The Poison Thread

by Laura Purcell

  ‘I must speak to him.’ Even as I rise to my feet, I hear the mounting hysteria in my words. ‘I must . . .’

  What can I possibly say? What evidence do I have to present him with? There is not sufficient time to prepare a case, I have frittered it all away pursuing my scientific theories – and even they have proved to be false.

  Matron places her hand upon my arm, steers me towards the door. ‘I think it will be best if we leave the learned man to deal with his client alone, don’t you? They do not have much time together.’

  I see it now like an hourglass, the sand spilling. ‘Ruth!’ I call desperately. ‘Did you tell this story to your advocate? The chaplain?’ If I deciphered the clues, perhaps they might, also.

  But Ruth shakes her shorn head. ‘I only trusted you.’

  I am distraught, I want to grip at the doorframe with my nails like one of the rabid prisoners and refuse to leave, but the door clangs behind me.

  ‘Ruth!’ I shout. ‘Ruth, I believe you!’

  I do not know if she has heard me. I am marched, as if in custody myself, down the halls and away from her.

  * * *

  ‘Dora? Are you listening?’ I snap my eyes up from my plate of eggs and see Papa, fork suspended halfway to his mouth, intent upon me. ‘I bid you to remain at home. You appear most unwell.’

  I feel it. Nausea and giddiness are my constant companions. I have neglected my health, in the tumult of these past weeks. That is why my stomach cramps, why I do not wish to eat, why even my coffee tastes strange of late.

  It must be. I will not countenance any other possibilities.

  I lace my fingers around the cup and stare into its dark depths, rather than Papa’s face. The similarities I detect between his countenance and mine repel me. ‘Not in the least. One of my women stands her trial today,’ I say, as casually as I can manage. ‘I am simply nervous for her.’

  ‘That is all?’

  It is not all. Already Mrs Pearce hovers like a spectre at our breakfast table, shoving aside the quiet, gentle spirit of Mama. But I nod, attempt another sip of my coffee. Was it always this bitter?

  Sir Thomas’s worried visage obtrudes itself into my memory. I slam the door upon it.

  Papa is evidently thinking of Sir Thomas too. ‘You have not received any post? Something distressing, or . . . interesting?’

  I feel his grey eyes probing, cool as a steel scalpel. Subtlety was never his strength. ‘No, I do not believe I have. I must work on my correspondence tomorrow, I owe Fanny a letter.’

  He chews, meditatively. Swallows. ‘I thought,’ he says, spearing another piece of ham, ‘that I saw something arrive from Heatherfield, the other day.’

  I dab my mouth with a napkin, concealing its tremor from him. ‘Goodness me, no. Lady Morton does not correspond with me, Papa. I do not believe I am quite elegant enough for her.’

  ‘Then I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For you must know I could not tolerate any neglect towards that family. Not now our name is finally returning to its proper dignity. I have worked tirelessly to cultivate an acquaintance with Sir Thomas, and should anything happen to offend him . . . I do not believe I could abide such embarrassment, Dora. Neither could dear Mrs Pearce.’

  I push back from the table. It is difficult to muster the strength to stand. ‘Will you excuse me, Papa? I must prepare for this trial.’

  He harrumphs. ‘Not in your present state. Your hands are shaking. I forbid it.’

  ‘I really must attend, for the sake of this woman. She is friendless.’

  Still watching me, he pulls his napkin from his lap. ‘Well, then. I must accompany you, I suppose, and ensure you conduct yourself correctly.’

  I can devise no excuse. If it is a case of going with Papa, or not going at all, my choice is clear. I must hear the evidence, I must either confirm or quash my fears.

  ‘I am not certain the nature of the trial will be pleasant to you,’ I warn him. ‘You may become uneasy.’

  Without meaning to, I have made him laugh. ‘If you can withstand it, Dora, as a young lady, I certainly can. Do you view me as your silly old papa, tender in his age? I have far more backbone than you give me credit for.’

