I have found it best to hide secrets about my person, rather than risk her discovery.

  Poor Sir Thomas. He really does write well, with a great deal more eloquence than I would expect from a man such as he. His attachment cannot have any solid foundation. We have met on all of two occasions! Yet he is not a man I would wish to slight. Part of me is tempted to confide in him about my David, the real reason I cannot accept his offer; somehow, I feel Sir Thomas would understand my situation. But of course that would be careless. I cannot risk word getting back to Papa. If David attains his position in London, I may be taking my leave, eloping within the next month!

  Guilt worries me like a rotten tooth. I do so wish to be a good daughter, to please Papa. Any other girl would be grateful to her father for seeking out an eligible husband like Sir Thomas! It is not as if he has chosen an ogre for me. I almost wish that he had. The letter of rejection would flow effortlessly, then.

  As we approached the iron fences of New Oakgate Prison, I was surprised to observe the scaffolding on the male wing had been removed. White, newly minted stone shone in the spring light. Porters ferried supplies across the lawns. The gates swung open without waiting for our carriage to stop.

  ‘This is more activity than I have seen for many days,’ I told Tilda. ‘What do you think has happened?’

  Tilda looked up from her lopsided square of knitting. ‘I wouldn’t know, miss.’

  It was as though a spell had been lifted. Even the air was less pungent, tinged with lime.

  Could it be? Was the illness over?

  In a flurry of anticipation, I flew to Matron’s office. She was at her desk, writing in the character books. She nodded and stood – somewhat unwillingly, I felt – to greet me.

  ‘Has the physician attended?’ I asked, my words tumbling over one another. ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He called yesterday, Miss Truelove. I was on the point of writing to tell you. Yet here you are. Again. So I may have the pleasure of speaking in person.’

  I nodded eagerly.

  ‘It was scurvy, Miss Truelove.’

  The breath left me in a rush. ‘Scurvy?’

  ‘Yes. You recall, naturally, that the prisoners’ diet suffered some alteration after the riot? The new provisions were insufficient in nutrients. Today we have distributed oranges and put in a plea with the committee to reintroduce a meat allowance. I trust all will be well from now on. It’s just a misfortune that poor Hill had to die, before it was resolved.’

  I could have laughed for joy. Only the mention of Jenny Hill sobered me. ‘Scurvy! Of course, scurvy. Why did we not think of it before?’

  Matron lowered her brows and appraised me curiously. I daresay I appeared quite beside myself, but I could not help it; the liquor of relief was so strong. In my avid fancy, I had thought . . .

  Never mind.

  ‘It does explain why none of the staff fell prey to it,’ Matron agreed. ‘Although some of the prisoners were hardy enough to resist the disease too. Your Butterham, for instance, remained in perfect health.’

  The smile snapped off my face.

  ‘I expect you would like to see Butterham?’ Matron touched the keys at her waist.

  ‘No!’ The word flew from my lips, surprising me with its force. ‘Not presently. I merely called to learn of the physician’s findings. Thank heaven he has gifted us with such good news.’

  ‘I am not certain I would call scurvy good news, Miss Truelove, but at least we can cure it. It is better than a fever.’

  And better than a curse.

  38

  Ruth

  Rosalind’s corset marked me: an ulcerous finger, headaches, yellow fingernails. Even the whorls on my skin became patterns of green. Yet with Kate’s corset, there was no trace. My palms, which ought to have been bathed red, showed clean. A little calloused, perhaps.

  I left it in the showroom, set out in an open box. How exquisitely it nestled against pale cornflower satin. A touch of gold thread in the eyes of the peacock feathers. When you moved past them, they winked.

  With a hand more accustomed to holding a needle than a pen, I wrote awkw
ardly on a card: To the future Mrs Rooker. That was all.

  Mrs Metyard decreed that we would all attend the wedding; not out of any spirit of generosity, but rather for the sake of appearances.

  ‘I’m not going,’ I told the girls. ‘I don’t care what she does to me.’

  Nell’s russet brows drew together. ‘I’d rather not go. But we have to, Ruth. We don’t have a choice. Don’t give Mrs Metyard an excuse to hurt you.’

  Ivy derided us, called us simpletons for not wanting a day off work.

  ‘I wish I had the courage,’ said Daisy, ‘to stick my foot out and trip her up as she goes down the aisle.’

  We woke a little later, on the bridal day. The sun didn’t smile upon Kate and Billy. Veils of rain obscured the sky and the wind moved, restless.

  Besides unlocking the door to our bedchamber, the Metyards paid scant attention to us that morning. The girls washed unsupervised and fetched their own clothes. Or at least, that’s what Nell said. I don’t know. I wasn’t there.

  I remained on my pallet, eyes open, staring blankly at the wall. After so much rage and pain, I couldn’t feel anything at all. I couldn’t summon the courage to climb to my feet, or even dread the consequences of staying put. Everything vital inside me had passed into the corset.

  I never saw Kate in her wedding outfit. I didn’t behold that figure I’d pictured, all those years ago, sewing the Lindsay gloves. But at the end of the day, I’m not sure Kate would have matched the pretty bride in my imagination. Over the recent weeks her skin had been a shade too grey, her cheeks pinched with stress. The petite waist looked unpleasantly sharp. Her eyes, which used to sparkle, began to glitter with something fierce.

  ‘Where’s the Butterham girl?’ Mrs Metyard cried at last.

  She’d barely finished her sentence before Ivy piped up. ‘She’s still slug-a-bed!’