  He is correct. Perhaps, in my filial partiality, I have not given him credit for nearly enough.

  51

  Dorothea

  The courthouse is already heaving by the time we arrive. Graymarsh is forced to set us down a good three hundred yards from the doors, while he contends with the line of stationary, cursing cab drivers. I am glad of Papa’s arm to steady me through the crush of people and horses that swarm about the streets. Clearly, news of Ruth’s infamy has spread far and wide. A poisoner: a murderer of the blackest dye.

  Policemen surround the entrance, keeping order. Amongst the impassive faces, squashed square by their tall hats, is the one I am always watching for. David’s eyes meet mine. I manage to stifle my reaction, save for the slight tightening of my grip upon Papa’s coat. However, my father’s gaze is sharp.

  ‘Do you know that young man?’ he barks.

  ‘Which man, sir?’

  ‘That young constable who stares at you so intently.’

  ‘I did not – oh! He does look somewhat familiar. Perhaps I have walked past him at the prison.’ I toss my head, as if policemen stare at me every day of the week.

  Papa does not cease watching David until the doors obscure him from sight.

  Our place is in the public gallery, with the other spectators. Hot, stinking air fills my lungs, the mixture of a thousand breaths. Papa attains us a position as near to the front as his influence can command. One or two men note the quality of his clothes and give way, but others remain truculent. I peer over the side of the gallery, down upon the proceedings, my head swimming. We are late. They have begun.

  I have missed the indictment and the opening statements. The Crown are calling their first witness for the prosecution: William Rooker, I saw his name at the top of the list. Craning my neck for a better view, I discern a man rising from his seat. It is always a curious sensation, beholding a person after you have allowed a picture of them to form in your mind. Billy is at once a little less handsome and a mite tidier than I anticipated. That girl sitting beside him must be Nell; I recognise her hair from Ruth’s description.

  The pair look at one another, as if they are about to jump from a great height. Then Billy makes his way towards the stand.

  As I track his progress, I catch my first glimpse of Ruth. She looks tiny, stricken. How much has she heard, before my arrival? From the state of her, I would wager the prosecution mentioned the cause of death in their opening speech. What thoughts must have crossed her mind at that juncture? What agonies are chasing through it now?

  My heart breaks for the dark, lovesick eyes that follow Billy. He does not even incline his head in her direction.

  He is sworn in. A sleek man in robes and a wig rises to question him.

  ‘Mr Rooker, I appreciate that this line of inquiry may prove painful to you. Before we begin, I wish to assure you that you have our deepest sympathies.’

  Billy mutters his thanks. He is still dressed in mourning, although the black jacket is a touch shiny at the seams. Were you to paint a picture of a heartbroken, working man, this would be it.

  ‘As we have already heard, a great quantity of arsenic was found in the body of your late wife. However, to successfully prosecute this case, we have not only to prove that arsenic was the cause of death, but how it was obtained and administered. To begin with, can you think of any reason that your wife may have ingested this poison herself?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘You believe, then, that it was administered to her?’

  ‘It must have been,’ Billy says.

  The advocate flicks through his notes. ‘Our
medical professionals are of the opinion – as the gentlemen of the jury shall hear – that the late Mrs Rooker consumed small amounts of the substance over a long period of time. Towards the end of her life, the dose increased considerably, causing the symptoms we have previously detailed. Can you offer any explanation as to how the poison had been present for so long?’

  Papa’s arm twitches beneath mine. I did not tell him that it was a case of poison. Nor did I warn him of the similarities between Kate’s symptoms and my mother’s.

  ‘Goodness, Dora, this is horrible. How can—’ He is shushed by those around us.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Billy answers. ‘There’s a bit of it in most things, isn’t there? She had a skin tonic . . . something with benzoin and elderflower. And then . . . my mother gave her a drop of Fowler’s Solution. A physician has since told me you can find arsenic in that.’

  ‘And what quantity of the solution did your mother give to the late Mrs Rooker?’

  ‘Only two drops. It was over the last . . . hours of her life.’ He leans forward to grip the bars, as if the memory bends him in two. ‘That’s all. I watched her dispense it myself.’

  The lawyer refers to the bottle of Fowler’s Solution, now in the court’s possession, and the very small amount missing.

  ‘Would it seem reasonable to you, Mr Rooker, to deduce that the arsenic must have been administered by food or drink?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s reasonable.’

  ‘And will you tell us if you have any suspicion yourself, as to who might have sullied the late Mrs Rooker’s victuals?’

  We all stretch to catch his answer. Billy still has his arms braced against the bars. The whole court hears him wet his lips and take a breath. ‘It’s my belief that it was . . . the defendant. Ruth Butterham.’

  Gasps and shouts from the spectators. How can it be that they were not expecting this? Have they not heard the ballads? The only one with a right to surprise, Ruth herself, simply closes her eyes and looks as if she has taken a bullet.

  When order returns, the lawyer follows up his inquiry. ‘Your belief is based upon the defendant’s statement of confession which we heard earlier today: that she did, wilfully and with intent, murder Catherine Maria Rooker?’

  Billy shakes his head. ‘No. It’s because the day Kate died, Ruth told me, told me with her own lips, that she was trying to kill my wife.’

  More commotion. Over it, the lawyer raises his voice. ‘And why should she wish to do that?’

  ‘She never liked Kate. She blamed her for what Kate’s mother did to her. That was . . . Mrs Metyard,’ he exhales on the name, shuddering. ‘She was a killer.’

  No doubt they will battle it out, in the hours to come; reveal how Ruth was found that day, what she suffered at Mrs Metyard’s hands. Will it sway the jury? I do not know, but I am glad the trial has tended down this path. If Billy had cited jealousy as a motive, if he had turned for a moment to see how Ruth regards him . . . But perhaps the jury can see it, even now.

  I miss the first questions of cross-examination, as Papa is urging me to leave, saying I look unwell. By the time I return my attention, Ruth’s advocate, an elderly, doddering man appointed by the court, is in mid flow. He cannot hope to exonerate her, only lighten her sentence. What has she told him?

  He asks if the late Mrs Rooker was in the habit of taking a cup of cocoa, and Billy agrees that she was.

  ‘And, Mr Rooker, who would fetch that drink for your wife?’

  ‘It would have been . . . Ruth. Ruth was my wife’s personal maid. She would be the one to bring her breakfast and attend to those things.’

  If you were not acquainted with Ruth, as I am, you would take the expression on her face for a scowl. But I see the utter blankness of confusion, a feeling that seems to pass to her lawyer.

  ‘And . . . there was not anyone else who could have tampered with the drink? There was another woman working in your household at the time, I believe; an Eleanor Swanscombe.’

  ‘Nelly could never have done such a thing.’

  ‘And what convinces you of that?’

  The blue eyes that turn upon Ruth’s advocate are ice cold. ‘I have known her from a child. She is as a sister to me. I would trust her with my life.’

  This is a grand introduction to Eleanor Swanscombe, who takes the stand next. The diminutive, rather wiry figure does not correspond with Billy’s words; dressed in a grey gown that has seen better days and a pair of mittens without the fingertips. Yet to do her credit, she is not afraid. She folds her arms, as if it is an inconvenience to be present, and gazes about her. Unlike Billy, she does not avoid Ruth’s eyes, but stares resolutely at the dock. Unashamed of her betrayal.

  I might have written the prosecution’s questions with my own hand; they are exactly as I expected them to be. After establishing that Nell entered Metyard’s as a girl and knew both Mr Rooker and the late Mrs Rooker as if they were family, the lawyer is careful to mention her kindness to Ruth, her visits at the hospital.

  ‘And what did you consider to be the character of the defendant?’

  Nell turns to assess Ruth. ‘She was . . . an unfortunate young girl. An orphan. It mixed her up, I think, the loss. She was always very jealous and fierce in her moods. At times, I thought she’d do herself a mischief.’

  ‘Did she at any time express animosity towards the victim?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And yet she urged you to join her in working for Mrs Rooker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did that not seem odd? The defendant’s eagerness to work for a woman she disliked?’

  ‘Very odd.’

  Succinct, cool. As Ruth described in her story, a strange deadness of tone. As if nothing remains in this world that can surprise or shock Nell.

  The prosecution asks if Ruth ever went shopping for groceries, was ever left in the kitchen unsupervised. Nell confirms both. Repeats Billy’s assertion that Ruth mixed and carried the cocoa to Mrs Rooker’s lips.

  ‘And was there anything about the kitchen that may have been used for this criminal purpose? Rat poison, or the like?’

  ‘This is highly unsuitable for you to hear.’ Papa’s whisper blares hot, his moustache scratching against my ear. ‘You are my daughter, it is my duty to—’

  I am focusing so intently upon Nell’s pinched lips that I do not distinguish the remnant of his tirade.

  ‘There were . . . I suppose . . .’ She shifts her feet. ‘We had a fly problem. There were always plenty of flypapers in the kitchen.’

  ‘Could you tell me whose responsibility it was to purchase and hang these flypapers?’

  ‘Ruth’s.’

  I cannot help it. ‘Nell, you lying little slut!’

  Papa baulks at my side, but no one else has heard my hissed words.

  ‘Come, Dora. I have seen enough.’

  No doubt he has. No doubt it is all sounding most familiar.

  ‘One moment more, Papa.’

  Nell has served her turn; she is permitted to quit the stand. She unfolds her arms, pulls the shawl up around her shoulders before she steps down. And then I descry it.

  A minute, blue flash from beneath the mitten. It lasts for the briefest of moments; few people would even mark it. Her left hand.

  Her ring finger.

  Everything pulls together, as neatly as one of Ruth’s stitches. I see two youths from the Foundling, stood shivering, hand in hand, outside Metyard’s dress shop. I see a maid and her master in hurried conversation on the landing of the house in Water Mews.

  Not like brother and sister.

  Lovers.

  My head begins to twirl. Billy is not the duped innocent that I supposed him. He did not purchase that ring with Kate in mind; she was merely its custodian until the true owner could take possession. When he told Ruth he could not leave her alone a
t the shop, he was not speaking of Kate. He was referring to Nell; it was ever Nell. They were in cohorts from the very commencement.

  He must have given her the money to stay in the lodging house. Informed her where to locate him in the square on the hanging day. And Nell was weaving her own deceptions, placing Ruth in a position to take the blame for her . . .

  The giddiness that started my morning has intensified; I view the world as one trapped under warped glass. Distantly, the local grocer answers questions.

  He has seen both Nell and Ruth in the shop. Never serves himself, has a boy to do it. He starts to explain that there are three-quarters of a grain of arsenic in each flypaper, and these can be extracted by soaking the paper in water.

  Papa pulls at my arm. ‘Make way, there,’ he calls. ‘My daughter requires air, she is faint.’

  It might be my spinning vision, but it is Papa’s face that looks pale to me. He has the demeanour of a man caught in a transgression.

  ‘. . . a very dangerous substance,’ the lawyer is saying.

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I make my boys keep a record of the people who purchase it. They have to take down the date, the customer’s name and address.’

  The judge is referred to the evidence in his possession.

  Men tut as they step aside to let us pass, loath to miss an instant. Already, two plump old women have filled our vacated space. Truly, I am ill, yet I do not wish to leave. Who does Ruth have, if not me? There will not be a single soul left in the courthouse to pity her.

  The voices come faintly now. ‘Can you tell us how many times Eleanor Swanscombe’s name appears in that ledger of yours, Mr Nasby?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And the name of Ruth Butterham?’

  I do not hear the answer. Papa hurries me from the public gallery, into the blinding light of day.

  His arm shakes under my hand. I smell the fug of his perspiration, creeping through his shirt and jacket.